Why I am writing this and my First Memories

Hello, so I am not sure where to begin.  I think this is more therapy for me than anything else.  My life may not be a crazy as some, but for me, it has been a roller coaster. Sometimes I thought about writing a book, but I don’t want my family’s attention and criticism.  Also, they can be very sarcastic and mean, not the supportive type that one would assume would be in a family.  So, a blog it is.

I grew up in a large family, six kids and two parents.  We move around a lot, mostly because we didn’t pay rent, and at one point, live in our grandparents basement.  More to come on that.

My first memories, I think, are when we lived in California.  I must have been three, which would make my sister six and my brothers five, four, two and one.  We lived on a populated street with a short trail to the school.  I remember this because we went to the school for a ‘fair’.  They had the game where everyone walked in a circle and one person was in the middle with a cake walking the opposite direction.  When the music stopped, whoever the cake holding person was in front of, won the cake.   I actually won a chocolate cake and was so excited.  When we got home, my mom and I put the cake on the top shelf so my dad wouldn’t eat it.  Unfortunately, the next day, the cake was gone, my dad ate it.  Oh, the horrors of being three.  For some reason, this is my first real memory and I am not sure why it is so burned in my mind.  Maybe it stands out because it is the first time I was disappointed by my dad.

My other predominant memory of life in California as my brothers teasing a boy named Billy.  It is so weird, I was only a toddler and they were saying Bill was ‘in love’ with me.  They were singing “Billy don’t be a hero, come back and make her your wife” by Paper Lance.  It is only recently that I realized my brothers were almost born bullies.  I think my dad had a lot to do with that.  I do know that this attribute only increased as the years went on.

The two vivid memories of me being three are not necessarily happy ones.  I keep thinking I would remember good times from then, however; this is all I have.  A side note, I was told that I didn’t speak until I was three, curious isn’t it?

I need to stop for now, although I feel as if I can write for days.  This is a safe place for me to get out my thoughts and be free.  Thank you.


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