Month: December 2014

Growing Up in a Dysfunctional Environment

One afternoon I had walked home from the school bus stop on a cold Fall day and was laughing with my best friend Corin. We were as close as two young girls could be. We shared everything and plotted how we would escape from our unhappy homes and live in the woods near the never-ending stream. We had found this stream in our travels. We would leave the house early in the morning on the weekends and be gone until sunset. My mother never asked what we were doing. An hour and a half away through paths in the woods created by hunters we found a stream. It resembled a dream to us; peace, quiet and beauty. We’d take our clothes off and lay in the stream and talk all day long, until the sun’s position in the sky told us we needed to head back. I hated to leave the stream and dreaded walking into my home, since more times than not something unpleasant was waiting.

That afternoon was no different, as we skipped along kicking the multi-colored leaves in the road. We both would slow down as we came closer and closer to the house. We lived in a duplex Corin and I had walls that touched and we tried to talk to each other through a can at night. For some reason my mother never seemed to be around in those younger years and I didn’t mind. She was a fighter and always seemed to be yelling at someone or screaming at her husband.

On that Fall day when we finally walked through my home door we would stop dead in our tracks from my brother lying face up on the floor convulsing from an overdose of some drug. I was sure he was dying and no one was around to help. I couldn’t help him I just stood there and eventually he rolled over and crawled to a stand and went straight into the bathroom. I’m pretty sure he hadn’t seen me. Corin had turned straight around and walked out the door, which did not surprise me. This type of occurrence was common in both of our homes.

On another day we were playing at Corin’s house and we heard her father walk in. We went straight to the window without speaking to each other and crawled out. Looked at each other  and went to my house to continue. Corin’s father had meet her mom during the big war in Germany. They both had post traumatic stress syndrome, but her father had a special guilt issue which he claimed is why he started cutting off his fingers and eventually would end his life. It was not a good idea to be around him so we knew what to do at the sound of his voice.

This was our life. We knew nothing different. We didn’t know that two parents could be together or involved in their kids lives. We had each other and our sisters and we needed to survive.

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The horror show of an abused woman- Trying to hide when you hear the key in the door?

I’m not sure if I ever slept in those years. I met Eddie when I was 16. I started working in his Uncle’s Italian restaurant as a bus girl. It was located in the Hampton’s and I found myself in awe over the beautiful clothing and gorgeous people. No one ever looked at me, which I liked, and I quickly found a groove scurrying around cleaning up after everyone as they carelessly threw cigarette ashes, food and empty cocaine vials to the ground.

He was northern Italian with pale skin and the lightest blue eyes. Eddie was the manager and always surrounded by the prettiest cocktail waitresses. They flirted with him and drank with him after work. I was envious of their carefree life and laughter. I had a fantastic boyfriend who loved me unconditionally, yet he didn’t seem to exist in this world. This was a fantasy world and I wanted in.

In my latter years I would endlessly wish for parents that would force me to go to college and to NOT marry Eddie. How could I be so foolish? How could I marry someone that would hurt me emotionally and physically from the first day he kissed me? Yet when he finally looked at me and saw me I was amazed that someone like Eddie could see and want me. I was not as beautiful as the cocktail waitresses, I had nothing to offer.

I struggled for 3 years just trying to be good enough. I was playing a part in a film and knew if I didn’t try hard enough it would all fall apart. I worked harder than everyone else. I became a part of his Italian family and took classes to speak Italian so that I could participate with them at dinner. I married him as a good girl would and worked hard to create the home everyone in his family expected to see when they visited, and every night my film turned into a horror flick as my breath became shallow and my heart raced…he was home!

There were few repeat scenes in my horror show. I never knew what to expect. I became prone to hiding and I think he liked that even more as when he finally took all the bolts or hinges off the door and got to me, his veins were bulging from his neck and I knew this time would be worse. It was the anticipation of what was to come that hurt so much. I barely remember much after the first swing, but I remember the fear, the fear of what was inevitable.

In business in my latter years, I became known as a fearless woman who could speak to any crowd or stand up to the most powerful men. I have been humbled and have no point to prove, but I am not fearful of their words. They do not hurt me. My favorite saying (said only to myself) latter on in business was always “After the first punch, it just doesn’t hurt anymore, so give me your best shot”.

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