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CHAPTER 1

The Early Years

My tiny heart pounded in my chest. I awoke from a deep sleep, startled and disoriented, to the sound of angry adult voices. I sneaked out of my bed just in time to see my father and a woman I didn’t know stumble and fall just inside our front doorway; they were both drunk. My father had brought her home to spend the night with him. My mom was crying and screaming, hysterically demanding the other woman leave at once. As a four-year-old child, I couldn’t grasp the significance or the gravity of the offense. It was the intensity of the turbulent exchange that frightened me so badly. As I watched quietly from the safety of my hiding place, I saw my father become physically ill. Scared and confused, I quietly retreated to my bed, tucked myself in, and softly cried myself to sleep.

Much of my childhood was filled with similar episodes of violence, physical and sexual abuse, and feelings of never feeling safe, accepted, or loved. Both of my parents were alcoholics. My father abandoned our family shortly after the episode with the other woman, leaving my mom alone, with no income, to raise four children under the age of six. We had no money and no place to live. We were hungry and homeless.

Siblings. From left to right, me, Kim, David (sitting in Kim's lap) and Debbie.

For two or three years, we lived with different people, in different places, even on porches. My mom still shares how she was constantly fearful that my little brother would wander away from where we slept during the night. I was too young at the time to fully realize the torment she suffered as a young mom, so alone. My mom cried all the time. It hurt my insides so much to watch her cry constantly. Somehow, even as a child, I understood that she knew it was her job to care for us, but for some reason, she couldn’t. I wanted to help her, to make her less sad, but I didn’t know what to do. I believed I was the problem, the reason for all her crying and sadness.

Me, when I was about 5 years old

When I was six or seven years old, we moved in with a friend of my mom’s and her children, doubling the size of our family, now being raised by two moms. My mom’s friend also had a problem with alcohol. She was very abusive and a harsh disciplinarian. She believed that children should be “seen and not heard” and that child-rearing is most effective when executed with force and humiliation. Her approach to parenting was cruel and unhealthy, clearly evident in the way she treated me and the other children. Severe punishment for normal childhood behavior was constant, rash, and degrading. It was often executed with all the children together (boys and girls) and often involved the shameful act of removing pieces of our clothing. And even though my mom was usually there, too, she was quiet, seemingly powerless, full of emotion but unresponsive. That really confused me. I understood mothers were supposed to protect their children. Even animal mothers protected their babies, yet my mom did nothing to protect me.

Our two families lived together as one for eight very long and destructive years. Even as a blended family, having a place to live and enough to eat continued to be a real, ongoing challenge. During those eight years, we moved at least seven times, and I attended seven schools. I struggled horribly with the anxiety that goes along with always being the “new girl.” I was painfully shy and awkward, quiet and withdrawn. Even as I got older, into my junior high school years, it wasn’t unusual for me to cry during the entire school day. Of course, this became more difficult and shameful as I got older. Throughout these years, I constantly battled feelings of overwhelming fear, panic, and anxiety.

In addition to the constant social struggles, academics were also challenging. I had trouble learning and remembering the material I was taught. Concentrating was incredibly difficult, especially if it had anything to do with math or reading, and of course that was back in the days of remedial reading and math groups. I was in both. The other kids teased me a lot for being stupid.

And I believed I was stupid. Many times, I didn’t even try to do the assigned work. Instead, I claimed the work of the “really smart girl” who sat behind me to be my own. It was easy enough to do. As the completed work was passed forward, I tore off her name, messed up the paper sufficiently (so that it would clearly look like mine), and passed it forward as my own. Looking back, I don’t remember ever being asked about it, although it seems to me now the teacher must have known what I was doing. It makes my heart sick, even now, to remember being such a sad little girl and believing I was so stupid—so worthless. Even today, I weep for that little girl.

As a child, I was so starved for affection that I would do things like pull out my eyelashes and put them in my eyes just so I could ask the teacher to help me take them out. Or I would pretend I couldn’t tie my shoe, just so the teacher would help me. Once I even scraped my own arm until it bled because I knew the teacher would comfort me. I desperately wanted to be appropriately touched, nurtured, accepted, and loved. I wanted someone to look into my eyes, be kind to me, and care. I needed to know I mattered, because I was certain I didn’t matter. And I was told as much on a regular basis by the adults in my life, through the things I was told or the inappropriate things done against me.