Raised by a Pack of Wolves


I was raised by a pack of  “wolves”…I say this because I essentially was in most ways (but not at all in several others). It’s my favorite way of describing my childhood family unit because people (especially the mothers of any of my playmates upon my being dropped off for a sleepover) always used to ask me that question, from behind faces filled with pity and concern for my well-being. Little did they know that my life was far from pitiful as a child – I couldn’t have been happier, seriously. I loved my pack of wolves and they loved me; so I never got why it always seemed to matter so much to everyone that I was the lone female in an exceptionally large clan of males.

I was raised in a family void of a mother for the most part; and when my mom was around, it was usually because she was on the run from the law or whichever drunken jackass she was “dating” on the Reservation. I know, I know – it doesn’t surprise any of my readers to learn this morsel of information about me, I reflect such detriment shiningly. I was raised by a single father of six children (5 boys and 1 girl) and I fell in line being second from the youngest.

My younger brother killed himself at age 19, so these days I technically have become the youngest…

Despite my emotionally and usually physically absent mother and all associated with one, I was a very happy and well-rounded child; I never felt the void at all until I grew up and had my own daughter as a single mom – a period of my life in which my mother actually came through for me.

Before my father passed away when I was thirteen years old though, life had been near ideal as far as I was concerned. I had a gang of brothers to look over me and a very exceptionally present father to whom I was close from day one. I never had to go to daycare because I instead enjoyed the company of my Papa (paternal Grandfather) after school everyday.

I was popular and friendly, caring and compassionate. I had to mother my baby brother; as the only girl and second from youngest, I was protected better than Reagan during the 80’s – my baby brother being the most protective over me of the entire clan – but he was just another boy in the caveman clan, and the youngest and smallest and most helpless, to boot.

My older brothers capitalized on that fact and made his life quite a textbook case of the familial chain of command. I still consider his suicide a personal failure in many ways and likely always will no matter what anyone says or tries to convince me – his death changed me. It was the first out a string of events that ultimately changed me as a human being. On a genetic level…

2 thoughts on “Raised by a Pack of Wolves

  1. *Graciously accepts the cup of coffee, greedily lingers on the hug*

    Okay, that’s it: we need to clone you like a thousand times and distribute the clones worldwide for good measure…
    you are absolutely correct in everything you wrote in regard to suicide and the affected heartbroken people remaining afterwards…it sucks, there’s no answers or relief – EVER…but if nothing else, losing a beloved to suicide teaches you abandonment on a very deep level. I have always understood and accepted the ‘why’ behind my little brother’s choices; I suppose that’s the part that I carry guilt around over – that the ‘why’ was even there to begin with for him…
    onward and upward we go. Big Hugs 🙂


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