At age 8 I told my little brother, Randy, that he wasn’t a real member of our family. The police had come to the door one day with a baby and said, “If he gives you any trouble, call us. We’ll come get him.”

Not true, of course. Randy didn’t know that. My inspiration came from Bill Cosby records. Lip trembling, Randy went to tell on me. “Holly, stop telling your brother lies!” my mom yelled from the kitchen. I smirked.

It was the 1980s. We lived in a suburb of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Holidays were a big deal and meals included Scandinavian favorites like lefsa, Swedish meatballs, and lutefisk. My parents, influenced by our church, provided a sheltered childhood where no one cussed, smoked, drank alcohol or listened to rock music. Divorce was a rare and shameful thing. My mom took homemaking seriously. She sewed clothes, coats, and Halloween costumes. I had beautiful dresses with bell shaped skirts I loved to twirl! Many Saturday nights she sent me to bed with my long blonde hair wrapped in curlers.

Buying candy at Snyder Drug store was an important part of my childhood. For candy money I was often engaged in little kid money-making schemes such as charging the neighbor kids 25 cents to enter a “zoo” in my back yard. At age 6 or 7 I filled my little red wagon with toys I didn’t want and went door to door, selling them. One lady paid me with a check for 60 cents. Mom laughed about that.

Like many little girls gymnastics and figure skating were a big deal to me during the Olympics, and I dreamed of being like Mary-Lou Retten, although I am not athletic. In summer I roller-skated; everyone roller skated in the 80s.

I began kindergarten at Woodcrest Academy, a private Christian school. The principal’s wife was our teacher. “Space each letter three fingers apart,” she said as we learned writing. As we worked she checked our progress, stopped at my desk. After a moment she grabbed my hand. Without comment, she smashed my fingers to the page beside an ‘A.’ Her brows lifted in surprise, and she said, “Huh, you have fat fingers.” I wondered if I was different, ugly.

First grade was taught by Ms. Kivioja. She frequently sent me to the principal’s office for a spanking. One day I raised my hand, and Ms. Kivioja ignored me. Finally she sighed and said, “Yes, Holly? You have such stupid questions.”

I blinked in surprise. “How do we know when to use a question mark?” I asked, embarrassed.

“Oh, I guess that’s not stupid,” she replied, and class went on. ‘I’m still unlikable,’ I thought. The next year the school added second grade to her roster. I cried.

After that my parents changed our school to Fourth Baptist. I liked my new friends and school, but in 6th grade this too ended as an influx of new students arrived. The group included pretty girls with potty mouths. One afternoon in math class the teacher stepped out of the room. As I continued to work I noticed Matthew, a fellow student, stopping at each desk holding a piece of paper. As he neared, I heard him whisper to Joel, “This is a list of the girls in grade 6. Point to the cutest girl.” After a second Matthew said, louder, “Holly? You think Holly is the cutest girl?”

I turned to look. Joel was blushing a deep red, but he stuck to his decision and nodded. Matthew looked shocked and moved on. ‘Why is that so surprising?’ I asked myself, feeling like an outcast.

I begged to switch to public school. “Please, Mom! Dad! I’m sick of Fourth!” In 9th grade they agreed, but enrolled me in a different neighborhood school where my mom grew up. Instead of a glamorous new start, I rode a series of transfer buses. Two years later my brother reached 9th grade. By then my parents were not concerned about the switch and sent him to our popular neighborhood school, my school’s rival. ‘Great,’ I thought. ‘Now even my nerdy brother is cooler than me.’ Nevertheless, my brother and I became friends as teenagers. Once, in eleventh grade when I suffered a boyfriend breakup, I drove right over to Randy’s school for support where he found me in the parking lot crying and comforted me.

At age 15 I developed an eating disorder. My Mom’s intense focus on thinness had extended towards me, when as young as ten years old she’d warn me to watch what I was eating or ‘I’d get fat.’ Another issue with my mother also escalated throughout my childhood and contributed to my depression. My daddy is a merciful man, and I am a daddy’s girl. “Wait until Dad gets home!” my mom would threaten when we were in trouble, but I remember dad often taking me aside and asking, “Holly, do you know what mercy is?” No I did not, but it sounded better than a spanking!

When I was young, perhaps four or five years old, my parents hosted a dinner party. Randy and I were supposed to be in bed. We weren’t. My bedroom sat at the end of the hall. Sneaking by my brother’s bedroom I urged him to join me. Continuing together we crept into the living room. We hid behind furniture. The dinner party in the dining room was reflected in the windows.

A guest saw us. We were also reflected. He pointed, “Hey!” Everyone turned. We all froze. My mom recovered first. She jumped up.

I bolted. Randy, not as quick, sped after me. My dad recovered last. He tailed us all. Mom pounded down the hall. She was hot on our trail!

My brother’s room passed on the left. He dove inside it behind me. Fortunately, my mom chose to follow him. Tee hee. I kept running. Dashing inside my room, I leapt into bed. Spanking and crying erupted. My dad skipped Randy’s room, made straight for mine. He arrived just in time to swoop me out of my mom’s reach.

“No,” my dad said, “she’s curious about the party.” He cooed at me with a smile and carried me back to the dining room where I joined the dinner party on his lap. What stuck with me was the contrast between them – dad was loving and mom seemed angry at me.

Desiring to please my parents, I did my best at school and church, but it was never good enough. “Holly,” my Mom said as she entered the living room where I and my brother were hanging out one day after school. “Please wash the dishes and then clean your room.”

“What if I clean my room first?” I responded.

“Why do you always argue with me? Do what I said,” she answered angrily. I stomped off to the kitchen. ‘She never listens to me,’ I muttered. Behind me I heard, “Randy, please vacuum and clean your room.”

“Sure Mom! No problem,” Randy answered, never leaving the couch.

“He’s such a good boy,” I overheard my Mom say as she passed by down the hall.

I seethed as I scrubbed a plate. ‘He never does anything he’s told,’ I recalled, ‘but she thinks he’s perfect!’ At age 17 I ran away from home and didn’t return for 3 months.

As a child I learned early to measure my worth against impossible standards, my identity rooted in performance. I longed for love I could never seem to earn. Years later, in the bleakness of a prison cell, I would finally quit trying. Love, however, would pursue me.