Reflecting On ACE Score

See yesterday’s entry before reading this one.

Protective factors. My parents were flawed but decent until things just shifted horrifically when I was 8 years old. I had an okay, if not good, childhood up until that age. There was affection, and teaching, and some routine and rules (everything was chaotic after age 8 as well, and my mother began hoarding at that time, too.) I was protected while very young.  I think my family being decent for the first few years was a protective factor. I wasn’t abused or neglected until later childhood and adolescence.

To begin with, when things went horribly wrong (which I’ve already written about) in 1978, I was confused and in problem-solving mode. I had some resilience for a few years after that. I didn’t really start breaking down until I was about 11 to 12. I think the factor that ultimately broke me, even before the abductions got especially traumatic, was getting MONO.

One of my best protective factors was my intelligence. I figured shit out. I also knew my brain was my ticket out of hell. If I got good grades and kept on top of my shit, I could go to college and (at that time) be guaranteed an upper middle class life, leaving my working class white trash childhood behind.

But then I got sick. I suddenly needed a LOT of help, and I didn’t get it. I wasn’t even taken to the doctor until I was at death’s door, in full ketosis, with organ failure next on the list. After I did get medical attention, the illness required I be taken for check-ups and blood tests once a week for several months. We went, but at home I was left to tend to my needs alone, while my mother worked and then watched TV and went to bed, and my father was in and out like always. The one thing my mother DID do every day was make and pack our lunches and cook dinner. I at least didn’t have to do that! But otherwise I had no assistance in care when I was so exhausted I could barely function. Then I had to go back to school, half days, the rest of the year– and I had to ride a bike because there were no buses for me at noon, and no other way to go. For someone recovering from extreme illness, that was no picnic.

But I thought I would recover. I knew it might take a year, but I’d be back– or so I assumed. I got ill before 9th grade and the all-important high school grade records began. I was wrong though. I never got back to where I was before, not for the rest of my life. When I began to realize I just couldn’t handle a full day at school, even 2 and 3 years later!– true existential panic began to set in. To further complicate matters, my family was getting worse and worse throughout my teens, just deteriorating– so I had more challenges and less support there at the same time I was attempting to finish school.

When I was 15 to 16, I spent nearly a year planning my own death. I looked ahead at what the rest of my life was going to be, and I did not think it was worth it to keep going. I was going to be weak and dependent upon others, barring a miracle, and that meant I would be subject to the whims of whoever I ended up with… and I was right. What I feared might happen to me DID happen. I was indeed screwed.

I ultimately decided to keep going and push back as best I could. I’ve found more good people than I thought I would. I continued to use my brain to figure out things and heal myself, since I couldn’t afford real therapy most of my life. I used my curiosity to propel me to investigate more than most would. My illness meant less power, but it DID give me one, small gift: time. I’ve worked part time on and off throughout my adult life, but that means I’ve had a lot of down time to pursue other goals.

Goals that included writing and researching and creating. Small comfort next to much of what else has gone wrong, but if I can make things right–? I can turn much of the bullshit of my past completely around. If I can manage that, my ACE score is not my destiny.