Window Pains

By Lily Strong

Window Pains is a story about a terrified lost little girl who grows up in a very chaotic home full of fears and uncertainties. As she continues to grow up, she increasingly makes poor decisions, leading her down a bleak and dark path of self-destruction. Struggling to identify herself in a world where success is key, she continues to fight against all odds to achieve some positives in her life as she overcomes self-doubt, fear, and addictions to achieve her goals in life and become the person God intended her to be. Read on as she struggles through some very difficult life choices and the pain and suffering that lead her to hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514481233

Lily Strong

Lily Strong was born and raised in Quesnel British Columbia. She has spent 90 percent of her adult life in her hometown minus a few years in Abbotsford. She spent ten years in postsecondary education pursuing her teaching degree and has been teaching in the local school district for almost ten years. She has two beautiful daughters and four stepchildren, along with at least ten grandkids, both biological and related through marriage. She is an avid artist and has showed her own work several years running at the local artists in the market shows in the summer. She enjoys blues music, painting, and spending time with her grandchildren. Her goal in life is to leave a legacy for her kids where they can be proud.

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Lily Strong.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016905267

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5144-8125-7

                Softcover        978-1-5144-8124-0

                eBook             978-1-5144-8123-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/12/2016

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

It takes a village to raise a child:

Thank you,

A.H. for brushing my hair,

And to my fellowship for getting me this far.

Chapter 1

Window pains

-A story of experience, strength, and hope.

Ever just sit beside a window and look out wondering what was coming next? This is my story, about one particular window I remember from my childhood. There was nothing significant about this window or the house that it was attached to. The house sat on a semi busy street in a fairly affluent neighbourhood, there were flower gardens and bushes and trees, not really important in any way. It was not the house, nor the street that played a part in this story, but the view from that window, that does.

The window sat in a kitchen, that kitchen had yellowed ceilings like so many others from the 1970's. A ceiling, yellowed from years of cooking, and burning meals, but also yellowed from cigarette smoke, that room seemed to be the primary smoking room. The rest of the house had little to no importance, really! It had two bedrooms and a living room. The window in the kitchen however, I remember all too vividly. The window pane never held much significance, a few cigarette cases and a rolling machine, a dream catalogue along with toothpicks and the occasional lighter, all which I remember all too well. It's the time and the things I did while looking out that window that are important.

The view was nothing spectacular, just a driveway, not even paved, mostly rocks and some dirt. There was a mailbox hanging on one hook of a tree, black. Two pine trees blocking most of the road. Even though the view itself was of no significance the view played a big part. There were, and in some cases still are so many pains, looking through that window. That's where most of my critical thinking took place, as I sat in the dark, telephone right above my head, waiting for,

A ring!

Something!

An acknowledgement!

Were they ok?

Just ring!

But watching, primarily, standing in my cool nightgown, legs shivering, not from cold, but from anticipation. Just standing, too frightened to look away, and almost too scared to keep watching. Just scared! Of you ask? Well; the inevitable, the unknown, the for sure, the murky depths of despair that was going to ensue, so many possibilities, so many variables. And this is my story, where it began, where it went and inevitably, where I ended up.

In that kitchen remembering from the age of seven up to seventeen maybe older, I stood there, it all blurs together into this, this truth! Standing looking, I see the trees in the dark, highlighted as cars go by. I see the stars twinkle above and beyond my reach. I also see neighbours lights on and twinkling. While mine are all off, and the drive way is empty and I am home, ALONE!

So I stand with bare feet on the linoleum moving them occasionally to stop from freezing, daring to look around the kitchen, then I decide to pull up a chair, it is hard, wooden and cold underneath me, it offers no solace to my waiting, just a place to sit and ponder some more. I stand, or I sit, depending on my mood, I am anticipating so much, the unknown, the known, the unfamiliar, the familiar, I will never know until it happens.

I am a student at the elementary school, I do not have that many friends, and those that I do have are much too young for me. I struggle with my grades and am really having trouble befriending people my own age. My teacher has asked me more than once to stop bringing dolls to school. Have I mentioned that I am weak at math, have trouble reading, comprehension sucks, and my physical levels probably bottomed out long ago. I hate physical education, simply because I am un-worthy, compared to so many others. I do not let anyone in too close, for fear of judgement. I do not want to stand out, or be recognized; I'd rather melt into the great beyond and never be noticed. It could have been the four packs of cigarettes a day I was ingesting at home that helped with my physical inabilities or it could have been the fact that I was never properly motivated to run.

So I am waiting at home, patiently, for the two people in the world that are supposed to protect me from the evils of the world, or prepare me for the life that is ahead. Unfortunately my parents have gone a.w.o.l. some time back. They designated my growing up to myself, as well as, their welfare to me, I have become the sole, most responsible person. I ensure dinner is started, the house is clean and things are in order. I primarily keep the façade intact. I wait for them to arrive safe in the night. I am unsure as to whether they were always like this; I mean someone would have had to do this job prior to me being old enough to do it for myself. But I remember at quite a young age being very independent, very responsible, and very together.

My father, best known for the song, The Boy Named Sue is named Drew. He was abandoned at an early age when his mom died, and his dad found the war more rewarding then raising him. He was the youngest child of four, left at an early age to defend himself, when his grandmother was left in charge of caring for him and his siblings. He was a big player as he got older, many women, and many escapades. He was too young for the first war and too drunk for the second, my father's life became one of hurt and misery for years to come. He was in a horrible accident at nineteen when he went through the windshield in his car and ended up with 182 stitches in his face and forehead. It must been back then when he first met my mom, but they did not manage to hook up for years to come. He spent some time after that working on the pipe line in northern Alberta. Later in life, just shortly after I was born, the primary cause of his alcoholism came to fruition. While working at a lumber mill in our home town he came across a board jam and used his foot to release the pressure and as a result his foot caught in the in feeder rolls of the scrag saw, and he lost most of his foot. The pain must have been immense, my dad kept working, and he would come home after an eight hour shift of having that raw irritated foot stuffed into a boot, only to have my mom draw him an Epson salts bath to stop the gangrene. It did not take long until drinking and medication became