As I wander through this life I find much grief - not in the things that have happened to me, or in any specific incident occurring in reality... But in all the unfulfilled possibilities. The might have beens, could have beens, should have beens. Life is such a huge spider web, with each possibility that offers itself, each fork in the road, leading to other outcomes.
It isn't necessarily that I believe those other outcomes would lead to something better... Nor that I necessarily regret what life has given me. It is simply the frustration of NOT KNOWING. I feel like each possibility not presented, each opportunity not exercised is a real loss - and sometimes, those unknown losses make me cry.
For example, who would I be now had I not been switched at birth? What sort of woman would that same child with the same genetics have been had she been raised in a safe and loving home? Would I be inclined to save the world? Would I still be political, or compassionate, or have an overendowed empathetic sense? Would I be more successful, as the world measures success?
I can almost see the threads where that road leads. I would not have married Nick. I would not have gone into theatre. I would have my pH But I would not have Spike, nor would I be living in Italy.
So, since I am happy with the outcome, how can I wish that it had been different? I swear to you, it is not the outcome. It really is the not knowing that drives me mad.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Thursday, February 17, 2005
My First Life - Chapter 6
The mind is a wondrous thing. By compressing memories of horror and pain into an instant, it makes the worst parts of your life seem as if they happened in a dream, in one long dark night - even if the living of your life seemed to take forever at the time. Most of what I can recall now is knotted in a ball so tight that I cannot pull out individual threads... it is as if time at this point is happening the way Einstein posits... simultaneously.
The facts, as I can recall, are these. A decision is made to sell the house we were living in, and to buy another in town. They bought a lovely 2 story home near the lakefront, and furnished it with french provincial furniture. I changed schools, scandal once again followingme.
As to the sheriff and thier interest in child sexual abuse, it was made clear to me that no one believed me, no one ever would believe me, and if I did not recant my story I would be placed in a Juvinile detention facility. Of course, it wasn't the sheriffs office that said this - they had my stepfathers criminal record - it was my family. I had no choice, so I recanted. I did not want to go to jail - and telling the truth meant just that... further punishment.
Then, my stepfather leaves my mother - for my brothers 18 year old girlfreind. Mom begins drinking - a lot. One day, my mother attempts suicide... I come in from a day of riding my bicycle, and there is a note from my brother on the table, saying he would be back, and leaving me cigarettes. Now, being that my brother is never nice to me, I know something horrible has happened. I run into the bathroom, and there is blood, everywhere. I run out the door, and I run to the hospital. Mom has been admitted to the psychiatric ward for observation. There she obtains breast implant surgery, covered by insurance. Her psychaitirst claims it is medically necessary in order to bolster her self esteem.
I move in with my birth father, my stepmother and my two little brothers. I am clearly told that I am not welcome there. I become hugely depressed, and my father refuses to allow me access to my psychologist.
John breaks up with me.
I move back home with my mother - I am terrified that she will kill herself. I love her, and I want to protect her. My stepmother is in a rage, and tells my little brothers that I have left because I do not love them. My birth father was impotent, a scientific miracle in being the first bipedal hominid without a spine.
I return to my mothers home. Much of my time is spent cleaning vomit off the carpets after she would be sick, or in rising at 5 am to go find her car outside of whatever bar it was left at so she could get to work the next day.
There are another 2 or 3 or 4 suicide attempts, truly I have lost count. There are many nights spent with my mother, drunken, and blaming me for her pain - and times where I offered to go buy her a gun so the next time she wants to die she can just get it over with.
Somewhere in this mix, there are moments of happiness. There is a boy named Fred, who at 20 was the epitome of mature to me at that age. He spent part of my 16th summer listening to my dreams, introducing me to smart people, letting me see that there would be a life after. I was enamored of him, and he broke my heart... but he gave me a vision of a future that could be brighter, he believed in me, and encouraged me to follow my dreams.
There was my best friend, Jim, who let me come to live with him so I could try and finish high school, and who would take me on road trips when the going got too hard for me to shoulder alone.
Then there was Brett, 18 going on 45, with a trans-am and a real family who truely wanted to kill my mother for what she was doing to me.
Finally, there was Glen and his parents, who took me in when I finally had no where else to go.
These boys, each in thier own way, loved and nurtured me, and without them I may have perished. I reached for boys to be my friends, because girls simply weren't to be trusted. Except for Betty, and for my high school drama teacher, I had no women I could count on. Boys were simple - and to this day, I consider myself to be as much boy as girl.
My grades at this point shot from A's to F's and back again, depending on how heavily mom was drinking. I was competing at the state level in speech, was choir president, and was active in competitive theatre. I tried as desperately as possible to appear to be a normal bright eyed college bound student. I tried to be engaged, but I really didn't belong anywhere. I taught sunday school, and was active in my church. I took ballet classes. There was the life I was living, and the life I wanted to be living, and they were mutually exclusive, but I tried hard for the life I wanted rather than the life I had.
An example - and those of you with Alcoholic parents will probably laugh at similar memories of your own. Its only funny, of course in retrospect. I was competing in a theatre competion. We were performing a play called "Not enough Rope" by Elaine May. Ironically enough, it is a 35 minute one act wherein the lead character tries desperately to kill herself, but doesn't have enough rope. She tries to persuade her next door neighbor to help her. (My drama teacher - after discovering all the fun in my home - offered to change the piece, but I demurred).
One day, after rehearsal my co-actor drove me home. He was a nice boy, very clean cut and in love with Doris Day. Being a rather old fashioned boy, he insists on walking me to the door. I had forgotten my housekey, and had to ring to be let in. My mother - in all her glory - nude as the day she was born, with a bottle in her hand answered. She was very gracious, and asked him in for a drink. He declined. Oh my.
The situation at my home was spinning out of control. I came down with a case of chronic bronchitis, and was becomming desperately depressed. My home was becomming dangerous, with bouts of drinking, frequently followed by driving.
Finally, the Christmas Eve when I was 16 years old, the situation had gotten well out of hand. My mother, drunk, insisted on confronting her husband and the little girl he was living with. She was so drunk that I had to take her car keys away. Finally, after physically fighting with her, I offered to drive her where she wanted to go.
We drive to the tenament where my stepfather and his sweetheart live, and I follow my mother up the stairs. Screaming and banging ensue. I lean against the stair rail, impassive in the insanity. Finally, after five or so minutes, the little girl, Laurie was her name, opens the door, and she has a gun.
The two ladies commence to screaming at each other. My mother calls her a whore, and Laurie slaps my mother. Now, no one slaps my mother... and I fly at her. I tackle her to the ground... and she shoots me. My only response to this is.... "You Shot Me, You Bitch." I have never been in a fight before, and certainly never in one where I win. But I go wild, and am eventually pulled off of her by a neighbor.
I am taken to the hospital to have the bullet removed from my leg. The police are fighting with my mother in the hallway, my father, I believe has been called, and there is chaos in the corridor. I am alone in the treatment room, waiting to be seen by the doctor.
To my great dismay, and general relief, the nurse on duty is the director of the Sunday School. In tears, I ask her to make sure my small charges do good in the Church Christmas pageant, as I do not think I will be able to make it.
Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards Men.
The facts, as I can recall, are these. A decision is made to sell the house we were living in, and to buy another in town. They bought a lovely 2 story home near the lakefront, and furnished it with french provincial furniture. I changed schools, scandal once again followingme.
As to the sheriff and thier interest in child sexual abuse, it was made clear to me that no one believed me, no one ever would believe me, and if I did not recant my story I would be placed in a Juvinile detention facility. Of course, it wasn't the sheriffs office that said this - they had my stepfathers criminal record - it was my family. I had no choice, so I recanted. I did not want to go to jail - and telling the truth meant just that... further punishment.
Then, my stepfather leaves my mother - for my brothers 18 year old girlfreind. Mom begins drinking - a lot. One day, my mother attempts suicide... I come in from a day of riding my bicycle, and there is a note from my brother on the table, saying he would be back, and leaving me cigarettes. Now, being that my brother is never nice to me, I know something horrible has happened. I run into the bathroom, and there is blood, everywhere. I run out the door, and I run to the hospital. Mom has been admitted to the psychiatric ward for observation. There she obtains breast implant surgery, covered by insurance. Her psychaitirst claims it is medically necessary in order to bolster her self esteem.
I move in with my birth father, my stepmother and my two little brothers. I am clearly told that I am not welcome there. I become hugely depressed, and my father refuses to allow me access to my psychologist.
John breaks up with me.
I move back home with my mother - I am terrified that she will kill herself. I love her, and I want to protect her. My stepmother is in a rage, and tells my little brothers that I have left because I do not love them. My birth father was impotent, a scientific miracle in being the first bipedal hominid without a spine.
I return to my mothers home. Much of my time is spent cleaning vomit off the carpets after she would be sick, or in rising at 5 am to go find her car outside of whatever bar it was left at so she could get to work the next day.
There are another 2 or 3 or 4 suicide attempts, truly I have lost count. There are many nights spent with my mother, drunken, and blaming me for her pain - and times where I offered to go buy her a gun so the next time she wants to die she can just get it over with.
Somewhere in this mix, there are moments of happiness. There is a boy named Fred, who at 20 was the epitome of mature to me at that age. He spent part of my 16th summer listening to my dreams, introducing me to smart people, letting me see that there would be a life after. I was enamored of him, and he broke my heart... but he gave me a vision of a future that could be brighter, he believed in me, and encouraged me to follow my dreams.
There was my best friend, Jim, who let me come to live with him so I could try and finish high school, and who would take me on road trips when the going got too hard for me to shoulder alone.
Then there was Brett, 18 going on 45, with a trans-am and a real family who truely wanted to kill my mother for what she was doing to me.
Finally, there was Glen and his parents, who took me in when I finally had no where else to go.
These boys, each in thier own way, loved and nurtured me, and without them I may have perished. I reached for boys to be my friends, because girls simply weren't to be trusted. Except for Betty, and for my high school drama teacher, I had no women I could count on. Boys were simple - and to this day, I consider myself to be as much boy as girl.
My grades at this point shot from A's to F's and back again, depending on how heavily mom was drinking. I was competing at the state level in speech, was choir president, and was active in competitive theatre. I tried as desperately as possible to appear to be a normal bright eyed college bound student. I tried to be engaged, but I really didn't belong anywhere. I taught sunday school, and was active in my church. I took ballet classes. There was the life I was living, and the life I wanted to be living, and they were mutually exclusive, but I tried hard for the life I wanted rather than the life I had.
An example - and those of you with Alcoholic parents will probably laugh at similar memories of your own. Its only funny, of course in retrospect. I was competing in a theatre competion. We were performing a play called "Not enough Rope" by Elaine May. Ironically enough, it is a 35 minute one act wherein the lead character tries desperately to kill herself, but doesn't have enough rope. She tries to persuade her next door neighbor to help her. (My drama teacher - after discovering all the fun in my home - offered to change the piece, but I demurred).
One day, after rehearsal my co-actor drove me home. He was a nice boy, very clean cut and in love with Doris Day. Being a rather old fashioned boy, he insists on walking me to the door. I had forgotten my housekey, and had to ring to be let in. My mother - in all her glory - nude as the day she was born, with a bottle in her hand answered. She was very gracious, and asked him in for a drink. He declined. Oh my.
The situation at my home was spinning out of control. I came down with a case of chronic bronchitis, and was becomming desperately depressed. My home was becomming dangerous, with bouts of drinking, frequently followed by driving.
Finally, the Christmas Eve when I was 16 years old, the situation had gotten well out of hand. My mother, drunk, insisted on confronting her husband and the little girl he was living with. She was so drunk that I had to take her car keys away. Finally, after physically fighting with her, I offered to drive her where she wanted to go.
We drive to the tenament where my stepfather and his sweetheart live, and I follow my mother up the stairs. Screaming and banging ensue. I lean against the stair rail, impassive in the insanity. Finally, after five or so minutes, the little girl, Laurie was her name, opens the door, and she has a gun.
The two ladies commence to screaming at each other. My mother calls her a whore, and Laurie slaps my mother. Now, no one slaps my mother... and I fly at her. I tackle her to the ground... and she shoots me. My only response to this is.... "You Shot Me, You Bitch." I have never been in a fight before, and certainly never in one where I win. But I go wild, and am eventually pulled off of her by a neighbor.
I am taken to the hospital to have the bullet removed from my leg. The police are fighting with my mother in the hallway, my father, I believe has been called, and there is chaos in the corridor. I am alone in the treatment room, waiting to be seen by the doctor.
To my great dismay, and general relief, the nurse on duty is the director of the Sunday School. In tears, I ask her to make sure my small charges do good in the Church Christmas pageant, as I do not think I will be able to make it.
Peace on Earth, Goodwill towards Men.
Monday, February 14, 2005
More notes from a present life
Today I woke up in tears. Today would be my 19th wedding anniversary. Valentines day. Advice to brides: Do not mix your wedding day with any other holiday, because you just never know! God Forbid you get married on Christmas!
My wedding day was clear and warm, with blue sky's and puffy clouds and the beautiful early spring weather that only exists in San Francisco. We lived in a gorgeous little jewelbox of a victorian townhouse, painted in deep royal jewel tones, and there we were married, in front of a glistening stained glass window, and a marble gas fireplace.
My gown was a renassaince gown, made of burgandy velvet lined with rose taffeta, with a kinsale cloak of dusty lavendar. My veil was of dusty violet lace, covered by a fine chainmail mesh. My hair was red that day, and my nails were long and manicured.
The service was from the King Edward the sixth prayer book. I promised to love, honor, and obey. I meant it, oh gosh, I meant it. I take vows before God seriously - and to this day I do not know if divorce is really possible for me.
On the other hand.... Nick had his fingers crossed. He had lied to me. He made his pledges while calculating how to get out of it in shortest order. So, I am not sure that I was ever married. I don't know what to call this man. I really don't. Was I married? I don't know.
This was the happiest day of my life. I think too it may have been the saddest, because I think maybe even then I knew I wasn't really loved. I feel so ashamed, thinking back, of how cheaply I held myself. I should have married someone who was so happy to have me, so overjoyed to have someone who truly only wanted to be his... and at this time and age, it was all I wanted. To be owned, to belong to someone, to obey someone, to look up to someone.
I thought he wanted this too. I suppose I deluded myself, and lived in a fantasy world still of true love, of knights in shining armour, of damsels in distress and of mystery and magic.
I miss that girl. I want to believe in those things again.
In the deepest part of my heart, I would like to find another man whom I could love as much as I loved Nick, and who would love me back as passionatly. Someone to whom I would feel compelled to belong to... but I don't think it is bound to be. I don't think I could do that again. It is a childish desire, I suppose.
I have a life filled with love now. I have a gorgeous son, enough to eat, wealth enough, live in a glorious city.... I have not one, but two men utterly devoted to me -whom I in turn love, and a third who sits on my mind. I have true and devoted friends, and a very good life. I live in a wonderland, considering where I have been. My sex life is magnificent, my work is fun, if not always entirely rewarding -
So, this compulsion to be owned? To "belong", for "true love"? What is it? Biology? Hormones? Conditioning? Too much Disney, not enough Dostkevsky? Or are we driven to find spiritual harmony in pairs? Or maybe I am just greedy. Or stupid. Or the same little girl I was on my wedding day.
So life goes on... I am a grown up. I put away childish things, I keep to my vows and commitments, and I do the best I can.
But can I still please believe in fairies?
My wedding day was clear and warm, with blue sky's and puffy clouds and the beautiful early spring weather that only exists in San Francisco. We lived in a gorgeous little jewelbox of a victorian townhouse, painted in deep royal jewel tones, and there we were married, in front of a glistening stained glass window, and a marble gas fireplace.
My gown was a renassaince gown, made of burgandy velvet lined with rose taffeta, with a kinsale cloak of dusty lavendar. My veil was of dusty violet lace, covered by a fine chainmail mesh. My hair was red that day, and my nails were long and manicured.
The service was from the King Edward the sixth prayer book. I promised to love, honor, and obey. I meant it, oh gosh, I meant it. I take vows before God seriously - and to this day I do not know if divorce is really possible for me.
On the other hand.... Nick had his fingers crossed. He had lied to me. He made his pledges while calculating how to get out of it in shortest order. So, I am not sure that I was ever married. I don't know what to call this man. I really don't. Was I married? I don't know.
This was the happiest day of my life. I think too it may have been the saddest, because I think maybe even then I knew I wasn't really loved. I feel so ashamed, thinking back, of how cheaply I held myself. I should have married someone who was so happy to have me, so overjoyed to have someone who truly only wanted to be his... and at this time and age, it was all I wanted. To be owned, to belong to someone, to obey someone, to look up to someone.
I thought he wanted this too. I suppose I deluded myself, and lived in a fantasy world still of true love, of knights in shining armour, of damsels in distress and of mystery and magic.
I miss that girl. I want to believe in those things again.
In the deepest part of my heart, I would like to find another man whom I could love as much as I loved Nick, and who would love me back as passionatly. Someone to whom I would feel compelled to belong to... but I don't think it is bound to be. I don't think I could do that again. It is a childish desire, I suppose.
I have a life filled with love now. I have a gorgeous son, enough to eat, wealth enough, live in a glorious city.... I have not one, but two men utterly devoted to me -whom I in turn love, and a third who sits on my mind. I have true and devoted friends, and a very good life. I live in a wonderland, considering where I have been. My sex life is magnificent, my work is fun, if not always entirely rewarding -
So, this compulsion to be owned? To "belong", for "true love"? What is it? Biology? Hormones? Conditioning? Too much Disney, not enough Dostkevsky? Or are we driven to find spiritual harmony in pairs? Or maybe I am just greedy. Or stupid. Or the same little girl I was on my wedding day.
So life goes on... I am a grown up. I put away childish things, I keep to my vows and commitments, and I do the best I can.
But can I still please believe in fairies?
Sunday, February 13, 2005
My First Life - Chapter 5
Now we enter the period I like to call "How Mom Tried to Kill Me". Listen, if I don't find some of this drama somewhat funny in the sort of way late night teen drama's are kind of funny I would have to sink into an alcoholic depression and live in a garret, painting my misery until I succumb to a sad and early death.
Since none of that is in my game plan, I have to laugh at the horror of what follows. Because, really, it was truly horrible. My memory here begins to crumble a bit, my life being defined only by one grotesque incident after another. My life becomes like Marquis D Sades Justine.... just when you think it can't get any worse, it does. I promise you, the next few chapters will defy credulity. You will be sure I am lying, because these things don't happen. They just don't.
The general consensus among parents and family was this: I was somehow insane, I was bent on the destruction of my family, and to that end I made up wild and fantasical stories in order to 1.) exact revenge or 2.) hurt my mother or 3.) break up the marriage or 4.) because I enjoyed the drama. It was determined, at this point, to introduce me to a child psychologist.
Her name was Betty. Betty, thank you. You were the first person to come along and save my life, and my gratitude to you will be forever. If I could find you - or if, bless your heart, you read this... I love you forever.
Betty took one look at me. One look at my stepfather. And knew the score. She couldn't do much, but she did as much as she could, including putting me in the hospital a few times, figuring a psych ward was safer than my own home. She continued to see me even though my parents, finding no support for their theory of compulsive lying, cut off the insurance. Bless you Betty.
My memory of these days is like that of any other war survivor... images and glimpses of incidents that all pile one on top of the other, in no particular order....
The first time my mom tried to kill me, she attacked me for trying to end her marriage. I did what was appropriate for any screwed up teen of my generation to do - I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and swallowed every pill in the medicine cabinet. Now, mom was a bit of a pill popper, and there were lots to choose from. I chose them all. Total, there were probably a couple of hundred different pills - uppers, downers, cold medication, pain killers - we were well stocked.
By the time the bathroom door was broken down, I was fairly well out of it. At first, my mother was concerned, until she heard me calling for John. At this point, she became enraged... and said something to the effect of "Fine, you little bitch, you want your precious John, he can come save your life." I went to sleep on the couch, calling his name.
At some point a little later, my older brother had dropped by, and I woke to him slapping my face, and arguing with my mother that I really should be taken to the hospital. My mother was against it. "She wants to die, let her die". She was pretty angry with me.
I assume my brother used the argument of jail time to persuade her... though I really have no idea, but I was taken to the hospital, where the nurses worked to keep me awake. I overheard my mother assuring the doctor - "No, we really don't keep much in our medicine cabinet. I assume she may have swallowed a few aspirin, maybe some cold medicine. No doctor, probably no more than 15 or 20 pills. She's just being dramatic." Thanks Mom.
I was given some hideous nasty fluid to drink, probably epicac syrup. I am very grateful they didn't pump my stomach. I wretched for quite some time, and after a few hours, was released to my mothers care.
She said that she hoped I had learned my lesson.
This was the first time mom tried to kill me, but it wasn't to be the last. As I said, she had some anger management issues.
Since none of that is in my game plan, I have to laugh at the horror of what follows. Because, really, it was truly horrible. My memory here begins to crumble a bit, my life being defined only by one grotesque incident after another. My life becomes like Marquis D Sades Justine.... just when you think it can't get any worse, it does. I promise you, the next few chapters will defy credulity. You will be sure I am lying, because these things don't happen. They just don't.
The general consensus among parents and family was this: I was somehow insane, I was bent on the destruction of my family, and to that end I made up wild and fantasical stories in order to 1.) exact revenge or 2.) hurt my mother or 3.) break up the marriage or 4.) because I enjoyed the drama. It was determined, at this point, to introduce me to a child psychologist.
Her name was Betty. Betty, thank you. You were the first person to come along and save my life, and my gratitude to you will be forever. If I could find you - or if, bless your heart, you read this... I love you forever.
Betty took one look at me. One look at my stepfather. And knew the score. She couldn't do much, but she did as much as she could, including putting me in the hospital a few times, figuring a psych ward was safer than my own home. She continued to see me even though my parents, finding no support for their theory of compulsive lying, cut off the insurance. Bless you Betty.
My memory of these days is like that of any other war survivor... images and glimpses of incidents that all pile one on top of the other, in no particular order....
The first time my mom tried to kill me, she attacked me for trying to end her marriage. I did what was appropriate for any screwed up teen of my generation to do - I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and swallowed every pill in the medicine cabinet. Now, mom was a bit of a pill popper, and there were lots to choose from. I chose them all. Total, there were probably a couple of hundred different pills - uppers, downers, cold medication, pain killers - we were well stocked.
By the time the bathroom door was broken down, I was fairly well out of it. At first, my mother was concerned, until she heard me calling for John. At this point, she became enraged... and said something to the effect of "Fine, you little bitch, you want your precious John, he can come save your life." I went to sleep on the couch, calling his name.
At some point a little later, my older brother had dropped by, and I woke to him slapping my face, and arguing with my mother that I really should be taken to the hospital. My mother was against it. "She wants to die, let her die". She was pretty angry with me.
I assume my brother used the argument of jail time to persuade her... though I really have no idea, but I was taken to the hospital, where the nurses worked to keep me awake. I overheard my mother assuring the doctor - "No, we really don't keep much in our medicine cabinet. I assume she may have swallowed a few aspirin, maybe some cold medicine. No doctor, probably no more than 15 or 20 pills. She's just being dramatic." Thanks Mom.
I was given some hideous nasty fluid to drink, probably epicac syrup. I am very grateful they didn't pump my stomach. I wretched for quite some time, and after a few hours, was released to my mothers care.
She said that she hoped I had learned my lesson.
This was the first time mom tried to kill me, but it wasn't to be the last. As I said, she had some anger management issues.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Notes from a present life
Today my son began to ask questions. It was inevitable. He's 5 years old, and precocious.
"Mama, why can't we live with Babbo, or why can't Babbo live with us"
And so we begin.
"I loved your Babbo very much, but one day your Babbo didn't love me anymore, so we went away...."
"Ask him to forgive you Mama"
"Baby, I didn't do anything that needs forgiveness. I didn't do anything wrong. He just stopped loving me"
"Ask him to forgive you Mama"
"You can only ask forgiveness if you've done something wrong, sweetheart."
"But does my Babbo love me?"
"Of course he does. He loves you and misses you, but we both know that you are better off here in Italy with Mama. But when you are big enough, you can fly to the United States and spend whole summers with him"
"But what happened Mama?"
"Spike, he just stopped loving me. He changed his mind, but we just don't love each other like husband and wife. "
"How was it before Mama?"
"Every day, your Babbo would come in, and he would say 'I love you', and I would say 'I love you more', and we would touch and kiss and hug, and we seemed happy. But after he didn't love me, I cried and cried, and you would ask 'Mama, are you happy?' - So Spike, we had to leave."
"Why did we come so far?"
"Because Spike, you chose Italy. You and I and your Uncle Steve went to Train Town, and afterwards, you picked a restaurant. It was owned by italians, and they loved you and brought you toys and special food.... and so we came to Italy!"
"I miss my Babbo"
"I know baby - and your Babbo misses you. And no matter how far away you are, we will always be a family, and your Mama and Babbo will always love you more that anything in the world."
"But will you love each other?"
I don't think so, baby.
Oh my best beloved. This is not what I wanted for you. Someday you may read this, and I need you to know that this wasn't the plan. I wanted you to have what I never had.... a family with a Mother and Father who truly loved each other, a happy home filled with joy.
I waited so long for you Spike, month after month, year after year, I prayed for you to come to me. Every month, when I found I was not pregnant, I cried. Even before you were born, you were the one thing I wanted and needed more than anything else. For nearly 14 years I waited for you. Finally, after I had given up hope of ever holding you in my arms, you came. I wanted to give you a perfect life and a perfect family.
It's not to be, my love.... but I give you the best that I have. I am not a perfect Mama, I know... I lose my temper sometimes, and I don't always listen. But I have tried to surround you with people who love you, and I make sure to try and keep you and your best loved Babbo as close as 6,000 miles allow (and believe it or not, you are closer to your Babbo than many children who live with their fathers!). I make sure, as best I can, that your Babbo is your hero - because boys need heroes!
I hope that someday you will forgive me for failing to give you the perfect family. I couldn't do anything but what I've done. Our family is broken. But still good. Yes, still good.
"Mama, why can't we live with Babbo, or why can't Babbo live with us"
And so we begin.
"I loved your Babbo very much, but one day your Babbo didn't love me anymore, so we went away...."
"Ask him to forgive you Mama"
"Baby, I didn't do anything that needs forgiveness. I didn't do anything wrong. He just stopped loving me"
"Ask him to forgive you Mama"
"You can only ask forgiveness if you've done something wrong, sweetheart."
"But does my Babbo love me?"
"Of course he does. He loves you and misses you, but we both know that you are better off here in Italy with Mama. But when you are big enough, you can fly to the United States and spend whole summers with him"
"But what happened Mama?"
"Spike, he just stopped loving me. He changed his mind, but we just don't love each other like husband and wife. "
"How was it before Mama?"
"Every day, your Babbo would come in, and he would say 'I love you', and I would say 'I love you more', and we would touch and kiss and hug, and we seemed happy. But after he didn't love me, I cried and cried, and you would ask 'Mama, are you happy?' - So Spike, we had to leave."
"Why did we come so far?"
"Because Spike, you chose Italy. You and I and your Uncle Steve went to Train Town, and afterwards, you picked a restaurant. It was owned by italians, and they loved you and brought you toys and special food.... and so we came to Italy!"
"I miss my Babbo"
"I know baby - and your Babbo misses you. And no matter how far away you are, we will always be a family, and your Mama and Babbo will always love you more that anything in the world."
"But will you love each other?"
I don't think so, baby.
Oh my best beloved. This is not what I wanted for you. Someday you may read this, and I need you to know that this wasn't the plan. I wanted you to have what I never had.... a family with a Mother and Father who truly loved each other, a happy home filled with joy.
I waited so long for you Spike, month after month, year after year, I prayed for you to come to me. Every month, when I found I was not pregnant, I cried. Even before you were born, you were the one thing I wanted and needed more than anything else. For nearly 14 years I waited for you. Finally, after I had given up hope of ever holding you in my arms, you came. I wanted to give you a perfect life and a perfect family.
It's not to be, my love.... but I give you the best that I have. I am not a perfect Mama, I know... I lose my temper sometimes, and I don't always listen. But I have tried to surround you with people who love you, and I make sure to try and keep you and your best loved Babbo as close as 6,000 miles allow (and believe it or not, you are closer to your Babbo than many children who live with their fathers!). I make sure, as best I can, that your Babbo is your hero - because boys need heroes!
I hope that someday you will forgive me for failing to give you the perfect family. I couldn't do anything but what I've done. Our family is broken. But still good. Yes, still good.
Friday, February 11, 2005
My First Life - Chapter 4
My mother has prevented me from telling the rest. Over 20 years dead, and she still stops my voice. I was born and raised on secrets and lies, and I find that even thinking of mama makes my words catch in my throat. I'm sorry Mama.
I was laying in the back of a big rig semi, somewhere outside of New Orleans. My father was driving, listening to cowboy music, CB radio static in the background. A razor is held to my wrists and I am contemplating ending my life. Silent tears stream down my face, tears of pain and confusion and guilt and anger and despair. I'm trapped, and there is nothing I can do. I truly don't want to live anymore. I want it all to stop... but my death would kill my mother and that is all.
I'm so frightened, and I just want to get away. At a truck stop near New Orleans, I meet two young men. In a last ditch effort, I tell them what has happened, or as near to the truth as I can get. I ask them to take me with them, and get me away from him. They go to his truck to confront him... I do not know what happened, but my stepfather had a gun. When he came inside to get me, he was smiling at me - laughing at me really. He told me to get in the truck. My hero's were no where to be seen.
The ride back to Wisconsin was agonizing. He kept telling me that he had made me a woman. He didn't know that a short weak before, knowing what was coming, I had taken care of that myself - I was not giving that bastard my virginity. I am still so proud of myself for that - to this day, I praise the little girl who did that... who purposefully sought out a soft and gentle lover and seduced him. Good on her.
I think he believed me when I said I would kill myself. He was kinder for a while. He left me alone. The visits to my room stopped for a while and from the outside, I looked like a normal girl. A very unhappy normal girl, but truthfully - somehow no one noticed this.
I tried so desperately to get help. My IQ tested high, but I was failing all my classes. I visited the counseling office almost daily - but it was simply pointless.
In the meantime, over the summer, I had had my first real boyfriend. Because I needed to lose my virginity, I threw him over for the man I chose to take care of this monumental business, and I broke his heart. His sister took revenge for him, spreading rumours that I was the worlds biggest slut - little boys, needing something to brag about on their lunch hour or in the locker room, claimed me for that honor. With a couple of rapes and one real lover, I was the scarlet girl. I was attacked and beaten regularly - and I think, to be honest, I agreed in part to their assesment of me. The only boys who would look at me were the ones who thought I would put out... my role in the world was set.
There were saving graces... I became involved in theatre and speech... for brief moments I could escape and be someone else. Being so constantly under control, repressing my emotions and thoughts all the time, gave me a resovoir of pent up passions when I hit the stage. I was good... I worked hard. I competed in forensics, and I won awards. Approprately enough, my selection for that year was from "A Streetcar Named Desire" -
And I met a boy. His name was John, and how I loved him. I love him to this day. His mother was a pastor, he lived on a farm far away - so he knew nothing of the scandal surrounding me. He was chubby and funny and smart, and he loved me too. As long as he loved me, the misery that was my life didn't matter. My shame didn't matter. My mothers hatred of me didn't matter. My John loved me, and his love would save me.
I moved to a new school, and though my reputation followed me, it was a fresh start. I became a cheerleader, hoping this would improve my social standing. I began to meet people who went to college, and began seeing that there would be a life after - if I could make it through high school, and get out of Kenosha, there would be a better life waiting for me.
My love for John was as passionate as only a 16 year old girls love can be. I taught him how to make love to me, rough and hard and the way I needed it. He would hold me after, declaring his love, and I felt safe. I would write him love letters, long explict sexual romantic love letters.
Which were, unbeknowst to me, being removed from the mailbox, and kept by my stepfather.
The next autum, he began to blackmail me. I attacked him, scratching his face. He laughed at me, telling me if I was going to be a whore for some 16 year old boy, I could damn well be a whore for him. He told me that if my mother saw these letters, I would never see John again.
The nightime visits recommenced. I fought him off. I locked the door. Each night he was home, I would lay awake, waiting for him to rattle the doorknob. Once he went away, I could sleep.
I turned to my brothers, one after the other for help. I was not explicit... I said he was trying to touch me. They each, in turn, called me a liar.
After several months, I was desperate. While babysitting one night, I called a suicide prevention line. I talked to Alan. I told the story - leaving out, or so I thought all details. Kenosha is a small town. There was only one private Lutheran school. The very next Monday, the sheriffs department came to speak with me.
Still, I denied the rape. I said only that he was touching me. I begged them, please, to not talk to him with my mother there... to please just talk to him alone. I called them on the phone when I knew he would be there without my mother...
I returned home after cheerleading practice. My mother and stepfather were sitting at the kitchen table. My love letters to John were spread out in front of him, and his eyes looked wet from crying. Together they confronted me. Why did I want to end their marriage, what kind of monster was I to say such things? My stepfather broke down into tears, looked at my mother helplessly, and said "How could she do this to me?" My mother stood up, called me a whore, and backhanded me so hard that I fell to the floor. She stormed out of the room in tears.
When I stood up, my stepfather laughed at me, a triumphant smile on his face.
I was laying in the back of a big rig semi, somewhere outside of New Orleans. My father was driving, listening to cowboy music, CB radio static in the background. A razor is held to my wrists and I am contemplating ending my life. Silent tears stream down my face, tears of pain and confusion and guilt and anger and despair. I'm trapped, and there is nothing I can do. I truly don't want to live anymore. I want it all to stop... but my death would kill my mother and that is all.
I'm so frightened, and I just want to get away. At a truck stop near New Orleans, I meet two young men. In a last ditch effort, I tell them what has happened, or as near to the truth as I can get. I ask them to take me with them, and get me away from him. They go to his truck to confront him... I do not know what happened, but my stepfather had a gun. When he came inside to get me, he was smiling at me - laughing at me really. He told me to get in the truck. My hero's were no where to be seen.
The ride back to Wisconsin was agonizing. He kept telling me that he had made me a woman. He didn't know that a short weak before, knowing what was coming, I had taken care of that myself - I was not giving that bastard my virginity. I am still so proud of myself for that - to this day, I praise the little girl who did that... who purposefully sought out a soft and gentle lover and seduced him. Good on her.
I think he believed me when I said I would kill myself. He was kinder for a while. He left me alone. The visits to my room stopped for a while and from the outside, I looked like a normal girl. A very unhappy normal girl, but truthfully - somehow no one noticed this.
I tried so desperately to get help. My IQ tested high, but I was failing all my classes. I visited the counseling office almost daily - but it was simply pointless.
In the meantime, over the summer, I had had my first real boyfriend. Because I needed to lose my virginity, I threw him over for the man I chose to take care of this monumental business, and I broke his heart. His sister took revenge for him, spreading rumours that I was the worlds biggest slut - little boys, needing something to brag about on their lunch hour or in the locker room, claimed me for that honor. With a couple of rapes and one real lover, I was the scarlet girl. I was attacked and beaten regularly - and I think, to be honest, I agreed in part to their assesment of me. The only boys who would look at me were the ones who thought I would put out... my role in the world was set.
There were saving graces... I became involved in theatre and speech... for brief moments I could escape and be someone else. Being so constantly under control, repressing my emotions and thoughts all the time, gave me a resovoir of pent up passions when I hit the stage. I was good... I worked hard. I competed in forensics, and I won awards. Approprately enough, my selection for that year was from "A Streetcar Named Desire" -
And I met a boy. His name was John, and how I loved him. I love him to this day. His mother was a pastor, he lived on a farm far away - so he knew nothing of the scandal surrounding me. He was chubby and funny and smart, and he loved me too. As long as he loved me, the misery that was my life didn't matter. My shame didn't matter. My mothers hatred of me didn't matter. My John loved me, and his love would save me.
I moved to a new school, and though my reputation followed me, it was a fresh start. I became a cheerleader, hoping this would improve my social standing. I began to meet people who went to college, and began seeing that there would be a life after - if I could make it through high school, and get out of Kenosha, there would be a better life waiting for me.
My love for John was as passionate as only a 16 year old girls love can be. I taught him how to make love to me, rough and hard and the way I needed it. He would hold me after, declaring his love, and I felt safe. I would write him love letters, long explict sexual romantic love letters.
Which were, unbeknowst to me, being removed from the mailbox, and kept by my stepfather.
The next autum, he began to blackmail me. I attacked him, scratching his face. He laughed at me, telling me if I was going to be a whore for some 16 year old boy, I could damn well be a whore for him. He told me that if my mother saw these letters, I would never see John again.
The nightime visits recommenced. I fought him off. I locked the door. Each night he was home, I would lay awake, waiting for him to rattle the doorknob. Once he went away, I could sleep.
I turned to my brothers, one after the other for help. I was not explicit... I said he was trying to touch me. They each, in turn, called me a liar.
After several months, I was desperate. While babysitting one night, I called a suicide prevention line. I talked to Alan. I told the story - leaving out, or so I thought all details. Kenosha is a small town. There was only one private Lutheran school. The very next Monday, the sheriffs department came to speak with me.
Still, I denied the rape. I said only that he was touching me. I begged them, please, to not talk to him with my mother there... to please just talk to him alone. I called them on the phone when I knew he would be there without my mother...
I returned home after cheerleading practice. My mother and stepfather were sitting at the kitchen table. My love letters to John were spread out in front of him, and his eyes looked wet from crying. Together they confronted me. Why did I want to end their marriage, what kind of monster was I to say such things? My stepfather broke down into tears, looked at my mother helplessly, and said "How could she do this to me?" My mother stood up, called me a whore, and backhanded me so hard that I fell to the floor. She stormed out of the room in tears.
When I stood up, my stepfather laughed at me, a triumphant smile on his face.