In the Beginning

I was told I should write of the things I've been through in my life.  I'd love to if I knew it would benefit someone.  I don't know where to start, either, but I guess the beginning would be the best place.

When we look at the past, we tend to romanticize our memories.  We block out the bad bits and focus on the fairy tale we created to disguise the bad.  Can I be honest?  Will telling the story help me to let go of the past?  Will telling the story help anyone else let go of their own bad bits?

I came into the world in the usual way (a tip of the hat to the song with a similar line), to a family consisting of an 18-year-old mom, a 21-year-old dad, and a 1-year-old brother.  (My parents were so young!)  I'm pretty sure I was loved...I don't have memories that far back, of course.  I can only go by the few pictures I have.  I looked quite content, really.

My earliest memories were when I was about three or four.  By that time, my little brother, Perry, had joined our family and Mom was expecting her fourth baby.  She had a lot of help from her mother, who lived next door.  This was a good thing for Mom because, as the story goes, my dad was a good friend of the bottle and was often gone.

I idolized my dad, even back then.  The situation Mom found herself in was foreign to me, as it should have been.  Children should never carry the burdens of the parents.  I didn't know anything other than the things that affected me personally.  "Ignorance is bliss", as they say, and that's where I was.  I was still innocent and pure.  If I could return to any time of my life in order to walk a different path, this would be the time.

About 2 months after my little sister was born, we packed our meager belongings and headed west to Oregon.  It was one of several reasons:  1)  Grandma had a pen-pal romance with someone out there and we were going with her to meet this guy; 2)Grandma's asthma would be better; and 3)  Dad had a lead on a really good job.  Well, as these things often go, things didn't work out with Grandma's gentleman friend, her asthma got worse, and the job fell through.

We did find temporary shelter in a hot, smelly, canvas tent in a national park near a raging river.  We were there for two weeks while Dad searched for work and a house.  I can't imagine this being much fun for Mom and Grandma, be we kids thought it was quite the adventure!  In fact, Perry and I thought we'd have our own adventure and followed a squirrel into the woods.  Naturally, we got lost and had half the campers looking for us.  Of course, we found our way back eventually and all was well with the world. 

This was when I began disappearing.  Every time the story was told, I was eliminated; it was Perry who got lost and it was Perry everyone was looking for.  Not one mention of me at all.  It made me feel invisible and not important to this family at all.  I have always struggled with being noticed and this just exacerbated that feeling.  First my parents and now my children (a different story for a different day).

I also lost my innocence in that place.  The specifics aren't clear, but I remember a man who lived next door to us playing "secret games" with me in the car.  I also remember a big argument between the adults when they found him "taking a nap" next to me.  I began turning inward and became very shy.

I also began wetting the bed, which didn't go over very well.  I was forced to wear my wet clothes until I became blistered and sore.  Grandma and Mom put me in the bathtub and hosed me down like an animal.  Nothing worked.  Shame and humiliation did its job of pushing me down.  Mom even brought me to a doctor, who told her I was wetting the bed to get back at her.

I really did try to stop on my own.  I would get up before anyone else so i could wash everything...my grandma caught me and then there was more humiliation and shame.  Tony, my older brother, started calling me "Pissy Sissy" and told his friends to call me that, too.  No one corrected him.  I retreated even further into myself because I felt that was no one to defend me or care for me.

We moved back to Minnesota via train and lived with my aunt and uncle until Mom could find a place of our own.  Mom was expecting again, so doing all that on her own must have been difficult.  I started kindergarten.

I didn't mind living with my aunt and uncle, but I didn't have my Dad.  He stayed behind in Oregon to recover from surgery.  I missed him terribly, sleeping with a baton he bought for me to keep him close.

The humiliation and shame became my constant companions as I continued to wet my bed at night.  I was now gifted with my own pair of plastic pants and had to bring them out for company to see.  I was called a baby and Pissy Sissy stuck.

Looking back at all this, I wanted to have what everyone else had.  I wanted a "normal" childhood.  I certainly didn't want as alcoholic father, an absent mother, a grandma who didn't love me, and a brother who beat me up and sexually abused me just for fun.  I learned how to be a victim because I was a victim.  I used to have a recurring dream of being on a table under a very bright light bulb while someone shoved sharp objects inside me.  It was very indicative of what was happening to me at the time.  My childhood was very chaotic.

There were good times and I lived for those times.  For instance, on Saturday night we would get our allowance.  Instead of just handing it out, Dad created a board game similar to "Wheel of Fortune" with different money values on the tabs.  We would each have our turn at spinning the wheel and whatever we land on was our allowance.  Some weeks we came away with a lot and other weeks we got less.  It was more about the game than the money.  I wish I still had that board.

What I loved most about that game was the time we spent together.  The little bits of togetherness made up for some of the loneliness I felt as a kid.  That, and the fact that I could spend some time with my daddy.  It seemed as though we had to take what we could when he was available or not drinking.  Not drinking was the key.

I loved reading...so much so that Mom would tell me to "get my nose out of that book and go outside and play".  One day, Dad brought home a treasure trove of books that the public library was getting rid of.  It was better that Christmas because it was all for me.  Nobody else cared for books as much as I did and I spent many hours reading and re-reading those books.