I remember when I first began vibrating. I was a child living in dysfunction. Most of my days spent locked in my closet when my dad was off working out of town or late hours.
He had no knowledge of how I was living until one day he returned from working a winter storm in Dahlonega, Georgia, he came home without notice and found me locked in my closet. I was being fed valium and had to defecate in a bag and pee in a cup.
The days I spent in my closet I was never alone. I always heard music. I sang and made music and the time passed quickly. Days became nights and I couldn't tell how many days had passed at times.
I remember the day the closet door opened to see my daddy's face in horror, his pure love taking me out of the hell I was living in and becoming my mom and dad.
We went apartment hunting that day.
He took me shopping and we grabbed some used furniture.
He bought me a guitar and we played Joan Baez songs until bedtime.
My mother hated Joan Baez and wouldn't allow him to play it in the house so he played it in his car and when he was outside working on cars.
Joan Baez had a magical angelic viberto that my daddy used to drift off to sleep.
We saw her together in concert in Atlanta Georgia and had VIP passes so I actually hugged her and gave her a button off my jacket during the concert at Chastain Park. This was surreal for me because she was the voice I grew up listening to every night in our tiny apartment as we went to sleep. I had no concept of who she was in history.
I spent my evenings humming and singing and vibrating to the strings on my guitar.
It brought me great comfort.
The smell of Marlboro cigarettes, and "cat head" biscuits filled our home and it felt like safety.
Daddy and I went to a flea market and I saw my first chime. A musically tuned chime and he bought it for me. I added this my "tool box". It was my private concert. I shared with my daddy what I saw when I played notes or hummed. He knew I was different and he loved me and promised to protect me.
One Sunday my brother came over and brought some friends he knew from racing bikes. I was in my room and one of his friends came in and pushed me down and shoved his hand up my shirt.
I left my body.
My dad came in and we were all brought in the the living room to watch racing tapes.
I hated my body. It didn't fit my soul. I began dressing like a boy. Flannel shirts and blue jeans so I didn't look like a girl. I hated having breasts after that happened. I would wear layers to push them down.
As I grew older it was time for me to attend high school. We moved to a trailer in Harris County, Georgia.
I wanted so badly to have friends but I had nothing in common with anyone. Girls scared me. Boys would be my friend but I had to keep it a secret.
School began and I made my first friend, A guy on the bus that was just as scared as I was. He was the stereotypical brainiac nerd guy with thick rimmed glasses and a pile of books.
By the third week of riding the bus, my friend made me an origami dragon and slipped it to me through the seats.
I hated high school. I didn't understand the cliques or the trends.
When I was asked questions about who I was, I answered and my answers were embellished by bullies who were looking for reasons to build a story around me.
When I did make authentic connections they were real and I was so grateful until one day, a student I had connected with needed a ride home and I was driving at this time. I had a VW. He hopped in my car and then he hid his face in his jacket.
He was hiding the fact that he was with me.
I will never forget how this felt.
I dropped him off and swore I would never tolerate that behavior from anyone ever again.
This hurt me deeply but that hurt turned to anger.
I had a long ride home from school that day because I took a guy home who I thought was my friend and he needed a ride.
I sang so loudly a song that poured from my mouth. I cried as I drove home that day. I was not alone in my car. The frequencies that once comforted me had returned to me.