Who molded her?

Am I who I am because of what I've been through or am I who I was born to be? I find myself contemplating this perplex statement more than I would like to admit.

I question my Anxiety and ADHD diagnosis and ponder "Would I have anxiety if not for the manipulation and coercion I endured as a child?". As you can recall from my last post, I left off on some unnerving revelations. I was a child consumed with guilt, sadness, anger and anxiety. Like I mentioned before, I can recall that feeling so clearly, like it was yesterday. The feeling of being weighed down buy other peoples thoughts, emotions and exploit. This unreservedly created just a piece of who I am today.

I remember never sleeping. I would pretend to sleep when I could hear my mothers foot steps heading down the hall to tuck us into bed but in reality, I was wide awake and ready to intervene should Satan come to collect. I was panic-stricken with dark thoughts racing through my mind. It was my job, a young girl, to creep and spy on my mother and step-dad to enforce that no naughty business would transpire throughout the long hours of the night, because, you know, the whole burning in hell thing.

I recall one night in particular where my mother and step-dad went on a date night. At this time, my youngest brother was no older than 8 months old as he was still in a bucket seat. Like the demonic child that I was programmed to be, I waited. I stayed up until they got home, secretly of course, because I knew that tonight might be the night where the flames swallow us whole (looking back I know that this is ridiculous because... my younger brother was conceived....naturally....and we didn't go up in flames...). I watched as my mom set my little brother up in the living room in his bucket seat (I don't know why he was in his car seat... Maybe he joined them on date night) and sauntered off to the bedroom to... you know... pray to the lord?

My whole body shut down. I felt like there was a fucking ginormous rock slowly crushing me. No matter how much I did or how hard I tried, this damn rock wouldn't let up. I sneak over to my adorable sleeping brother and do everything I can to wake him up. I am pretty sure I even flicked him in the bloody face! That is how desperate I was. I flicked a damn baby. After the flicking, shaking, and other attempts to get this kid to wake up my prayers (thank you Jesus) where heard. I quickly crawl back across the floor and down the stairs into my room and pretend to sleep again. Of course my mom came and checked on my sobbing brother and I smiled with glee knowing once again I saved us all. My poor mom and step-dad! No wonder they got divorced.

I realize that I am making my childhood out to sound despairing and sorrowful when in fact it wasn't all bad.