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The journaling:

IT’S HARD TO BE GOOD WHEN YOU ARE LIVING THE HARD LIFE
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In early August, 1960, I was in West Coxsackie sharing a bicycle with my sister and another girl, who owned the bike. It had been raining and we were glad to be outside. I was turning the bike around when both girls started shouting and pointing above my head. I looked up, but never saw the dead branch— heavy with rain— that fell from the tree above and hit me in the forehead, knocking me and the bike to the ground. It fractured my skull and jaw and caused my brain to swell, which put me in a coma for 8 days. When I came out of the coma, I had a blood clot behind my right eye and had amnesia. There were also injuries to my neck and shoulders, which the doctors treated as non-critical because they were not sure I would survive. I started the 5th grade with tape wrapped around my skull. My hair had been shaved. There was also a band of tape around my chest and a strap connecting it to my head in the back, to keep my head erect. I wore this skull cap for several months. When it came off, my hair was a terrible mess. People who knew me well thought I was a boy because my hair was so short. When I was 11, and again when I was 13, I had surgery on my neck and shoulder to repair damage from that accident. We were unable to establish who owned the tree that nearly killed me, and no one paid for the hospital bills that came from the accident. I needed physical therapy, but we had no money for it. I have been plagued by stiff neck since then.
From age 10-14, I spent at least a week in the hospital each year.
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How could the school not see that I needed help?
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My stepfather brought home squirrels for us to eat. He said they were just rats with fluffy tails, which made it even harder to eat them. My mother refused to go to the welfare office to ask for food, afraid they would take her kids away. So most of the time, we had to eat whatever we had. Sometimes, the only thing we had to eat was powdered eggs that came in giant cans, as if they emerged from a World War II bomb shelter. I hated those eggs more than I hated eating rats. Local churches sent food baskets to our house at Christmas, but it only lasted for a short while, and soon we were back to not having enough to eat. The church people told us that God loves us, but I noticed that they only came down into our neighborhood once a year. We would be hungry all year, except at Christmas, if it was up to them. Fortunately, it wasn’t. The women in the school cafeteria heaped extra portions onto my tray. The other children noticed and some even derided me for being such a beggar. I’m pretty sure that some of these mean children belonged to the good Christian ladies that visited our house at the holidays, because some of them had pointed out to me that the clothes I was wearing were their old clothes. Maybe these kids believed what they heard at church, that God loves us all, but somehow thought they deserved to be loved and I didn’t. It was a mystery to me how I could somehow have come to deserve this. Had I committed some kind of spiritual crime and this was my punishment? The best I could figure, it had something to do with being illegitimate. Maybe God was like my earthly father—maybe he only loved his legitimate children. In the 5th grade, I started cleaning pans to pay for my food. The kitchen ladies seemed to respect me and I respected myself more, knowing that I had earned my food.
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I worked for food while other children ate for free.
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Jesus loves the little children, all the children
of the world.
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They told me at church God loves me, but they must be wrong. He wouldn’t give this kind of life to someone He loves.
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