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Pain

The pain has been around since I was in my early teens but for many reasons I kept it to myself. There are little moments that completely govern how you see something? It may be something you read or a passing comment, but it becomes a defining moment that effects your thinking. For me, it was my middle school basketball coaches.
The goal of this is not to place blame, only to recount events that led to my current way of thinking. Once I entered middle school, I played volleyball and basketball. I wasn't very competitive. I was an alright player but nothing special.
I had asthma and had difficulty running but a girl a year ahead of me had asthma and she could run. So I was told to step it up. One year, my coach told me she was warned that I was a whiner ( if I got hurt I would touch my arm or hold my finger) and that it wouldn't be tolerated. She did this the first week of practice in front of everyone. She hadn't even taken a moment to get to know me. Just to mention, I hated attention. (I mean HATED attention of any kind.) I was told to suck it up. So I did. I stopped saying when I was in pain. I stopped whining. If I jammed my finger, I hid it. If I got cut on the floor, I wiped the blood my jersey and kept going. When I was in pain even on the verge of passing out, I forced myself to ignore it. It was two coaches, two years, but it stayed with me.
Turns out my asthma was caused my a birth defect ( it was different than most others'). Turns out the pain in my arm that mentioning it led to me serving the entire length of volleyball practice was a separation within the rotary cuff that resulted in 4 years of therapy.
Again, this is not to place blame...it is just to show why I didn't voice pain or physical issues. Not that my coaches meant for that to happen, it just did. They didn't know my physical issues or the impact their words made. They were doing their jobs and tried to call it like they saw it.
My mind twisted things, and I began to believe that everyone had the pain and issues that I had (the other girl had asthma and she could run, other girls have bad cramps but they could handle it). My mind told me I was a wuss, a whiner. The coaches said it so it must be true. So I kept my mouth shut.
As I got older, I also ran into doctors that told me they could see nothing wrong. I told that as a 'stop whining'. One told me some of the pain after I had sex. (Yeah that was bull shit) Others told me that a lot of people deal with it and that I just needed to toughen up.
I can't change the past. I can't change the person I was but I can change the way I think now. The pain I have had since I was about 12 is not normal. Yes, I am in pain but that doesn't make me a wuss and some pain is not made to live with.
I don't deserve to live in pain and neither do you.

A Meet Cute That Was More Cute than a Meet.

A Meet Cute is a situation in a movie or television show where a romantic couple meets in an adorable way. Since this takes place after my parents met, it is more cute than a meet. 

My parents dated off and on for ten years before tying the knot. At my older brother’s little league game (technically my half brother since he was from Mom’s first marriage but realistically he was brother and always will be), Daddy gave Mom a ring he fashioned in the back of his 1970 white Chevy truck. Nothing fancy, just a full carrot, hand crafted ring that fit perfectly. A marvel of German engineering, wire and a bright orange carrot.

Mom, being the excitable, sentimental, child at heart woman that she is, wore that thing around all day showing it off to the other parents watching their teenage sons play baseball in the Texas heat. Now you have to understand, Daddy didn’t propose with this ring, he simply made it for her. Her excitement and pride in that ring was only rooted in the fact that it was a gift. That’s my mother. She deserves a story all her own one day.

Near the fourth inning, Mom was either talking to someone or climbing the bleachers after talking with someone when her single carrot split into two. With genuine sadness, she presented Daddy with the broken ring. Smiling he assured her, “I have a bag of more in the truck.”

She followed him to the parking lot carrying the remains of beloved ring. Dropping the tailgate, Daddy drug the bag of carrots forward and began searching for the right one. Pulling out one any rabbit would gladly devour he said to my mother,

“You can try this or you can have this one.” When he pulled the engagement ring out of his pocket my mother screamed. Grabbing the ring, she ran off toward the baseball field to show my brother, squealing as she ran. That was almost thirty years ago and my Daddy still hasn’t gotten an answer. I’m not even sure if he even had a chance to get the question out.

There were married two months later and about a year after that, I came along. 

Not A Friend At All

Asthma was just one of my imaginary friends. The only difference, Asthma affected my life without my permission. My other friends appeared in moments of boredom, conjured up in my juvenile mind to fill momentary voids, to provide entertainment or an outlet for wayward emotions. But Asthma was different. He came as he pleased.

Early in life, he wasn’t a burden. He was just there. As I got older however, he bore under my skin like a guest that overstayed their welcome years after he was supposed to leave. Asthma became bossy or maybe I just became more aware. He insisted that I stay inside when it was cold. He hated when I ran and screamed until I stood still. I was an active child with an imagination that often swept me away for days at a time. But Asthma was lonely, he never wanted to be left out of my adventures.

Reluctantly, I brought him along (not by choice but what I deemed moral obligation.) Most of the time, he kept to himself but sometimes he would demand my attention. Asthma hated soccer. He was alright with t-ball, as long as I didn’t hit more than a double. He also hated swimming but that is where I drew the line. I was doing it with or without his permission. At night when the air turned cold, I paid the price for my disobedience. 

My imaginary friends changed as I grew up. Some left. Others morphed into more age appropriate beings and soon they became characters in a never ending array of stories that play in my mind. Even Asthma changed. He was still bossy and would throw tantrums if I didn’t do things his way but for a span of about ten years, he took a nap. I was just fine with that. My life unfolded out before me full of possibility and adventure and I didn’t need a tag-along.

Then one day he woke up, cranky and fully of penned up energy ready to explode into my life. Unlike the other imaginary friends of my childhood that gracefully transformed into the souls of written characters on page, Asthma had only grow up into a moody, forceful version of himself. And I was no longer a child willing to accommodate a friend that wasn’t a friend at all. 

Fear Shall Not Win

For years I have felt a push to write my story. But I didn't. More than that, I refused. No one would want to hear about my life. I am nothing interesting.
Then one day while reading an autobiography, I realized that I loved learning about the lives of others. On a daily basis, I seek out blogs where people share their experiences. I would gladly sit for hours and hear someone speak about their life, even if they didn't find themselves particularly interesting.
Someday I would love to write a book that was made up of the stories of others. I know it has been done but new people walk through life everyday with new stories all their own.
Not only are the stories of others good for teaching or entertainment but they show us that we are not alone in our trials. No path in life has gone unwalked but every path walked is unique to the traveler.
Though I find my story to be less than interesting, maybe someone will find a word of encouragement or maybe my story will show someone that they are not alone.

Fear has stopped me from telling my story. Fear keeps me quiet. Fear convinces me that I have nothing to say and that no one will listen. Fear tells us that we are alone, that we are nothing. Fear is not welcomed and fear shall not win.