One reason I’m sharing my memoir is because I have realized as a health coach, often, when we are struggling, like when trying to be healthier, our childhood may be holding us back. Until we address our past, our present and future may be affected.

Another reason is, when I shared it with friends, many said, “I feel the same. Can we talk?”

And maybe the most important reason; Right now, somewhere, an adult is harming a child. I pray it stops.

If what you read affects you, please reach out to me via email or phone, or leave a comment. My hope is to connect authentically with you, so we can support each other.

Caution, Dear Reader - Some of the content is graphic, and I have been told, disturbing at times. My goal is not to upset, but to share honestly. Only reflection and honesty have helped me glimpse what has eluded me for 50 years-happiness. Please read at your discretion. 

*Most names have been changed.

Click here to read my memoir from the beginning.

Click here to read installment 4.

Note:

This excerpt is about how parents and guardians transfer their beliefs onto their children. Sometimes, those beliefs are misguided. And sometimes, seemingly by miracle, those children survive, and become decent people, regardless of what they were taught. However, for some, the harm, which can manifest as self doubt and hate, stays. Often it can’t be seen because it hides in plain site. It’s called perfectionism.

Installment 5

…I tell Bella more. My father is a difficult person for my brother, sister and me to understand. He’s the guy at the party drinking, smoking, swearing, laughing, and when we walk by, hugging us fiercely. He’s also the guy that lifts Billy Harala, the neighborhood bully, over his head and throws him into a dumpster, slams the lid, and screams, “If you try to come out before I leave, I’ll kill you!” Then, before our eyes, transforms, and calmly says with a wink to my brother and me, “He won’t bother you again.” Amazed by our father’s strength, we stand stiff, smiling awkwardly to each other. I feel protected. Billy Harala never bothers us again. 

He’s also the first person to teach me love, “You have to love God,” and hate, “Fuck you, God,” holding his middle finger up toward heaven. Unfortunately, the hate dominates. It’s too bad, I think, because his love was so intense, I can still feel its warmth. 

And he’s funny, like when he has the nerve to make fun of Angelo, his Greek friend, about his accent. He playfully tells us, “Ask Angelo to say “window” and “girlfriend.” Angelo says, “Open the lindow,” and “My goyfriend.” My father slaps his leg and howls. We laugh too, because of how Angelo speaks, but also because my father is happy for the moment, thinking he speaks better English. He doesn’t. He pronounces Hong Kong, “onk konk.” It cracks us up.

When Angelo pulls up one day my father says, “Watch how the dog goes crazy for Angelo.” As he steps from his truck, my father releases our Siberian Husky he has named Poutches, an affectionate word for penis. The dog seems to lose his mind, jumping on and licking Angelo all over. Angelo walks over and says satisfied, “This dog really loves me.” When he walks away my father smiles, “Do you know why the dog loves him? “Why?” we ask. “Because Angelo is a butcher, and he smells like a giant hamburger. It drives the dog crazy. Angelo thinks it’s because he loves him,” he tells us smiling. I feel special, he’s talking directly to us. 

As kids, my father is always teaching us, though I won’t understand the impact of his lessons until I’m older, especially when I have my own children. Since before I am old enough to have an erection, he educates my brother and me about women. It’s usually while driving us home Sundays from his house, swerving in the snow. He starts the lesson, slurring, “All women are whores, including your mother and sister,” turning his head toward my brother sitting next to him in the passenger seat, then back over his right shoulder, then searching in the mirror for my eyes. My little sister’s sitting next to me in the back seat, looking up at me, eyes wide, like when someone’s being pushed off a cliff in a movie. When he’s not looking, I shake my head at her. I don’t know what a whore is, but I sense my mother and sister are not one. He continues the lesson, “Fuck any girl you want, because they’re only good for one thing.” 

My brother’s older, so my father tries to help him understand why he is compelled to do what he does, “I have to beat you and your brother and sister because I have to teach you a lesson.” He makes us recite in Greek, “What does daddy do? Daddy loves me and beats me. That’s what daddy does.”

Because she asks, I tell Bella more. Then, I’m not sure if I should have because it upsets her. I think, Did I make the right decision telling her? I can’t tell because I suffer from self doubt and have difficulty making decisions, a result of being forced to question my reality as a child; “I wasn’t really going to kill your mother when I said, I’m going to kill you. That’s just an expression,” my father told us, putting the knife down on the table. 

I hesitantly tell Bella, “Unfortunately, Yaya (Greek for grandmother) told me, “Your father beat me when I was pregnant with your brother because I wanted to go to a parade.” Bella stops me, “Wait. He hit Yaya? Poor, quiet little Yaya. She’s so innocent. She just sits at the end of the table when we’re together, listens, and smiles. She wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she says. “I didn’t know what a horrible life she had. She’s pretty amazing. I couldn’t have lived through all that.” 

When I’m young, my Greek mother’s pretty with brown wavy hair, similar to Sophia Loren’s, with a black mole above her lip like you see on a 40’s movie star. Even though she wears skirts and modest buttoned blouses, it’s obvious her figure is feminine and curvy. One summer at the beach when I’m six, she gets knocked down by a wave and when she stands, one breast has slipped out from her black one piece bathing suit. I turn away quickly, ashamed for having seen it, but amazed by its size, shape, and texture. I imagine my father is probably attracted to her body before finding out how pious she is, making him angry when he can’t corrupt her. 

The Greek Orthodox Church is the authority in her world. She sets up a mini shrine in one corner of our house where she burns incense and prays for us on her knees. She says, “Christ be with you,” and “Your eyes 14,” in Greek, every time we leave the house, hoping God will protect us, and our eyes save us from anything he misses. Doing the sign of the cross as we walk away adds another layer of safety. My friend says, “Your mother’s prayers saved the three of you.” 

I confess to Bella, “I forget how brave and determined she was to protect us from my father. He wanted to pull Uncle Chris out of junior high and take him to work painting houses with him. She said, Over my dead body. He’s going to school. All of my children will go to school and get an education. They won’t be stuck, like me. Bella asks, “How did she raise three kids on her own in a foreign country, not speaking English, working in a factory on a sewing machine?” I shrug. 

I feel ashamed after telling Bella about my mother. I often dismiss her for appearing simple, and sometimes, pathetic. The three of us, my brother, sister, and I joke sometimes, “Are we sure she’s our mother?” She’s tiny, under five feet, uneducated, and quiet. Her three children tower over her, have advanced degrees, are athletic, and own businesses. But when she doesn't answer her flip phone we panic, calling each other, “Have you spoken to Mommy today?” For a long time I didn’t hug her and tell her I love you, because she didn’t do that to us when we were growing up. When I had children she started hugging and telling them she loves them, so I try with her. I recall the first couple of times I attempt to hug my mother as an adult. She seems confused as I approach her, turning her body away slightly, lowering her face, like a small timid dog, unsure if you will hurt her or pet her. It’s awkward, for both of us.

More to come…

Read installment 4

Read from beginning