I ran across this blog post today and appreciated the two questions she poses to homeschoolers at the end. I decided I wanted to answer them too.

As a former homeschooler, I am noticeably capable and mature because:
I grew up with a lot of responsibility that by necessity taught me many practical skills. I read copious amounts of books. I quickly learned to read another’s emotional state and intuitively guess what they need as a necessary survival skill. My performance level is high in most sorts of pressured or crisis circumstances. My communication skills, mostly verbal, were sharpened by constant high -pressure communication through my growing up years.

What I wish people really knew about me was:
I can find almost no motivation to do anything without a crisis. My health and current emotional weakness (Panic attacks, PTSD symptoms) are proof of the many years that I was strong in extreme circumstances. In spite of how it may look on the outside, I am unsure and insecure in all my social interactions. My ability to read and respond to someone else’s emotional state is almost to the level of compulsion; sometimes, I don’t know if I’m doing it out of care for the person, or to protect myself, or only out of habit. The only relationships I feel I have a good grasp on are ones with authorities or subordinates. I don’t understand people who don’t have a strong survival instinct, or don’t seem to think about survival one way or the other. If I dropped you as a friend, it isn’t because I didn’t like you; it’s because I literally do not understand how people are supposed to make, keep, or interact with friends.This is one of my greatest regrets and it constantly haunts me.

A few nights ago, when I lay down to go to sleep, emotions rose to the surface. I thought at first that I was going to have a panic attack but I was able to cry instead. I cried because I didn’t want this to be my story. I cried because I felt all the pain that this IS my story and neither myself nor anyone else can take it back or change it. I cried because it isn’t my fault that this is my story. It isn’t my fault if I can’t make everyone look good by telling the truth.

In writing this, I have felt guilty that it would make many people, most notably my parents, look bad. I was terrified that I was going to enjoy making their faults public. As I sobbed my heart out last night, I knew for sure; I don’t. I am writing this for one reason. It is my story and it is time to tell the truth about it.

I didn’t pick this as my story. I would give almost anything to have a story that I could enjoy writing. I wish I could write my story about a happy, well-functioning, but quirky family. I would do anything except continue silently or continue lying to myself. I wish that my story was an honor to my parents, but if the truth isn’t an honor, I am helpless to change that.

I would do anything to save my parents from their own choices and their own stories that they didn’t choose. But I can’t. I can only bring the truth to light. Bringing it to the light may cause some harm, but letting it lurk in shadows is definitely causing harm. The light may not make it pretty, but maybe it can give it the chance to be redeemed.

If I could walk into a bookstore and pick a story to be my past, this is not the one I would have chosen. This is a story of confusion, pain, and fear. This is a reality stranger than most fiction. It is not by my choice that it is mine.