To understand how my mind functions, you must know that I was raised in a strict -- make that super-strict -- Christian home. My every thought, my every movement was monitored and judged and usually found lacking. My first "error" was in not being born a boy. I know, I know. Old story. Heard it 'til you're sick of it. Whining female crapola. Agreed. But, in this case, I fear the old cliches are applicable.

I am the firstborn of five children. My brother was born dead when I was fourteen months old. Now, there is a library full of stories to be told surrounding those events alone. I'm not going into all that. Suffice it to say that my parents were young, grief-stricken, and certainly not responsible for any scars they left on my young psyche with comments made during those dark days. However, the scars are there -- reminders of the wounds this little fourteen-month-old toddler received. I was scared of dolls. (No brainer there, but my mother is still in wonder about it.) For as long as I can remember, I have been telling people I wished I were a boy. The next two siblings were boys, then there was a baby girl. I was six years old when she was born. Put away your calculator; that's five kids in six years. My mother had her tubes tied after my sister was born.

Anyone who has ever been part of a family knows enough to imagine the scenarios of my childhood. Being the eldest, I was expected to be more mature. That's reasonable on the surface, until you realize that being more mature meant that I shouldn't take offense when I was pushed aside in favor of one of the new ones. If I sound bitter, I am. Who had time to potty train me? Who took time to teach me how to brush my teeth properly? Who taught me how to ride my bicycle? Who heard my bedtime prayers? Who made me feel special?

Actually, I know some of those answers. My next door neighbor taught me to ride my bike. (He was very cute and, of course, I had a huge crush.) My dad always tucked me in at night -- when he wasn't working. He helped me with my prayers and he would hold me in the night when I awakened with bad dreams. No wonder I thought he was perfect until I was twelve years old.

Who made me feel special? My maternal grandmother has always seen something in me that apparently no one else could. There was never any fooling her, but she loved me anyway. No matter what, I knew she had a big hug ready for me. I loved the little chuckle deep in her chest when she squeezed me up really tight. She is still living at the time of this writing; I am forty-two years old and I still long to put my head in her lap for comfort. Thank you, God, for Mom. She taught me how to love unconditionally.

I pretty much figured out for myself what was right and what was wrong. I'm not claiming that I made the right call about everything. I just took the information that I was given, processed it as best I could, figured out what was acceptable, and set about to find a way to stay out of trouble. I decided, early on, that what I liked wasn't always what my parents liked. For instance, when the Beatles came to America, I thought they were great. My parents didn't. This is not unusual. But the way I dealt with the problem apparently is. I learned to hide the things that brought me pleasure for fear they would be taken from me -- like the Beatles records my dad trashed over the "we're more popular than God" thing. It just made my life simpler, more peaceful; to pretend to be a clone of my parents than an individual with tastes of my own.

I was taken to church since nine months before I was born. I know the Bible stories and the rules and regulations for living the Christian life. Trouble is, I just couldn't live up to those standards day in and day out. What standards, you ask? My own standards. You see, I am a perfectionist. Less than a perfect performance is unacceptable to me. I am my own worst critic. With a vengeance.

So, where is the trauma? What happened to me that caused the initial split? That, my friends, is still under investigation by the professional, but I can tell you what I believe.

I believe the original trauma was when my brother died. I was, by all accounts, of above-average intelligence and even if I could not understand all the words, I could most certainly pick up on the emotions surrounding me. When my mother was rushed to the hospital, I was left in the care of my paternal grandparents. I never stayed with them, but my mother's parents were staying at the hospital with my ailing great-grandmother. The baby's body laid in state at the home of my paternal grandparents. I was present. I've seen pictures of my father holding the baby, with me standing beside him, my hand on my father's leg, staring down at the baby. I can only imagine what my thoughts were. The look on my face is unfathomable. My mother was still in the hospital when they buried him. Let me reiterate that this is only my own theory and not that of a professional.

Once the Prozac kicked in, and after a few phone calls from a good and trusted friend who wasn't afraid to speak the truth to me, my world began righting itself again. The paranoia began dissolving and I can't tell you how wonderful that felt!

The State was not "out to get us". They did not have a personal vendetta against us. It was not a governmental plot to steal children from their parents. (Yes, these and more were all my own thoughts -- planted there or not, I claimed them as my own.)

Before I could catch my breath, my grandson was in my arms, in my care. I've had a few really happy days in my life, but this one stands out as one of the best. After all those weeks of praying and worrying and writing and researching and praying some more, the baby was back in the family. In relative care. That's what we had asked for in court. We weren't asking for the judge to place him with his parents when they were being accused of abusing him. We just wanted him in relative care so that they could continue to bond with him until the mess was straightened out. So began yet another chapter of the worst nightmare of my life, as my son turned against me. And, again, that is another story for another to tell.

As I said, the others began resurfacing without my consent (or so I have said). Michael was first. Michael is the stalwart, strong silent type; Michael is the sentinel. He shows no emotion. He is loyal to the system and works for the system. He follows orders without question. Michael is the façade I present to the world when I must perform an impossible task.

Michael was followed closely by Maggie. Maggie is very much like Michael, except she likes to do things her own way -- which is not necessarily the way sanctioned by the system. Maggie is out-spoken and hot tempered. She is fearless, ruthless, and not to be ignored. Maggie is everything I cannot be.

Corrie was always there, but Corrie is an insider. She is the one who keeps the journal(s). She never leaves the security of her house, but is ever at her post, recording everything. Corrie is a very good listener and people tell her things. She, in turn, keeps a record of all the memories, all the stories. Corrie is very good at her job, but she doesn't always like to share what she knows. We decided that a web page might just tempt her enough to share a little more. She loves technology.

Paragon is the super Christian. She can really get on your nerves. As far as I can tell, she is the original "Daddy's Girl", who followed all the rules, kept all the commandments, and wouldn't let butter melt in her mouth. She has her good points, but she needs to learn compassion. A little humility wouldn't hurt either.

So, what was the personal statement I wanted to make here? By this point, I haven't a clue. Which should tell you a lot about me.

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