a defining moment. Aren't they all?

Tonight I was asked to consider, and write about, a moment from my childhood that defined me as a person. Immediately my brain was in rapid-fire mode...moving to Spencer, meeting my friends, my parents divorce, my first drink, playing basketball, the smell of my great grandmother (a mixture of Chapstick and baby powder), the suicides in my high school, my work history, my mother meeting Rod, being in foster care. The litany of experiences I claim have defined me is endless. There is not just one.

Or is there?

Was there one moment, a single experience that made me BECOME the Sonja you know? One year, one day, one minute, one second...that changed my path, altered my perceptions, determined my destiny?

I want to get all cheesy...say it was meeting and knowing my mother. The woman who shaped my world view, taught me manners, helped me develop a conscious, loved me regardless of...well...everything. I also want to get sarcastic...say it was my moving from town to town as a child...cite that experience as the basis of my ability to "embrace stability", or credit it for my living in several countries and states in my 20's and 30's. 

Then I suddenly remember last night. Last night, I was challenged to face my past and simultaneously stand in my present. I was challenged to accept betrayal without becoming a victim. I was challenged to be the Sonja of today who is built upon the Sonja of yesterday. And my moment was chosen. 

This is about to get awkward, not for me but for you.

She said, loudly, in no uncertain terms: "stop being such a baby". 

The she in the story was my grandmother, Nana. My father's mother. She yelled the sentence from her bedroom on Woodlawn Drive in Pelham, NH. The year was 1978 or 1979. The situation was horrible.

That house had, until that moment, been a safe haven for me. I can still describe, in painstaking detail, the color of the paint on the exterior of the house, the shape of the pool, the sound of my grandmother's voice when she spoke, the coffee tables, the sight of my grandparents reading the newspapers on Sunday mornings, the slant of the roof, the brook running on the border of the property, the stairs from the living room to the bedrooms, the trash compactor, the poodles (Bijou and Chantee) that they had, the fireplace, the toys I played with, the Thanksgiving dinners I ate there, the sense of security that every experience I had there created. 

Until that night.

My great grandmother, "Little Nana" had recently passed. That changed the house for me, but not enough to stop me from going. She had a heart attack in the downstairs bathroom, and I skipped the funeral, unlike my younger cousins. Mostly because I could not handle it, did not want to face it. Still, I returned to the house that I had learned how to drive a tractor, pop a purple popper flower, and climb a ladder in. I felt comfortable. Protected.

Prior to that moment.

My father, who was probably closing in on 30 at the time, had moved back in to his mother's house, bringing with him his 18 year old girlfriend, Carol. Carol was suddenly sleeping in Little Nana's bedroom. My dad was staying in the bedroom across from my grandparents bedroom upstairs. They were known as "Big Nana" and "Grumpy". At least to me. All under one roof, my dad, my grandparents, and my dad's girlfriend. I should have been the safest kid in the world. After all, they all loved me...right?

But...my dad was drinking. 

This was not new. It was the reason I had never lived in a town for long, the reason I have no friends from first grade, the reason for "the divorce". My grandparents had taken him into their home. Again. A constant source of malcontent, fighting, discourse between my grandparents...my grandmothers NEED to protect her son. Her oldest. Kenny.

Anyway... he was drinking. Girlfriend downstairs. His mother (my grandmother) in the next room. His daughter (me) asleep in his room. In comes Kenny (dad). He gets in bed with me...and makes me feel...uncomfortable? Awkward? SCARED. So I scream...SSSSTTTOOOPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!

My grandmother from the next room, her bedroom, screams "stop being such a baby!!!!". To me.

In that situation, I as a child, had no recourse. I could not explain to her that her son was assaulting me. I could not ask for help, because my lamenting for help had already been denied. I could not do anything but freeze. And pray. 

My father passed out that night, thankfully. Never again was the incident spoken of. Never was there a request for an explanation of my cry for intervention. Never did my grandmother come back and apologize. Never did I explain my actions to her. Or anyone.

But what did happen, inarguably, is that I was that I changed. I stopped feeling that I was going to be protected. I stopped believing that I was safe. I stopped believing in the power of my voice, my rights, my childhood.

My grandmother did not say those words out of contempt for me. She did not want me to be unsafe, at least not in my opinion. She simply wanted to protect her son. That need could arguably be based in her experiences. That day I was a product of my lineage...I was exposed to the life choices of my grandparents grandparents. To the unspoken stories, the untold horrors, the childhoods of my forefathers. And yet, it defined me. 

I stopped trusting adults that day. I stopped listening to the inner voice that told me adults would keep me safe. I stopped asking for help.

There is more to me than my drive for self preservation. I am altruistic, intelligent, funny, resilient. A lot, if not all, of these characteristics are derived from my grandmother...but inarguably, my inability to trust people comes from her also.

I am not convinced that this is a moment that barring all other moments would have created me. Although I am sure that it is the moment that I can pinpoint that altered my view of people, of safety and of life. I am certain that it changed me...that is aided me in becoming the Sonja of today built upon the Sonja of yesterday. That is it has impacted my decisions, altered my relationships, and shaped my reality. 

That was the moment that made me the Sonja that is writing this, regardless of you knowing her, understanding her, or accepting her. That was the situation that defined, shaped and created her. That was the moment, above all moments, that made her...me...who I am. That is how I excuse me, justify me, explain me.

Except, I am kind. Loving. Forgiving. Accepting. GOOD.

So was it a bad moment?

No. It was just A moment. A blip in the time line that makes me...me.