More I don’t remember much of my childhood. It’s been said that when you experience trauma, your brain has a defense mechanism to help you forget it ever happened. This is both helpful and hurtful in terms of carrying on. I don’t remember much of my mother before her alcoholism began to control her. I wish I could remember what she was like; Vive been told she was a wonderful mother, though it’s very hard for me to believe that now. Growing up, I always wanted to help my father.
I wanted to get lolls for him and rattle off facts, even when we both knew they were wrong. My drive to help people never lessened as I grew up, though it did evolve. My dad would watch me be on the phone for hours on end, listening to people’s problems, rarely speaking myself. Dad would always say, mire’s wise beyond your years, Lobbied,” and I would chuckle, believing him wholeheartedly. Being the daughter of an alcoholic, I had my own troubles, but I ignored them for I was under the impression that I was wise and wise meant you could handle anything thrown at you.
I felt as if I was fine and Just wanted to listen to other people’s troubles, distracting me from my own and always more manageable. My father let me be, because I was happy doing what I loved: helping people. As my mother got worse, and my friends continued needing me like a newborn calf to its mother, I began to lose it. Whatever “it” was, I may never know. All I know is that I could no longer help people if I couldn’t help myself. The only thing I ever felt good at was helping people, but with my sanity on a tight-rope and my peppiness sinking in quicksand, I found myself hopeless and unable to help those that needed me.
I began high school with a mother in rehab, and my sister, or what I referred to her as, my best friend, left for college. I was stuck in a house with my father, the only person I could ever trust. We were both confused about how to build a life and worried about our deteriorating health. We never before had to cook or clean, and it proved to be difficult. I became very cold my freshman year of high school. I felt worthless and childish for losing control of my life. I was rendered useless due to my inability to help those who needed it.
I shut myself down to everyone. People would try to help me and take care of me, but I was the one that helped people, not them. Vive never dreamed of doing anything else besides being a psychologist of some sort, but due to uncontrollable circumstances, I needed to go to therapy. In therapy, I discovered that I was codependent. I was constantly manipulated by my mother, desperately needing her approval, but to no avail. As I earned to cope with everything my mother had put and puts me through, I realized my self-worth.
I was able to help people again. Not only could I help people again, but I willingly accepted help, especially from my therapist. I would talk for four sessions in a row with her never saying anything, and I would reach the conclusions to the problems myself. That’s when I realized that a therapist is exactly what I want to be tort the rest to my elite. A lot NAS changed since tradesman year. I moved to Oak Ridge, so my father and I could be with the family.
I switched to Oak Ridge High School and struggled tremendously, but most importantly, I made friends that needed me. Although my trust issues are still very much a problem for me, Vive learned to cope with them by surrounding myself with people that I love. My heart continues to swell every time I receive a call from a friend that needs me, and I can’t help but shed a tear every time I see one of them cry. I wouldn’t change my past for anything in the world, and I can only hope to do what I feel destined to do: Help.