A little background…(part I)

For far too long I gave residence to a mean and hard heart. I had no self-confidence and definitely no self -respect.  I think the worst of it is the ripple effect.  The opportunities I didn’t take. Poor choices made.  The parenting I missed.  Obviously I can’t go back; however, I can learn, change, and share.  Why share?  My goal is that I could offer encouragement and hope by sharing my story and the redemption.  The good work is not mine.  No, it’s God.  I wasn’t raised to know or love Him.  It wasn’t until nearly 30 that I said “yes, Jesus!” but even then it was another 13 years before I began to walk with Him. 

I was born in New York to my parents, Joe and Cathy.  I tease and describe them as Princess Di and Andrew Dice Clay.  I joke but there are some similarities. 

Dad was raised by parents who were opposites themselves.  My grandfather, Thomas, was a good-natured and bright-eyed Irishmen, who came to NY by way of Ellis Island.  His wife, Lena, also came through Ellis Island as she emigrated from Malta to the United States. Pregnant with twins, my nana would only bring my dad into this world.  Lena was incredibly controlling and fearful.  Thomas, was much more permissive and let Joe do whatever he wanted.  Dad ran the streets of New York.  Rumors of “connections” began with my great-grandfather and continued to my dad.  Dad’s passions were baseball and music.  Growing up, he and his group were frequently found harmonizing on the street corners.   

Preparing for dad’s funeral in January of 2017, I was combing through photos.  It was regularly said that he and I were very much alike; often the explanation for why our relationship was so volatile.  The first two photos below, I am struck by our body language. Both of us 24 years-old in our respective photos. I mentioned my dad’s passions as being music and baseball.  Add family to that list.  Unfortunately he just had a lot of demons, literally.  My brother Tom was born mid-1967. 

Three years into their marriage, my parents moved from NY to CA, following my mom’s family in their relocation. My dad is in a “foreign” land, away from friends and family. I believe this to be the beginning of the end of their marriage.

Dad never lost the “street” and being the first born, I was raised to be street tough…and mean. I still remember our walks to the park or liquor store. Anytime he’d approach someone walking towards him, his posture and facial expression changed, attempting to intimidate. Be afraid of no one and nothing.  Another thing my dad shared with me was his involvement in the occult.  My earliest memories are of practicing mind reading. Things soon graduated to pure evil residing in our home.  Make no mistake, evil is real and if you invite it into your life and your home, it takes up residence. 

Dad worked.  Mom stayed home.  Dad was what I called a functioning alcoholic. Afternoons / evenings, and weekends. Coming home from school my brother and I just never knew which dad we’d see, mean or happy.  I lived 15 ½ years learning how to duck when dad’s drinking crossed from happy to mean.  Language you can’t even imagine was spoken over you. That put a stop to having friends over.  Being able to compartmentalize things, weekends he did coach my t-ball and basketball teams and he coached my brother, who was an amazing baseball player.  Dad also played baseball on the weekends.  Good athlete. His teams were primarily the “bar league” – and I became very comfortable spending Sundays in the bars after his games. 

By the age of 15 I was involved with drugs, smoking, and chasing love and acceptance in intimate relationships.  I was a mess. My escape was in music, reading, and spending my weekends hockey skating. School wasn’t important.  I was placed in the mentally gifted program but I soon saw that the cool kids weren’t in those classes…so I intentionally flunked so I could get back to my comfort zone.

In February, seven months before my 16^th birthday, my mom finally decided to leave my dad. I went with her and Tom stayed behind.  Dad told Tom that if he left, he’d kill himself.

Mom and I moved into an apartment. A few months later mom met my soon to be step-dad. Very soon after, I had the apartment to myself on weekends.  I just dove deeper into my lifestyle.  By the end of the year mom decided to move in with her boyfriend and I went back to my dad’s.  I was a junior in high school, enrolled but not always attending.  I was working and bought a car – the beach called. I stopped going to school. Decided to test out of high school.  Dad agreed, I tested, and earned my high school diploma.  I landed a full time job and got serious with an older, popular guy. He and I moved in together. I was 17 and he was 21. I lied to my folks – told them I was living with a girlfriend. That same year, in Dec, I had reason to call my mom. One of my “to be” step-brothers answered.  Asking where mom was they replied “don’t you know? She and pops went to Vegas to get married.” The next year when I turned 18, the boyfriend and I decided to get married.  Off to Vegas we flew – in Dec. – telling only his mom and grandparents.  Came back and a few weeks later felt a little punk – yep, I’m 9 weeks pregnant.

At this point I had been heavily using drugs, partying with my husband and his friends.  I quit cold turkey.  He didn’t.  Then he declares he’s not the father and threatens to kill me and the baby if it doesn’t look like him – blond and blue eyed.  My nana is part black…I knew it was possible that my child could have dark skin.    In the meantime, my husband continues his physical and verbal abuse, all of which I have accepted as normal.  Even having his girlfriend over to our place and taking off for weekends. 

18 years-old and I am a mother. What a precious, beautiful little girl. I have absolutely no regrets in bringing this wonderful woman into the world. She saved my life. I was clean and had a reason to live. I’ll never forget her first night at home. The doctor had told me that she should eat about every four hours. I actually set an alarm and woke her up to eat. Like I said – 18 and was doing this on my own. Money was scarce and there were times I had to choose who ate; me or her.  You know it was her.

Four years of my husband’s abuse and unfaithfulness, I finally had enough. Told him to leave. Three months later I was privileged to land a new job at a graphics house in Los Angeles. I swallowed my pride and Tara and I moved in with my mom and step-dad. New job, safe home, and an escape from my past.