We all have a story.  A story that is uniquely our own and is what makes us different.  And even while knowing our unique differences, we still resolve to conform to others because that gives us a false sense of belonging.  There is comfort in that.  When we can find those manufactured similarities, it helps us to momentarily feel that we are being understood and that we are not alone.  Sometimes we give ourselves permission to share our stories with others in our ongoing pursuit to forge connections amidst the perception of commonality. While other times, we choose to singlehandedly carry the weight of our stories because, if given the chance, they will doubtlessly reveal the fundamental things about who we really are and the past experiences that forced us to deviate from our life’s path.  Those fundamental things that generally constitute the secrets that we choose to lock tightly away inside our memory banks and throw away the key with the primary purpose of forgetting.  Because like Pandora, we know that once we open the box and give voice to our secret stories, it will be difficult to put those memories back.  Deliberate efforts designed to not unearth the memories that we know will cause us pain.  Memories that can transport us back to a place and a period of time that will unmercifully challenge our hard-fought development and growth.  In many cases, those are oftentimes the beginning chapters of our life story that occurred at a time when it was someone else who was controlling our pen.   Because even while we try to convince ourselves that we have always been the author writing and memorializing our stories, deep down inside we know that is not true.   The real question is not whether everyone has a secret story, rather it is whether or not they choose to tell it.  The objectionable stories that will have indelibly altered our view of the world and all the things in it.  Profound tales that prove that it is possible to be broken and built at the same time.  All the while knowing if we could find the courage to give a voice to our stories, maybe then we would be set free.   Learning the lessons taught to us, products of our environment, becoming human puzzles that others will try to solve.   Until suddenly, without warning or consent, something happens.  A flashback, which can come in the form of a sound or a particular smell, that cunningly and surreptitiously lures those memories from their hiding place.  Unsubtle reminders, echoes of the past, that somehow manage to sharply pull you into a torrential tornado where you are forced to watch from inside as your memories twist and turn in slow motion all around you.  So slow that you could reach out and touch them if you tried.  At least that has been Jenny’s experience with her first rebellious memory that visits her in unsolicited, and wholly unwelcome, flashbacks of the Wolf……   For Jenny, it is difficult to describe with any degree of certitude when it was that she began to separate, compartmentalize and conceal traumatic childhood experiences.  With some of the more insufferable moments decidedly locked away indefinitely deep inside her carefully curated memory bank.  On one hand was the Wolf with his belligerence and overall instability that proved to be largely unpredictable at best.  At first, he discharged his arsenal of red flags with a subtlety that made them practically undetectable.  Once he had become settled and more comfortable in his new environment, the red flags began to fly with reckless abandon, until one day, they stopped flying altogether.  That was obviously a problem for Jenny and her family.  Those red flags had become a precursor, a reliable warning signal indicating that he had been triggered in some way and that an unreasonable, and usually violent, eruption was likely impending.  Absent the red flags, there were no forewarnings.  In retrospect, and if she had to make a choice, Jenny would choose those flying red flags over the impulsive and immediate escalation of the Wolf’s wrath any day.   It didn’t take them too long to come to the realization that they had a monster living in their midst.  The Wolf had officially arrived.   On the other hand, for Jenny, her brother, Michael, and their mother, walking a tightrope of uncertainty and fear became the vocation they could have never imagined for themselves and, frankly, would have preferred to do without.  The Wolf’s arrival meant that they were no longer in control of the human temperature in the house and soon became burdened by the wounds that were a direct result of the perpetual manifestation of his volatile and explosive temper. The harrowing memories of having been subjected to the trifecta of physically, emotionally and mentally terrifying experiences turned out to be quite stubborn with the subconscious aftershocks reverberating long after the Wolf was gone.  Because when the recipient of unprovoked cruelty and torment does not have a reliable outlet or internal mechanism by which they can cope, they inevitably become an easy, and generally unarmed, target.  The kind of experiences and feelings that those of the younger variety, like Jenny, should be spared.  But alas, we know that they are not and therefore, those people, in some cases children, must figure out how to navigate and rationalize difficult feelings on their own.  Remember, it was after all the 70’s when discussing one’s feelings and emotions, with either a trusted adult or a stranger, was not a standard practice like it is today.  Especially when you have something that you are trying to hide along with a support system that is in short supply.   And statistics, regardless of the decade, would likely corroborate the fact that recipients of wrongdoing often walk themselves through a series of unsettling mental calculations and presumptions that stem from a fear of foreseeable consequences.  Undeniable repercussions that might include, but are not limited to, the very real …