Moulded by Many Loving Hands

How do I write an open letter to a single hero, when my life has been filled with many?

To my dad:

Your absence was keenly felt when my siblings and I were taken from you. Our mother took us to a strange new house with a cold and unforgiving man. I cried when I thought of you alone, and I cried when I thought of us without you. Small as we were, we had to make ourselves into almost nothing to be safe in a place where children were a burden.

But you fought; they could not keep you from us, even if it was only for every second weekend. I remember squinting against the glaring sun, your giant hand engulfing mine: feeling safe, seen, and happy. I remember your patient voice as you read, for the millionth time, The Rainbow Fish by Marcus Pfister. I especially remember running, the wind in my hair, learning how to catch: "Keep your eye on the ball!". We could be children with you. You were our superman.

Too soon you'd leave again; the time between visits stretched into months. You tried the hardest out of everyone to give us a good life, and the memories you gave us are the most precious ones I have.

To my best friend Nikki and her mum:

As a teenager I could not keep myself small anymore, because my wounds were not small; they overflowed and flooded my world and everyone in it. The rage and grief seemed to come from everywhere: I was too much, my brain was too different. My worth had been spent on being chewed up and spat back out over and again - like I must've left a bad taste in someone's mouth.

Neither of you saw me that way. You opened your home to me when I had nowhere else to go. Nikki introduced me to her world of music; Jack's Mannequin, My Chemical Romance, Mindless Self Indulgence. A whole new language that spoke for my rage and grief. Nikki reflected the unusual circuitry of my brain in so many ways, forcing me to see it in a kinder light: being wired differently doesn't make me less. In her mum I found a kindness so alien to me it made me uncomfortable: I didn't understand that kindness is the default, not a thing to be earned.

I had to learn how to "be": I had to figure out who I was when I didn't have to fight to survive. I had to form a sense of self beyond anger and helplessness. I wasn't ready for it back then, but it planted the seed of my worthiness and I'll always be grateful for that.

To Cory, my other best friend (because who wants just one?):

I fell into the arms of a man who was selfish and unkind. I was trapped in a nightmare. I hated myself for falling into it. I thought I had to find my own way out, to prove myself strong and because nothing is ever done for free.

You reached out to me, gentle and patient. You never played judge and jury. There was never a moment where I felt I wasn't already enough. You built me up, bit by bit, and you never asked for anything in return. You gave me the strength to leave, teaching me that help comes in many forms and there is nothing wrong with accepting it.

I know life hasn't been easy on you. You walk through it with a dark cloud; you know you are loved, but you can't always feel it. You know what it is to have your joy taken from you, so you make sure never to do that to someone else. There is immense courage in men who choose to be gentle in a world that tells them to be anything but.

This is not an exhaustive list. I am lucky to have encountered so many heroes in my life. All the best parts of me were encouraged and all the parts that hurt were cared for. I've seen others who've come from the same places I have, and I've seen where others have ended up when they weren't lucky enough to find the people I've managed to find. I am immensely grateful to be moulded by many loving hands.