When I was around 5 I had the "fortune" of being the youngest and smallest girl in the neighborhood. There were several older boys around to pick on me but one in particular was worse then the others. His name was Charlie and he lived directly across the street from me. He seemed like a giant to me. He was very tall and blond and he had a deeper voice than all the other boys. Whenever he caught me out and about he would walk up close to me and stare down into my frightened eyes and whisper "You're Dead." 
I've been "born again" at least 6 times in my life. I used to wonder if there was a cap on something like that, I mean how many times can you rededicate yourself to Jesus without him saying "yea, don't bother, you are a lost cause." I had plenty of opportunities though, so I assumed Jesus was a very patient guy. Every Sunday at church the paster would give that last 5 minute appeal to the congregation, inviting anyone who was feeling lost to come on down and be born again. It was my least favorite part of church because I felt so bad for him when nobody got up. He would plead and plead and the seconds would tick by and my stomach would start to hurt because nobody got up. I had to fight the urge to be born again every Sunday just to make him feel good. We always sang the same song too, "I Come". I believe that song will always give me a Pavlovian reaction to get out of my seat and start crying.
When I was in 6th grade I started to get boobs. I do not remember being all that conscious of them, at least not enough to cover them up. They were just big enough to poke through my t-shirts but not big enough to really qualify as "Breasts!" so I didn't give them much thought. I figured that if I needed a bra, my mom would buy one for me and then I would know that I needed one.
October 18, 1993 - The red neon sign is flashing through the windows on the subway, the subway, the subway, what a glorious contraption for life's goings on and everyone taking everything so seriously, especially their hair and their nylons facing away from their crotch. An uncomfortable feeling I know - does everyone hate that or is it just my nylons that fall down around my knees in the middle of the day? Who knows how many of us slip into the closet to tug them up when no one is looking. Hoe hee we muse along. Back on the subway, blank stares, stopping and starting, standing clear of the closing doors that do not re-open like elevator doors. 59th St. next, mine is 72nd St. tonight because I am going to Woolworth - yee haw! 
The mother is twisting the daughter's hair around her fingertip, remembering when own hair was soft and fine once and it made a perfect little curl, of this I'm not sure but it's what you expect isn't it? And on we go eating, reading, staring, reading and laughing and tap dancing - tap dancing on the subway is a difficult task but she did it, with a smile on her face and dried blood on her only white pants. How did she lose those teeth you wonder, how can she smile you wonder, who is she, could she be you, somewhere underneath it all, the makeup - the hair - the Woolworth lamp shade, could she be you?
My Mom has always been into Jesus. Every Sunday we attended church at the local First Christian. Dad stayed home to work on the car. I found church and Jesus really confusing. They talked a lot about love and forgiveness, but they also talked a lot about Hell and something called "The Rapture". I always thought it sounded scary but when the pastor talked about it he made it sound like something to look forward to, like a trip to Disneyland. All I understood was that it involved something called "The Mark of the Beast" and that did not sound like something to look forward to. There were no rides at Disneyland with names like that.
During my Mom's "single years", the five years between her divorce and re-marriage, we were home alone a lot. My sister, 3.5 years older than me, was in her dark and twisty phase then. She really enjoyed wearing thick black eyeliner and she listened to Ozzy Osbourne constantly. She used to play his albums over and over and I could hear them clearly through the bedroom wall. Any time an Ozzy song comes on an oldies station nowadays I can sing along, I know every word. I like to show off when this happens but inside I know I'm just a poser. I was never a fan, I was absolutely terrified of him. I remember trying to summon the courage to look at the album cover. You know the one, Ozzy is crouching with blood all over his face and there is an upside-down cross hanging on the wall. My sister and her friends loved the nights when our mom wasn't home. They would turn off all the lights in the house and play "Mr. Crowley" as loud as they could and wander through the house with candles. I remember staying in my room with the light on, trying to think about anything other then what was going on around me. I wondered what I was missing, some brand of courage that everyone possessed but me. Even J wasn't afraid and she was only a year older than me. Once they turned off the power so we had no lights, not even in my room. I think my sister's creepy boyfriend did it. I closed my eyes and surrendered. I don't remember anything else.
The wetting was a constant source of fear of eventual humiliation, especially when I slept at my Dad's. My step-mother had been warned of my "condition" and mentioned it in only hushed tones and left a clean set of sheets on my bed each day and asked if I would kindly put the wet ones in the laundry myself. I can't really blame her for that.
My sister really suffered, she had to share the bed with me sometimes when we were traveling.I don't remember her ever making me feel bad about it though.
Today I found out my "condition" has a name. Enuresis. It's not so embarrassing when you call it that.
I had a reoccurring dream throughout my childhood involving a T-Rex. Usually he would appear in my hallway, slowly making his way toward my room. My Mom wouldn't hide me. Once he came into the living room while we were watching "The Family Feud". I tried to bury myself in our gold velvet sofa behind my Mom, but she wouldn't hide me. I always thought that was strange.
The best way to describe the terror was a brief moment of total paralysis followed by the cool breeze of a cold sweat which then transformed into near suffocation. Sweaty as I was, I was not about the let even one toe poke out from under the blankets lest I become vulnerable to attack. Each time I waited it out until my body temperature returned to normal and I could breath again. This would repeat itself every few minutes until sleep finally rescued me.
