jana is reading a condensed version of les miserables in french. she just read the part where jean valjean is on parole and is denied lodging at various inns and homes and is even chased out of a doghouse by the growling canine resident. valjean then tells himself, “i am not even a dog.”

i had a similar experience to valjean’s.

most of my earliest memories are of greece. my dad was stationed at a navy base about 30 miles outside of athens. we lived off the base in a split level duplex in the middle of an olive orchard. i spent most of my days exploring the orchard. my dad built a chicken coop, and occasionally one of our hens would disappear.

one rainy night, my mom dragged me down the stairs and shoved me outside, locking the door behind me. i pounded on the door with my small fists, wailing, but i was denied entry. i ran back and forth around the house sobbing for a while and then spied the neighbor’s doghouse.

i crawled inside next to the large dog resting inside and found warmth, shelter, acceptance, perhaps even understanding. some time later i remember the burial of the same dog in the far corner of our landlord’s lot. it was a sad day.

i’m not quite sure why i’m sharing this, but i feel compelled to. i’ve always understood that this is a horrible way to treat children (i understand this even more as a father–i would never, never subject my children to a like experience). it’s only the past couple of years, however, that i’ve realized that this was not a good way to treat me. even now, i use the passive tense to describe the experience, cushioning the blame and blurring the responsibility.

i know that it was a hard time for my mom. she was a young mother isolated in a foreign country, and i think my dad was working a lot, because i don’t remember seeing much of him at the time. my infant twin brothers were always sick and demanded her attention.

but i did not deserve to be treated that way.

during the past couple of years, understanding this and other childhood incidents that i experienced at my parents’ hands growing up has helped me to understand myself a lot better. i am more aware of why i struggle with low self-esteem and why i crave attention. i better understand my personal demons and am better prepared to combat them. and i appreciate more the unconditional love that jana gives me.

i hope this post is not too depressing. i thank you all for listening–i find great healing through writing. blogging is my therapy. and i know i’m not alone–we’ve all spent a night or two sleeping with the dogs::