Who Is Lucy Kat?

If you find out can you let me know?

Part 1: What a loaded question! At each stage of my life I have thought that I knew who I was. What I stood for.

Then at other stages I look back and have a hard time realizing some of the beliefs I held. I have always felt very much like a chameleon in that I can readily adapt to any group. However, I do not think that describes me well.

Being a chameleon implies that I change who I am to merge with others. I am not a merger.

What I do is I open myself to allow my energy and that of others to ebb and flow and hopefully at some intersection find a balance.

This is also a huge part of being an empath. So sometimes even though I appear to be comfortable in the group, I actually feel gut wrenching spasms instead of balance. This flow and openness has allowed me to love hard, forgive much, and understand many.

But this has never meant that I change who I am… at least not within me and not for the sake of others.

I was born in Florida to a “perfect” family. Mom and dad tried their best to be the nuclear family everyone wanted them to be. My mom had given up her dream of becoming a famous fashion model and my dad gave up his dream of partying in college until he decided which direction he wanted to go.

My older sibling was the “ooops” and with intentions of fixing things they were married. The first year my dad made mom’s life a living hell with his animosity and feelings of imprisonment (ball and chain stuff).

By the time dad came around and decided to show his love to mom, she had emotionally moved on.

She ended up looking like the bad guy and the one that destroyed the family since she was the one that finally decided her happiness was worth more. She had her sights on California where she could find herself amongst the scholars and free thinkers.

My dad didn’t want her to take us with her so they cut a deal… he would have my sibling and she would have me. This proved to be the greatest “mistake” she ever made (I’ll leave that story to them).

Mom and I drove across the US on our way to California; a story needing its own focus. After weeks on the open road we arrived at a communal.

The house was Victorian style and we rented a couple rooms for us. I don’t have a lot of memories of that place… I was about 7… but it seems that I forget the stuff that is too hard or just too boring to remember.

I can remember my first earthquake in that house. I fell off the bed and rolled under it until my mom came to get me. I decided that day that I hated earthquakes. I also remember the smell of the air; later I would realize that it was marijuana. I constantly saw people making their own cigarettes and then blowing the smoke through the house.

Hah! Maybe that’s why I don’t remember much!

Anyway, we spent the next five years bouncing around different homes that we bought or rented. My mom worked for the state (business attire by day and hippy by night). After seeing me get caught up in the Oakland street life at 8 years old, my mom moved us to Rough N Ready.

She bought 3 1/2 acres and a barn. I’ll give that it’s own story as well. Needless to say I learned a lot about siphoning water from the irrigation ditches for us to bath in, shooting pie tins to keep the birds from eating our veggie garden, and surviving relentless bullying at school. Life was anything but quaint but those are the years that have built me.

My dad had me summers in Florida and my mom had me school years in California. We always had Christmas together, us four. Until, that is, my stepmom entered the picture. You’re maybe expecting me to talk smack about her, but my stepmom was heaven sent.

It took a while but I learned to really appreciate her Christian focused home. There was always food to eat, clean clothes, and church was super fun in the summers. Their homes were always fancy, comfortable and air conditioned.

My stepmom even came with an adorable little sister. She was just a toddler and was soooo cute. Just think “Perfect Nuclear Family”. Of course that was my kid’s eye view. Nothing is ever perfect, but it was darn close. At least for me.

When I was around 12 my mom married my first step dad. I’ll call him SD1. I did not like how often he was around. I had gotten used to just running off her boyfriends. Some had been abusers, others married, and still others were kind. But for some reason she stayed with this one.

He was nice to me. Can’t say the same about my behavior at first. One day we were all sitting around watching TV and I looked at him and said,

“What are you looking at? Stop looking at me!”

He went to their room with no words. My mom later told me I made him cry and should apologize. I felt bad and did apologize but looking back I’m not sure that was the correct response. No one asked me what I was thinking.

Things got better. My mom and him had a baby girl together, my littlest sister. She was born in a borrowed small motorhome on the way to the hospital. I giggled as she came in to the world. One of the happiest days of my life.

Birth motor home

But that fall my brother told me I had to move in with dad because he wanted to go to high school in California. We never wanted one of them to feel alone. So I moved to Florida for the school year.

I had a good year living the suburbia life but I missed my people. My hippies and river swimming. I missed my friends and my mom. I missed my newest sister and my home. I ended up breaking our rule and changing back to school in California the very next year.

My dad was heartbroken. I felt horrible but I knew he had my other sister and my stepmom. Not sure what it was but California just felt right. Maybe it was the freedom we were allowed, the easy access to town, small town life, art, hippies, and adventure.

Whatever it was kept me and my brother there until we graduated from high school. As he was starting in college, I was on foreign exchange to Chile. What an adventure that was!!! My senior year I brought back with me a little Chilean within. She was my love child from the Chilean boy that stole my heart.

I graduated high school on time and even attended my senior ball… though my dress needed to be let out about 7 months worth.

That kind of wraps up the first chapter of my life. Childhood, motherhood, and marriage. Yet, calling it a chapter just isn’t enough. There is enough story within that chapter to write a novela collection with about 20 books. Just writing this short summary of me feels cheap.

Each paragraph has stories within begging to be told. From Miami beach topless misshapes in 8th grade to hide n go seek in the Sierra Nevada’s high on hash and poll dancing in Oakland at 8 years old… my life is a crazy beautiful mess. I hope you come back as I figure out just how to share it all with you!

Hugs,

Kat