Small Beginnings

I was born in California, the state of tall palm trees and dusty mountains, smog-filled air and turquoise ocean water, in the year 1986. What I remember of my home there is limited, but our backyard was extensive, our dining room had hardwood flooring, and my bedroom had dreamy white curtains in the windows. It was a two-story house, the second floor having been converted from an attic to a living space by my father. My best friend was a boy, I loved wearing dresses, and I knew that a $20 bill was worth more than the card it came in on my first birthday.

My two older brothers were typical boys. They loved legos, the tree house built in our backyard, and getting into as much mischief as possible without getting into trouble. They could be a bit overbearing at times. At birthdays and Christmas my parents sounded like broken records: "Let Katie open her own presents." I was a quiet, shy child. I loved to play with baby dolls and Fisher-Price Little People. Sometimes my brothers would play with me. Other times my mom would sit on the living floor with me and join me in the adventures of the Little People. Many times, I played by myself.

The only memories I have of girl friends in California are few and unpleasant. There was one particular girl that I played with occasionally. She told me the names of certain body parts that I found most inappropriate at my young age. I was invited to one of her birthday parties, an "Under the Sea" themed party inspired by "The Little Mermaid." We were all to wear costumes. I dressed in my pink leotard with the fluffy tutu around the middle. I was supposed to be a sea urchin. Duh. Everybody knows sea urchins resemble pink tutus. But apparently not 4 to 7 year old girls. I was the laughing stock of the party. I remember being distinctly relieved the last time I left her house before moving away. I was coming home from one last visit, and the moving truck was in front of our white, clapboard siding house. I was sad about leaving my best friend, the boy. I was not sad about leaving the girls who laughed at me behind.

At the tender age of 5, I began a new life in a new state. Florida also had palm trees, albeit stubby, fat ones, and no mountains. The ocean water was brown and murky on the Atlantic coast, and I didn't visit the Gulf coast. I settled in with my two older brothers, a younger sister who was two at the time of the move, and my parents, who did their best to handle the four of us as they searched for a house. We finally moved into a five bedroom, two bathroom house. One bedroom was used as my father's study. My brothers shared a room, and my sister and I shared a room. The fourth bedroom was reserved for the little bundle of joy that would be joining us in July of 1992.

We had joined a church by the time I was six. It was a good-sized church, with a couple hundred people attending the service most Sundays. I'll call it the Family Church, for so it was. It was there that I made new friends. My new best friend was a girl this time. I'll call her Susan. We visited each other's houses and spent the night and made silly videos. We often played together with another girl, whom I'll call Lacey. The three of us got along well, most of the time. But there were moments when jealousies would arise because Susan and I were so close, and Lacey was often the third wheel. And when I would go to Lacey's house, Susan sometimes got jealous. A trio presents challenges that a duo never comes upon. I learned this early on, and found it to be true later on in life when I became the third wheel.

And so I was established in a modest home, with a healthy church and new friends. These were small beginnings, really, for soon my life would take a turn that would change everything, plunging the colorful freedom of childhood into a darkened vortex of twisted and haunting memories.