Here's the next installment. Thanks for following along. This will make much more sense if you read part 1, part 2, and part 3 first.

The ages of 11 and 12 are filled with innocence. I only say that because that’s what my teenager-hating mother always said about me, but that’s because she wouldn’t talk to me. She saw her little girl and wouldn’t do anything to change that impression.

She left a book (Where did I come from?) on a bench in her bedroom for me to read “when the time was right.” When I started menstruating at 11, I was baffled, saddened, and confused by managing tiny purse styles of the ’80s with the gargantuan Kotex pads my mom deemed appropriate for a girl my age. I hated having to keep my purse away from nosy boys while faking like I had nothing to hide.

It was a confusing time trying to understand the importance of hair and makeup (improperly handling these things deemed you a slut), reconciling crushes on Michael Jackson with the reality of goofy, stinky 6th grade boys, and wanting to blend in while being sifted out of classes for “gifted” programs.

My life felt complicated to me. I was in an “innocent” relationship with a boy a couple of years older (very prestigious) who was an alcoholic. My network of friends near our condo expanded out into the neighborhoods and included several pairs of sisters with single moms — all deemed “trouble” by my mom with one glance.

Over the years I spent time with the one family in our area who seemed stable: the Baptist couple who lived in the stone house where our school bus stopped. They adopted 12 foster children (11 girls and 1 boy) before finally having a boy of their own naturally. I went to church with them, prayed at their huge dining table, and joined them at Bible camp. We jumped on the trampoline in their yard and held elaborate Easter egg hunts come spring.

Most days I just blended in with their brood, enough so that after 5 years I realized the level of abuse that went on there reached beyond belt whippings (which I was not exempt from) and extended to incest. What does a 12 year old do with that kind of information?

My memories of age 12 blending into 13 aren’t bad. I remember sewing clothes and fun Christmases when my brother came home from Boston. Apparently I wasn’t holding things together so well because my mom decided that I should move in with my father, the man that wasn’t even allowed to know where we were living (child support had to travel through the courts). She flew to visit him and came home glowing, convinced that this change would be just what I needed. Who knows, maybe she would join us and we would be a family?

I remember an intensive workout schedule for weeks because he lived in California. I focused on becoming a California Girl like David Lee Roth sang about, bragging to my friends as I packed all my belongings.Mom invited my dad out to visit since it had been 7 years since I’d seen him. I never liked my dad, but I was willing to give it a shot. Something about our dinner at the mall gave both my mom and I the creeps. I wasn’t a little girl in my dad’s eyes, and that made us both sit up straight. I wanted to be seen as mature and grown up, as looking older than my age… but not by a parent. I don’t remember any discussion; I just remember that the visit that was to culminate with me getting on a plane with my dad just ended. I don’t remember any goodbyes, and I was thankful to no longer be required to call my dad every few weeks (I didn’t talk to him again for 6 years). I wasn’t moving to California, and now it was much too late in the summer to consider sending me to camp.

A co-worker of my mom’s was going on a trek in Nepal. One day my mom casually asked me if I wanted to go. As a geographically-challenged, moody 13-year-old who was not going to be a California Girl, my instant reaction was not, “Yes! Amazing! Can I? It’s the opportunity of a lifetime!” (if only I could have channeled my inner 40-year-old). Before I even processed the offer or understood any details like when? and how long? and who is this person I’ll be going with? it was rescinded.

Since I was packed for moving my entire life anyway, my mom broke it to me that she’d sold our condo and that we would be moving to another condo across town. It was much smaller and adults only because she thought she would be living alone anyway. And so my love of roller coasters was born.

Before we moved I realized I could do one thing that needed to be done. I was burning bridges to this neighborhood, knowing that a move meant I’d probably never see anyone from this area again. I called Social Services on our Baptist neighbors in the big stone house. I gave lots of details and told them what I knew. Since these children had been adopted, it was possible to check in on this family. I’m not sure how their lives unfolded over the next few years, but my mom clipped articles and kept me updated on the case that unfolded as I entered college… it took that long. I couldn’t save the one daughter that was pregnant or the son abused beyond being able to speak, but hopefully I helped salvage semblances of 11 other lives.

It takes effort to process the complexities of life and make simple things.