First of all, thank you for the notes and welcome. I appreciate them very much.
I like to write, I always have. I even had a journal over at Open Diary for many years. I was very honest in that diary too, but I always held back, especially the dark stories. I've never liked exposing my pain and vulnerability to anyone. I much preferred writing about happy subjects and the regular old day to day stuff. I never worried too much about anonymity because I kept so much hidden. Here, I feel the need to fiercely protect my identity. I want tohave no fear or hesitation in being completely open and honest in everything I write.
I want to talk a bit about my childhood. I really hope that by writing here, without fear or reservation, I can learn some things about myself.
I had a good childhood in spite of a few traumatic interruptions. I am the youngest of 4, 2 older sisters and 1 older brother. There is quite a bit of an age difference between my sister's and I. The oldest girl is almost 16 years older and the next sister is 11 years older. My brother and I were 6 years apart.
My parents were in their 40's when I was born. My mother and I were extremely close. She was a typical housewife but also worked at the little store next to us. Family meant everything to her. She was also very religious, a devout Catholic whose strong faith amazed me.
My mom was funny and sweet and always spoke her mind which embarrassed me on many occasions. She loved to dance and flirt with all the men and she never met a stranger. I swear, no matter where we were, my mother would strike up a conversation with everyone. And God help us if there was a baby around, because she loved her some babies!
She had a whimsical way about her, playful and endearing and I adored her. She was my best friend and I wanted to be wherever she was.
My dad was the best man I've ever known. He worked for the government for 43 years. He was strong and dependable and always made me feel safe. He was a great provider and after his death, he continued to be. He loved my mother very much and clearly wanted her to always be taken care of. He was much quieter than my mom with a dry sense of humor. He was also incredibly smart and seemed to have some knowledge of almost every subject. He was not a demonstrative man by any means but I never doubted his love for me.
The first traumatic experience to interrupt my childhood, happened when I was around 6 or 7. The owner of the little store next to us was a man named Joe. He began molesting me inside the store. It wasn't unusual for me to be there when my mother wasn't working. It was only a few yards from my house and this was the 60's, kids ran freely all over the neighborhood. He always acted gruff with us kids. "Shake a leg" was his favorite saying, always trying to hurry us along. I'm unsure of his ethnicity but I know it was not American. I suppose I was flattered when he took a special interest in me. There was a blue chair behind the counter, in the corner and it always felt special to sit there. I would be sitting there and he would stand beside me, able to see out the window in case anyone was coming. There was never any penetration, mostly it was him having me rub his penis, sometimes through his pants and sometimes he would pull it out. It confused me but like most kids, I didn't question it because he was an adult.
I honestly don't know if it went any further than that. If so, I have blocked it out. I also can't remember how long it went. I never told a soul about it until adulthood.
My second traumatic experience changed my life in so many ways, none of them good. My big brother, my only brother, became sick when he was 17. He had bone cancer and thus began a year of hell I don't know how any of us, especially my parents, survived.
It was a year of doctors and hospitals and parents who were never home. Seeing my mother's face age years seemingly overnight. Watching my big strong dad endure the unspeakable agony of watching his only son dying. There was no rest, no joy, no happiness in our household. They amputated his leg in hopes of stopping the cancer but it didn't. When he came home, he slept upstairs in my parents room. No longer able to live in the basement, his sanctuary for the past several years. The place where his friends came over, where he played his music too loud, the place he preferred to be whenever he was home. And now he had come home to die, sleeping in mom and dad's room, in a bed they had made for him because he was so tall.
He had always been something of a mystery to me, living down in the basement for as long as I can remember. By the time he got sick, my oldest sister had already left home and married. All this illness stuff was so foreign to me and so damn scary. I hardly ever went into that room once he came home. I didn't know what to say to him, how to act. Strangely enough I did go in there the night he died. I sat beside his bed and we talked for a while. I have no idea what was said but I sure am grateful I went in there. He died the night before Halloween, October 30, 1973. He was 18 years old.
More later, I'm sleepy. Thanks for reading.
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