A confusing childhood

Well, that title really says a lot.  Seems everyone has a story about their childhood.  The horrors, the fears, the relatives…creepy or not.  Your childhood shapes you no matter how hard you fight it.  It creates a mold you will probably try to change, resist and interpret for the rest of your life.

Mine was no different.   I am an only child in the rank of birth order.  Yes, I read an entire book on the birth order of siblings so that I could understand who I am.  I’m also an oldest child.  Yep.  Confused, right?   No, not at all.  I’m 8 and 10 years older than my younger siblings.  The birth order repeats itself after 5-6 years gap in children.  So I fit in the personality profile of both an only and an oldest.  Great.  So, that adds more complex issues to my growing up years of being told I was too bossy.  No, I told my mom that I was just more organized and no one else seemed to know what to do.  And I did.  *sigh*  I can hear my mother now. 

My poor mom.  She worked graveyard for I don’t know how many of my first 5 years of life.  All I remember is the times I wanted to go play with friends and she was snoring away in bed.  Dead to the world.  I snuck out the front door more times than I remember for my own good.  I was skinny as a rail (don’t ask me what happened to that….I had kids of my own and got old) and I was able to open our apartment front door just enough to squeeze through it to escape to my friends house around the corner.  Or maybe it was a few blocks away, up the hill behind our run down apartment building.  I can still find the place to this day.  Her method to locking me inside was one of those little jingly chain locks placed near the top of the door.  Now you know just how skinny I was to be able to escape the boredom of that lonely place where my mom was in dreamland.

So when did my life start becoming confusing?   At the age of 3.  You are probably thinking there’s no way I can remember back that far.  Let me tell you…the mind can be amazing as well as frightening.  The things I remember still are not the things a child should endure.  Frightening.  Alone.  Afraid.  Scared of the dark.  Afraid I would never see my mom again.  Deep seated fear of drowning.  Water.  Men.  Motorcycles.  Witches.  Fire.

For many years I had horrible recurring dreams.  Ones that I awoke from shuddering like it was a bad memory.  Like I should remember something more.  Feeling like someone was lurking beneath my bed.  And not your make believe monsters either.  I knew real ones.  I just blocked them out for years.  That’s the amazing part of the human brain.  It saved me from losing myself.  It preserved my ability to survive even as a helpless child.

Fast forward to the age of 6.  I’m thrust into a new family with cousins I don’t know or like.   An overbearing aunt that terrified me as a child…and I mean literally.   I hated being left at their house.  My mom married into this new family with a different name.  One that I would not take until I turned 36, after two failed marriages and no relationship with my biological father whose name I grew up with.  I was picked on, excluded, ridiculed and blamed for many things I either did not do or was not even aware of. 

You see, I was born partially deaf and partially blind.  Well, the blindness came from having a congenital cataract along with my lens removed at 2 years of age.  No one told me or they didn’t realize just how bad my hearing was.  Not even my parents.  I spent all of my childhood,  and until the age of 26 not knowing I literally am stone deaf in one ear. 

The confusion of my childhood suddenly made all the sense in the world.  I would think the realization of this would make me break down in tears.  But what good would that do?  What was lost is lost.  I cannot go back and redo my childhood no matter how badly I wish I could so I could say “See? I’m not stupid.  I’m not lazy.  I’m not lying. I’m not an outcast.  I’m not the black sheep.” 

For the rest of the confusion and conflict of my childhood…those fears I mentioned before.   There was months of intense counseling and therapy.  Even a tiny bit of hypnosis to help me heal from all those open, infected wounds that kept me from being the woman God intended me to be.  As a mother,  a daughter,  a wife. 

I still suffered two failed marriages after the counseling but I was stronger through the 2nd one.  And I waited 10 years to meet the man I believe God placed in my heart and my life forever. 

And before I forget, there is a happy ending to this.


At the age of 8, I saw real angels..twice.  God knew my horrible fear of fire even when I didn’t yet know where it came from.  But He sent me an enormous shimmery angel with a gentle, deep voice who calmed me to get up and check what the orange glow was on my bedroom door.  My mother had left a candle burning on the fireplace mantle.  The angel held my hand while I walked to my parents room to wake her and tell her.   I didn’t tell my mom how I did that until many years later.

The second time all I remember is I was very afraid of the dark, at the same house.  I was literally shaking and hiding under the covers. I could see a white glow outside the widows.  But I was afraid to look.  I hear a voice tell me “Don’t be afraid Sarah.  I’m here with you.  I have my angels here.”  I know I didn’t say it out loud but in my head I said “won’t something bad happen if I look at the angels?”….the same soft, sweet gentle voice said “no, child, it’s okay.  I want you to see.”…OH He knew I wanted to see them! I carefully rolled over onto my stomach so I could brace myself and peeked out my curtains. What I saw was jaw dropping.   A ring of white, soft glowing forms, holding hands around our entire house.  I had two windows in my room.  One was by the head of my bed with literally 6-7 feet of space between my wall and the neighbors fence.  The other was facing the back yard.  I got up to check the back yard and I could see them going around the corners of the house.  It still makes the hair on the back of my head tingle when I remember!

There is no more confusion in my soul.  There is only faith, joy, peace and true love.

Thanks again for reading.

Peace be with you.

This little man.

20140922_144603-1 From the day I found out my youngest was pregnant, I knew I would love my grandchild more fully than I had my kids. Not because I didn’t love my two beautiful, amazingly talented kids because I do love them both equally. I love this grandchild of mine who would come from my most difficult child who had come out of so much difficulty that we nearly lost her to self-harm, suicide attempt and another deadly incident 18 months prior.  He would be a beauty from ashes storyline.  Written in the story God foretold. Out of tragedy comes life. New life. Preciousness. Out of the flames of life comes beauty. The rawness of the emotioms our entire family, on both mine and my ex-husbands side, would maybe find new hope now. Sounds a bit far reaching to some. For those that knew the rift between myself and my ex’s family would say that the now is a miracle. This child, my handsome, smiley grandson of mine has joined two families who were torn apart by an awful divorce and tragedy of his momma’s mental instability. God restores. Even today when I see that I am in the position of raising him with my soon to be hubby because of circumstances. God is not finished and He never makes a mistake. This little man has stolen my heart and is mending the brokenness in our lives.

So here I go….

I’ve always been a writer.  A dreamer.  A daydreamer.  Never was much for cold, hard facts.  Well, not until I aged a bit and experienced some major disappointments in my adulthood.

Writing is very cathartic and therapeutic for me.  Some say I’m too dramatic in my thoughts and feelings, but I say it’s just who I am.  I express things very vividly.  Even in my dreams.  I always dreamt in astounding color, never black and white.  The poems I write come from just a simple thought, one word or emotion that I’m experiencing.  And they just flow.  I never have, not even in school, written a rough draft of a poem.  It is what it is, from the very first draft.  What you see is what you get.  That’s me.

Even my face wears every emotion for others to see.  I’ve been told by my fiancé, Danny and his older daughter, Brayde, that I indeed cannot hide what I feel because it shows on my face.  There is no masking emotions for me.  In writing, in talking, in facial expression.  You never have to guess with me.

So as I begin this blog it will have a wide variety of things coming from me.  Poems I have written over the years, dreams of things I wish to make or do to make my life richer, ideas I have for re-purposing things around the home, stories of raising my two kids, or just whatever comes to my mind.

Before I sign off though, let me just say I’m glad I heard about blogging and that I let my new friend, Betcy get me motivated to start blogging.  🙂

Until we meet again,

Sarah Clarke – Lutton