The Small Stuff

The small stuff is hard to explain to someone who isn’t a survivor. Between survivors, there is no definition needed. One can just assume. We know what the “big stuff” is, so you can fill in the blanks if you really need to, but few of us do. It is the details of the “big stuff” that makes us different. Each of our stories is unique in its own tragic way.

My small stuff consisted of things like hiding under the front porch so my dad wouldn’t touch me, hoping I could stay there forever, and maybe even die at age three, dreading being bathed by my father by age four, my heart sinking into my stomach every time I saw my dad naked by age six, being told stories and talked to like I was a wife around age eight, having reoccurring nightmares of my father on a film strip and me on another, saying “no daddy, please daddy” and crying from around five to nine, hugged way too close for way too long from ten to twelve, fondled as a young teenager who was starting to develop, and just being generally uncomfortable around my dad for as long as I can remember. These are some of the “small stuff”.   I’m not sure what your gage on “small stuff” is, but to me, a survivor, this is my “small stuff.”

It’s funny. As I write this, I really don’t know what a normal person’s “small stuff” is. Is this small to you? I’ve just been under the assumption that it was small to everyone. And when it came to my story, these things are small… almost insignificant, questionable, and okay.

“But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.” – Matthew 18:6 (KJV)

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