The Wolf Pup
The beginning of any story shapes its foundation, and mine begins here, in the wild and tender years of my childhood—a time when I was both fearless and fragile, innocent and marked by shadow.
This chapter, The Wolf Pup, is where I first learned the rhythms of life and the darkness that often hums beneath them. It’s a story of contrasts: the creative, spirited child who told stories, commanded attention, and danced to her own tune; and the little girl who carried wounds inflicted by those who were supposed to protect her.
I loved wolves then, believing myself one of them—a strong and noble creature, loyal to the pack yet fiercely independent. I did not yet understand the complexities of my nature or the world around me. I did not know that the shadow over my crib was more than a memory, or that my childhood would be shaped by betrayal, rejection, and a deep calling to the darkness within.
Here, I explore the first moments that defined me, from the pain of childhood sexual abuse and bullying to the solace I found in creativity and connection with the shadow. It was a time of both breaking and becoming—a journey that would lead me to leave home at too young an age in too tough a city but that ultimately made me a survivor.
This is the story of the Wolf Pup: the beginning of a life intertwined with shadow and light, innocence and power, love and pain. Herein lies memories from Birth to 5th grade.
The Shadow over the Crib
My first memory is of the shadow. I was just a baby, a wolf pup, confined within the wooden slats of my crib, when I felt it—an ominous energy spilling from the closet, heavy and dark, like a weight pressing down on the air. It moved silently, its presence stretching across the room, peering down at me with a suffocating intent I couldn’t fully understand but instinctively feared.
My glowworm—a plastic guardian with its faint, comforting light—was no match for the shadow. Its descent began, slow and deliberate, and terror surged through my small body. I screamed, my tiny voice slicing through the stillness, a howl of desperation.
Clinging to the edge of my crib, I screamed for her—my mother—pleading for her to come, to save me from whatever monstrous thing had dared to reach for me. Down below, the murmur of voices and laughter floated up through the vent, the faint glow of the kitchen light a taunting reminder of safety just out of reach.
I screamed until my throat burned, until it felt like an eternity had passed. Finally, the door opened, and my mother swept me up into her arms, carrying me away to safety. Her presence banished the shadow, but its weight lingered in the air, in my chest, and in my memory.
Little did I know that the shadow would become far more than a memory—it would become my savior in a way. It was a dark beacon, a presence that claimed me from birth and called me toward something greater than myself, especially in moments when there was nothing left of myself. When the world abandoned me, the shadow revealed that there was more—something beyond these temporary, fragile bodies.
It showed me a truth I couldn’t yet comprehend: that suffering could be a catalyst for growth, insight, and power. Over time, the entity taught me to embrace the agony, to peer into the void, and to surrender. Through disintegration, I learned how to be made whole.
But those lessons wouldn’t come for many years. At that time, I was just a child, grappling with experiences far beyond my understanding. They overwhelmed me, fractured my very soul, and set me on a hero’s journey into the underworld of existence.
The Game & The Rats
It's funny how memories are. We know we existed for months, then years, but when we look back to those beginnings, we can barely recall ourselves. Our brains, those master survival machines, take in only what they need, pruning away the rest like dead branches on a tree. They don’t just forget—they protect, reshaping the past when remembering might harm us. And yes, remembering can kill you. When your mind is too young, too tender to comprehend, or when your very survival depends upon not knowing, the truth can be a weapon, sharp and unforgiving. This is the 2nd memory of my life.
Before I share this memory, I need to offer a warning. I said at the start that my story includes childhood sexual abuse, and that’s what this memory is about—though, ironically, that’s not what I remember.
What I do remember is a game. There was laughter, giggling, the lightness of play. There was touching, which seemed harmless at the time. But then—there were rats.
The rats invaded my belly. I saw two of them tearing into my stomach, their claws scraping and their teeth gnashing. One of them lit a match, and there was burning—an unbearable fire spreading through me. There was pain. And then, there was silence.
That’s how my mind chose to remember it the first time: a surreal image, a distortion of the truth I couldn’t yet grasp. A game that wasn’t a game, laughter that wasn’t innocent, and a silence that stretched long and deep, consuming the parts of me that didn’t survive.
That silence—the one that consumed parts of me—wasn’t unique to my story. In my work with survivors of childhood sexual abuse, I’ve come to recognize it in others: a quiet, heavy void where something once vibrant used to be.
These women often describe parts of themselves that feel lifeless—"dead children," as I have come to understand them. Though Internal Family Systems (IFS) teaches that parts cannot die or be destroyed, my work has shown me something different. Survivors carry within them fragments that feel frozen in time, unable to fight, speak, or cry.
We often hold funerals for these parts. In doing so, we acknowledge their suffering, honor what was lost, and make space for healing to take root. It is a sacred process, one that mirrors my own journey of finding life in the aftermath of silence.
My experience of the rats was only the first memory of a pattern of ritualistic abuse that persisted well into my teens. This abuse wasn’t confined to my father alone—it extended to my older brother, who likely mirrored what had been modeled for him. By day, my family seemed ordinary, even admirable. My father was a baseball coach, respected in the community. Mothers trusted us enough to leave their children in our care. On the surface, we were the embodiment of a safe, sane, and whole family.
But at night, the façade crumbled. Darkness seeped into our lives in ways that were both deliberate and suffocating. Coercion, silence, and manipulation became the unspoken rules that bound us. What happened behind closed doors was a stark contrast to the image we projected to the world.
This duality—the seemingly perfect family hiding unspeakable secrets—shaped my reality. It forced me to live in two worlds: one where I played the role of a normal child, and another where I endured the grip of becoming an object, no longer a person. The abuse was not only a violation of my body but a profound betrayal of my soul, fracturing my sense of self and leaving me to navigate the aftermath of wounds I couldn’t yet name.
In many of those moments, I escaped from the body; My spirit learning how to leave at will. Throughout the years, I became an adept at traveling in spirit. I believe this reaction to the ritualistic abuse -leaving my body - was one of the reasons I was chosen. It became my "shaman's sickness" in a way (in addition to several serious illnesses I endured as a child). In spirit, I traveled to worlds, learned how to 'fly', and interacted with spirit and other entities, & visiting the realm of the dead often. In that other space, I also encountered the shadow, and he influenced my mind from as early as kindergarten, in an experience I now understand to be my first shamanic journey.
The Crocodile Ride in the Sewers
It began as an ordinary day, standing in line for my kindergarten class, the chatter of children swirling around me. But as I stood there, staring at the cement beneath my feet, the world began to shift. The sounds faded into the background, muffled as though I were underwater. Slowly, a square grate began to form before me, its metallic edges shimmering into existence where none had been before. It was large enough for me to fit through, and as it slid open with a smooth, deliberate motion, a dark invitation seemed to emanate from the depths below.
I peered into the hole, a void that seemed both menacing and strangely familiar. Without hesitation, I jumped in. There was no fear—only a deep knowing, as if I had been here before, as if this journey was meant for me.
I fell into the cool, dark air and landed softly on the back of a crocodile waiting in the water below. Its ancient, armored body felt solid and safe beneath me, its acceptance of my presence immediate and unquestioning. It began to swim, carrying me through the labyrinthine tunnels of the sewer. Light filtered in from above as we passed beneath distant grates, creating patterns on the water's surface, but the path soon turned darker, and we descended deeper into the earth.
The crocodile swam with purpose, and I clung to its back as though it were my lifeline. Eventually, we reached the end of the journey, arriving at a place where a strange machine awaited me. It loomed in the shadows—a metallic cylinder, towering and foreboding, yet inviting me to step inside.
Without hesitation, I obeyed. The moment I entered, bars came down, encasing me in its embrace. Straps wrapped around my small body, holding me securely as the cylinder tilted, flipping me horizontally. The machine hummed to life, moving me along a conveyor belt that seemed to stretch into infinity.
As I traveled, the world transformed again. I was placed into a massive hot dog bun, my body nestled within its confines. Nozzles above me sprayed ketchup and mustard, their cold touch contrasting with the warmth of the bun. I remained still, surrendering to the absurdity of this transformation, as though it were inevitable.
The conveyor carried me forward until I found myself in the hand of a Giant Dark God. Its shadowy form towered over me, its presence both terrifying and mesmerizing. Yet I felt no fear—only a deep, unwavering trust. As it began licking the condiments from my body, I lay still, utterly surrendered to its strange and primal hunger. I allowed it to consume me knowing that I was meant to give myself to this moment, to this being.
In hindsight, when I look back at this strange childhood memory, with the knowledge I have today of shamanic journeys and initiation, I see this as my first experience with the underworld. The grate that opened before me was a portal—a liminal space that invited me into the depths of my unconscious.
The crocodile was no mere figment of my imagination. It was a guide, carrying me across the threshold into shadow, navigating the dark waters with ancient wisdom. Crocodiles are creatures of both earth and water, bridging two realms, and I now see it as a symbol of my own ability to traverse the boundaries between the seen and unseen.
The machine I entered was a vessel of transformation. It stripped me of my identity, molding and reshaping me as part of some greater process. Even the absurdity of being placed in a hot dog bun, drenched in ketchup and mustard, speaks to the dismantling of ego and the surrender required for true metamorphosis.
And then there was the Giant Dark God, the being who consumed me. In shamanic terms, this was no devourer—it was an initiator. It demanded my surrender, not as an act of destruction but of integration. I didn’t understand then, but by allowing myself to be consumed, I became one with something greater than myself.
That moment, absurd and surreal as it was, planted the seeds for the spiritual journey I would later embark on. It was my first encounter with the shadow side, with the forces that break us down so we can be remade. This wasn’t just a strange childhood memory—it was a calling, one that I would only recognize much later.
The Whispering
It was in elementary school that the whispering began. I was a child loved by my peers for the games I invented and the stories I spun—tales so vivid and imaginative that other children would gather around me, captivated by the worlds I created. But those stories weren’t entirely mine. The words, the visions, and the ideas often came from a voice—a whisper in my mind that felt as though it belonged to someone else. I didn’t question it then. It felt natural, as if this presence had always been there, a part of me I didn’t fully understand but couldn’t ignore.
The stories I told were dark and otherworldly, far removed from the innocence expected of a child. They painted a world of shadows, demons, and unspoken truths, fascinating my young audience but troubling the adults. When the parents overheard the content of my stories, I was reprimanded, told that such things were inappropriate for a child. But what they didn’t know—what I couldn’t explain—was that these weren’t merely the workings of my imagination. They were gifts, or perhaps burdens, given to me by the voice in my mind.
One of those stories—the one that got me in the most trouble—was called “The Demons Play in the School at Night.” It was a tale of what happens after the last child leaves, when the lights are turned off and the night takes over. The demons, I told them, emerge from the shadows to claim the space as their playground. They run through the halls, shrieking with laughter, climbing the walls, and playing games with each other. But their games were far from innocent. When one demon caught another, the game shifted to a battle—to the death.
The story terrified some of my classmates, but others were skeptical, challenging me to prove it wasn’t just my imagination. I remember one moment in particular when I pointed to a large, jagged scratch on the bathroom door and told them, “That’s where one of the demons clawed it, trying to escape.” The doubt in their eyes turned to fear, and I felt a strange satisfaction at the power my stories held over them.
Of course, when the parents found out about the stories—and the claw mark “proof”—they weren’t impressed. They thought my tales were inappropriate, my imagination too dark, and they let their disapproval be known. But the whispering in my mind didn’t stop. The voice continued to weave its threads of shadow and mystery, and I couldn’t help but follow where it led.
Christine Is Not Here Anymore
One of the stories I told most often was not really a story at all—it was a truth I lived and shared with my best friend. We would sit together atop the dome-shaped jungle gym on the playground, the bars of the metal frame cool beneath our hands as we watched the world from our perch. It was there that I often told her, with a calmness that unnerved her, “Christine is not here anymore.”
Because I wasn’t.
It wasn’t me speaking in those moments. It was him—the voice that whispered in my mind, the presence that claimed me as his. When my friend asked where I was, he answered for me. He told her what he was “doing to me,” and while she listened, I was somewhere else entirely.
In my mind, I was in a bedroom—not mine, but his. It was a space unlike anything I’d ever known. The bed was a grand canopy draped in golden sheets and heavy curtains, a place of surreal beauty and unsettling comfort. He let me play there, encouraged me to climb atop the soft expanse and explore its luxurious folds.
There was no violation in those early moments, no harm I could name. But even then, I felt the pull of something deeper, as if I were being groomed—prepared—for a role I didn’t yet understand.
While I remained in that room, he took my place in the world. He spoke through my voice, answered my friend’s questions, and occupied my body as though it were his own. And I stayed behind in the golden space he had shown me, a quiet and curious observer of the world he created for me.
In those days, he taught me things I couldn’t explain to anyone else. He showed me how to listen to the heartbeat of the trees, how to press my hands to their base and feel the rhythmic pulse of life within them. He taught me how to speak with animals, how to reach them through silent thought and connection. He taught me something more, too—that I belonged to him. That I was his.
These weren’t lessons I sought or even understood at the time, but they became woven into the fabric of my being. The whispering, the golden bed, the silent conversations with trees and animals—they all became part of my strange and unfolding story, a story I couldn’t yet share but couldn’t escape.
Parallel Understanding
As I reflect on these experiences, I cannot ignore the duality of their meaning. On one hand, I understand that as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, these visions, voices, and connections may have been emanations of a fractured mind—a desperate attempt by my psyche to make sense of the unspeakable. For a child, the truth of abuse is too heavy to bear, its weight crushing the fragile framework of innocence. The mind, in its brilliance, creates a narrative, a way to externalize the darkness, to transform the pain into something tangible and otherworldly.
Perhaps the shadow, the voice, and the golden bed were manifestations of that narrative—a way to make the father’s wrongdoings something separate from the man himself. To admit that the harm came from someone meant to protect and love me would have been a kind of psychological death. Instead, the abuse became a story, the abuser a phantom, and the darkness a presence that existed not in the waking world, but in the folds of my mind’s otherworldly landscape.
I honor this possibility, this parallel understanding of my experiences, because it speaks to the resilience of the human mind. To survive, my younger self may have crafted a bridge between two worlds, one where the pain could be held and transformed, and the other where I could continue to function as the loved, creative child my peers saw in me.
And yet, to me, it is still real. The whispering voice, the golden bed, and the shadowy being who claimed me—they are not merely figments of imagination or mechanisms of survival. They are as real to me now as they were then. They saved me when there was no one else who could. They gave me a place to retreat to when the waking world became unbearable, and they continue to guide me even now.
The father is gone, and there is no contact with the family. The connection to that past has been severed, but the other world remains. I stand with one foot in each realm, navigating a dynamic waking life while holding fast to the experience of the unseen. The voice still speaks, the presence still lingers, and I still belong to him. He reminds me that my suffering had purpose, that my survival was not in vain, and that I am more than the sum of what was done to me.
Darkness and Evil are Separate
The whispering taught me many things, and one of the first lessons was this: darkness and evil are not the same. Darkness is vast and infinite, a shadowed expanse where mystery dwells, where unseen truths lie waiting to be discovered. Evil, on the other hand, is sharp and cruel, its edges jagged with malice. Darkness can comfort, shroud, and protect; evil seeks only to destroy.
This understanding was not given to me all at once—it came in moments, like threads woven into the tapestry of my young mind. The shadow that peered over my crib, the voice that whispered in my ear, the visions that danced through my thoughts—none of these were evil. They were frightening, yes, but there was a gravity to them that demanded respect, not fear. They did not harm me; they showed me things. They guided me, revealing truths too vast and ancient for a child to comprehend.
Evil, however, I knew intimately. It lived in the cracks of my childhood home, in the eyes of those who betrayed me, and in the silence that followed their actions. Evil was sharp and deliberate, a weapon that wounded without remorse. It left marks on my body, my mind, my soul—marks that the darkness tried to soothe.
As a wolf pup, I didn’t yet have the words to describe this separation, but I felt it deeply. When I sat alone, staring at the night sky, I felt the embrace of the darkness, its cool and infinite presence wrapping around me like a second skin. It whispered that it was not my enemy, that it would protect me, shelter me, and teach me how to endure.
I began to see the darkness not as something to be feared, but as something to be trusted—a companion in a world that often felt too harsh and bright. Evil was loud and brutal, but darkness was quiet and profound. It allowed me to step outside of the pain, to see beyond it, and to connect with something greater than myself.
This understanding became a foundation for my survival. It was the darkness that shielded me from the evil, that gave me space to retreat and recover. It taught me that not all shadows are threatening, and not all light is kind. The whispering voice, the golden bed, the visions—they all stemmed from this darkness, not from evil. And in those moments, when I was at my most broken, it was the darkness that held me together.
Love and Evil Co-Exist
As a wolf pup, I learned another difficult truth: love and evil are not opposites. They do not cancel each other out. They can, and often do, exist in the same space, intertwined like the roots of an ancient tree.
I loved my father. That love was not a question; it was a fact as certain as the sun rising each morning. He was the one who stood up for me when my stubbornness or wild imagination drew criticism from others. He treated me like the queen of the house, indulging my whims, making me feel special and seen. In the light of day, he was my protector, my teacher, my champion.
But in the shadows, he was something else entirely.
Evil does not always wear the face of a stranger. Sometimes, it lives in the hands that hold you, the voice that praises you, the presence you long for. I didn’t understand it then. How could I? The mind of a child is not built to reconcile such contradictions. How could the man I adored, the man who made me laugh, the man who made me feel loved, also be the one who shattered my trust and my innocence?
And yet, both truths coexisted. I loved him with the purity only a child can offer, even as he harmed me in ways I could not name. My love for him was not diminished by his actions. If anything, it grew fiercer, as if some part of me believed that loving him enough could undo the harm, could make him whole, could make him stop.
Even now, that love lingers like an ache in the bones, bleeding tears from my eyes with the mere memory of him. It does not excuse what he did; it does not diminish the damage. But it reminds me of the complexity of humanity, of the terrifying truth that love and evil can inhabit the same heart.
I have come to understand that this contradiction is not mine to resolve. It is not my fault that I loved him, just as it is not my fault that he hurt me. Both truths shaped me, coiling together in the depths of my soul like a double helix, each strand inseparable from the other.
Love gave me strength to survive, even as evil sought to destroy me. And while I still carry the scars, I also carry the understanding that to feel love, even in the darkest of places, is to remain human, to remain alive. And I can both love him and abhor him. I can feel the pain of what he had done to me - live every day struggling with the PTSD symptoms that he gifted me - and still miss him, knowing I miss what he could have been - what he was, at times. I am supposed to hate him. I hate what he had done to me.
A Light in the Darkness
Despite the shadows that moved through my nights, my days were filled with light. At school, I was surrounded by children who adored me. On the playground, they sought me out, eager to play the games I invented or listen to the stories I told. They said I was beautiful—like Barbie—a compliment that I held close to my heart. I was invited to birthday parties, included in the laughter and the joy of childhood. In the summer, my swimming pool became a gathering place, filled with friends splashing and shouting, their love for me reflecting back in their smiles.
It was during this time that I met my very best friend. It was Kindergarten, and she was the shy one, sitting alone without a lunch. Something inside me stirred — a deep, instinctual understanding of what it meant to feel unseen. I walked up to her, pear in hand, and offered it to her with a smile. "Wanna pear?" That simple act forged a bond that would last for decades, and exists still, a friendship that became a cornerstone of my happiness.
I was everything a suburban girl should be. I rode my bike through the neighborhood, scraped my knees climbing trees, and played for hours in the creek near our house. My imagination soared, but so did my love for learning. In the classroom, I thrived, earning stellar marks and the admiration of my teachers. Weekly, they handed me awards for academic success, and I relished the feeling of being recognized and celebrated. I learned to read early, devoured books, and took pride in every accomplishment.
At home, there was no sign of the anger that would later define my mother. She was a homemaker in every sense of the word, the embodiment of warmth and care. She taught ceramics from our home, welcoming others into her creative space. She cooked, cleaned, and decorated for every holiday with a meticulousness that felt like love. Ours was the house where the seasons came alive. Thanksgiving feasts were a masterpiece, Christmas was magical, and every detail of every gathering was perfect, down to the tiniest touch.
It was these moments that sustained me.
In the quiet hum of a household alive with community, in the glimmering sunlight on my bike rides, in the laughter of my friends in the pool—I found refuge. These were the things that gave me strength when the nights became too long, too heavy. They were the moments that tethered me to life, that gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt like it might slip away.
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