Dressed in my pink and white polk-a-dot nighty, I poke my head around the corner of the doorway and watch as my parents yell and scream at each other in the living room. Toe to toe they stand facing each other…my dad with his hands on his hips…my mother gesturing wildly. Spinning around, my mother strides angrily to the nearby dining table, grabs wildly at the used dish ware and begins hurling cups, glasses and plates at my father. My father shields his face and dodges the flying saucers, as they smash and splinter against the brick fireplace behind him. Sobbing and holding my hands over my ears, I stumble through the room towards my father before tripping on the hem of my nighty and falling on the broken pieces. I roll over and sit there waling, seeing my bare knee and the bright red blood…as my father turns his back and stares with stony silence into the dark empty fireplace. The last sound I remember before waking up alone in an orphanage is the loud slamming of a door as my mother storms out of the house.
And now? I look at my life today, and I acknowledge the years of turmoil, of living on the streets, in Half-Way Houses…the Government Shelter and Foster Home. I recall some desperate times of pain and near suicide. And I find that I am grateful for all that has happened in the past and all that happens in the present. The hardships, the pain, the obstacles…they serve to make me stronger. They teach me to find faith, to hope, to persevere. I believe that it is because of the difficulties in life that I have achieved so much. Even today, as I strive for my next big achievement, I know that it is the bitterness that helps me savor the sweet.
Life is not over when one door slams closed.
cc: danahee June 2014