Sometimes I get asked, why do I feel compelled to write my life story, my Book, and put it on a blog for the whole world to see. My answer is a bit complex but within reason.
I am writing this book to help educate my children and grandchildren to my life so that maybe somewhere in time, they will have a better understanding of who I am, and why I am the way I am. So they know, in their own lives, maybe they will become better by knowing their roots, and learn from my mistakes, protect themselves better from the evils of the world, and know when I reference subject matter that may not be very tasteful, or appealing, it is for the betterment of them and understanding that life no matter how difficult it may be at times, there is a cloud with that silver lining and in comparison to others their life may not be so bad.
For my family and friends who may at times not understand me, or know me as well as they would like, it opens some doors and a better understanding of why I can say, in many things I have experience and knowledge in areas they may not, and can express true feelings and show, even suffering some of the worst life changing events that can happen, good can out of it, and make positive progress in the development of a better more peaceful person.
In my years, I have always had choices on how I would let bad things dictate my life. I can either become a victim and let it over take my being, or I can learn and grow to a better being. I chose to take the high road of becoming a better person.
In order to totally understand this book and me, you must start reading from the beginning. My first Chapter forward. You can go back in my posts to the beginning.
In my last Chapter I talk about abuse, blame, and the effects charging a very young mind with a mental crime.
I left you knowing, how for years I was physically and mentally abused. By age eleven, my half sister had been shot in the chest with a 38.calb. hand gun, and left paralyzed from the waist down. She was only 23 months old. Bound to a wheel chair for the rest of her life.
Turning the table again, I could have felt I was the victim here, blamed for her accident, blamed for not being around to save her from my Mother and Step-Father’s wrath of shame and anger.
No, I did not… My anger and hurt fell on my sister. She had suffered much more than I, she would have to live with her pain and not being able to ever walk again. Many surgeries were performed over the course of years trying to help her gain feeling and the ability to walk again, but all were unsuccessful.
She did manage to get married and have a son, and tried hard to be a productive person.
Now, you may ask yourself, after this horrible accident, how did that leave my parents?
Worse.
Instead of trying to over come their addictions to liquor, anger, fighting, and heal the family they continued to do all of the above, and it eventually killed my mother.
If I could have had a dime for every time they filed for divorce, wrecked a vehicle, smashed furniture, and property in their home, I would have been a multimillionaire. The problem was, when they sobered up, all would be forgiven until the next time..
This is about the true definition of Domestic Violence.
We have touched on Abuse, Addictions, and mental cruelty, now we will talk about domestic violence.
To this day, if someone walks up to me suddenly or comes up from behind it startles me. I still jump if I catch someone walking out of the corner of my eye, if I hear any pop sounds, or doors slam.
It was bad enough witnessing violence on a regular basis growing up, watching my parents fist fight, throw things and break things.
The only time I felt grateful, was when I was not the target of their anger. However, that was not very often. In most cases the anger would shift and be aimed at me. Why? Cause I was there.
Bullies were always making fun of me growing up.
Having to go to school when I was able, with bruises and half my hair pulled out, just fueled the rants of bullies looking for a reason to bully.
Even though I may have been an attractive girl, the bruises and loss of hair make me look like a train wreck in motion.
Back then no body got involved remember…no body called the CPS, or the police when you were in public view. Teachers paid no attention, other than to say, “I am so sorry”. School Nurses never reported anything.
Counselors? Who were they?
Bottom line, I had no one to turn too, no one to help me. My grandmother was my only advocate, but even she was afraid of my parents.
There was a family who lived close by, when I was growing up in that environment and when I could I would go to their home for refuge. They were blue collar hard working family with 6 children to support. I can remember enjoying breakfast there when I would go there in the mornings before school. Toast was made on the radiator which also heated the house. Corn Mash was the breakfast cereal, and occasionally you might get a fried egg. Did not matter what they had, it always tasted so good.
One of my favorite memories growing up as a child living with my Mother was staying at my grandmothers house. Next door to my grandmother was an African American family and there was a little girl same age as me, and we were best friends. My grandmother’s neighborhood became more and more affluent with African American families. As years past, my grandmother was about the only Caucasian household in that particular neighborhood. When they moved there, it was predominately white and Italian. Years past and it soon changed.
I can remember when my grandfather passed away, eighty percent of the people outside of relatives who attended his funeral, were African American. My grandparents were well loved and respected by all who knew them. Color and race was never an issue in our family. I guess being Italian, you felt the same, because you too, were discriminated by certain other nationalities. Especially Germans. I can remember as a child going to little towns in Texas, where Germans were concentrated and they did not like Italians. Must admit, most Italians did not like them either. My grandfather was Sicilian, my grandmother was of northern decent and part Irish.
My grandfather use to tease us about being of another race…He was Sicilian..period..and in history also showed there may have been African American blood in our blood lines…The Italians in Sicily supposedly mixed with Africans which enhanced the hair, skin and eye colors. Who knows for sure, but rumor has it, as told by my ancestors.
My time spent when at my grandmothers, was with my friends of color, and as far as we were concerned we were all the same. So my blessings for that part of my life were loving all people and not recognizing the differences.
The only people we did notice that were different were good people and bad people. Those who hurt with words and actions. Verses those who help and heal.
Wasn’t until I got older, I realized how the world really was.
Really did not matter, I still raised my children to be equally fair and care for all.
“Next Chapter” we will talk about how I moved from my Mothers place to live with my father…Thinking I would be saved from torment and abuse…WRONG…