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It is official, if I ever opt to write my story in its entirety, the most apt title would replicate that children’s series, something along the lines of A Life of Unfortunate Events. Although of couse, I’d have to come up with a more original twist.

Within a period of two months almost to the day, I’ve either lost or been ripped from all the “family” I have left.  My father’s death began a family warfare the likes of which could be made into a poorly written and worse acted bad Lifetime movie.  The crescendo point within a saga of betrayal, abuse, slander, deceit, mostly stemming from blood relatives.

Grace knew the definition of family from one person.  She understood the bonds of family loyalty through a single man: her father.

My father was the epitome of grace, unconditional love, forgiveness, and never tiring kindness.  Sometimes as I talk or think of my father’s most amazing gifts and character assets, I’m struck by how closely these traits resemble our Heavenly Father.  The difference is  my daddy was certainly not perfect, as in without sin of any kind.  He merely perfected these beautiful base qualities which I admire most in people and have spent my life trying to imitate and replicate.  A beautiful earthly example of a father and his ability to instill and demonstrate love in all its beauty with so many facets and layers.

Because of this humongous, life-changing gorgeous gift I was blessed with, I feel a dirty ingrate to have a single complaint of my lot in life or any of its unfortunate experiences.  How dare ISo many have so very much less and so very much worse…  Although I certainly acknowledge that truth, I also have always felt the driven need to tell my story anyway; not so much as to whone and complain, Oh woe is pitiful me, but more to validate and somehow substantiate (in a sense) the experiences themselves.  Sometimes when I decide to take a teeny isolated incident from my life to actualy share with another person, even as I’m speaking, the words sounds like some fantastical horror story and I feel maybe I should leave out certain critical components in order to make it more believable.  And that’s rather funny in itself!

Every therapist (the few people whom I choose not to leave out a single detail for healing purposes obviously) I’ve seen has always suggested I write my story: every one!  Therapists! Those whom,  I assume,  must hear all kinds of wacky and wild stuff, horrifying stories and whom I once thought would respond to my experiences with, “So what?  That’s not so bad!  Get over it you pathetic ingrate!”

It was my first actual therapist at the age of 17 who informed me even that my childhood had been severely abusive, such was my misunderstanding of the world, relationships, and love.  I did not even know!  I knew my life had been very different from the few others I ever got close enough to to realize the drastic difference in what we each thought was “normal” or “expected”.  I had no clue that I had actually been living in a home which was easily considered “abusive”.  Abusive manipulative people are experts at brainwashing, gaslighting, and reality twisting.  What chance does an innocent fresh developing mind of a child born into such a world stand in regards to even knowing she is surviving daily abuse?  None.  Thus, I was truly clueless and it took two years of counseling for me to even accept that it WAS abuse; …such was my confused and twisted perception of life and an unacceptable child’s “just desserts”.