Another interminably long time since I wrote. The holidays have come and gone, and I, like many others, continue each day to profess to start my New Year's Eve resolutions. A new year, but old problems persist. Who am I and what is my real purpose here? What do I really want to be when I grow up? At times I feel my identity is so unremarkable, so neutral, that I would not know my own self if it were to bite me on the leg.
Even so, I move forward, a slow protracted crawl towards each day, and yet there is not enough time to do all that has to be done. My daughter, no longer a child, grows and changes before my very eyes. Her beauty and intelligence chill me. She speaks her mind as one who knows the ropes. Do you know what brilliance you possess?? Of course not. It is one of those things that one realizes many years later as they gaze at a picture of themselves caught in a splinter of time. Oh, if we had only known the truth; taken real advantage of a reverent moment. God, what magic we could have worked!
I keep looking, thinking, wondering when my truth will reach me. I want it now, immediately, while I am still able to recognize that dance when it comes waltzing into the room. I will seize upon it, like a tiger upon it's prey. I will be the thing,(whatever it is), that I was meant to be, and not all those vile things she said I was.
Odd, how now she sometimes will ask, "Who's this?" when she hears my voice on the phone. "Don't you know who this is?", I'll ask. Hesitantly, through the fog that now surrounds her, she'll answer , "Yes, you are my daughter", although she cannot recall my name. Even though I know I shouldn't, I remark, "Too bad you never treated me like it".
It has become evident to us all that she is now in the early stages of Alzheimer's Disease. Now as she slowly fades away, I become even less than what I was before. Now there is a mighty task at hand. With frailty of body and mind upon her, who will take her in?? I fear that after all is said and done, it will be me. I ultimately become caregiver to the thief who stole my dreams; to the brute who broke my bones.
If it comes to that, I guess I will do it. Do not think for a moment that it is a duty I wish to take on. I don't, but yet, I have to be bigger, much bigger than the sum of all my fragmented parts.
Still.
Here.
Andi
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Cleaning House
Even though it has been quite some time since I have written, in many ways very little has changed. The winter into the spring into the fall finds me still bewildered that I have been unable to mentally detach myself from the ruin that is my mother.
I would love to say that I am a more contented and sunny person. I would like nothing better than to say that I have laid the heaviest of my burdens and concerns to rest and can now dance merrily away, my step and soul so light as if I had never known the weight of such personal pain. I would like to proclaim that I have made a lasting peace with her and that the forgiveness in my heart is true. But I can say none of those things. I can only say that I continue to strive to be the best person that I can be.
Still here.
A
Still here.
A
Saturday, February 13, 2010
If Only
Last night I dreamed of my father. He was alive and well, and held me in his arms before offering me a bright red apple. Although I never saw his face, his voice was unmistakable, calm, measured, and reassuring. Others had wanted to get the apple from him, but he had held onto it for me. It was mine, and he was going to make sure that I received it. How odd that it was not something of great value, but a simple piece of fruit. I held him tightly; it was so wonderful to touch him and know that he was well. I awoke to discover that it was only a dream, and that made me angry. I jerked, kicked and cried, waking my husband who shook me to dispel the torment. It took the whole day to recover.
I could spend hours and even days trying to discern the significance of the red apple. What is important is that in that time, I had a cherished moment with my father. For those of you fortunate enough to have parents that are actually parents, kind, loving, and nurturing, know that you have in your possession a great gift. Perhaps in some way from the beyond, my father was trying to tell me that I was a gift to him. I can only guess. I'll never really know.
It was insanity that kept us apart; kept him from his children. He was away from us so much, I can only imagine how it tore at his heart. He never, never said an unkind word to me. I don't think he had it in him. I only got to know him later in his life; father and daughter, but strangers really. If only!
Still here.
Andi
I could spend hours and even days trying to discern the significance of the red apple. What is important is that in that time, I had a cherished moment with my father. For those of you fortunate enough to have parents that are actually parents, kind, loving, and nurturing, know that you have in your possession a great gift. Perhaps in some way from the beyond, my father was trying to tell me that I was a gift to him. I can only guess. I'll never really know.
It was insanity that kept us apart; kept him from his children. He was away from us so much, I can only imagine how it tore at his heart. He never, never said an unkind word to me. I don't think he had it in him. I only got to know him later in his life; father and daughter, but strangers really. If only!
Still here.
Andi
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Could You Please Pass The Salt?
I thought that I would give her a chance to come clean, and I told her so. A chance to explain why she did what she did. It was to be on my terms; no beating around the bush, and placing blame on those no longer around to defend themselves. I kept asking her if she understood, and even though she was silent on the other end of the phone, I knew her devious mind was working to contrive an answer that would absolve her of all culpability. I told her that I did not want to hear about how she loved us all, and just wanted me to be a "good girl". Another moment passed.
"I loved you all", she began. I hung up the phone.
I was hoping that she could do better than that. I really do want to know what drove her. Drove her to unspeakable acts, and words so hard that they are forever burned into my flesh. My brothers ( the ones I actually speak to) tell me to "forget it', "let it go". If only I could! If only I could flippantly look back, and say, yes it happened. I am no worse the wear for it. Could you please pass the salt?
Oh, but I am. Worse the wear, and then some. At night sometimes my skin burns from the memory, and I see in my mind's eye the raised bloody welts on my legs and back. Pretending to be whole when I am broken pieces held together by sheer will. There are those of us who will always remember, because we can't forget.
To be honest, I still long for a mother. A real one who kisses boo-boos; whose soft hands stroke your cheek as she plants a delicate kiss on your forehead. I guess I will always want that, and not the trash that I got. Oh well.
Still here.
Andi
"I loved you all", she began. I hung up the phone.
I was hoping that she could do better than that. I really do want to know what drove her. Drove her to unspeakable acts, and words so hard that they are forever burned into my flesh. My brothers ( the ones I actually speak to) tell me to "forget it', "let it go". If only I could! If only I could flippantly look back, and say, yes it happened. I am no worse the wear for it. Could you please pass the salt?
Oh, but I am. Worse the wear, and then some. At night sometimes my skin burns from the memory, and I see in my mind's eye the raised bloody welts on my legs and back. Pretending to be whole when I am broken pieces held together by sheer will. There are those of us who will always remember, because we can't forget.
To be honest, I still long for a mother. A real one who kisses boo-boos; whose soft hands stroke your cheek as she plants a delicate kiss on your forehead. I guess I will always want that, and not the trash that I got. Oh well.
Still here.
Andi
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Panic Room
I had a very interesting experience the other day. I had attended a teacher in-service where the speaker spoke of the importance of ritual in the lives of children. These rituals included waking up in the morning with perhaps, a feeling of being wanted and cherished, sitting down to meals as a family, the ability to talk with someone if you had something on your mind, and in the evening, going to bed with, again perhaps, the feeling of being taken care of and knowing that you were safe.
He spoke with such authority, suggesting that since we all had had that in our lives, we must very well be aware of it's significance. Everyone around me nodded assuredly, for they too had had first-hand experience of these rituals: being tucked in at night with a story and a glass of warn milk, a hot nutritious breakfast to start the day with. And here they were, the living proof of stable environments.
I myself had begun to panic, for I was not one of them at all. I was the fraud in the room, masquerading as something I was not. I had had none of those things, and yet here I was. I thought maybe that it showed in some way. I waited for others to point the finger. "She's not one of us!", they would shout. And I would have to agree. I began to sweat, the room became larger. I thought of leaving, but then, I would only draw attention to myself. Everyone would know why.
They continued to nod, I continued to sweat, my eyes darting first to the left, and then the right. I waited. And then it happened.
Nothing.
Nothing happened.
I did not hear the next thirty minutes of the seminar as I was then lost in my own thoughts. Such memories flooded back that I almost felt faint. I am so very different. And then I realized how very ashamed I am of what I have endured in my life. But I also realized, that I was only a child with no control of the situations that befell me. I could only go with the flow such as it was.
By the end of the in-service, I was numb and exhausted. I wanted to tell the presenter how deeply he had touched me, how deeply I understood what he had to say. But I didn't have the energy, and what difference did it make anyway. But I knew something the others did not. I had survived the unimaginable. I truly did.
Still here.
Andi
He spoke with such authority, suggesting that since we all had had that in our lives, we must very well be aware of it's significance. Everyone around me nodded assuredly, for they too had had first-hand experience of these rituals: being tucked in at night with a story and a glass of warn milk, a hot nutritious breakfast to start the day with. And here they were, the living proof of stable environments.
I myself had begun to panic, for I was not one of them at all. I was the fraud in the room, masquerading as something I was not. I had had none of those things, and yet here I was. I thought maybe that it showed in some way. I waited for others to point the finger. "She's not one of us!", they would shout. And I would have to agree. I began to sweat, the room became larger. I thought of leaving, but then, I would only draw attention to myself. Everyone would know why.
They continued to nod, I continued to sweat, my eyes darting first to the left, and then the right. I waited. And then it happened.
Nothing.
Nothing happened.
I did not hear the next thirty minutes of the seminar as I was then lost in my own thoughts. Such memories flooded back that I almost felt faint. I am so very different. And then I realized how very ashamed I am of what I have endured in my life. But I also realized, that I was only a child with no control of the situations that befell me. I could only go with the flow such as it was.
By the end of the in-service, I was numb and exhausted. I wanted to tell the presenter how deeply he had touched me, how deeply I understood what he had to say. But I didn't have the energy, and what difference did it make anyway. But I knew something the others did not. I had survived the unimaginable. I truly did.
Still here.
Andi
Friday, January 22, 2010
A Stitch In Time
There are times that I reflect back on my past and suddenly remember incidents that were locked away in my memory only to now come rushing back to the front. Most of them are appalling, but lately I have tried to remember something pleasant, funny or comforting. My therapist says that my mind will only allow me to remember what I can handle. There are the times I will remember something..but only for a short while. If I don't write it down, time passes and then it is gone forever, retreating back into the closet. I don't remember much of junior high or high school, only brief flashes here and there, and I cannot tell you if the memories are from a single year or bits and pieces from several. I do know that I was for the most part always frightened, always nervous, and never sure of what would happen from one moment to the next. I lived in a state of anxiety so high as to rival a terror alert. I don't know how I learned anything or even finished high school.
People that really know me ask me why I didn't run away, or at the very least defend myself from the attacks that came fierce and often. I cannot answer that. I only knew that I wanted to live long enough to enjoy life, and to one day laugh out loud and really mean it.
I would like to say that there was someone who understood, someone who was wiliing to stand up and say what was being done to me was wrong and had to stop, that I was only a child. But there wasn't. I am sure if my father had been there more often than he was, he would have put a stop to it. Although he was kind, he was also, I am sad to say, weak. He had no stomach for conflict.
I have begun to think of him more often. It is painful because I miss him so. I would have liked for him to have really gotten to know my husband, and to have know his only granddaughter. I think they would have enjoyed each other's company, and I do believe quite earnestly, that he would have spoiled her just this side of rotten.
I have learned that a moment is more than a moment. It is life at it's fullest in little bursts of fleeting sweetness. It is what you make it. Still.
Andi
People that really know me ask me why I didn't run away, or at the very least defend myself from the attacks that came fierce and often. I cannot answer that. I only knew that I wanted to live long enough to enjoy life, and to one day laugh out loud and really mean it.
I would like to say that there was someone who understood, someone who was wiliing to stand up and say what was being done to me was wrong and had to stop, that I was only a child. But there wasn't. I am sure if my father had been there more often than he was, he would have put a stop to it. Although he was kind, he was also, I am sad to say, weak. He had no stomach for conflict.
I have begun to think of him more often. It is painful because I miss him so. I would have liked for him to have really gotten to know my husband, and to have know his only granddaughter. I think they would have enjoyed each other's company, and I do believe quite earnestly, that he would have spoiled her just this side of rotten.
I have learned that a moment is more than a moment. It is life at it's fullest in little bursts of fleeting sweetness. It is what you make it. Still.
Andi
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Name That Psychosis
One of the most wonderful attributes of my mother and family is that they provide endless material for commentary. I always learn new things, even if they are an assault on my intelligence and reality as I know it. I have now crossed from simmering anger to conventional concern to genuine alarm. Something is quite wrong. It never fails. Then I need to take a moment and examine my deepest memories after I am firmly told the opposite of what I know to be true. It is like a noted scientist affirming that the world is flat and if we are not careful that we may actually sail off the edge.
During the course of a bizarre conversation with my mother, she claimed that she had never, in her life, ever set foot in an OTB betting parlor, and that during the 25 years that she made her way back and forth to New York on the bus, that she had actually held a job. She also made a series of other claims, but this is the one that disturbed me the most. I don't mind if she believes that people mistake her for being thirty-five years younger that she actually is, or that she is being vigorously pursued by online schools to enroll in their Ph.D program, so great is her ability and intelligence. I don't mind if she believes that she has interviews scheduled for jobs that don't exist, or that the sweepstakes officials are on their way to her to present her with a check for millions of dollars and put her picture on the front page of the newspaper. What I do mind is the constant altering of the reality that directly affected me and her belief that a blatant lie out of her mouth transforms it into the truth.
I firmly remember the soiled shopping bags that she returned home with, filled to over-flowing with racing forms that she had written her "picks" on. I remember being woken up at 2 am, along with one of my brothers, to get dressed and walk her down a stretch of dark lonely road until we reached a major intersection roaring with tractor-trailers, where a Martz-Trailways bus would pick her up and carry her off into the night. I remember having to get up a few hours later and get ready for school, after having walked several miles in the middle of the night with little sleep.
There may have been brief interludes when she may have held a job, but it didn't last long because OTB was calling. I know what I know. And now I am supposed to ignore what I know and believe in a totally fabricated history of what has happened in the past.
During the course of a bizarre conversation with my mother, she claimed that she had never, in her life, ever set foot in an OTB betting parlor, and that during the 25 years that she made her way back and forth to New York on the bus, that she had actually held a job. She also made a series of other claims, but this is the one that disturbed me the most. I don't mind if she believes that people mistake her for being thirty-five years younger that she actually is, or that she is being vigorously pursued by online schools to enroll in their Ph.D program, so great is her ability and intelligence. I don't mind if she believes that she has interviews scheduled for jobs that don't exist, or that the sweepstakes officials are on their way to her to present her with a check for millions of dollars and put her picture on the front page of the newspaper. What I do mind is the constant altering of the reality that directly affected me and her belief that a blatant lie out of her mouth transforms it into the truth.
I firmly remember the soiled shopping bags that she returned home with, filled to over-flowing with racing forms that she had written her "picks" on. I remember being woken up at 2 am, along with one of my brothers, to get dressed and walk her down a stretch of dark lonely road until we reached a major intersection roaring with tractor-trailers, where a Martz-Trailways bus would pick her up and carry her off into the night. I remember having to get up a few hours later and get ready for school, after having walked several miles in the middle of the night with little sleep.
There may have been brief interludes when she may have held a job, but it didn't last long because OTB was calling. I know what I know. And now I am supposed to ignore what I know and believe in a totally fabricated history of what has happened in the past.
I can't do that. A lie has speed, but the truth has endurance. The truth will outlast all the lies that are or ever will be. A lie is here today, but gone tomorrow. Don't allow anyone to try and alter the truth. It can't be done.
Still.
Andi
Saturday, December 12, 2009
In Here
I currently have five chattering girls camped out in my living room, Their regular hangout, (the attic upstairs) has become too cramped for their morning activities, therefore, they must spread out. My daughter, the mistress of ceremonies, really knows how to keep a party going. I have warned them that this is my cleaning day, (isn't every day?) and that they need to vacate the premises no later than 1:00 pm. I have managed to sneak in a tender moment with my husband, and now I am ready, as much as I can, to take on the day. Cleaning, shopping, and holiday baking...perhaps an hour at the gym?
Today I feel like an ordinary citizen, with the most ordinary of lives. I take comfort within my own four walls. In here, I am impervious from the storm that is my mother; from those who wish me harm. You probably think that there is a bit of raging paranoia in that statement, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. In here, I can breathe easy, and do as I please. In here, I am my own woman.
In here, I answer to no one, am blamed for nothing.
The morning marches on, and one by one the girls make their way home, only to return much too soon. My daughter, who has really not slept, makes her way back upstairs, dragging her blanket behind her.
Such an ordinary day. How wonderful!
Andi
Today I feel like an ordinary citizen, with the most ordinary of lives. I take comfort within my own four walls. In here, I am impervious from the storm that is my mother; from those who wish me harm. You probably think that there is a bit of raging paranoia in that statement, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. In here, I can breathe easy, and do as I please. In here, I am my own woman.
In here, I answer to no one, am blamed for nothing.
The morning marches on, and one by one the girls make their way home, only to return much too soon. My daughter, who has really not slept, makes her way back upstairs, dragging her blanket behind her.
Such an ordinary day. How wonderful!
Andi
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Bitter Harvest
Two days ago I mailed a money order to my mother. The plain white paper that I wrapped it in bore no greeting. although I believe the message was clear. Given the circumstances of our past, you may wonder why once again, ( after swearing that I wouldn't) dug deep in my pocket and rushed to her aid. Christmas is upon us, and my only real concern is to procure the awe-inspiring gift for my daughter, and have it safely nestled under the tree on Christmas Eve.
The truth of the matter is that although she is still as demented and destructive as she was fifty years ago, I have no choice but to feel sympathy for this aged, pathetic woman. Don't get me wrong, my extreme abhorrence of her is great, particularly when she calls me feigning concern for my family. I know it is only a prelude to the inevitable question. Could I possibly..... and always the promise of prompt repayment. That has never happened, as I know it won't. It's not even the point.
The point is that out of six children, the one she took delight in abusing, is the one who comes to her aid in times of need. You may think that this is an attempt on my part to gain her love and favor. I do not need, want or desire it. She is incapable of those emotions anyway. I only want to have a clear conscience. We are supposed to feed the hungry and tend the sick, even if they are severely mentally ill, as I believe she is and always was. It does not in any way excuse her behavior. Even though I was stripped of my sense of self, and joy of youth, I still have warm blood running through my veins. I have tried to do right by her even though she did not by me.
The truth of the matter is that although she is still as demented and destructive as she was fifty years ago, I have no choice but to feel sympathy for this aged, pathetic woman. Don't get me wrong, my extreme abhorrence of her is great, particularly when she calls me feigning concern for my family. I know it is only a prelude to the inevitable question. Could I possibly..... and always the promise of prompt repayment. That has never happened, as I know it won't. It's not even the point.
The point is that out of six children, the one she took delight in abusing, is the one who comes to her aid in times of need. You may think that this is an attempt on my part to gain her love and favor. I do not need, want or desire it. She is incapable of those emotions anyway. I only want to have a clear conscience. We are supposed to feed the hungry and tend the sick, even if they are severely mentally ill, as I believe she is and always was. It does not in any way excuse her behavior. Even though I was stripped of my sense of self, and joy of youth, I still have warm blood running through my veins. I have tried to do right by her even though she did not by me.
There will come a day when we will be faced with the reality of what to do with her. A lonely and bitter senior, who squandered her prime years chasing unrealistic dreams, blaming others for her dismal failures, and crushing the light of her only daughter. It is sad in so many ways.
My husband tells me always to be the bigger person. He says you have to fight evil with good. He is a wise man, and he tells me these things to help me cope. Sometimes my anger is so great, it actually makes me violently ill. I have recovered somewhat over these past few days. I must learn to hold on. There is still much to do. I have not yet found that perfect gift.
Still.
Here.
Andi
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Real Me
I have spent a large part of my life growing into the person I am. I have not always been me, but someone else, a me in the making.. Even now, I battle to remain the person I have become, and not the insignificant nobody my family believed I was.
I have found that in the interactions with my family, I am often told that I am mistaken in my memory of events, that they either never happened at all or that I am perhaps "confused" as to the outcome. Years ago I realized that this was just a cover, a ploy, a simple way to remain blameless in spite of the blinding facts of the truth. For a while I questioned myself, my sanity, my memory. Could it all have been nothing more than mere embellishments on my part, making a mountain of out a molehill?? But then it occurred to me that I was, after all, correct in my memory, because my body and soul told the truth. The soul has a memory all it's own, the body, a link to what has been heaped upon it, over and over again. Even if I chose to close my mind to the sins of what had happened, I would still remember. Like a survivor of some terrible war, the trauma is relived over and over, in dreams at night, and often over lunch during the day. It doesn't matter how many times you say you never did anything to me. Lies have no power here.
My soul remembers. And I will never forget.
Still.
Here.
Andi
I have found that in the interactions with my family, I am often told that I am mistaken in my memory of events, that they either never happened at all or that I am perhaps "confused" as to the outcome. Years ago I realized that this was just a cover, a ploy, a simple way to remain blameless in spite of the blinding facts of the truth. For a while I questioned myself, my sanity, my memory. Could it all have been nothing more than mere embellishments on my part, making a mountain of out a molehill?? But then it occurred to me that I was, after all, correct in my memory, because my body and soul told the truth. The soul has a memory all it's own, the body, a link to what has been heaped upon it, over and over again. Even if I chose to close my mind to the sins of what had happened, I would still remember. Like a survivor of some terrible war, the trauma is relived over and over, in dreams at night, and often over lunch during the day. It doesn't matter how many times you say you never did anything to me. Lies have no power here.
My soul remembers. And I will never forget.
Still.
Here.
Andi
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Still Here
Yes. I know. It has been a while since I last shared my thoughts and insights with you. The past few months have been spent in deep gratitude and reflection. I have assisted my husband in his physical, mental and emotional recovery after this second heart attack. Each day had been another measure of the goodness of God. I have so often thought of the many different ways that this all could have gone wrong. But it didn't, and for that, I am very thankful.
As normalcy returns to my life, I can once again focus my attention back on my blog, the purpose of which was let you know that you are not alone on your journey towards healing. So often I am astonished, ( as you may be too) that I live the conventional life that I do. It is a testament to our persistent inner strength, all of us survivors; we came out on top, and not the bottom as some had hoped. Leaving the past behind is a formidable task, as much as we labor to create distance between ourselves and what was, we actually manage to hitch it behind fluttering, as we progress forward. It will forever, try as we might to shake it, be an eternal part of us.
The holidays will be upon us shortly. That means shopping, cooking, baking, and the gathering of family and friends. My daughter has insisted we make the same gingerbread cookies we made when she was three, complete with gumdrop eyes and buttons. We will do that and more. Even though her belief in Santa, elves and reindeer is long gone, I will still provide the magic that is Christmas. We are together and nothing could be better than that.
Still here.
Andi
As normalcy returns to my life, I can once again focus my attention back on my blog, the purpose of which was let you know that you are not alone on your journey towards healing. So often I am astonished, ( as you may be too) that I live the conventional life that I do. It is a testament to our persistent inner strength, all of us survivors; we came out on top, and not the bottom as some had hoped. Leaving the past behind is a formidable task, as much as we labor to create distance between ourselves and what was, we actually manage to hitch it behind fluttering, as we progress forward. It will forever, try as we might to shake it, be an eternal part of us.
The holidays will be upon us shortly. That means shopping, cooking, baking, and the gathering of family and friends. My daughter has insisted we make the same gingerbread cookies we made when she was three, complete with gumdrop eyes and buttons. We will do that and more. Even though her belief in Santa, elves and reindeer is long gone, I will still provide the magic that is Christmas. We are together and nothing could be better than that.
Still here.
Andi
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Answered Prayers
Too, too much has happened in the month since I last shared my thoughts with you. I had been on a wonderful vacation to Florida with my husband, daughter and in-laws. We had laughed and drank, and done all those things that families do when they enjoy each other's company. Too soon it was all over and we returned home. I was rushing to get my house in order before the start of a new school year when the unthinkable happened.
I had been home engaged in my household chores. My daughter, still flying high from her vacation, was upstairs with a friend, still desperately clinging to summer vacation. As I chatted on the phone with my brother, out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband as he made his way past our house and down the alley. Moments later he appeared again. I thought it odd that he looked so disheveled. He normally went to the gym and showered after playing tennis, and here he was, standing before me , a wrinkled towel half covering his mouth, his eyes partly closed. "I feel sick," he muttered, and I saw that it was taking great effort for him to remain standing. "We're going to the hospital right now!", I said very calmly, even though my insides had begun to quiver. And so began the unreal reality that comes with unexpected events such as heart attacks and car accidents.
Then came the news of a second heart attack, the hours waiting in the critical care unit, the calling of his family and the bedside vigil that lasted seven days. During that time, we prayed the rosary and read the Bible, and on the third night as I watched the monitor record his heartbeat at thirty seven, I was almost sure that I would never take him home. It was then that I began to bargain with God, as all people who find themselves in situations where they have no control. God holds all the cards, and you pray that he will allow you a chance to win one more hand. And so in desperation, I promised that I would forgive all those who had wronged me, I would forgive myself for things I did and things I had neglected to do. Most of all, I would forgive me mother. I didn't know how I would do it, but I would, for another chance for us to be a family, for another chance to kiss his lips, for another chance to nestle close to him at night. I would do all this and then some.
Four days later, with a defibrillator implanted just above his heart, I took my husband home. I have not yet stopped thanking God, but I am still working on the forgiveness part.
Still here.
I had been home engaged in my household chores. My daughter, still flying high from her vacation, was upstairs with a friend, still desperately clinging to summer vacation. As I chatted on the phone with my brother, out of the corner of my eye I saw my husband as he made his way past our house and down the alley. Moments later he appeared again. I thought it odd that he looked so disheveled. He normally went to the gym and showered after playing tennis, and here he was, standing before me , a wrinkled towel half covering his mouth, his eyes partly closed. "I feel sick," he muttered, and I saw that it was taking great effort for him to remain standing. "We're going to the hospital right now!", I said very calmly, even though my insides had begun to quiver. And so began the unreal reality that comes with unexpected events such as heart attacks and car accidents.
Then came the news of a second heart attack, the hours waiting in the critical care unit, the calling of his family and the bedside vigil that lasted seven days. During that time, we prayed the rosary and read the Bible, and on the third night as I watched the monitor record his heartbeat at thirty seven, I was almost sure that I would never take him home. It was then that I began to bargain with God, as all people who find themselves in situations where they have no control. God holds all the cards, and you pray that he will allow you a chance to win one more hand. And so in desperation, I promised that I would forgive all those who had wronged me, I would forgive myself for things I did and things I had neglected to do. Most of all, I would forgive me mother. I didn't know how I would do it, but I would, for another chance for us to be a family, for another chance to kiss his lips, for another chance to nestle close to him at night. I would do all this and then some.
Four days later, with a defibrillator implanted just above his heart, I took my husband home. I have not yet stopped thanking God, but I am still working on the forgiveness part.
Still here.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Bully
Even though I am of an age that I dare not mention, today I feel like that battered helpless child whose small voice could not be heard. My mother has thrust herself upon me. She has put herself into a rather precarious position, and I in my tights and billowing cape must rush out to save her. Although she is old, she has not changed; her propensity to disrupt and antagonize is as sharp as ever. In the days before her arrival at my house, my head ached and my body felt as if it were on fire inside. It kept me awake at night as I listened to the thunderous snoring of my sleeping husband. When I did sleep it was light, and I awoke groggy and angry. I have made it apparent that I do not want her near me, but she is in need as she always is and since no one else can or will help her, she ignores the signs and elbows her way in, like a thirsty bovine beast shoving its way to the front of the watering hole.
She believes erroneously that the room she stays in when she is here is actually "her room". She has claimed it like the unwavering bully she is, and actually seemed shocked that it was not ready and waiting for her. I will grant her two days. That's more than she ever gave me.
My husband says we will deal with it, but he does not know what I see when I close my eyes at night. She had the nerve to tell me that all she wanted from me as a child was to be a "good girl" and that I was the "greatest kid". In my entire life I had never heard those words uttered about me. I usually heard "slut", "bitch", and "whore", accompanied by a slap, kick, or punch. When did I become the "greatest kid"?
I know one cannot change the past, but the future is a different story. That's why I love my daughter so deeply and fully. When I take her shopping for her new school clothes, it will be just the two of us, and it will be a grand affair. We will shop and eat, and shop and eat till we get tired.
I hope my mother understands that she is only reaping what she has sown. I am not yet capable of forgiving, even though I know it would be healthy for me to do so. In the meantime though, my anger is alive and well. I don't see it dissipating any time soon. Still here.
She believes erroneously that the room she stays in when she is here is actually "her room". She has claimed it like the unwavering bully she is, and actually seemed shocked that it was not ready and waiting for her. I will grant her two days. That's more than she ever gave me.
My husband says we will deal with it, but he does not know what I see when I close my eyes at night. She had the nerve to tell me that all she wanted from me as a child was to be a "good girl" and that I was the "greatest kid". In my entire life I had never heard those words uttered about me. I usually heard "slut", "bitch", and "whore", accompanied by a slap, kick, or punch. When did I become the "greatest kid"?
I know one cannot change the past, but the future is a different story. That's why I love my daughter so deeply and fully. When I take her shopping for her new school clothes, it will be just the two of us, and it will be a grand affair. We will shop and eat, and shop and eat till we get tired.
I hope my mother understands that she is only reaping what she has sown. I am not yet capable of forgiving, even though I know it would be healthy for me to do so. In the meantime though, my anger is alive and well. I don't see it dissipating any time soon. Still here.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Mommy Dearest
The first time I remember being snatched and viciously slapped, I was perhaps four years old. I am sure that it had happened countless times before, but this was my first conscious memory of it. I had just spent five minutes with my father who I had not seen in what must have been a long time to a little girl. As I reached up to hug him, I remember how rough the stubble on his cheek was against my face. He smelled of cigarettes and beer, but I didn't care. We lived in one of the old row homes in Philadelphia that was large and drafty. It was after all, the inner city in the sixties. I did not know where my father had been, only that he was in New York most of the time. Seeing him was rare but I knew he was my daddy. I had been told how much I looked like him; the same forehead and eyes. Our similarities did not stop there. According to my mother, we also shared the same degenerate tendencies as though the blood of mongrel dogs coursed through our veins.
I saw that he was getting ready to leave and I remember asking him to get a splinter out of my foot. I happily sat on his lap as he gently pulled the splinter out. It was only later as I made my way around a corner of the room that a violent hand reached out and grabbed me. It was my mother and even now I can still see the henious look on her face. It was twisted with fury as she crunched the bones in my little body. My sin: she was convinced that the splinter in my foot was only a ploy to get my father to look up my dress. How cunning and seductive I must have been at four years old!
This same scenario was to be played out countless times over the next twenty years and beyond. Her obsession with me as a insatiable sexual creature whose appetite knew no bounds. The sadistic beatings, the humiliation, the name-calling, the threats, and the shredding of mind, body and spirit. Throw in the abject poverty, the loss of the sense of self, of who and what you are and why, and I will tell you that sometimes I wonder how I walk upright.
I will say that there was a strength within me that I didn't know I had that kept me going, one foot in front of the other, day after day, year after year, until there came that glorious day that I was old enough to flee. And even though it took years to put myself back together, I often fall apart. I know that it wasn't all me; angels surely guided me in times of extreme chaos and kept me safe from serious danger. However, they could not save me from the horror that was my mother.
I am thankful to have done more than just survive; in some ways I have actually flourished.
Still here.
I saw that he was getting ready to leave and I remember asking him to get a splinter out of my foot. I happily sat on his lap as he gently pulled the splinter out. It was only later as I made my way around a corner of the room that a violent hand reached out and grabbed me. It was my mother and even now I can still see the henious look on her face. It was twisted with fury as she crunched the bones in my little body. My sin: she was convinced that the splinter in my foot was only a ploy to get my father to look up my dress. How cunning and seductive I must have been at four years old!
This same scenario was to be played out countless times over the next twenty years and beyond. Her obsession with me as a insatiable sexual creature whose appetite knew no bounds. The sadistic beatings, the humiliation, the name-calling, the threats, and the shredding of mind, body and spirit. Throw in the abject poverty, the loss of the sense of self, of who and what you are and why, and I will tell you that sometimes I wonder how I walk upright.
I will say that there was a strength within me that I didn't know I had that kept me going, one foot in front of the other, day after day, year after year, until there came that glorious day that I was old enough to flee. And even though it took years to put myself back together, I often fall apart. I know that it wasn't all me; angels surely guided me in times of extreme chaos and kept me safe from serious danger. However, they could not save me from the horror that was my mother.
I am thankful to have done more than just survive; in some ways I have actually flourished.
Still here.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Importance of Being Earnest
There was a time when I did not believe in anything. I did not believe in the the promises made by a boy who said he would call the next day. I did not believe in the possibility of miracles so fervently prayed for. I did not believe that tomorrow would make much of a difference in the conditions under which I lived. And I did not believe that "fairness" was a word that I could ever apply to the circumstances of my life. My goal now is to try and be positive in thought, word, and deed. I would also like to say that one of my other goals is to forgive those who took it upon themselves to attempt to execute my spirit. It took years but the instinct to keep my head above the raging waves won out, and I am here to bring to light the evil done in the dark. We never know what we have truly escaped until in hindsight, we look to see the destruction left behind.
I have spent many years coming to terms with the past. It does not go away or become less terrible over time. In my case it has made me mad as hell, and this is part of my way of not taking it anymore or keeping the secrets that held us as prisoners. The past is there to remind us that it can and will happen again in the future, perhaps not to us, but to another innocent whose life is up for grabs. I continue to wonder what I could have possibly done to recieve such treatment at the hands of my own mother. She did not think about the future. That I would remember and count every single moment until I was free of her, and that when I was, I would never never forget. Never.
My mother will tell you she did nothing of the sort. I will tell you she did. And I believe that you will find that my words echo those of others whose mothers or fathers said and did the same. Today I am going to believe that my tomorrow will be better. I will believe that some good will come out of the badness. And I believe that we must learn to never let the light go out. I will keep my goal of forgiveness on the back burner, and tend to it when ready. But not today.
I have spent many years coming to terms with the past. It does not go away or become less terrible over time. In my case it has made me mad as hell, and this is part of my way of not taking it anymore or keeping the secrets that held us as prisoners. The past is there to remind us that it can and will happen again in the future, perhaps not to us, but to another innocent whose life is up for grabs. I continue to wonder what I could have possibly done to recieve such treatment at the hands of my own mother. She did not think about the future. That I would remember and count every single moment until I was free of her, and that when I was, I would never never forget. Never.
My mother will tell you she did nothing of the sort. I will tell you she did. And I believe that you will find that my words echo those of others whose mothers or fathers said and did the same. Today I am going to believe that my tomorrow will be better. I will believe that some good will come out of the badness. And I believe that we must learn to never let the light go out. I will keep my goal of forgiveness on the back burner, and tend to it when ready. But not today.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Pillow Talk
This is my most favorite time of the evening: the time when my husband and I lie in bed and talk before he drops off into a dead sleep. Tonight he has me laughing, because on Animal Planet they are capturing an 11 foot alligator in Florida. We are due to leave in five days for vacation in the Sunshine State and based on the program, he believes we are due to find ourselves an appetizer one late night for this prehistoric creature. My husband is many things but brave is not among them. My heart opens and I laugh uproariously because when God made my husband, he broke the mold, which is why I love him so. He is truly one of a kind and we were blessed to find each other when we did. I was walking through Lincoln Center Library and he was watching me through the stacks. The short story is that 21 months later we were married at a church in Brooklyn. The long story is that I never dreamed that I had that kind of luck.
His one lament is that we did not meet each other sooner, so that we could populate our home with six or seven kids. We are blessed to have one. I am in a way the brains of the operation, and I tell him that it was the plan of the guy upstairs that we meet when we were ready for each other. Three or four years earlier and it would not have worked because we were not ready for each other.
I am pleased to get what I got when I got it. My only regret is that we did not have more children. A basketball team would have been more to my liking, but I am immensely happy with the one I have. We were given a once in a lifetime chance, and it all fell into place.
My daughter is well beyond that stage where she waits to be tucked in, and her stuffed animals to sing good-night to her. Right now, even though it is late, she is probably IM ing her friends before she calls it a night. I am still on duty, as mommies always
are, and it is my duty to make sure the teeth are brushed, the doors locked before I can lay my head on the pillow and call it a night. I am always on the case. I like that.
His one lament is that we did not meet each other sooner, so that we could populate our home with six or seven kids. We are blessed to have one. I am in a way the brains of the operation, and I tell him that it was the plan of the guy upstairs that we meet when we were ready for each other. Three or four years earlier and it would not have worked because we were not ready for each other.
I am pleased to get what I got when I got it. My only regret is that we did not have more children. A basketball team would have been more to my liking, but I am immensely happy with the one I have. We were given a once in a lifetime chance, and it all fell into place.
My daughter is well beyond that stage where she waits to be tucked in, and her stuffed animals to sing good-night to her. Right now, even though it is late, she is probably IM ing her friends before she calls it a night. I am still on duty, as mommies always
are, and it is my duty to make sure the teeth are brushed, the doors locked before I can lay my head on the pillow and call it a night. I am always on the case. I like that.
Thank You
I want to thank those of you out there who have recently discovered my blog. Thank you for the reading, the sharing, comments and support. I want you to know that I write because I have to, and I write for those who won't or can't face the hell that engulfed them at a time in their lives. The physical, mental, and emotional trauma that is associated with an abusive childhood never goes away and affects your actions for the rest of your life. You may be an abuser yourself, or care so little about your own existence that you sell your body for a puff on the crack pipe. It was foretold by my mother and one of my brothers that my destiny lay somewhere between the crack-whore and your average run-of-the mill money for sex whore. I became neither. The abuse led me to years of depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and physical and emotional ailments that plague me to this day. I never thought much of myself, and like many, looked for love in all the wrong places. However, I was fortunate enough to find therapy, prayer, and myself at the bottom of the ashes. In two days my husband and I will celebrate 15 years of wedded bliss.
It has not been easy and many times we surely drove each other to the brink of insanity. Our blessing was that we loved each other enough not to take the easy way out, and more importantly, we had God on our side.
My daughter will be twelve in a few months, and I will tell you my greatest accomplishment has been loving and nurturing her. The day I brought her home from the hospital, I wondered how I had lived my life all those years without her. Her birth was like winning a special prize. Now I was complete. I would have a childhood after all with her. My pleasure came from being the best mother I could be. I am grateful that in spite of everything, I chose to live in the light.
For those of you out there who have been down this road, I want you to know that you are not alone. I shudder to think how many of us there are out there. I am not a doctor nor do I profess to know what steps to take to acknowledge what happened to you. The best I can offer is this blog, to begin at the beginning, and do what is best for you to heal your soul and life.
I have been there. And I am still.....here.
It has not been easy and many times we surely drove each other to the brink of insanity. Our blessing was that we loved each other enough not to take the easy way out, and more importantly, we had God on our side.
My daughter will be twelve in a few months, and I will tell you my greatest accomplishment has been loving and nurturing her. The day I brought her home from the hospital, I wondered how I had lived my life all those years without her. Her birth was like winning a special prize. Now I was complete. I would have a childhood after all with her. My pleasure came from being the best mother I could be. I am grateful that in spite of everything, I chose to live in the light.
For those of you out there who have been down this road, I want you to know that you are not alone. I shudder to think how many of us there are out there. I am not a doctor nor do I profess to know what steps to take to acknowledge what happened to you. The best I can offer is this blog, to begin at the beginning, and do what is best for you to heal your soul and life.
I have been there. And I am still.....here.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Tell It Like It Is
I have been trying to make my way around the blogging world, trying to find and read others' blogs who have been unfortunate enough to have endured experiences like my own. I have not come across too many; perhaps I don't know where to look, or perhaps they are still working through the intensity of emotion that comes with surviving the unthinkable. One blog I came across is Penelope Trunk's Brazen Careerist. I have read several posts on her blog. She is open, honest and very brave. In addition to several other topics, she has no problem telling the world of the host of monstrous experiences she weathered at the hands of her parents. Many of the comments to one post in particular, "How to decide how much to reveal about yourself", imply that possibly she is an attention seeker, crying out to be noticed. I mean, here she is for all the world to see, giving out the raw and uncensored details!
Some of the comments I found offensive, suggesting that hiding the truth is better than saying it out loud. I will say this. There are those of you out there who walk around with unscorched souls, your decency intact, never knowing the savage sting of fist on delicate flesh, or the unbridled fear of absolute abandonment, the apprehensiveness that hunger brings on. You may have your say, but there are some things you should know. As an abused child, your voice is taken from you, and therefore you are unable to cry out for help, or tell on those who stole your innocence. Those of us who have survived have long awaited the moment when we can point the finger and say what it was and where it happened. We are only removing the hand that has been clasped over our mouth. To be able to speak and know that you will not be hurt is awesomely liberating. We speak for those who are still unable to do so for themselves.
I do not dislike anyone for the wholesomeness of their life. Yours was the one I would have preferred to have. I ask you to open your minds as to the reason why someone would be so willing to spill the beans. The cover is taken off for the countless others out there who will read and say. "I am not the only one who endured".
I used to have a friend who would regale me with stories of sneaking out of the house by going through the maid's quarters. Occasionally, he would slip the doorman a few bucks not to be seen. He lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue and being denied to him meant being out of town in the Hampton's and not being able to attend the next debutante ball held at The Plaza. His Holden Garfield existence was what it was. I did not look down on him for it as he did not (as far I remember) look down on me for coming from nothing. We did not judge. We did not choose the hands dealt to us. We just played them the best we knew how.
Some of the comments I found offensive, suggesting that hiding the truth is better than saying it out loud. I will say this. There are those of you out there who walk around with unscorched souls, your decency intact, never knowing the savage sting of fist on delicate flesh, or the unbridled fear of absolute abandonment, the apprehensiveness that hunger brings on. You may have your say, but there are some things you should know. As an abused child, your voice is taken from you, and therefore you are unable to cry out for help, or tell on those who stole your innocence. Those of us who have survived have long awaited the moment when we can point the finger and say what it was and where it happened. We are only removing the hand that has been clasped over our mouth. To be able to speak and know that you will not be hurt is awesomely liberating. We speak for those who are still unable to do so for themselves.
I do not dislike anyone for the wholesomeness of their life. Yours was the one I would have preferred to have. I ask you to open your minds as to the reason why someone would be so willing to spill the beans. The cover is taken off for the countless others out there who will read and say. "I am not the only one who endured".
I used to have a friend who would regale me with stories of sneaking out of the house by going through the maid's quarters. Occasionally, he would slip the doorman a few bucks not to be seen. He lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue and being denied to him meant being out of town in the Hampton's and not being able to attend the next debutante ball held at The Plaza. His Holden Garfield existence was what it was. I did not look down on him for it as he did not (as far I remember) look down on me for coming from nothing. We did not judge. We did not choose the hands dealt to us. We just played them the best we knew how.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Family Ties
It would be wonderful to be a part of a real family. I have brothers older and younger than myself, spread out over several states, and hardly is there any effort on any of our parts to get together or see one another. Even though we are well into adulthood, when we do speak, it is as if we were small children again. Even as adults, we remain in the hierarchy that we were placed in as kids. My mother's love for her youngest son knew no bounds. Whatever was his pleasure, it was my duty to provide. Today, he has a flourishing profession, yet he communicates with no one. He did with me for awhile until last year when he kept telling me he had sent my daughter a birthday gift two months late. When I told him I still had not received it, he deduced that is was irrevocably lost in the mail and that he would have to go out and buy another gift card, since it was impossible to trace. I told him not to bother. That was the last I heard from him.
His success he keeps to himself. His greatest fear is that we may ask something of him that he has made abundantly clear that he is unwilling to give. To that, he remains anonymous, hidden from everyone except his wide circle of friends. I do not blame him for his distaste of us.
That is his choice, to be sure. Our mother, who loved (as much as she was capable of) some and despised others, certainly is not counted among one of his chosen. Boys were for the most part, good. Girls, (I was the only one) were whores just waiting for an opportunity to shame the good name (ha!) of the family and to entice all males within whistling distance into lurid sexual encounters. It is interesting to note that when I was about sixteen that I learned that my mother had indeed, had her first child out of wedlock. Worst still, my father was not his father. My father himself told me that he had married my mother when he returned from the war in Europe. The man who had impregnated her was long gone. As awful as we were told my father was, she still managed to have five more children by him.
I never knew any uncles or aunts on my father's side. We were not allowed to know them. My mother told us that my father was deeply involved in a sexual relationship with his sisters and therefore any direct contact with them was forbidden. To say that my mother's preoccupation with the sex act in all it's unnatural forms was revolting is an understatement. It makes me wonder even more deeply about her upbringing, what she may have done or witnessed or worst, been forced to be a part of. I do know however that her mental illness must have been at it's peak by the time I reached puberty. A girl blooming into a woman sent her into neurotic fits of fury. She would make me pay for being young and innocent. Neither state lasted long.
My daughter is currently with her cousin and friend at her cousin's house. It is an opportunity for me to try and get some things done that I normally don't get to. In a few days we will pick her up and I will return to being the taxi available at a moment's notice, the ATM for the mall, the hostess of weekend slumber parties. Then we will all be off to Florida to stay with yet another cousin. We will spend time together, eat, play and most importantly have fun. That's what families do.
His success he keeps to himself. His greatest fear is that we may ask something of him that he has made abundantly clear that he is unwilling to give. To that, he remains anonymous, hidden from everyone except his wide circle of friends. I do not blame him for his distaste of us.
That is his choice, to be sure. Our mother, who loved (as much as she was capable of) some and despised others, certainly is not counted among one of his chosen. Boys were for the most part, good. Girls, (I was the only one) were whores just waiting for an opportunity to shame the good name (ha!) of the family and to entice all males within whistling distance into lurid sexual encounters. It is interesting to note that when I was about sixteen that I learned that my mother had indeed, had her first child out of wedlock. Worst still, my father was not his father. My father himself told me that he had married my mother when he returned from the war in Europe. The man who had impregnated her was long gone. As awful as we were told my father was, she still managed to have five more children by him.
I never knew any uncles or aunts on my father's side. We were not allowed to know them. My mother told us that my father was deeply involved in a sexual relationship with his sisters and therefore any direct contact with them was forbidden. To say that my mother's preoccupation with the sex act in all it's unnatural forms was revolting is an understatement. It makes me wonder even more deeply about her upbringing, what she may have done or witnessed or worst, been forced to be a part of. I do know however that her mental illness must have been at it's peak by the time I reached puberty. A girl blooming into a woman sent her into neurotic fits of fury. She would make me pay for being young and innocent. Neither state lasted long.
My daughter is currently with her cousin and friend at her cousin's house. It is an opportunity for me to try and get some things done that I normally don't get to. In a few days we will pick her up and I will return to being the taxi available at a moment's notice, the ATM for the mall, the hostess of weekend slumber parties. Then we will all be off to Florida to stay with yet another cousin. We will spend time together, eat, play and most importantly have fun. That's what families do.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Loving Me For Me
I try to remain calm, but over the past few days my anxiety has reached fever pitch. I do not sleep but toss and turn almost the entire night. Last night I downed several glasses of red wine. That along with the exhaustion that my body felt, I fell into a deep sleep. Although it did not last the entire night, it was enough for me to function productively throughout the day. I am used to it now. I have to learn to calm my body for sleep; once school starts, I will be on a very short leash.
I search for answers to my issues: my inability to sleep at night, my feelings of not being good enough, the scorching pain in my heart that even the powerful love of my husband has not been able to heal and now I believe that I have stumbled upon one of the answers I seek.
I have to learn to love myself. Not in an extreme selfish way, but in a way that allows me to take the time I need to nurture myself. Taking the time to rest my body and mind, taking the time to give myself what I need to eventually become a complete person, and taking the time to learn what that is. I am always on the run; many tell me that they don't know how I keep the pace I do, but I do.
As a child, it was understood that I must always give up anything that I had for the benefit of the family. But one summer when I was about sixteen, a friend of mine and I hopped into the car and spent the day in New York. We saw a Broadway show and later the show at Radio City Music Hall. We were enthralled with the bright lights of the big city, and I knew that one day I would make it my home. On my return, my mother ranted and raved that if anyone (who might that be) had anything, any money they were keeping to themselves, they had better, "get up off it." I was to regret taking some of my hard earned money and spending it on myself, rather than having it taken away as was usually the case. I felt guilty for the joy I felt that day. Guilty that I was selfish enough to think of myself. After that, it became easy to put others in front. And I have been doing it for the past thirty years.
Now I know it is crucial to my healing. Taking care of me for me. It is only the beginning in the process. Learning to love me.
I search for answers to my issues: my inability to sleep at night, my feelings of not being good enough, the scorching pain in my heart that even the powerful love of my husband has not been able to heal and now I believe that I have stumbled upon one of the answers I seek.
I have to learn to love myself. Not in an extreme selfish way, but in a way that allows me to take the time I need to nurture myself. Taking the time to rest my body and mind, taking the time to give myself what I need to eventually become a complete person, and taking the time to learn what that is. I am always on the run; many tell me that they don't know how I keep the pace I do, but I do.
As a child, it was understood that I must always give up anything that I had for the benefit of the family. But one summer when I was about sixteen, a friend of mine and I hopped into the car and spent the day in New York. We saw a Broadway show and later the show at Radio City Music Hall. We were enthralled with the bright lights of the big city, and I knew that one day I would make it my home. On my return, my mother ranted and raved that if anyone (who might that be) had anything, any money they were keeping to themselves, they had better, "get up off it." I was to regret taking some of my hard earned money and spending it on myself, rather than having it taken away as was usually the case. I felt guilty for the joy I felt that day. Guilty that I was selfish enough to think of myself. After that, it became easy to put others in front. And I have been doing it for the past thirty years.
Now I know it is crucial to my healing. Taking care of me for me. It is only the beginning in the process. Learning to love me.
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