How To Notice a Giraffe in a Field of Horses

Since I was little, I have been sharing stories as an effort to connect with others. 

I learned this from my dad. He, literally, has a story for EVERYTHING. Sometimes too much so. 

As a family, we played cards against humanity one night. I think around Christmas. Mom refused to play and said “I’ll just watch.” 

If you haven’t played this game before, it’s a pretty raunchy inappropriate game… AKA, you don’t want your mom to “watch.”

My dad, on the other hand, was perfect for this game. How he was able to roll with the odd themes that were thrown at him, playing for the first time, and with his children was honestly impressive. 

We learned pretty quickly we needed to set a boundary with dad. When someone played the card “genital piercings,” and his response was, “oh! I have a story about that! Actually, I have three.” We added a rule about no more stories. The themes in this game is not what you want to be the story starter from your dad. 

We were in our 20s. My sister, in her early 20s. One of the cards I remember feeling uncomfortable about was “_____ was how I lost my virginity.” It was my little sister’s turn, and sitting in a circle and heading her read that out loud made my stomach churn with anxiety. Mostly for her. 

Obviously, it’s not “real,” but the awkward feeling was palpable. 

I also remember the card I had, and played. It’s a wildly inappropriate card to play, and I still thought it would be funny. 

“Boy Scouts of America.” 

My brother was almost a Boy Scout. Our elementary school had a welcome meeting. At the time, to be a Boy Scout, you had to be a boy. 

Clearly, I wasn’t, which meant I was out. But, 7 year old me was still there with my parents to support my brother. At the time, that was how we did it. 

I didn’t understand, or maybe even notice at the time, but that was the last meeting he went to. My brother seemed excited, and wanted to continue going, but he didn’t. 

Later my dad said how uncomfortable he felt about one of the leaders. More or less, he committed to teaching Aaron all of the skills rather than risk it. 

So, here I was, almost pushing the envelope by playing this card in that context. That’s not my role at n my family usually. Something about the protection of “it’s a game” almost felt like permission. 

I don’t remember now if I won, or not, and it doesn’t matter. What I do remember is my mom’s loud sigh and “ohhh” from the other room. And, the out of character silence from my dad. 

The feeling that came over me in that moment was a reminder why the instigator role is not one I usually sign up for. Hmm… “was that a bad card to play? Maybe I’m not that funny. I don’t want to hurt anyone.” 

I was almost unsure if I wanted to continue playing. Not because of the risk of Dad having another story I can’t unhear, but because I was worried about upsetting a family member. 

My psychiatrist calls me a “recovering pleasure to have in class.” 

At first, I was confused about why that was a behavior to be recovering from. I mean, yeah! I was a pleasure to have in class. I can count on one hand… actually maybe two fingers when my title was even questioned. 

In seventh grade… English class. My teacher gave me a low grade (which for me was a C) on class participation, because she said during silent reading time I “wasn’t reading.”

“Is she distracting or upsetting others?” My mom asked her. “Well… no.” was her response. 

We had the conversation on private before the parent teacher conference. I explained to my mom that was reading, or at least trying! I was slow, or got distracted, but I was trying!

My parents were upset with this, particularly because it was out of character for me. The “worst” I had before this class was my teachers sharing I like to talk, but it never effected my grade. 

Now, I don’t remember my grade. What I do remember is feeling like a failure, and not understanding why I couldn’t fix it. My dad wasn’t at the conference, but his take on the whole thing was that the teacher was old and bitter, and not to worry about it. “You’re a good kid.” 

I mean… that part is very true. I was a good kid. She was also old, and near retirement. So, more or less I just assumed he was right. 

My mom took it one step farther and wanted this teacher held responsible for what she did, how she graded, and how I felt as a result. 

I don’t think anything like that happened. I would’ve remembered, because it made me feel guilty to think even about it. 

As I am thinking back and writing this, there is a bigger context that was missed. Even by me until right now.

First, this was not the only time I struggled with reading. My status as a “pleasure to have in class,” extended to home. I spent 3-4 times longer to do my assignments than my brother did. He is one year younger than me. My grades were marginally better, but the disparity in time spent to earn them was substantial. 

When I said something, my dad would relate to the “not good at reading,” feeling, and it ended there. His way of coping with that was to avoid reading, and make it part of his identity. 

I wish now there was more attention to this for me. Do you know how much reading is required to get a masters degree?! A lot. 

I wouldn’t say I’m that much better at it now. I still get distracted, still have trouble focusing… and now my vision plays tricks on me because MS. 

As a 36 year old woman I received a diagnosis of ADHD. It’s now being treated, and it feels like a new world in some ways. 

Even when we were going through the paperwork for the diagnosis, and thinking back to my childhood, my parents didn’t know or remember my struggles. 

I played my role as “a pleasure to have in class” very well. 

The other thing that stand out to me about the two times I remember struggling in school is the timing. 

7th grade. Parent teacher conferences… usually happen in October. I was in 7th grade on September 11, 2001. A day many of us will remember for the rest of our lives. 

When I look back to 7th grade me… of course I was distracted. 

The other time I can remember getting in trouble is a little foggier. It was fourth grade. Mr. Trindle is still one of my favorite teachers. I remember him reading Where the Red Fern Grows to us out loud in class. He would need to take breaks to cry. 

He felt like a safe place. 

One day, in the middle of class, I was making noise. I’m not sure what kind, now, but he asked me to stop. So I did, a little embarrassed. 

Then, somehow, shorty after, he asked me to stop AGAIN. This time a little more annoyed. 

There are two things I still feel to this day. 

1. I didn’t want to upset him, or anyone really, but especially him. He was safe, and kind, and I was supposed to be a good kid! 

And, 2. I don’t remember even having awareness that I was making a noise. Like, I know I was… he wasn’t making it up, but I know it wasn’t on purpose. Until he told me to stop, I didn’t know it was happening. 

So I think again about the contexts from 7th grade. My recent diagnosis of ADHD could explain it, or at least play a role… but, I think there’s more. 

4th grade started for me in 1998. Which means April 20, 1999, when the Columbine shooting happened, I was still in fourth grade. 

I went to school in Jefferson County. The same county as Columbine. 

School was canceled for a week or so after. This was not something that had ever happened before. I don’t remember being afraid, just confused. 

My dad struggled, we all did. He watched the news and information about it all day, every day. I think in an effort to make sense of it… Hyper focus on the events, emotions, destruction. 

But it never made sense. 

This was before the internet was big. It existed, but I don’t even remember if we had a computer yet. So, when he watched, I watched it. I wasn’t even 10 yet. I was the same age as my youngest step daughter is now. 

My adult brain, with a masters degree in counseling (I know… humble brag…) now looks at these events with the hope of greater clarity. 

I don’t have anger for the missed signs. When I, as a kid, was experiencing these horrific traumatic events, so were the adults around me. They were doing their best to survive. 

I am not upset, instead I am motivated to support others in being seen. 

Although I did not give birth to my daughters I still consider myself a parent. They are 15 and 9. My 9 year old, Maddy, corrects me often about what my title in her life is. 

According to her, I am not a “step-mom” because their biological mother is still alive. Instead, I am a bonus mom. Haha. Which, is good. I don’t know any Disney movies with an “evil bonus mom.” 

What I have learned about considering the past events in my life is we need to pay attention to our kids. They don’t know how to tell us something is wrong. They may not even know themselves. 

Observe them, listen to them… like REALLY listen. What is under the words they are sharing? Teach them… see them. 

Although the specifics of my story may be unique, the theme is not. 

Even in my own life, needing help that goes unnoticed or unaddressed is a constant thread in my journey. I found a paper the other day that reminded me of this. 

BPPV written in big letter on one side, and exercises to “correct the crystals” on the other. It was from my appointment to address vertigo. Looking back, this is the first time I can remember going to the doctor for what I now know was MS. 

This is a reminder to me that we not only need to listen to our kids, but to our bodies. I didn’t do anything wrong to “deserve” MS, and my doctor didn’t do anything wrong to “assume” I was a horse. She did her job, that is her training. 

My reminder, and request, is to remember zebras exist too. 

I’m a giraffe. Even more hidden in plain sight. 

Don’t give up when something doesn’t feel right. Whether this is your child, sibling, parent, or most importantly, yourself. When something feels out of place, don’t ignore it. 

Look at the “monster” under your bed, or the “skeleton” in your closet. Of course it is scary. Even unfair sometimes. What I have learned is that the monsters don’t address themselves. 

This doesn’t mean you have to do it alone. There are so many options, really. 

Clearly, I am biased, and will forever recommend therapy. Honestly, it doesn’t have to be that, though. My biggest supporters are also those around me. My family, both immediate and extended, the wonderful collection of friends I am lucky to have met, and even current strangers that have reached out since I have started sharing my story. 

We are meant to be social creatures. Let’s watch out for each other, and slow down to see the giraffes in our field of horses.