Welcome,

I have decided to start this blog as a continuation of my commitment to write more. It will contain stories about my daily life, poems, photography, and other projects. I hope that the process of writing this blog will be a healing opportunity for me as I reflect on events from my life. Consider this a warning. Some things in this blog might be emotional, vulnerable, or even angry.

Some backstory:

I grew up as a missionary kid in Eastern Europe for most of my childhood. I was born in Greece while my parents were missionaries in Bulgaria. I spent four years in Scotland where I attended pre-school through third grade while my dad was earning his PhD in Theology. Then I lived in Bulgaria for another 5 years where I learned to speak the language and attended school fully in Bulgarian. I worked hard in school getting a perfect mark of “6” in most of my classes, except for Bulgarian literature where the best I could manage was a “5”. My school in Bulgaria was very strict, and despite all the complaints from our older professors about not being able to whip students any more, they found creative ways to discipline us for misbehaving anyway.

At the age of 12 I moved to North Carolina where I enrolled in public school. Life in the States was very different. On the first day of class I had no idea what a “homeroom” was, I muttered my way through the pledge of allegience, and I embarassed myself by standing up to show respect when asking a question. Fortunately fter only a short time of sitting awkardly in the auditorium after assembly that first morning, an adult told me that “homeroom” was the first class on my schedule. By the second day I had learned the pledge of allegience, and after a couple of weeks my reflex to stand out of respect when speaking to a teacher or when any kind of authority entered the classroom had practically disappeared. Relearning math and science in English proved to be an interesting challenge, but I figured it out too.

I worked hard in school, and for most of middle and high school I made exceptionally good grades. I didn’t love school or school work, but I worked hard because as my parents would put it: “it’s just what you do.” I was accepted into the North Carolina School of Science and Math, a very selective boarding high school located near the state capital. I didn’t want to go, but my parents forced me to try it anyway. My mother was convinced that if I turned them down they would be mad and would reject my brother’s application the next year. I went for two weeks then came back home. I got my first job later that year as a cook at McDonald’s in the hopes that my mom would stop complaining to me about money.

If I wasn’t so trusting I think that would have seen my parents for what they were a lot sooner. Instead of blindly believing what they told me, I would have seen that their actions completely contradicted what they said. They were rarely supportive, kind, or loving, but what hurt me the most was when they told me that they were great parents and I was lucky to have them. When I felt bad from being treated critically or unfairly, I convinced myself that I must be the problem. I grew up with a deeply seeded belief that I am hopelessly broken. To this day, they refuse to admit how much harm they caused without blaming me for it or telling me how much worse it could have been. They both claim to be sympathetic to what I have been through, as well as the unhappiness I have experienced living in the closet, but refuse to change the way they act. Instead, they get upset with me when I point out hurtful things that they do. They defend their hurtful words and actions as their god-given rights.