Chapter 1: The Weight of Memories

In the absence of external distractions, the mind is allowed to wander freely. As I lay in a sensory deprivation tank, I was reminded of my youthful days spent playing pinball with friends—those vibrant flashes of lights, the sound of quarters dropping, and the thrill of launching the ball into the game.

Photo by Biel Morro on Unsplash

These memories surged back as I floated, attempting, yet failing, to clear my cluttered mind of the day's noise and genuine crises. Instead of resisting, I allowed my thoughts to drift.

On this particular day, my mind was busy, fueled by microdosing. I found myself envisioning my life as a pinball game, where I was the ball bouncing around, searching for a place to rest amidst the chaos of colors and sounds.

I grew up in a typical suburban, middle-class family near Seattle—mom, dad, siblings, and our one dog. As the youngest of four and the only girl surrounded by three brothers, our household was lively, with a mother managing the home and a father working tirelessly, sometimes finding solace in alcohol amidst the stress of raising four children and maintaining a marriage that was unraveling.

Though I don’t recall much turmoil from this time, my childhood innocence shielded me from the impending upheaval that would come when I was just six years old.

As I floated, my mind kept returning to the imagery of a pinball being pulled back and released. No one can predict its path; will it strike its target or fall into a void? Can it be caught before it drains away, or will it be redirected towards a better outcome?

Until recently, I felt an overwhelming lack of control over my emotions and my life. My desires were often overshadowed by the needs of others. I conformed to expectations, instinctively knowing that this was my way of ensuring safety, even when it felt hollow. I was released into chaos with no awareness of the second set of flippers, the opportunity to pause, gather myself, and choose my path.

I have spent much of my life writing—mostly angst-filled diary entries and meticulous lists of goals, exercise plans, and what I deemed necessary for my body. Yet, I have never attempted to consolidate my thoughts about my childhood. Now, as memories resurface, I find myself compelled to share them.

At six years old, my extended family surrounded me, and I believed everything was fine, though it was anything but. I was shielded from the reality of my family’s disintegration—perhaps due to my parents’ efforts to conceal it or simply because I was too young to understand. One vivid memory remains: a smear of blood on the wall where my dad had pushed my mom into the bushes. This haunting image is the only remnant of that chaotic time.

I have no recollection of leaving or packing; it was as if I suddenly found myself in a different reality, separated from my father and brothers. My world shifted overnight into a series of transient homes and schools, an existence devoid of roots. The only constant was instability, fear, and a sense of disconnection. My mother tried her best but often struggled, and her well-meaning efforts did little to mitigate the lasting impact of our circumstances.

As I floated, the tension in my neck released, and an image of a pinball, securely nestled within the flippers, came to me. In the midst of chaos, it dawned on me that I could simply stop—to be still, to breathe, to think. This revelation was profound; I realized that I could rest and not be overwhelmed.

Laying there, I envisioned someone gently retrieving the pinball, cradling it as a cherished item, ensuring its safety. I believe this represents my current self reaching back to protect the younger version of me who never felt secure or at home. Writing this evokes a deep sense of grief, and tears flow as I honor those feelings.

I find it challenging to articulate my thoughts and emotions about my upbringing; they feel too vast to contain. However, I am finally beginning to understand that I deserve to feel good, to honor my past, to forgive and love myself unconditionally. This is merely the beginning of my journey.

Thank you for taking the time to read my reflections.

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