There was a large rock, almost as tall as me that sat in a grassy field. After a rain, mud would surround it making it a little harder to get to. I named it Mucky Island. I would climb up on that rock, jumping over the mud, if I needed to, and spend hours there - writing, reading, daydreaming. Then when I was maybe 12 or 13, they bulldozed the field and built houses. The rock remained but then sat in someone's front yard. I mourned the loss of my sacred space.
And then I think about the babysitter we went to in early elementary school. Her boys were awful so I would swing on their swing set for hours to escape them. I remember starting kindergarten while under the care of this babysitter. I was the oldest. My sister was two years behind me. Her oldest son was my sister's age. Once her oldest son started school, she would get up every morning and drive us all the mile to the neighborhood elementary school but those first two years of school for me, I was on my own.
I remember a snowstorm in kindergarten or first grade where the snow was deep enough I sunk to my waist and so many people had not yet shoveled their sidewalks. I was so late to school that day. It was hard to walk in snow that deep.
I remember twirling on the jungle gym bars at recess in elementary school, so completely in my own world such that the day I fell and knocked the wind out of me, no one noticed. I laid there for a moment or two (I don't know how long actually) confused and scared and then picked myself up and found somewhere to sit and rest until recess was over.
I remember several trips to a cabin on a lake in maybe middle school or early high school and what stands out most were the mornings I sipped a hot beverage as I sat on the back stoop alone and watched the sunrise. Or the times I went for a run early in the morning in the woods (and got chased by a mama turkey on one occasion). Even the year my sister and I each got to bring a friend, it's not the memories with my friend that have stayed with me. It's the quiet moments of solitude.
As a teenager battling depression, I remember the solitary time I spent at my city's downtown park, walking, writing, rollerblading, biking, sitting, daydreaming. I was there so often it felt like a second home. This is what became my sacred space after I lost access to Mucky Island.
And when I studied in Spain for a semester in college, I chose to use one of my two weeks of spring break to spend by myself on the beach in the Canary Islands.
It's no wonder I accepted a husband who wasn't quite present. I don't know if I ever had someone who was fully present on a consistent basis in my life. I was so used to solitude and solving problems on my own, I think before I even entered elementary school. I could self-soothe, self-regulate, self-entertain at a very young age.
As I truly reflect on my childhood, I don’t know that it was particularly happy. Between the bullies and the lack of good friends and relationships, I was left pretty isolated, facing the world alone. But I found my own joy everywhere I went. I looked for excuses to smile and laugh and dance. I made my own happiness. So doing that in the context of my marriage felt normal.
In college, the depression of my teenage years seemed to just go away. Maybe it was because that was the first time in my life I started building a life for me and started sorting through friendships to find ones that fed me instead of drained me. And I did find that in a few people - three separate women come to mind. And my ex-husband at first seemed to fall in that category of people until he slowly morphed into something that felt more familiar to my childhood.
Now, in my 40s, I get my second chance to build a life for me. And I’m once again experiencing that real happiness that I experienced in college, a happiness that isn’t created to distract or cover-up a life that is fairly empty. But instead a happiness that naturally comes from a full, meaningful life surrounded by people who uplift, not drain.
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