Chapter 4

I sit here, laptop opened in front of me, a blank screen waiting to be written on, and not knowing where to go from here.  The truth is I have hundreds of stories to tell, but which ones are important enough to share.  Which ones will paint the picture I want you all to see?  

Maybe that is the bigger question: What is the picture I want all to see?  I want everyone to see Love. Beauty. Perserverance. Patience. Healing. Acceptance.  Everything I am now, but the truth is it took a lot of ugly, hurtful, painful experiences for me to get here.  So, here I am again, ready to open my heart and my soul to you in the hopes that my story will reach as many people as possible.  

I think I may have skipped too many important events in my life when I settled on the theme of the last chapter.  I think maybe the thought of holding that huge life event in, after I had opened the book, was too much for me. So, I will digress and go a bit back in time.  To before my Dad passed away.  About one year before, the summer of 1988.  I was 12 years old. That June, I was taken away from my parents and into Child Protective Custody.  My parents went under investigation and were deemed to be unfit.  I'm sure that doesn't come as a huge surprise after reading about the living conditions and their addictions, but, I still believe it could have been worse.  As a child, I was never physically abused or molested.  I was never unloved or directly mistreated.  To be honest, thinking back on my childhood, and into my adulthood -- before my Mom passed away -- I've always, always, always felt loved, adored, and cherished.  As important as all those things were, there were still some serious issues that needed to be dealt with at home.  

In 1988, I was in 6th Grade.  During this school year I somehow ended up seeing the school counselor on at least one occasion that I can remember.  I cannot remember if this was a mandatory thing that all students had to do, or if I was targeted for this counseling based on the signs of neglect at home. What were those signs? 

They included coming to school with dirty clothes, hair, and body every day, not having school supplies, cutting school on a regular basis since 2nd Grade, never having any homework, book reports, or projects done...hmm, yeah, I think that about covers it.   I think any one of those things warranted an investigation, so looking back now, it makes sense.  At the time, I was clueless.  They probably told me it was mandatory for everyone to make me feel better, who knows.  What ended up happening was I met with the counselor, Ms. Eraser.  I remember thinking what a funny name that was.  I remember her huge, frizzy, curly hair. I remember her desk, cluttered with papers.  I remember her calm, sweet voice trying to make me feel comfortable while asking me questions about life at home. 

"Did your Mom or Dad every hit you"?
WHAT! NO! How dare she ask that!
"Did your Dad ever hit your Mom"?
 Was this lady for real?
"Was there food in the refrigerator"?
(silence)
"Who does your homework with you after school"?
(silence)
"Who cooks dinner for you"?
(looking down)
"Who is home when you get home from school"
(a tear starts to run down my cheek)

I was shaking.  Why was she asking me these questions?  I felt ashamed.  How did she know? I was scared.  I will never tell this stranger anything! It's not her business.  I sit there, silent.  

Ms. Eraser senses my apprehension.  She comforts me.  She ensures me that nobody outside of this room will EVER know what I tell her.  It's a secret.  I can trust her.  I slowly start to believe her.  I was a broken egg with the egg whites slowly dripping out.  I can't hold it in any more.  I start answering her questions.  A weight is lifted off my chest, and it pours out of my eyes.  I've never talked to anyone about any of these things and it feels like I've just been set free.  She continues to ask question after question and continues to tell me that no one will ever know,  It's our secret.  She's here for me, and me alone.  It will never leave this room.

Well she lied.  It was a big lie.  Do I know and realize now why she lied? Sure.  My 12 year old self does not have the mental or emotional capacity to understand or see that she was trying to protect me when she called Child Protective Services.  For all I knew, that session was over and I was moving on with my life feeling a little bit lighter and more free.  I see her in the hall and I smile, knowing I have someone I can confide in.  

I am not sure how long after that session happened that it was when I was taken out of school, right in the middle of class and placed in an unmarked police car outside of school.  What is going on?!!?  Will someone please talk to me, instead of just looking at me with pity.  STOP looking at me like I'm a freak! Where are you taking me!? I want my Mommy! Why am I here!? Who are you?  Oh, you're a police officer? Who CARES! I want to go home! WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!!???

I put on an angry face the entire drive to the police station.  The officers asked me if I wanted ice cream.  The look on my face told them exactly where they could put that ice cream.  They take me to an upstairs room on top of the precinct.  The room is huge, but made to feel like a coffin with all the filing cabinets lined up in rows, almost up to the ceiling.  Papers and folders are everywhere.  I can't breathe.  I am numb.  I withdraw inside myself and start having out of body experiences.  When I think back to this place,  I see this room, me, the officers, the filing cabinets, the folders all from a above.  I'm mentally in the corner of the room because I just cannot comprehend what they are telling me. 

My parents are not fit. What does that even mean? I'm better off out of those conditions.  Oh, really? Am I? Thanks, but I don't remember asking for help.  Then, that's when it hits me.  Ms. Eraser.  My heart starts to break.  I thought she wanted to protect me! I thought what we talked about was a secret! How could she do this to me!?

I end up sitting in that room, denying food and water, denying comfort and sympathy for hours.  It had gotten dark.  The lights are blaring at me.  Florecent and awful.  Making me feel exposed.  I sit there for hours as they make phone call after phone call, talking about me like I'm not even there.  "Who will take her." "Have you tried the Aunt?" "If we don't hear back, it'll have to be a foster home until trial."  Finally, something is happening.  I am swooped up.  I go blank...I can't remember what's next, only that I end up at my Aunt, Grandma, and Grandpa's house.  

I'm given a bedroom upstairs.  I'm fed I'm sure, although I cannot remember if I ate.  I stay there for I think two days.  In those two days, I am completely in the dark.  No one is telling me anything.  The only time I am ever at my Grandparents'house is for holidays and this sure was not a holiday.  It felt weird.  It was wrong.  I was in this house that was "normal" and clean.  A house that all of a sudden takes on new meaning to me.  It feels different.  On holidays it feels right.  We go to Grandmas, have dinner, pretend to be regular kids and color, laugh and play til it's time to go home. We get leftovers from a turkey or ham dinner, which are immediately devoured like our lives depended on it.  On holidays we could play and pretend to be regular kids.  But, not today.  Today it feels like a prison.  I see a house that is well taken care of and think of my dirty, cockroach infested apartment.  I see a house with a stocked refrigerator and pantry and think of the refrigerator with dead cockroaches embedded into it's door frame, filled with nothing but maybe old cheese donated from the church, and if we are lucky, some ketchup packages.  I see function here where there is such tremendous dysfunction at home.  My Grandparents and their house will forever take on new meaning.  I no longer will get excited to go there for holidays, because, there are 360 days out of the year that we are sitting in filth.  

It will take me many years to learn about the relationship my Dad had with his parents and why we were only a few miles apart in distance, but lightyears apart in reality.  My Dad married my Mom without the consent of his parents.  They both got tangled up in drugs, but that's not how his parents saw it.  Could I blame them? My dad was a borderline genius.  He was going to be a scientist.  Then he met some girl from Brooklyn and all hell broke loose. Then Vietnam and my Mom got pregnant. From their point of view it all made sense.  I see that now, but as a kid I had no idea just how far that resentment went.  My mother never came to my Grandparents house for holidays.  We had to leave her behind and we did because she would love us all the way out the door.  We would bring her home food, but she wasn't exactly welcomed there.  I doubt she put up too much protest.  My Mom had her social issues.  I never got the feeling that she exactly wanted to be there.  It was just how the holidays went.  

Now here I am--at the holiday house, but this is not any holiday I ever planned.  I just wanted to go home.  My Aunt took me to see my parents at some point that weekend, but we weren't allowed to go into the house.  We had to meet at the park across the street.  Right out in the open.  Right out where everyone in the apartment complex could see.  I remember being absolutely humilated.  I knew people were talking by the way they looked at me.  I played it cool as any 12 year old would.  I pretended everything was normal.  Just hanging out on this bench.  Nothing to see here.  I got so wrapped up in what people were thinking that it's all I can remember!  I don't remember seeing my parents.  I do remember seeing my friend, the two closest friends I had: Marie and Lena.  I remember them asking me if I was ok.  When will I be back.  What's going on.  I remember driving away, off to spend another night at the holiday house.  I am sitting in my Aunt's car with my walkman on, blasting "It Takes Two to Make a Thing Go Right"....It takes two to make it outta sight.  I had it so loud that I knew she could hear the very inappropriate lyrics, and I just didn't care.  

That Monday we end up in Family Court.  Now, don't go thinking this is all fancy like Law & Order.  It's not.  It's the first time I remember being reunited with my parents.  Actually, it was just my Mom.  My Dad was... I don't know at the time, but, I find out later he was in rehab.  We sit in this big waiting room, filled with rows and rows of hard plastic chairs for hours.  My Mom is loving on me as I pull away.  Instead, I start looking at peoples' shoes. Taking note of the fashion of the grown ups, or the lack thereof, we are in Jamaica, Queens for Pete's sake.  Finally, we are called in to a room where a judge decided that our house is unfit for children and that I am to go to live in foster care unless there is any family that would like to step up.  My Grandparents and Aunt decide that they cannot take us for the summer.  I don't know the reason behind this, as I never asked. 

At the very last second, one of my Mom's sisters, Carol, stands up and says she will take us.  Quite honestly, I don't even know this woman.   I think I may have been at her house once? I'm not sure. My Mom was one of 14 siblings.  I have so many Aunts and Uncles and cousins on my Moms side and I barely know any of them at this point in my life. I have a quick snap shot memory of a few, but nothing lasting.  They've all gone their separate ways.  

Off I go to my Aunt's house on Long Island, an Aunt I barely know, but treats me like her own.  She takes care of me like I was hers.  She loves me just the way my own Mom does.  Shes funny, sarcastic, loving, and a hard ass.... just like my Mom.  I stayed there from June through September of 1988.  I went to the park, I got ice cream on Sundays--but only if I ate all my dinner.  I had DINNER every night.  I had clean clothes, I had a warm shower every night.  Suddenly, the dysfunction of my house is all the more clear.  This is a normal, happy, functional life.  Tuna fish sandwiches at the park.  Play dates with cousins I barely knew.  Swimming in my other Aunt's pool.  My mom had three sisters that all lived within a few miles of each other.  They did everythng together, and that summer I was along for the ride.  Sure, that summer is an overall piece of a bigger puzzle, but that summer will always be the best summer of my life.  I was able to be a kid.  I called my  boyfriend once a week, I got goosebumps talking to him while sitting at my Aunt's table.  I went to Bingo and had sleepovers at my cousins.  That summer will always be one of my fondest memories.  

Then.  It ended.  I came home one day.  A day the court decided, I guess.  I came home not knowing what to expect.  How to feel.  How to move forward.  I remember walking in, and the first thing I notice was the smell.  It's like musty, but clean at the same time.  Like Pine-Sol mixed with dirt.  I walk through the house in sheer shock. It's clean.  It's painted.  We have real mattresses, and not dirty, holey foam pads.  The beds are made.  There is food in the fridge.  What's more amazing? My parents are sober.  It's an odd feeling.  I don't even know how to interact with them when they're sober.  They are over the moon to see us.  Hugs and tears.  A tour of the "new" house.  Promises that they will never let us go again fill the air.  

Did any of that last? No, none of it.  Sobriety was fleeting.  Slowly, but surely the house got torn apart.  The food got eaten.  The walls got dirty.  And the beds were never made again.  

Chapter 3

I am going to be honest here and admit that this will probably be one of the most difficult to write of all 18 Chapters.  I have known what the subject would be since the end of Chapter 2 and have been sort of shrinking away from writing it.  Makes sense, when the subject matter itself had me locked up in a prison inside my mind for almost 20 years.  Let's start with a little story about me learning how to ride a bike....

It's September 1989 in Woodhaven, Queens, NY.  At the time, I am 13 years old, a bit OLD for just learning how to ride a bike, now that I think of it.  Across the street from the apartment complex where I grew up is my elementary school, PS 60.  It's a 3 story building, I believe.  There is a huge concrete slab....area....space? where we would be let out for recess after lunch
.

There was a playground on the property, but during school hours it was closed off to the kids.  There was a towering wire gate that separated the concrete play area from the playground, along which were 3 basketball hoops.  Big whoop for a little girl.  I remember there were benches under some trees in one corner that were shady where all the "cool kids" hung out at recess. A few feet away was always a chalked in hopscotch board that the "cool kids" would play. I was never one of them.  I was always trying to blend in somewhere and hide.  That rarely worked.  It was usually quite the opposite, I was  commonly found being singled out and picked on by groups of kids.  I distinctly remember a group of boys, some of them younger than me, who would be at the basketball courts, and would just WAIT for me to come into ear shot so they could take turns pointing out all the stains on my clothes.  Picking on me was so easy, I would just take it. Stand there and take it.  Never once do I remember ever standing up for myself, rather I would absorb every single mean word.  I never hated these kids, I never even disliked them, I simply just wanted to be left alone, to hide somewhere and never be looked at again.  I was so painfully shy, and I am not really sure why.  I could venture to guess that the situation I was in at home had something to do with it, but I am no therapist, so I have no clue why.  On weekends and evenings that huge concrete area was opened to the public.  It was commonly used as a cut through from 88th to 89th Avenue.  There would ALWAYS be numerous basketball games being played and lots of kids roller skating, riding bikes or just running around.  This is the place that I learned how to ride a bike.  I am quite certain it was not my bike, although I could be wrong.  I was in the park with a good friend of mine and maybe a few others.  This friend was someone who also lived in "the buildings", she was a year or so older than me and was someone I just adored.  I assume she decided on this day that it was high time her friend could ride a bike with her throughout the neighborhood.  I am going to guess the date, it was either the 29th or 30th of September,  I will never forget... I was riding a bike for the first time ever, feeling the cool wind in my hair, I turned around to look for my friend, who I thought was still holding on the to banana seat, she was not there.  I WAS RIDING A BIKE.  I could see her standing way back near the entrance to the playground with at least one other person, but I cannot remember who that person was.  I only remember riding back to my friend, on cloud nine, feeling elated and so proud of myself and the first words out of their mouths are "I am so sorry about your father, Robin" to which I reply "what? why"? ~~~ brief silence ~~ "he died, my mom just told me"  Every single time I think about this day I am filled with questions.  How can THIS be the way I find out my Daddy died? How do THEY know before me!? How dare they know this!?  Why am I at the park riding a bike when obviously someone knew this had happened?!  I didn't find out til later that my Mom was absolutely destroyed by this and she just did not know how to tell me.  She had been speaking to another Mom from the buildings, and somehow the word just spread like wild fire.  I suppose now would be a good time to rewind a bit and tell you about the events leading up to this.  This is one of the most painful stories I will ever tell.  I spent nearly 20 years after hearing those words "he died.." blaming myself for his death.  In my mind, all of the events leading up to that moment were directly caused by me.  . . .

It was a cool September night 1989, way past my bed time, but yet there I was in the courtyard of the apartment building playing.  I wish I could remember WHAT I was doing specifically, aside from avoiding my apartment at all costs.  I was probably playing house within the roots of that tremendous tree in the corner, maybe pretending to be a mama who was putting her babies to sleep, where I should have been.  I knew I had no business being out so late.  Whatever I was doing, I remember one thing clearly: I had to pee, and I had to pee BAD.  At the time my Mom was not home, I don't know where she was,  We had a woman staying with us, in my parents room, I cannot remember her name, but she had been staying there for a while.  My mom made a habit of taking in strays.  This was actually one of her most endearing qualities, her ability and desire to help any and everyone.  It didn't matter that she didn't have anything to offer, to her, the roof over her head counted for something, and she was always willing to help a friend in need.  All of the people she helped throughout the years were also drug addicts like her, so, that doesn't make for the safest environment for 3 little kids, but when they were there, they were like family.  We were all hungry together.  Luckily for us, nothing seriously bad ever happened, I like to think that my mom was a pretty good judge of character, even when high.  So, here I am, playing in the courtyard, late at night, and I have to pee.  I go to the buzzer, find E11 and ring our secret family buzz.  Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum....Dum...Dum.  Nothing, no answer.  I ring several more times, my bladder getting heavier by the minute.  No answer.  RIIIIIIIIIIING - RIIIIIIIINNNGGG - RIIIIIIIIING.  No answer.  OK, now this is serious, I am about to pee my pants. I run over to my parents bedroom window and start throwing rocks at it "Cmon, let me in!  I have to pee"!!  Nothing.  FINALLY, what feels like years later, my moms friend who was staying with us peeks out the window and sees me.  I am pretty sure at this point I was not exactly nice to her.  WHY hasn't she let me in? Is she DEAF? Can't ANYONE hear the damned bell ringing!??  I get the buzz in, I run inside the building and open my apartment door and what I see has me completely forgetting that I ever had to pee to begin with.  My Dad is laying at the end of the hallway, which is almost the entire length of the apartment, at the place where the doors to the kitchen, living room and my bedroom meet.  In that fairly small space is a dresser.  Why there is a dresser in this random place, who knows, but there it had been for as long as I can remember.  At the base of the dresser is where my Dad lay.  I walk in towards him and when I get close I see that his leg is broken.  No, it's not really broken, It's completely bent up and backwards, so that his knee is facing the wrong way and his foot is at his head.  There is no blood, No tear to the skin.  It was like he was made of bendable rubber, like those posable Easter Bunnies.  This is an image that will live in my brain til the day I die.  This is the precise moment when I heard that inner voice for the very first time "you did this.  If you hadn't been ringing the bell like a maniac, he wouldn't have fallen.  If YOU hadn't had to pee, none of this would've happened. If you, if you, if you...." This moment, and this night would haunt me for decades.  It still haunts me, even now, as a reasonable adult who has been through therapy to work through it, it still haunts me.

No matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what happened next.  The next thing I remember happening happened DAYS later,  For many, many years, until I was an adult, I would have sworn that my next memory happened immediately after me finding him, but I was wrong.  My Dad had survived that fall.  The last time I ever saw my dad was from across the courtyard, looking through the window of a neighbors apartment where my Mom dropped us off before an ambulance came to pick up my Dad.  I remember looking through the window and seeing him in a wheel chair being wheeled through the courtyard to an awaiting ambulance at the street.  That  was the last time I ever saw him.  This was days after the fall, he had been admitted to the hospital to be treated for the broken leg.  My Mom spend most of her time at the hospital, where he stayed for a couple days.  She would come back to the apartment for stuff and ask me to come back with her.  I always said no.  I can't remember why I didn't want to but I can guess it was because of the guilt I felt.  Why would he want to see ME, I'm the one who put him there.  It was one of these days that my Dad was at the hospital that I was learning how to ride a bike in the park at PS 60.

Again, I lose days.  All I remember after hearing this news is the pain and anguish my Mom was going through in every minute of the day and every detail of planning a wake and a funeral.  Of course, we couldn't afford any of this.  So, my Dad's parents took over the arrangements, leaving my Mom with the mundane task of what should she wear.  I remember this being a very big issue.  She was absolutely distraught over what she was going to wear.  The Mom of  my friend who taught me how to ride a bike ended up lending her a black one piece pants suit.  It's funny the things you remember in times of grief.  That jumpsuit with my mom so awkwardly in it is so clear to me, Being that my Grandparents took care of the arrangements, they also provide us with a limo.  I am pretty sure I was in some serious denial that day, I was completely numb to the fact that this limo was taking us to my dad's wake.  My best friend, Marie and I were so excited to be in a limo.  We were playing around, pretending to be celebrities, all while being driven to the funeral home.  I wish I could just shake my 13 year old self and say "get it together!! Don't you know where you are going?! Wake up! You're being disrespectful" But, I know that I was just coping the only way I knew how...hide from it and pretend it didn't happen.  The next thing I remember is walking into the funeral home, kinda giggly and awkward and walking into the room where my Dad was layed out.  The earth stopped moving.  Everything stopped. Nobody else existed in that second but the body of my Dad laying in a coffin at the front of the room.  Welcome to reality, Robin.

Another flash memory: Standing at the grave site on the day of the funeral with my Mom.  Her arms are around my shoulders and she is holding me close.  This is the first time I remember her talking about her father, she tells me she too was 13 when her "Daddy" died, that she knows what that feels like.  She's telling me that I will always be Daddy's little girl.  No matter what, no matter where he is, or where I am or how old I am, I will ALWAYS be Daddy's little girl. This is the first time I cried about losing my father.  Not only did I cry, I was hysterical, uncontrollable in my Mama's arms.

What I wouldn't give at this very moment, right now to have her loving arms around my shoulder the way she did that day.  I think somehow she knew that I was blaming myself, even though I never spoke a word of it to anyone.  I think that is why she was trying so hard to make me visit him in the hospital.

The days, weeks, months after that day took such a terrible toll on my Mom.  She was absolutely heart broken.  I would find her on the floor in rooms all over the house, in a ball, sobbing and crying out for her "Bobby" to come back.    For me personally, I don't even remember.  I can't remember how I felt, I think I retreated back into that safe hideout in my head.  Hide from it and it doesn't exist.

It wasn't until many, many years later that I began questioning how my dad died.  As a child, I guess a broken leg can seem like a reasonable reason, but as an adult, not so much.  As horrific as that break looked, how did that cause his death.  Well, by the time I started asking questions, it had been so many years and the story kind of got lost and fragmented.  What my Mom told me is that he was admitted for the break in his leg, and was administered a blood transfusion.  According to my Mom, there was another patient in the same hospital with almost the exact same name, but the first and middle name transposed, and that my Dad was given the wrong blood, causing a hemorrhage in his brain.  By the time I was given this information, it was almost a decade later, and I just didn't know how to process it.  I asked my Mom if she ever saw a lawyer, and she said she did, but the thought of my Mom working with a lawyer was almost laughable.  Besides, I just didn't know what to believe.  The autopsy, which my mom ordered copies of after, showed the hemorrhage, but made no mention of the blood mix up.  It did however show that he had pretty late stage lung cancer.  Is that any kind of condolence? No.   My Dad had been walking with a limp and a cane for a few days or weeks prior to him breaking his leg.  Maybe the cancer had some hand in that? Maybe it was the drugs abuse.  I will never know, nor does it really all matter now.

I've worked all the feelings of guilt that surrounded my Dad's death out in therapy a few years back.  I know that I was not to blame for his death.  I understand that.  Truly, I do.  Yet, I will always get a little ping in my heart, lungs and belly when I talk about it.  The remnants of a deep, dark, grotesque wound, now but a tiny scar.

My Dad was 40 when he died.  Actually, he was barely 40.  He turned 40 on September 15th, 1989 and died exactly two weeks after that on September 29th.  I originally planned on writing this in September 2014, less than 18 months before my 40th birthday. I cannot believe how strange that feels.  When I talk about my Dad I will always be 13 years old.

Chapter 2

It’s been over a month since I posted the first chapter of my 18 til 40. I started it in July, 18 months until I will turn 40.  I’ve had time to reflect, I’ve gotten feedback, I’ve been contacted by old friends and even strangers telling me how I’ve touched them.  I’ve read it over and over and cried big ugly tears in the process.  What I realize the most from the first installment is that I gave access to a part of my childhood that was raw and not very pretty.  And while all of it was real and true, it did not honor my parents for who they were AS PEOPLE.  My parents, like all of us, made some bad choices, choices that would lead them and us to that apartment in Queens.  But, it was not who they WERE as people.  Having said that, I would like to take some time to honor my parents and show them in a slightly different light.  Sure, they had their issues, who doesn’t? And while the choices they made may have led them to a dark time in all of our lives, it did not, by any means DEFINE them as people.  When I think of my parents, my mother in particular, I do not think of the addiction or our living conditions, I think of strength, i think of unconditional love.  I think of endless hope and acceptance, I think of adoration.

I was young when my father died, and sadly I do not know very much about him, his childhood or his life at all.  The one thing I DO know is that he was a Sergeant in VietNam and had to see some truly horrific things.  Things that would FOREVER change him.  He went into the army a boy and came out a mess.  I remember my mom telling me he had night terrors for years after the war.  I cannot even fathom the things that he lived through.  Who am I to judge his decisions or how he needed to cope with those terrors? I don’t know the details on the how’s when’s and why’s of his journey, I wish I did.  What I DO know is he had serious demons that he battled every single day of his life after the war.  It makes me so sad that I never got to know my dad as an adult. To be able to have a heart to heart and talk to him, to hug him, to help him.  Who knows if I ever could help him the way he needed to be helped, but it would be nice to try.  

My mom, well I know a lot more about her, her life, her challenges and insecurities, her giving heart.  Yet, it’s still never enough.  I want to know more.  I want to hug her and tell her just how SPECIAL she was! My mama was the absolute most loving, caring, thoughtful, giving and unselfish person you would ever meet.  She would give you the shirt off her back.  Just being in her presence made you feel better and you didn’t even know why or how.  She had a magical aura, she could calm you with just a look.  She made everyone feel special, needed and loved, just by being near her.  The one thing she didn’t possess was the ability to see all of these things in herself.  Which in a way made all those amazing qualities even more genuine, she didn’t have to TRY, she just WAS.  She truly was like a white, bright light to everyone.  Only she didn’t see it in herself, so that light would dim.  She had too much pain in her heart to allow her light to shine through fully.  She would get lost in her pain. Pain that I know only a little of, but just that little bit is too much to even bare to think of.  It truly saddens me to think of all of the potential she had, to help people, to encourage and lift people up, all wasted because of her heavy heart.  She just couldn’t bare it, so she escaped the only way she knew how.  She turned to drugs about the same time my dad did while he was in Vietnam.  When he came home they had both dabbled on their own and both had so many reasons to escape, so they did, together.  It was never their intention to hurt their babies.  It’s a disease.  I know that NOW, but it would take me many many MANY years to come to terms with these things.  It would take many trials and tribulations for me to get to the place I am now.  Obstacles that resembled mine fields, Lots of pain, blame and regret on my part.  I’ve said things I’m not proud of and done things I may regret forever, but, in the big picture, it all has it’s place.  I am where I was always meant to be.  And every single thing that has happened to my parents, and subsequently to me, has had it’s place.  It has all made me who I am today, and for THAT I will never regret a single thing.  

I think I would like to focus on my Dad this chapter.  Considering I didn’t get much time with him, I don’t have all that many memories.  I didn’t know him well, only things I’ve been told by Mom and family.  I know that he was brilliantly smart.  He was the youngest of 4, with three older sisters.  He grew up in Richmond Hill, Queens.  From what I know, he had a typical and normal childhood and had pretty much anything he could ever want and need.   I know he was a SGT in the ARMY and was in the war, like I mentioned.  The next bit I am going to copy from a facebook message correspondence with my Aunt Lonnie on how my mom and dad met...Gosh, I love this:

“Your mom and dad met through a guy your mom was seeing. the guy was friends with your dad and they fell in love instantly. They went steady for almost a year then decided to get married but your mom was only 17 and my mom and dad said no way,so they decided to elope. So your mom,dad me and brother Tom hopped into your dads car and drove to Maryland where you didn't need consent at 17. We ended up in Brooklyn MD. We all stayed at a motel that night and they got the license the next day and got married at city hall. I was the maid of honor and Tom was best man. Then we all went to an amusement park there and celebrated by going on all the rides lol...When we got back home all the parents were furious. They didn't care. they were happy and in love. They moved into a 1 room basement apt. and the rest is history. Oh and they got married on your moms birthday. It was so sweet, so much in love.”

Every time I read this it is a reminder to me that my parents were just people.  Does it change the facts? No, but it definitely puts it all into perspective.  

I  guess now would be a good time to reflect on some things.  My memories of and with my Dad are quick flashes and from the point of view of a little girl.  Some are sweet, some make me sad.  

I remember my Dad would call me Jelly Bean and he’d always say “ya know what I mean, Jelly Bean” I somehow know this, even tho I only have one actual memory of it.  He would also always bring me a “surprise” back every time he went out.  It took me a long time to realize that he had to steal those surprises from the local 5 and dime because he didn’t have money.  I remember once we didn’t have any money, and didn’t have food for dinner.  So, my dad, being desperate, went through the apartment building alley to Lewis’ of Woodhaven (the 5 and dime) with me in tow.  He wore an oversized flannel overshirt and I distinctly remember him sliding a huge bag of candy in that shirt.  That would be our dinner that night….trust me, I wasn’t complaining!

Another memory I have of/with my Dad was when I was maybe 6 or 7, he borrowed his sister’s car and lawn chairs and drove me and my brother to Forest Park.  Forest Park was a local park, but not your run of the mill park.  It truly was a FOREST and took up a huge chunk of Queens.  It was beautiful! Anyway, he drove up to the park, where Ronald McDonald was.  For the life of me, I can’t remember what Ronald McDonald was doing there, but there he was.  There was a huge group of people and Ronald was standing on top of a van.  This van looked tremendous to me. He looked into the audience of children and chose me to come up there with him.  I was terrified.  But, what I remember most about this event is my Dad’s voice saying
“come on Jelly Bean, you can do this” I still tear up to this day when I remember this.  I didn’t go up on that van, I was too scared.  But what stays with me as an adult is the feeling of disappointing my Daddy.  Silly, I know.  As a parent, I know that he was never disappointed in me.  He just wanted me to overcome my fear.  That would be categorized as one of my “sweet” memories.  

Another would be the time my brother took me to Six Flags Great Adventure to see New Kid’s on the Block.  This must have been very close to the time my Dad passed away, the same summer.  We were gone for about 18 hours.  When we got home, my dad came running into the hallway of our apartment building to greet us, in  his little jean shorts and nothing else.  He was a tall, lenky guy.  He was SOOO excited to see us, but what was even more exciting? “Mommy made STEW”! I will NEVER forget the feeling! WHAT? Stew!? We didn’t always have real meals, so they are all pretty memorable.  I just remember his excitement at seeing us so much!

The last one for today.  It was my birthday.  Remember back in the “olden” days when you could make cupcakes and bring them in to share with your class? Man, I used to LOVE when it was someone’s birthday at school! I cannot remember what birthday this was, I’m going to guess around 6 or 7.  I was so excited to bring treats in to school.  Somehow my parent mustered up some money for a pack of Oreos.  I remember guarding that pack of Oreos with my life the night before.  I was so excited. Well, the next morning I find the pack has been opened and that almost half the cookies have been eaten.  I was devastated! I refused to bring an opened box of Oreos to school. so I went without them.  I remember the teacher looking at me for the treats and me having to say I forgot them.  A little while later, I am sitting at my desk and look up, through the little window in the classroom door I see my dads face smiling at me.  You’d think this would make a little girl happy, right? Well, not me.  I was mortified.  My Dad was high.  Bless his heart, he thought I had genuinely forgotten my Oreos, so he brought them into school for me.  I wanted to cry.  I wanted to hide under my desk and stay there until everyone stopped looking at him and at me.  I could feel the other kid’s judging eyes on me.  I didn’t thank him, I don’t think I even smiled at him.  I wanted to run away and never come back.  After he left, the kids were making remarks “THAT was your DAD” “Eww” I am not sure which feeling resonates with me more right now, the feeling of embarrassment as a child, or the feeling of regret as an adult.  He had meant well.  By this time in my childhood I was already deemed the poor, dirty girl and his presence paired with the other kids stares and comments just caused my world to come to an end.  

After this incident I started cutting out of school.  I believe I was in 2nd Grade. I could not handle the looks and teasing.  I never had my homework done, and I was constantly being put on the spot and called on and I just could not handle it any more.  I didn’t do it every day.  Maybe on the days there was a book report due that I never started. Maybe on the days that my clothes were too visibly stained to hide.  Who knows what put me over the edge. But, that feeling of not being able to handle going into school would follow me forever.  It would overflow into the days of my first jobs.  I would have panic attacks every morning at the thought of going to work.  It took lots of therapy for me to finally realize that I had PTSD.  

This leads me into the last memory that I will share, but I want to save it for it’s own entry.  It is something that changed my life and deserves to be on it’s own.  Plus, it will be long and somewhat difficult to write about, so I need some time to gather my thoughts.  See you next month!

Please feel free to share this post with anyone you think it may help.  Do not hesitate to contact me or to refer anyone you know to me if you think me or my story could help them in the slightest way.  That is the purpose of this blog.  To tell my story and to help people along the way.  

Chapter 1

I'm going to be honest.  I am not a writer and have no idea how to break up my life into 18 chapters.  Maybe I will go over, maybe I will run out of things to say.  I will venture to guess that it will NOT be the latter.  I have so many memories.  Some good, some bad, some worse.   All of them have made me who I am today.

TODAY

Today, that's an interesting thing to think about.  Not in the literal sense, but in the grand scheme of things.  Where I am TODAY is nothing short of a miracle.  My beginnings are so far removed from my present, that I have a truly hard time reconciling the two.  Where did one end and the new one begin.  I could answer that in so many ways, depending on the life event I conjur up.  Before my Mom died and after has always felt like a drastic "new beginning".  Another "new beginning", when Dominick was born and I became a Mommy.  Again, when Eddie is born and I became a "special needs" Mommy and Down syndrome advocate.  But, all those things still seem somewhat "normal".  A far cry from my childhood in Woodhaven, Queens.  Sometimes when I have a memories of those times it feels like it happened to someone else.  I can't even believe that I had been through all the things I have been through.  Like it's some kind of movie that I kind of, sort of remember....but, wait, how did that movie begin? I can't remember! How did it end? Man, I really need to watch that movie again!  Hopefully writing it down will help me to fill in the gaps, uncover some truths and finally piece together this great big puzzle: HOW DID I GET HERE?! How did I ever get so incredibly lucky to get HERE!? In a 3,000 square foot house, in AZ, with an amazing husband and kids. Granite countertops, hardwood floors, a pool in the backyard, a master bathroom with a closet the size of my first apartment.  Separate bedrooms for my boys.  All things that seem so absurdly normal to me now.

Almost anyone reading this will most likely know all that good stuff, the stuff of TODAY.  But it's the prequel that I am looking to unearth.  So, I thank you in advance for listening to the ramblings of a crazy woman.  I will try to somehow make sense of this, and put it in a timeline that is cohesive.  I can't make any promises tho.  Like I warned you, I am not a writer.  

The Beginning

Let's set the stage.  The first place I have any memory of living is in Woodhaven, Queens.  a 6 story, 6 building apartment complex.  It had two archway entrances, one led to a small street and across that street was my elementary school.   There was a huge courtyard in the middle, and the other archway led to an alley leading to Jamaica Avenue.  I have so many memories of that courtyard.  It was a safe place for all the children in the complex to play.  There were trees throughout, a cement maze like walkway and a huge (non working) fountain in the middle.  There was a tremendous tree in one corner that had roots coming up through the dirt.  I remember playing house with my friends next to that tree every day.  Each divided section that the roots created was a "room".  We would even sweep the dirt in each room.  I wonder where I got such pride, considering the conditions of our apartment.  There were so many families in the apartment complex, and never a shortage of playmates.  The families in the apartments were all middle class families, with working parents.  I am sure some of them struggled.  But I am also pretty sure none of them struggled as much as we did.  The truth is, we didn't belong there, not really.  My Mom never worked for as long as I can remember.  I know she had a few jobs before I was born, but none that I have memory of.  My dad didn't have a job, aside from driving a cab occasionally.  Even when he did, he and my mom would take the money he collected from his passengers and use it for drugs before he was due to hand it in to the dispatcher.  I can remember my dad scrambling and freaking out every evening, knowing he had to answer to his boss, but had no money to turn in.  I know that he would go to my grandparents house and beg for money to turn into his boss or risk getting fired.  It is so strange to me now, reliving these moments as a mother and having this all new perspective.  I cannot imagine the position that put my grandparents in.  By this point, they and my Aunt, my dad's sister, were already paying our rent EVERY month, just so we wouldn't be homeless.  And here are my parents taking such blatant advantage of that, and on top of it groveling for money daily, weekly, monthly, yearly.  ALWAYS.  I remember him taking me with him to pick up customers.  He would coach me on what to say and tell me to make sure I smiled because that would mean a bigger tip.  I will never forget that. He would tell me I was irresistably cute and noone could say no to my sweet face.  What little girl wouldn't want to hear that? The fact that he was using me to make more money to buy more drugs, well that's pretty unforgetable too.  The cab driver gig didn't last, he would hop from one company to another until they caught on to him and the jig would be up.  My mom, well, who knows what she did all day.  I've been told that in the "early days" of thier marriage and the beginning of thier addictions, that she was a super neat freak.  Cleaning up after you, taking cups out of your hand before you were done, just to clean them.  That seems so foreign to me.  As far back as I can remember there wasn't even a working sink to wash that cup IN! Or, if it were working, it were clogged, filled with dirty dishes, water and cigarette butts.  On a bad day, my mom would be passed out in it.  I remember coming home from school to find my mom passed out either in the sink or on the floor.  It would seem that she had the intentions of cleaning, but nodded off before she got started.  That's not how everyone lived in our apartment complex tho, which only made us stick out that much more.  When I would go to friends apartments I would always feel the sense of comfort, cleanliness and family.  Our apartment, well, it had it's moments.  There were days when it got straighten up, but, those were few and far between.  The everyday living consisted of a kitchen with an unworking stove because we never paid the gas bill.  A usually non working sink.  A refrigerator that was home to a few ketchup packets and, on a good day, a block of cheese from the church.  The rubber sides on the doorframe of the refrigerator were imbedded with dead cockroaches and cockroach eggs.  Appetizing, huh? The cabinets in the kitchen were OFF LIMITS.  There were entire colonies of cockroaches living in them.  We went YEARS AND YEARS without opening our kitchen cabinets.  I remember opening one once, I don't remember how old I was, or what made me do it,....but, I will never forget it.  I think you can use your imagination.  The entire apartment was infested with cockroaches.  If you moved anything, at least 10 cockroaches would scutter from under it.  If you left a cup sitting out for 2 minutes, there would be 5 cockroaches drowning in it.  To this day, I still look in my glass before taking a drink, out of fear of a swimmer.  You get the picture, they were everywhere....IN the TV, under every piece of furniture, under the beds.  My bedroom consisted of an entire floor full of dirty clothes.  Completely covered.  I don't remember doing laundry EVER until I got my first job at age 16, where I would use my pay to go to the laundromat.  When I was a little girl I would have to scamper through those clothes to find something to wear to school.  They were all dirty, smelly and stained. When I would lift something up to examine how dirty it was, 5 bugs would crawl out.  I would stand in the middle of the room as a little girl, completely paralyzed and overwhelmed, and that feeling would stick with me long into adult hood.  I would wake up for work when I had my own apartment, as an adult, and have full on panic attacks about "what to wear".  Even now, writing about it my heart starts beating faster and I start to feel the panic set in.  It wasn't about the clothes so much, but about the overall living conditions, the feeling of being buried alive.  It would take me years to finally "get over" those feelings.   To this day, I still get those panic attacks.  I guess in a lot of ways, I will always be that little girl, standing alone in the middle of a cockroach infested room full of dirty clothes wondering what I will wear and what I will eat that day.

That seems like a good place to pause.  It's 2 am and I am sure I will be having some interesting dreams tonight.   Thank you for sticking around. And remember:

There's nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be