Arbitrary Turn

This was the first thing I ever wrote. For three months, I had been locked inside my own head. I could pull out my hair and pick at my skin, but I couldn’t make myself understood. Then I wrote this. Somehow, writing gave me my voice back.

Started in August 2015. Final revision completed in 2019.

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Any arbitrary turn along the way, I would be elsewhere. I would be different. They made the train tracks through the steepest part of the Alps before there was a train that could make the journey. They built them anyway. They knew one day the train would come. I have never felt as though the world “owed” me a thing. “The victim” isn't the name I wish to be bestowed. The traumas I've endured, I've survived, were the sort that, under normal circumstances, a “normal” person would've met their maker. There are millions that endure far more than I have. But comparing, assuming, and speculating—an individual's personal trials to yours—is apples to oranges. I'm not “normal” by society's standards. I do, and always have, marched to the beat of my own drummer.

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My life preserver, my defibrillator. My real-life Yoda explained it beautifully. People, most “normal” people, don't understand me. And she helped me see that's OK. Shoot, I didn't understand me. I, until recently, was a chameleon, trying to blend, fit in, be “normal.” I was a puppet. My actions were scripted. My vocal cords, like “Fargo,” my father's dog, severed. I was dubbed. A puppet, my bondage. Dysfunctional and unraveling, I have been. Punished severely for noncompliance. In my darkest hour, I was again reduced to groveling, begging… Again.

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In that moment, I received the most powerful, life-affirming, motivational speech. His last contribution to the only life I had known. His last diatribe, scolding. My puppet show's final curtain came to and, in turn, saved my life on

July 1, 2015.

I've been told and had believed to my core:

I am a liability. My son disappeared because of the situation I created at age 13. I got as close to normal as I was capable. I was unfit. My prison was being his daughter. I was fearless, brave enough to jump ship. I have, in the last 9 months, been reborn.

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I am sure to catch some grief for the following:

I was blessed by the Court. The two judges saved my life, brought me back to life, and I am profoundly grateful. My attorney handed me the bamboo and string. Helped me learn to fish the hard way. From scratch. I made huge, time-consuming mistakes, but eventually, I figured it out. The bamboo and string, my fishing pole. When it was time, he gave me the opportunity to make the hook. Although far less than before, more consumption of time passed. Frustrated, giving up wasn't an option. November 11, 2015. I secured my hook, my fishing pole complete. I was finally ready to catch my fish.

The journey has been painful, torturous, life-affirming, and I felt every single emotion. I will offer this advice, the only thing I know to be irrevocable in fact: there's no pill, vaccine, booze, or drug. No Band-Aids for grief. I did the work; I took this opportunity to get well. For the first time in my entire life, I can authentically say I'm not a prisoner. OCD isn't the boss of me anymore. I am no longer Gary's daughter. I am only Jackson's mother. I am not afraid of anyone. I've freed myself. Whatever doesn’t kill me had better start running.