Author: hidethetruthforsuccess

hidethetruthforsuccesshttps://hiddentruthofthesuccessfulbusinesswoman.wordpress.com
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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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Mommy Help Me!

Screaming and crying and trying to wiggle free, but he had a strong grip around my belly holding me in a tight football grasp. He was in the road next to his car which was parked in front of our home. He screamed at my mother who stood in the door well, as tears streamed down her face. I looked quickly at her and could see terror in her eyes as her hands grabbed at her hair. She knew she couldn’t come after me. If she had he may strike her right in our front yard, or even worse he may hurt me. So she stood there screaming as he flew open the back door of his old Chevy and threw the black trash bag inside.

Moments before I was playing in my room and could hear them fighting, but they yelled and screamed and threw things whenever he was home, so I became used to it. I only felt the fear when I heard his steps pounding on the stairwell and I crawled fast to an area of the room away from the door, hoping he wouldn’t see me. The rest happened so quick. He plowed through my bedroom door holding a black garbage bag. He looked at me with empty eyes and said nothing as he pulled every drawer of my dresser completely out and dumped it into the black bag throwing the drawer after he finished. My mother seemed delayed but eventually came running up the steps. Once she reached my door well she shrieked in horror “What are you doing…STOP…please stop you’re scaring her.” Her words were words of panic and fear. My father was a very strong man and at that time a NY police officer who had become comfortable always having his gun on him. I quietly kept backing up, not crying just confused and frightened.

As he finished loading his black bag he turned to my mother and screamed “You will never see her again!” He walked over to me and quickly grabbed me into a football type hold. I couldn’t breath and that could have been from fear or from his strength as he held me tight around my belly. Holding me in one hand and the black trash bag in the other he went straight past my mother down the stairs and through the front door. His car was parked in front of the house by the curb and not in the driveway. Just before he was about to throw me into the back seat of the car, I heard my mother scream so loud , “Please ask her where she wants to be, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE look at her!!!!” He held me in front of him with two hands and I could tell he actually saw me and I quivered as I cried out “Mommy, Mommy!” He dropped me in the road and jumped into the driver’s seat and speed off.

He was full of rage and probably alcohol and maybe drugs. My father died in his early 50’s of a brain aneurysm after a lifetime of drug and alcohol abuse. He was kicked off the NYPD only a few years after this time.

I was only 5 years old when this happened and I remember the moment as clear as if it was yesterday. Funny the things we remember and the things we forget. I remind myself of this as I choose my words for disciplining my own children.

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Tell me your story…Success after Abuse and a Lifetime of Fear

In business and in various life situations, I am faced with the same question repeatedly: “Tell me how you did it…”. I always want to scream sarcastically, “Did What?!….OH You Mean HOW DID I SURVIVE?!” Instead my answer is stated with a practiced cool reserve, “Discipline.” Mind you, they are not speaking of the abusive upbringing I experienced, or the 3 failed marriages, they are asking me how I became a successful business woman raising 3 well-adjusted boys as a single mother. The rest lay hidden from the world.

There is a good chance you would not like me at first glance. I will admit to having few girlfriends (those stories to come). My presence screams, “SHE HAS IT ALL!” I do feel I have what I need and I am very happy with my quiet life now, but that took me about 40 years. My presence is misleading and my past is sheltered from the world as I fight to protect my kids and myself from the implied opinions and judgement which come from the truth. So then you see my today version every time I walk out the door, I am independent, confident, determined and focused. I love my work and I love my family more than my own life. My dedication and discipline are (to a fault) relentless. I make decent money and I know how to manage it. My kids are in college and doing well. I can tell you straight up what I owe these blessings to…I owe this all to FEAR!

I have always known that I must give back and somehow help other woman who have experienced some type of abuse. I feel my mistakes might help you to choose the other path. I want to share my deepest secrets since I feel there may be some which you can relate to and will help you to feel with company, you are not alone, it is not easy, you are allowed to cry and scream and regret, but I am asking you to do those things, to share those things and then move forward. Please move forward.

Follow me on this journey and share with me. The number one thing I have learned is that I am often wrong and that this is okay, so go ahead and tell me so. I look forward to sharing and learning from you.

Let’s start by focusing on today. Who are you today and where do you want to be tomorrow? What memories do you want your children to live with and share with their kids? We live ONE life and we need to make the most of it. We need to not hide from life but instead live it. There you go! My pep-talk and I say these things to myself endlessly.

Here is a summary of what lies behind my facade:

  • guns pointed at my mother
  • drunk father, brother and drunker husbands with fists flying
  • bruises and blood
  • unsure how I lived through various attempts on my life (example: he opened my car door, popped my seat-belt loose and started kicking me as he did a 360 through the mid-town tunnel)
  • stolen money
  • husbands publicly displaying their latest  squeeze
  • deceit
  • fear
  • deceit
  • and did I mention FEAR

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