“Fear is a question. What are you afraid of and why? Our fears are a treasure house of self-knowledge if we explore them.”
— Marilyn French
“As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.”
— John F. Kennedy
This week’s post opens with two quotes that feel especially relevant to where I am in my recovery. Last week, I committed to beginning deeper work on the fears rooted in my early childhood. That commitment still stands. But with Thanksgiving arriving, it also feels important to pause and acknowledge gratitude—something woven into this holiday from childhood onward.
With Marilyn French’s words in mind, I want to begin addressing a few of the fears that were shaped by traumatic early experiences—what we now label “Adverse Childhood Experiences.” I’m not going to list everything, nor will I share the most painful details. I don’t want to trigger anyone who may be reading this while navigating their own recovery. But I will share a few foundational experiences, both to honor the truth of how I learned to fear, and to lay groundwork for the posts ahead:
· My biological father abandoned our family before I turned one. He struggled with depression.
· My first stepfather beat and burned me. I don’t remember it, but I’ve seen the photos. My amygdala was wired to High Alert before I had language.
· My second stepfather committed acts I won’t detail here.
· My third stepfather was a drunk and a wife-beater. I remember the screams, the fear, and my seven-year-old brother being thrown against a wall when he tried to intervene. The town cops—his drinking buddies—hauled him away to sober up.
· A later partner of my mom’s was emotionally unhealthy and refused to divorce his legal wife, choosing to stay for financial reasons while living with us.
Damn, they were all sons of bitches. Just writing this stirs up anger. These experiences taught me to fear pain, to fear being hurt, and to fear expressing myself. I learned early that shutdown, avoidance, escape, and retreat were the safest options. As a child, I escaped into fantasy, science fiction, and imaginative play. As an adult, I escaped through alcohol and other numbing behaviors.
I’m working on this now—learning to recognize and confront the fears that still influence me. I’m not holding resentment, nor am I assigning blame. Forgiveness is not something those men deserve. Forgiveness is something I can offer myself for not healing sooner. I take responsibility for my behavior, my choices, and my recovery. I’m not asking for sympathy. I’m not making excuses. I own my future.
Turning to President Kennedy’s quote, I want to express my gratitude this Thanksgiving. I’m grateful for 325 days of sobriety, and for growing in ways I never reached in prior attempts. I’m grateful for a skilled therapist whose guidance helped me rebuild the foundation I stand on today. I’m grateful for family and friends whose concern, honesty, and sincerity have helped me become more open and trusting. And I’m grateful for learning to trust myself—finally feeling a sense of pride in my recovery.
I still have work ahead, but I’m confident in the skills, awareness, and mindset I’ve built. I’m grateful for my relationships, my health, my resources, and the moments of meaning and joy that fill my days.
I’ll return to exploring the past experiences that continue to influence my present. For now, I’m grateful. And I wish everyone a peaceful, meaningful holiday season.