Yesterday it was presented to me that from a certain point of view I had no childhood; rather an ephemeral crisis management role in my own and only household.

It's a hell of a thing to be told what you thought was your childhood, flawed and full of wonder, was more like survival training.  I'm not eager to go into detail about it yet; as I'm sure mine was less different, but more similar to most everyone's awkward experiences.  Rites of passage, change, identity, discovery, choice, and the wonder of who I ever wanted to be seem points of heated contention in my thoughts.  I feel...cheated.  I'm swirling in the machinations of what could have been if...if this , if he, if I.  A person could 'what if' themselves to death.  So what's left?  Looking back brings sadness and changes nothing.  So I look forward.

Better clarity of myself might offer better understanding of what really motivates my story characters.  Like in dreams I believe all the characters we write are facets of us, the writers.  That every manifestation on the page, every good guy and bad, every guardian, sidekick, and under-five is a piece of the complex follow through of childhood's, "what I could have been."

When I look at my recent revelation in this light I'm filled with hope.  I'm aware of what I never had, what I never had to take for granted.  What I think would have been awesome.  And not having had it I respect exploring it all the more.  As Bogey lays it out to his men in Sahara as they decide to stay and sacrifice themselves to an outnumbering German army:

"And I know what I'm asking.  I know all of you have wives, sweathearts, and family back home.  Not having any of my own maybe I know all the more."

And who knows, like Bogey my efforts might yield a timely, well placed serendipitous bomb in the dried up water hole of my youth that unleashes a wellspring of healing.

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Re: Humphrey Bogart in the Desert...