Author’s note: these memories are extremely old. I’ve done my best to convey the emotional truth of this story, but I’m sure some of these details are not perfectly accurate. Names and other details have been changed.
In the summer of 1981, my friend Jenny, who lived next door, had a friend from Northern California visit for a couple of weeks.
Her name was Candice, and she went by Candi. She was my first — and biggest — childhood crush. That summer, the Stars On 45 medley was blowing up, and whenever it came on my transistor radio, I’d sing “sugar, ah, honey honey, you are my candy girl” from the deepest well of my little first crush having heart. Listen, do you want to know a secret? Do you promise not to tell? Maybe she would be my candy girl, whatever that meant (holding hands, I was pretty sure). I could sing it right in front of her and she didn’t even know! Delightfully devilish, young Wil.
We were playing in the sprinklers in Jenny’s front yard, when her mom called them in for lunch before they went to the zoo. (The kids next door got to eat all the stuff I wanted: Frosted Flakes, Kool-Aid, Ding Dongs, Otter Pops, everything that was marketed to kids that I wasn’t allowed to have because something something sugar. Here’s some carob. It’s exactly like chocolate, except it’s waxy and flavorless and all kids hate it. Enjoy!) I went home to get something for myself and figure out the rest of my afternoon, until they got back.
So with blades of grass stuck to my feet and legs, my hair smashed down by sweat and water, and this fluttering in my stomach that was new to me, I ran out of the summer heat and into my house. The swamp cooler was doing its best to cool the house down, which left a lot to be desired, if I’m being honest. The kitchen was to my right. The living room was in front of me, and the hallway to our bedrooms and the bathroom was on my left. My dad was in the kitchen sitting at the table with his back to me. He was on the phone with the long cord, and didn’t notice me come in.
It only took a few seconds for me to figure out that he was talking to my uncle, who I thought was the coolest dude on the planet. I inhaled, preparing to ask my dad if I could say hi to him, when I heard that Dad was talking about me.
He was telling my uncle that I had my first crush. And he was making fun of me about it. Behind my back. He was laughing about how I didn’t think anyone knew. He said something about how I was picking my clothes out for the first time, choosing them carefully, brushing my hair, and singing this song over and over. To a normal parent, it would probably be adorable and sweet, but to my dad was a point of shameful weakness to be mocked. He was having a big laugh at my expense, and he was laughing with my favorite uncle.
I was humiliated, embarrassed, and deeply hurt. I felt betrayed. I was instantly aware of my bare chest, wet swimming trunks, skinny legs and arms. I was overwhelmed by shame. I was stupid. I’d been embarrassing myself all summer long in front of everyone, and like the idiot my dad knew I was, I didn’t think anyone knew.
I cried out, “It’s not true! That’s not true! I don’t! I don’t!”
My dad jerked his head around and looked across the kitchen at me. It’s been 43 years, but I can still see his face in my memory. He went from surprised, to annoyed, to laughing even harder.
“Okay, cut!” He said, like I was doing a scene, not expressing genuine feelings. This was one of his favorite ways to mock and belittle me when I was upset, and it had the desired effect every time.
I burst into tears.
“Cut! Cut! Print!” He put the phone between his shoulder and his ear and clapped his hands.
I cried harder. “Stop it! Don’t do that!”
“Oh, you are so sensitive! Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, sarcastically. Then, into the phone, “…nothing. It’s nothing.” He walked out of the kitchen and into the dining room, the long cord slowly stretching out behind him, a single knot tightening where it sagged.
After a moment, I ran to my bedroom, threw myself into my Star Wars bedspread, and cried like I’d been beaten up by a schoolyard bully. Which … well.
My dad never came in to talk to me, to check on me, to … you know, be a dad who loved his son. (I brought this up when I was in my twenties, hoping for some resolution to a deeply painful moment in my life. WHe dismissed me then as being too dramatic, so … at least he’s consistent?) So I stayed in my room with my door closed, and cried until I fell asleep.
Eventually, my mom came home with my infant sister. I had the puffy eyes, heavy chest, and weird mouth feeling of sleeping too hard in the middle of the day. But woke up when I heard the car pull into the driveway, and the screen open and close. I heard the keys drop into the bowl, followed almost immediately by the familiar, inscrutable thrumming of voices through the walls as my parents argued, just seconds after mom came into the house. They did this almost every day, and I hated it. It was upsetting. It felt unsafe. It felt chaotic. I never had friends over, because I didn’t want them to see my parents the way I did. The anger between them filled the air in our house with this faint, ever-present haze of resentment and power struggle. It was emotional smog. Some days, it was so thick I couldn’t breathe, other days it was barely visible. But it was always there, poisoning everything.
Their voices got louder and more intense. One of them slammed a cabinet and my sister began to cry. I heard my dad’s familiar, mocking laugh and knew that my mom had slammed the door. I heard heavy footsteps and my sister’s crying get louder and closer as my mom carried her past my door and into my parent’s bedroom at the end of the hall. She slammed that door so hard it shook the bookcase in my room. It was really scary. Lots of my friends had divorced parents, and when I saw parents on television behave like mine did, they usually got a divorce. Even though I secretly wished my parents would get divorced, that was scary, too. I thought about picking a parent to live with, like my friends did. Most of them lived with their moms, which is what I would have done. She forced me to work and wouldn’t let me be a kid, but at least she wasn’t a bully to me like dad was. She was … I don’t know. She was a lot, but she wasn’t mean.
It’s totally normal for a 9 year-old kid to hope his parents will get divorced, so he doesn’t have to live in their angry chaos. It’s equally normal for parents to think that their screaming, door slamming, wall kicking, and tantrum-throwing is super okay and won’t have a negative effect on their children.
I pulled the covers around my head as tightly as I could, to muffle the sounds of crying that I wasn’t entirely sure was coming from my baby sister. Totally normal, not traumatic at all.
I didn’t come out of my bedroom until it was time for dinner around 5. We all sat at the kitchen table, my sister in her high chair, my brother across the table from me, my parents on either side of me. We had goulash, which was basically canned corn, ground beef, I think some noodles, and a whole lot of tomato-based sauce. I usually liked it, it was kind of like a sloppy Joe, but the last thing I wanted to do was eat. So I sat there and pushed it around with my fork while my parents silently seethed at each other. My brother and sister obliviously devoured their respective dinners.
My brother finished his dinner, put his dish in the sink, and went to watch TV. Dad finished, left his plate on the table, and joined my brother. Mom began to clear his dish and looked at me. “What’s wrong with your goulash?”
I sensed an impending interrogation and did my best to avoid it. “Nothing. I’m … just not very hungry.”
We looked at each other, both of us having been run over by the miserable fucking bulldozer that was my father. Please don’t make me talk about it, I thought.
“Okay, well, put it in the refrigerator and we’ll warm it up for you later.”
I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.
“Okay. Can I go outside?”
“Just come in when the streetlights come on.”
I got on my bike and rode it up the street. I felt angry. I felt hurt. I felt confused. I felt scared. But at least I wasn’t inside with them. With him.
I stood up and pushed the pedals as fast and as hard as I could. I wondered what it would be like if I just kept going and didn’t come back. I wondered about that a lot, when I was a kid. I got to the top of the street, jumped up the curb, rode down the sidewalk for a couple houses, jumped off the curb, and raced back down the street as fast as I could. Over and over, as hard as I could go, skidding to a stop as close to the end of the sidewalk as I could, leaving as much rubber behind as possible. Up the street, around the cul-de-sac, power skid, then back down the street, another power skid. I was good at riding my bike. Maybe if I got good enough at riding my bike, my dad would notice.
Jenny’s mom pulled her Ford Pinto Wagon into their driveway as I sped past them on my way down the street. My heart skipped a beat and I gripped the handlebars as professionally as I could, stood up as tall as possible, and pushed even harder on the pedals. I tensed my entire body until my bike and I were one, joined at a spiritual level to become a marble stallion that commanded the attention of all who were blessed by its presence.
I aimed toward the edge of the nearest driveway, so I could take a little jump off the curb. A small flourish to let the audience know I appreciated them. Push, push, push. Pump those legs, Wil. Maximum speed! Get ready to lift those handlebars and soar.
Now, a lot of you expect me to wipe out here. I get that. It’s a perfect time for a sad trombone.
But I didn’t. I nailed it. I pulled off the sweetest jump, got to the end of the street, triumphantly slammed on my back and font brakes, a laid down an epic skid that I’m pretty sure is still there to this day. The kids who live there now whisper stories about it, so I’ll print the legend.
I turned my bike around as slowly and cinematically as I could, ready to receive my audience.
Only they were still in the car, the doors just beginning to open. They’d missed it all. There’s your sad trombone.
Just like that, all my energy was gone. My arms and legs felt heavy and slow. I sat back onto my bike and pedaled toward my house.
Jenny and Candi were waiting for me at the end of her driveway. They were both smiling and blushing. Whoa! Maybe they did see me!
My brakes made an embarrassing squeak when I stopped next to them. I tried to lean my bike to one side, very carefully leaving one foot casually resting on one pedal, like I’d seen on TV. What I managed to do was slide off the seat, spin the pedals around in a backwards loop, smash myself in the shin with one of them, and drop my bike underneath me.
“Are you okay?” Jenny asked.
“Yeah. I’m just riding my bike,” I said, awkwardly, trying not to wince.
They giggled.
“I’m getting pretty good at doing skids,” I offered.
Jenny suppressed a smile and Candi licked her lips.
“Uh … how was the zoo?” I asked.
“Good,” Jenny said, holding back most of a giggle. Was she making fun of me? Why was she laughing?
She elbowed Candi, who I noticed had her hands behind her back.
“We saw the elephant exhibit,” Candi said. They shared a conspiratorial glance.
“Go!” Jenny whispered, urgently.
“Okay!” Candi whispered back.
She took her hands from behind her back and shoved a gray plastic elephant into my hands.
“They have this machine that lets you make models, so I got you an elephant one.”
It came out like, “TheyhavethismachinethatletsyoumakemodelssoIgotyouanelephantone.”
It was damp and warm in my hands as I looked at it. I turned it over and glanced up at her. She was looking back at me, expectantly.
I didn’t know what to do. I felt a little out of breath all of a sudden.
“…. do you like it?” she asked, cautiously.
That’s what she said. But what I heard was, “do you like me?”
“YES!” I practically hollered.
They both jumped a little bit, then giggled. I felt my face get hot.
“I mean, yes. Thank you. It’s great.”
Jenny’s mom called out from the porch, “girls, come in and wash your hands to get the zoo off of them. Then you can go back out and play.”
“Okay, mom!”
They hesitated. Candi and I looked at each other for, like, way too long. I just saw these huge brown eyes and I really wanted to hug her. I didn’t want to kiss her. That was gross. But a hug would be pretty great. The Archies started to hum a chorus in my head.
But what if my dad saw? What if Jenny’s mom saw and laughed at me? What if Jenny’s mom told my parents? What if Candi didn’t like me that way? What if what if what if (welcome to the rest of your life, Wil).
“Let’s go, girls,” her mom said. “They’ll be right back, Wil.”
“We gotta go,” Jenny said, like we were standing on a train platform in 1943. “But we’ll be right back.”
“Okay.”
I dropped my bike on the ground and ran across my lawn. When I got to the edge of the garage, I hid the elephant under my shirt and looked around the corner. I could see my mom in the kitchen window. It looked like she was washing dishes. I waited for her to turn away, and ran quickly and quietly up the driveway, avoiding her attention as I slipped into the house and sneaked down the hallway to my bedroom.
I closed the door behind me and looked for the perfect place to put Candi’s Elephant. Next to my bed was the most obvious place, but it felt weird (too intimate, is how I’d have described it, if I’d known what that meant).
My bookcase was pretty full, and all the space on top of my dresser was taken up with the rebel base on Hoth. That left my desk, a recent addition to my bedroom set that was handed down from one of my cousins. I had real homework, now, in 4th grade.
So I sat at my desk, and put it right on the edge, under my springy lamp. I clicked it on to create a spotlight. I smiled. Candi got this for me when she was at the zoo. She spent her own money on it.
I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall toward the bathroom.
“Cut!”
“Cut! Cut! Print!”
“Oh, you are so sensitive! Don’t be so dramatic.”
“…nothing. It’s nothing.”
The laugh. That cruel, contemptuous laugh that I can still hear today, though I haven’t seen him or heard his voice in nearly eight years, and hope I never do for the rest of my life.
I grabbed Candi’s elephant and shoved it into the top drawer. I buried it under some papers, to be sure nobody else would find it.
I listened for him to walk back to the other side of the house, then crept down the hallway until I could see my mom in the kitchen. I made sure she couldn’t see me and sneaked back out of the house, and around the corner of the garage. I ran across the lawn (I wanted to skip so much, but even I knew that wasn’t cool) and met them on Jenny’s porch. We played Pay Day until the street lights came on.
I never hugged Candi, or held her hand, or even told her that I liked her. She was only visiting for another week, and whenever I felt the impulse to express my innocent affection for her, the specter of my dad got up in my face and ensured I kept it all to myself.
I think she knew. How could she not? And I think she liked me, too. I have the elephant to prove it.
About Seven Years Later.
I was almost sixteen, right before I had my driver’s license. We’d moved from Sunland to La Crescenta, and I was working on Star Trek. My mom and I were in my bedroom, going through my clothes. I had to do a photo shoot for Tiger Beat or Teen Face or Nonthreatening Boys Magazine or whatever, and she insisted on choosing all of my clothes for me. “So your fans can see your best self,” she said, reaffirming for me that my best self was not good enough until she signed off on it.
I wanted to wear an Oingo Boingo T-shirt, and in her manipulative way, she pulled every button-down shirt I owned to try on “just to be sure”. She exhausted me, and I wore whatever she wanted me to wear. I did get to wear that Boingo shit a few years later, though; a small, pyrrhic victory.
On her way out of my bedroom, she looked at my desk. Next to my Macintosh II with 13 inch 256 color monitor and massive 35MB SCSI hard drive, was Candi’s elephant.
My mom zeroed in on it like the Terminator. “What’s that? I’ve never seen that before.”
Why was she so suspicious of everything about me? Why did I constantly have to explain myself to her? Why was she so fucking needy all the time? She was just exhausting.
“It’s an elephant.”
“I can see that. Where did it come from?”
“The Zoo.”
“You haven’t been to the Zoo in years.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“So how did you get it?”
This little spark of defiance that was always kind of floating around in the air currents of my mind suddenly hit some dry brush and blazed into an inferno. This was mine. Candi gave it to me. I’d kept this secret for over half my life, just for myself, because I knew they’d fuck it up if they found out. After Stand By Me, I’d felt more and more like a thing in my home. I was Debbie’s Thing, and everyone else in the house was part of her family. My sister still let me be her big brother. But to the rest of my family, I was a thing. I was a thing my dad hated, my brother resented, that my mother jealously guarded like a rare and valuable porcelain doll. And that still wasn’t enough for her. All of my successes and accomplishments in the entertainment industry, all that stuff that I worked so hard for, she reliably found a way to insert herself into it and claim it as her own. Well, this plastic elephant was mine. And it was going to stay mine.
“I traded it for sex and drugs, mom. It’s full of drugs. Call the National Enquirer. I’ll be on the cover.” I picked up Candi’s elephant and struck a big, cheesy, Barker’s Beauties pose with it. “Quick, get the camera before I change my mind.”
“Well you don’t have to be such a pill about it,” she snapped. “I’m just asking. Is it so terrible for a mother to be interested in her son?”
No, mom. It would actually be wonderful if you were interested in your son. Maybe you could talk to dad about that, try something new together.
From across the house, the phone rang. Holy shit. I was literally saved by the bell.
“Debbie!” My dad hollered, “The phone!”
“Nothing is more important than family,” she admonished me on her way out of my bedroom.
I sat down at my desk and gently held Candi’s elephant in my hands. I remembered what it was like before I was a thing.
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With tears in my eyes because I understood a bit too much about the feelings, I say thanks for sharing. I wanted to be you, growing up. I guess in some ways …
Thank you for sharing your elephant with us.
Is that Jenny The Bloggess, or is she a different Jenny? Also I’m sure Candi would love to hear how much her little thoughtful gift meant 🥰
This brings me back to my own childhood. Making myself so small as to avoid any trauma. As an adult I’ve found the damndest things bring me back to being that child again.
The Bloggess grew up in Texas, so no. 🙂
Nicely told, Wil. May I ask what prompted the story?
You may, but I won’t tell.
Actually, I’ll tell you that a younger version of myself reached out and asked me to tell his story, so I did. I love him too much to say no.
❤️❤️❤️ ty for honoring your younger self and sharing that vulnerable moment with us
Thank you for seeing me.
Find your childhood crushes! Even if you are happily married now and have no untoward intentions, it’s still cool to reconnect with those childhood fantasies.
Signed,
A guy who just had lunch with his first girlfriend from 35 years ago
It really depends on where you are in your life. I can say honestly, there are times I did this, and it was the best thing ever, and times it was a terrible idea and I really regret having done it.
Awesome post.
I felt the Dad trauma too as a child – he enjoyed bullying and emotionally abusing me. I hid from him, played outside alone, dreamed of running away, all of it.
I cut him out of my life 16 years before he died. And because of you, I am in therapy, healing.
So many similar feelings about my “parents” were brought up reading this. I hope you still have that elephant
JFC, Wil.
Sooooo many parallels in our lives.
Even before our 3,000-miles-apart ice-cream date on my birthday last year, I’ve wanted to have a conversation with you. I have so much respect and admiration for you for being able to what was, in my day, called “airing your dirty laundry.” I’m not quite there yet, but I’m working on it. Mental-health stigmas are fading every day, and your courage is part of what’s making that happen.
I can’t imagine how many people you are helping to find their own inner strength to confront and deal with their childhood traumas. I hope you can take some comfort in knowing that your pain is now serving a purpose for good.
The kindness you and Anne showed a total stranger that day is still a cherished piece of my heart. I wanted to do something for you on your birthday this year, so I asked Jonathan to sing a duet with me as I worked Genie’s table at TerrifiCon. Unfortunately, Anne deleted her Twitter, so I had no way of getting it to you… until I remembered your blog. I hope you like it:
https://www.facebook.com/Kinravip/videos/250340124433961
Happy autumn and much love to you and Anne. I hope to meet you both one day.
I’m sorry your parents were shitty. I know what the angry chaos at home was like, although our household was just run-of-the-mill ’70s alcoholic dad stuff. The fact that you grew up and became the exact opposite kind of parent is truly impressive and must’ve taken a lot of work. Kudos to you (and Anne) from…an entirely different Candi who moved to Northern California in 1981 and has an elephant tattoo. Those details did weird me out a bit.
Thank you for sharing…
One of the very best things about being an adult is that we never have to be like our parents, if we don’t want to be. Thank you for being open and sharing your experience about your gaslighting, narcissistic, insecure pile of shit you had to call Dad.
I don’t know what to say. Bullies at any age are a special kind of hell, but as a kid, horrible. I’m sorry the sperm donor and your birth mother were so terrible. Please know that any girl would have been turned on if someone sang “Sugar, Sugar” to them. Thank you for speaking up and out.
That was utterly heartbreaking to read. It’s horrendous that this happened to you, and incomprehensible to me that anyone would treat a child like that, but sadly, this is also too relatable for me. That kind of mockery and poison was standard from my mother as far back as I can remember, and the toxic shame it left in me sat deep and tight my whole life. 4 years of therapy that were brutal at times managed to dislodge it, and reconnect to my own emotions, which still feels like a miracle to me, though I still have to work on it daily, and like you, I hope I never hear my parent’s voice again.
I’m so glad for you you managed to get out, get the love and help you deserve, and get to a point where you can heal. It takes guts and strength and self-trust. You’re brilliant, and your openness about your journey has helped me in my own tremendously.
I thoroughly enjoy your writing style. You sharing moments like this so skillfully and artfully is greatly appreciated. I’m glad you got to keep the elephant.
From the child of one bully to another, thanks for sharing this. I know I’m not alone, but it’s nice to have a reminder that I’m not (even if I wish none of us had to deal with bad parents in the first place!)
I had to remind myself to breathe as I was reading that. How wonderful that your younger self is being heard now. I wish that had always been the case, and I’m so very very sorry it wasn’t.
May I simply say that as a child of the early 80’s I very much relate to your story and descriptions in this blog. I thank you deeply for sharing these intimate feelings.You unlocked a nostalgia door I’ve been chipping away at for awhile. I grew up in Lancaster, California in an all too familiar description of your childhood. It’s like to think if we ever had met we’d of been wonderful childhood friends.
As it is, I kinda feel that was having grown up watching you on TNG.
So long Will, and thanks for all the fish!
This was so painful yet bittersweet it could have been from my life. Except no one ever liked me back, then.
I had typed up some long emotional comment about growing up admiring you and how similar our lives seemed to be and low and behold the Internet goes seem to have swallowed my post in a sea of comment verification antispam.
So i will instead just say, thank you for baring your youth to us. I hope you are having an infinitly better adulthood.
That was a tough read. I grew up with a situation where one parent has problems with explosive and at times violent anger, the other parent has narcissistic personality disorder. Your experiences sound similar to my own. It’s a long road to healing, but it’s happening. Take care of yourself! You aren’t alone. I send my friendship!
I think she liked you. It was easier for her to be brave and give you the elephant since she was leaving soon. The way you reacted was probably exactly what she wanted from you.
Well done, young Wil.
Without the bullying and bad parenthood, this would be a beautiful and heart-warming story about a boys first crush. Thank you for these words!
Having parents that belittle you is such a bummer. They are so small yet they wield as much power as possible to tear down kids. My dad thought that kind of thing was ‘funny’ and would make me stronger or more independent.
My mom made fun of my voice for years. Not because it was bad, because of ‘how’ I sang. She didn’t like the tone I’d picked up singing Whitney Houston songs and how I tried to get a depth to my voice.
She mocked me and belittled me even through winning singing awards in high school, after I’d gaslit myself out of singing for several years. She cried happy tears in front of everyone else, and then told me everything I did wrong after. I wasn’t even TRYING to impress her, or asking for criticism, just doing what I was directed.
You already know telling your mom that story would have caused a bunch of manipulation and teasing. Good on you for keeping that to yourself.
Thank you for the story, I am sure it was a bit tough to write.
Thank you for sharing this with us. It is, of course, beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. You are an incredible storyteller 💗
This is Southern California, sir. When the legend becomes fact….print the legend.
Kudos for sharing. Between 4th grade crushes and your parental situation, you have unpacked a lot, and it’s a brave thing to do in public.
Your share opened gates for me about my 4th grade crush, kissing her behind the candy machine and holding hands roller skating…and my wife telling stories about getting hot black plastic figurines from the Mold-a-Rama at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry.
I hope your childhood friends read this and something positive comes from it,
Thank you for sharing this. I have similar emotional memories from my childhood and we’re close in age so they’re very poignant. We have to remember these moments when we see reminders of them as adults.
Very well-told, and I’m sad that it had to be a bittersweet memory. But you made me think about my crushes, too, which is what good writing does. Thank you for sharing. One note–I think there’s a typo near the with “Oingo Boingo shit” instead of ‘shirt’. I only mention it because this is reprint-worthy and my eye caught it.
Huzzah to you for not only honoring your past self in telling that story, but also for being willing to be vulnerable and share it at all. Here’s hoping you still have that elephant, and maybe even the connection with your friends.
I have stared at a blinking cursor for too long trying to think of the right words…. You, however, did find the right words: “emotional smog” will stick with me. Thanks for sharing and reminding us all that behaviour is not okay, and I’m sad that you had to live through that.
I’m too private to tell you why, but I greatly appreciate you sharing this.
Phenomenal piece, Wil. Thank you. But this?
“Tiger Beat or Teen Face or Nonthreatening Boys Magazine or whatever” – Fucking perfection.🤣🤣🤣
Your writing is heartbreaking. All love to poor younger mistreated Wil.
Wow… that was a lot. My heart broke in several places. Thank you for sharing, and I’m so sorry.
Years-old? No. You were nine years old. There. No hyphen there. There are two in nine-year-old, however.
Read the room.
I got your back Wil.
And I know you struggled with your role on Star Trek, And you said most people didn’t like the character, but I did. And now you’re like the Chuck Norris of Star Trek 😎
I was five the first time I remember crying at night after hearing my parents yelling. My sister, in a rare moment of kindness, got into my bed and asked me what was wrong. I told her I didn’t want our parents to get divorced. She told me they weren’t going to get divorced (spoiler alert: they did, about twenty years later – sigh). I calmed down that night. But I remember how much it sucked growing up in such an angry house. I get where you’re coming from, Wil, and I’m sorry for your troubles. You had some extra, unique struggles too, but the angry house, oh, yeah. I get that. Long distance hugs.
There was this dude named Sisko. He went to visit some friends who lived in a big mansion. The friends told him that they didn’t understand the concept of linear time. But then they played baseball. And everything made sense.
We are peculiar creatures. What with our pasts and presents and futures. And hobgoblins. And burning starships.
We’re the same age. I kinda grew up with you even though you didn’t grow up with me. I was 10 when I first wondered why my parents didn’t get divorced. I’m glad you’re doing okay. Don’t worry, I am, too.
You deserve so much love, Wil! Thank you for sharing the elephant with us, even though you didn’t have to <3
There are 2 things I want to say here, and I’m trying to figure out how to say both…
1) I’m so sorry that your parents and brother treated you so badly…
2) This story is SO well-written! You get across the emotional content… the two girls giggling and you being afraid they were making fun of you, but really, they both knew that Candi had as much of a crush on you as you had on her, based on the hand-off of the elephant after they giggled and nudged each other. Very well-written, though heart-breaking in terms of your parents’ actions towards you.
Thank you for sharing your elephant, and your story, with us… And I, too, hope you still have the elephant.
You always write so beautifully, and always “hit home” for me.
Might I add, “Nothing is more important than family,”…. that may be true, but her definition of family was off. She wasn’t your family, but we’re all thankful you have one now. (April)
Wil, thank you so much for sharing your younger self. If I could, I’d give him the biggest, longest, most loving Mom-hug he’s ever had (since I grew up in the ’60s, it would be appropriate).
Yes, I see you. You managed to save your beautiful soul.
That’s a very well written and well told story. I can relate to so much of it. I can relate to your jalapenos too those look amazing, I’m very unmodified genetically.
I’ve had like three people tell me my picture plants were Venus fly traps so, I feel your pain.
That should have said and very unmodified not im the very unmodified
Thank you. This resonates with me so much, and I feel for your nine year old self. Wishing you much happiness and love ❤️
Finally at 63 years I have a therapist. My first question was “do you believe in CPTSD?” This started a great conversation. I am ready to work on a healthy me.
Finally at 63 years I have a therapist. My first question was “do you believe in CPTSD?” This started a great conversation. I am ready to work on a healthy me.
The first thing that hit me about this story was your incredible memory for details as a child. No way I can remember things like that. The next thing I noticed was how cinematic it was. This whole story could have been a scene in a movie. It is so full of detail and emotion. I hope writing stuff like this is healing for you. My sense is that it is healing for your readers. I wish you all the best. Every time I watch you on The Ready Room, I feel your amazing passion and love for your Star Trek family.
Ungh! Grown ups can be such asshats to kids. More than they are now I believe because most parents today are helicopter parents.
Some of the comments here state they can’t remember humiliating moments in their childhood years. I find that alarming in a way because if you haven’t been humiliated as a child, then you are living in a bubble that should be popped!