Laughter is the Best Medicine

When I was growing up, I don’t remember there being much laughter at home. I don’t remember my parents having a good time. I can isolate the memory of my father’s laughter, but it is generally associated with someone else. We had relatives who visited, neighbors who stopped by or someone at the church my father might be talking with.

I believe he had a great sense of humor, which I became familiar with as an adult, but I truly don’t remember fun times in our household. I grew up believing the world was a heavy place filled with stress, burdens, anger, frustration and lots of unpleasantness. But as a child, I didn’t know it should have been any different than it was. I accepted my life as being ordinary, what was, was. I created my own fantisy world.

I developed stories about people and places that would in turn serve me well as I grew up and began to write stories. I created a world through my dreams where I was safe, loved, cared for and even treasured as someone’s little girl. I looked forward to going to sleep, unlike most children, because it where I was in control.

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