little wendy, or diane, or penny, or janie or wtf ever...

Here I am with my daddy. He liked to play Santa at Christmas time. I was intrigued with the Santa Claus thing until I was over 13. Pretty crazy huh? My father worked really hard to keep the story alive. God bless him.
I brought up something tonight with a friend that has always been a source of discomfort for me. I walked this planet for over 40 years believing the hell of my youth was all my own fault. Of course, that is completely illogical. I mean - how can a small child be blamed for their parent's chaotic and abnormal behavior? All I remember is the constant fighting and hiding in my closet with a little red flashlight and washcloths to help them change color. I would come out and try to make peace between them so I could get some me, or little kid time. But there was no de-escalating the fighting. No stopping it. And once Dad quit talking, well he quit talking. This would propel my mother into further rage and the screaming would continue. Just crazy.
I got down on my knees in an exercise once in an Adult Children of Alcoholics class. Everyone else would remain standing and I would "walk" around on my knees. It became incredibly clear, very quickly, that I was powerless. That would be my first experience with the actual reality I dealt with as a fragile little girl. The next exercise that really intrigued me, was writing a letter to my adult self using the opposite hand I usually write with. I have studied this concept as part of therapy work for grief and it was so powerful. I wrote the letter to my adult self with my left hand and asked her to forgive me for being so bad. For being born at all. For hurting my parents and causing them so much pain. For making them fight endlessly. When I was done, I could not stop sobbing. A nameless, faceless person came over and held me. I was 25 years old.
It took 15 years of therapy to forgive that little girl who didn't deserve to be forgiven because she had done absolutely nothing wrong. In essence, I had held myself accountable and lived ashamed of me and that little girl. I remember vomiting into a trash can at the therapist's office at the very thought I hated and blamed myself for the horrors I'd held from my childhood. What the hell is the matter with parents acting this way?
And truly, the reason I write this is I never wanted to birth my own child - a child that looked like me -  because it would be as though I was looking at my little "rotten" self. When I think about that it makes me cry because I was a precious little child of God and I deserved to be loved as cherished as I do my own daughter. So when I look at the old pictures of me with an ear to ear grin, I give them a kiss and tell that little girl how much I love her and how much I cherish that she had the strength to overcome and survive what really could have been unsurvivable, being so sensitive and loving child as I truly was.
I'll just add that I read a Bible Story in a book my father gave me where a little child way dying. The story ended with the little girl's arm propped up by a pillow to the sky so that she could hold Jesus' hand when she passed. Well guess how many nights I propped my arm up asking to go to Heaven? And God never granted me wish. So I also believe I was unlovable in His eyes also. Isn't that just the saddest thing ever?
So I get to do it over. This time I control it. And believe you me, my child will never endure or feel what I did. Ever. And when I hold her in my arms, the tears gently fall when I remember the little girl lost who deserved so much more. She's OK now. In fact, she's doing really well.