Sweet Dreams

Cupping my hands
Over my ears, wishing
the screaming would stop
I cling to the wall
hoping to find protection
from unkind words, threats
and accusations

Covers over my head, I fold
into a fetal position
I burrow my 5 year old body closer
to the scratched and worn
bunk bed post, finding safety in the
dark corner next to the wall

Praying the further away I get
from the outburst, the more invisible I will be
It does no good
Her words hit me like her belt strap whipped
across my body
Fear within and without

“….ungrateful kids…..I work so hard….
I don’t ask much……fend for yourselves…
maybe I’ll never come home….I don’t ask much”

Hardly a lullaby to whisk me off to sleep
Only sobs and tremors

Her shrieking ends with the slam of the door
The old Black ’48 Chevy grinds it engine
as she drives off into the night

Silence

Then a whisper from the upper bunk
“Ssh,.” my 11 year old brother says
“It’ll be alright. Ma’s just mad ‘cause
We woke her up with our laughing.”



He slides his hand down the wall.
“Here, hold my hand ‘til you fall asleep”
I grab onto it, feeling the small warts
on his rough hands.

The Fifth Chair

A wedding of a friend
brings five friends assembled
Two couples and myself
Shared memories of thirty years
bond us like a Gordian Knot

Twists and turns of life celebrated,
commiserated, and endured together
act as glue
Everyone has a role
Therapist, mentor, brother, mother,
My role, clown, make them laugh
Remnants of a past life continue
Betrayers and pretenders disguised
As confidants, and mentors
Methodically assume control
never to be questioned
They are never wrong.
I am never right
I am not their equal

It’s a lie I believed
But I am not without blame
This pattern has defined my life
until now

Lives intertwined at one time, so natural,
now seem fraudulent, a lie, a fairy tale for a child
But I am a child no more
Shattering my role as the target
for everyone’s anger, projection and ridicule.

Choosing to uncover my own truths
I am pushed out of the circle
And dismissed
A loss never imagined
four years ago, abandonment, betrayal
A release I now embrace as freedom

I dared turn a mirror in their direction
And saw nothing
No longer playing their game
The lens becomes sharper
The mirrors converge
No more blurred images of my own life
And sadly, but finally, theirs

Four friends sit in a row
With the fifth chair empty
Four years ago that would have
been my seat
The place of the fifth wheel
Today
I sit two rows behind
Rolling alone and on course
Thanking God clear vision
Is finally repaired

Lot 125- Grave #11

September 23, 2008
The days couldn’t be any more different.

Today is an early fall crisp day, full of sun and skies with no clouds in sight. It’s the kind of day that could mark any birth, beginning or just a kick start to a fresh era.

The cool autumn air weaves in and out of the strategically spaced and planted low rising white birch trees. Some feel that to stand here is to be aligned between heaven and earth. The landscape is groomed, orderly and unblemished not only for the inhabitants, but more for the loved ones who come here either frequently or myself, who never come here at all.

Dr. Lubin is standing by my side. Her gentle hand is on my shoulder. I am not alone. Dr. Lubin has reined in the stray pieces to the puzzle of my life and together we have rebuilt the scenes. It's a challenging puzzle. Most of the pieces were missing.
But Dr. Lubin is a master and gifted healer who believes in delving straight into your soul and discovers with you, the buried treasures that have been hidden. They surface and we celebrate together. This journey could not exist without her.

The last time I was here, 20 years ago, was a cold, bitter day in December. The wind whipped it’s fury through the sparse trees, taking with it the last vestiges of the already deadened leaves. The trees as I remember, were so much smaller then.
I tried on that day not to think of you. I tried to find any distraction that would tear my mind from the thoughts of you. We had caused each other so much pain. I don’t think we knew then even why.

So many differences between now and then, so many conflicts, and so many unanswered questions.

I was angry then. I am sad now.

I had questions then. I have answers now.

It’s sad you could not have been part of the dialog of working things out.

That I had to do on my own, like everything else.

You lived angry and died sadly. I disappointed you even in death, while trying to make you happy in life. Our lives were a study in extreme contrasts, from the moment of my conception, to the instant of your death.

I believe, in my Polly Anna world, that I wanted to be born. You, in your brutal honesty, never wanted to give birth to me. You have always made that clear.

What is done is done.

I am not here to accuse, blame or denigrate you.
I am here to thank you. From your mistakes and flaws, I learned how to steer clear of making the same ones.

I don’t know if you would like me any better today. I tend to think not.

Everything you stood for, I was against, and vice versa. I am sure you saw me in later years as cruel and unloving, the same I had seen in you when I was a child. At what point did we merge and become each other?

Strangely enough I Iearned more from you than anyone else. I took whatever you didn’t give me and looked in other places for it and most of the time found it.

From your closed heart, I searched for others with open hearts and learned to open mine.

From your unhappiness I searched how to fill my life with joy and passion.

From your dishonesty and untruths, I learned how to be true and honest.

From your narrow focus on life, I learned now to broaden my vision.

From your black and white world, I learned that there are so many gray areas to be accounted for.

From your silence and disapproval I learned how to speak with kindness.

From your lack of nuturing and love, I am finally learning how to take care of myself and love myself.
We were sent to each other for many reasons. Our journeys so different, our lives so very different. I am still on my journey.
Your journey’s answers remain with you.
I blame you for nothing. You told me in later years you didn’t think I loved you. I told you I did and still do.
How I wish I had heard those words from you.
I am sorry it has taken me 20 years to place this marker on your grave. But nothing would have made you happy.

This marker represents my last endeavor for your love.

Please accept it.

I truly hope you can rest in peace.

I know that now I can let you rest in peace and I can live in peace.

Maybe this is the first and last time we agree on anything.

As I turn to leave, I place a large plant of purple mums on her grave marker.

Next to the mums, I place the photo of my dad.

I want it to feel like a family, my family. And for a fleeting moment it does.

An Ocean of Mercy

Suddenly, like magic, thoughts about work, life, writing and everyday turmoil, thrashing about in my head, come to an abrupt end. It's as if a retaining wall were put in place inside my brain to hold back the flood of thoughts, ideas, beliefs and opinions. Everything comes to a grinding halt.

In its place, from this room, the gentle sound of waves slap quietly against the shore and immediately grab my attention. I look up and out the window, well outside of myself and see nothing but ocean. The light is soft and even on this semi fall day. The ocean is calm and glimmers with reflected light. Peace and serenity surround me.

It is that time of year when summer begs to hang on, but autumn begins to display its change. Leaves begin their transformation ever so slightly and summer days waffle back and forth from warm to cool.

A gigantic pine tree burrows its old and weathered roots into the grassy area twenty yards from the ocean. It is far from a perfect shape, much like myself, but a shape that has been and continues to be be formed and twisted by the wind, and defined by the elements of its surroundings. In spite of its weathered life it remains strong, healthy and deeply rooted. Don't be mistaken into thinking this tree hasn't seen its share of hurricanes, tornadoes or ice storms. The bare patches and missing pieces on this tree, say otherwise. Storms take their toll, yet the tree stands proudly, boldly and even slopes towards the ocean, as if to challenge even more oncoming rages from Mother Nature. The tree can take it.

A woman walks along the shoreline, head down, hands clasped behind her back. Several paces behind a sea gull follows her trail and almost mimics the woman's walk. The woman seems to be looking for something, answers, ideas, or maybe just plain peace. The sea gull's head pokes down every now and then foraging for food.

I sit in my room gazing at the three living species in front of me. I too join them in their quest and challenges.

I came here to try and finish three specific writing pieces. I'm not a nature writer by any stretch of the imagination.
None of that seems to matter now. It's lost in the clutter of my mind that was silenced when I got here. All that's here right now is peace, solitude, and silence, save for the sounds of the ocean. No radio, no tv. no people.
The world has mercifully stopped for a bit.

But I am not alone. I brought someone with me who I have not seen in 60 years.
My dad.

A long lost first cousin called me 10 years ago to tell me he had a photo of my dad when he was in the army. I've never heard from him since- until Monday.

He emailed me the photo of my dad, and it is leaning against the old lamp I am using at this writing desk.

The sepia toned photo shows a young handsome man. I look so much like him, it's scary, but exciting.

Finally a face, my father's face, to put to a name, Dad. A man I have never met but have never stopped romanticizing or fantasizing over.

I have him now.

This room, this time, this view,and his face are all that matters.


Mercy Center
Madison CT.

In the Belly of the Beast

They are sitting as far apart on the tan, expensive, overstuffed leather couch, with pillows at either end, as far as you can get from each other. They are unmatched bookends with a thousand volumes between them. Jake is slouching, resting his right elbow on the sofa arm, head down in hand while his left hand awkwardly brushes nothing off the log of his jeans. Jake is very handsome in a styled scruffy way. He has longish brown curly hair, shoulder length, blue denim work shirt and jeans with a hole in the left knee.

Amy sits at the opposite end of the couch stiff and upright, nestled against the other arm of the sofa as if being any closer to Jake would send her to the bottom of some horrendous abyss. She fold her arms across her chest like a defiant child, and looks straight ahead at nothing. The silence is thunderous. Tension so thick, it seems any sound would break the sound barrier, like a soprano hitting the highest note possible, shattering crystal into shards of glass.

Amy is gorgeous. Short hair, perfectly coiffed, it fits her tight angular angry face. She is wearing a Giorgio Armani pin striped suit and a simple string of pearls around her neck. Professional, tailored and very much in vogue in the corporate world.

Their careers are as opposite as their marriage and dress code appear to be.

Jake is a carpenter, cabinet maker artisan and musician. His passion is his music. He loves to craft with his hands and write his own music. Amy is a high ranking executive in a business conglomerate, a world which hires and fires people as swiftly as you spit out sour milk from it's container.

The world of opposites which once drew them wildly and passionately together, now threatens to rip that world into shreds.
They have been married for 12 years.

They are at opposite end of the spectrum. Amy is pregnant and does not want the child. Jake wants the child. They are here, in this psychiatrist's office to decide whether or not to go ahead with the birth. They already have a 10 year old boy. This is enough for Amy, but not Jake.

The bickering between Jake and Amy begin immediately and nothing is sacred. Jake accuses Amy of having an affair with her boss, which Amy denies, then accuses Jake for being overbearing, jealous and obsessed because of his lack of "performance" in bed. Words fly against each other like bullets.

The psychiatrist sits across from the both of them in his own comfortable chair. There is a square black coffee table separating the unhappy couple and the shrink, a physical reminder that there are boundaries.

The psychiatrist is here to allow them to speak about their feelings. The shrink is a moderator, a referee of sorts. The married couple is here to make the decision together- whether to abort this baby or not..

The couple spits venom at each other, but I immediately take Jake's side. He is likable, still in love with Amy, loves his son and seems to take the brunt of the relationship gone wrong. He wants to continue family life and make it work.

I do not like Amy. Not exactly the motherly type. She is callous, cold and too self absorbed. She is more interested in her career than her family.

Their weakest and most embarrassing qualities are thrown at each other like arrows, like the way Amy feeds her son to Jake's accusation of Amy having an affair with her boss, to indifference to sex with Jake. Everything once right is now wrong. Raw, dirty and unfair accusations bounce back and forth looking for a place to lay blame. The only interruption is Jake or Amy asking the shrink to side with them on a particular issue. The shrink is good. Obviously not his first couple in crisis, he hands out no answers, just throws back the questions.

The shrink brings them back time and time again to the issue at hand. True, this couple has many issues, but the decision they came to make has very little time to be resolved. If an abortion is to happen, time is a factor.

For the next couple of weeks, the sessions play out in much the same way. More accusations, more blame, more hurt.

The third week Amy opens the session by admitting that in the past week, she has slept with her boss.

Jake is crushed. You feel his pain, his tears and betrayal. Jake is angry but pleads with Amy that he will do anything to save this family, this marriage, this home. He loves her no matter what. He wants this baby more than ever.

Suddenly Amy loses it. She begins to scream at Jake for "not fucking getting it at all".

"You just don't get it do you Jake? I don't want this baby! I don't want to be a mother. I'm not even a good mother to our son.
I want my life as it is. I want my career, my freedom, my job. I want to work and travel and not be tied down by a fucking baby. I am telling you right now Jake, I WILL NOT LOVE THIS CHILD!! I will hate this child and this child will mean nothing to me. Do you want to bring child into this world knowing that the mother doesn't want it? I am too selfish and don't give a GOD DAMN about this baby. You will have to raise it and give this baby what it needs, but believe me Jake, it will always know that it's mother did not want it. It sickens to me think about bringing up another child into this fucked up world and this fucked up relationship. I cannot do that to a child. The child needs it's mother and I will not be there, now or ever."

Amy then storms out the door. Both Jake and the shrink sit there is silence. Finally Jake leaves, turns to the shrink and says,
"Thanks a lot, I came here so you could help us decide whether or not to have this child, now you have ended our marriage."

After a few minutes the shrink gets up to close the door and rearrange the pillows on the couch.

While arranging the pilllows, something catches his eye on the couch. He leans over to look. In the area where Amy was sitting is a puddle of blood.

The decision was made for everyone.

From “In Treatment”, the HBO series based on the Israeli Series "Be 'Tipul"


I sit back from the TV in amazement. Suddenly I like Amy. A lot. She may be self absorbed, but she is honest, brutal but honest.

I visualize an almost abstract picture of my mother- pregnant with me and what disgust she must have felt. I would be a bastard child that she never wanted. She never married my father, just fucked him one night in the back of the White Tower Restaurant. I was a mistake, a mistake she never let me forget. I am the mistake. What did she say when people noticed she was pregnant? Did she smile? I doubt it. Who did she blame. Did she pound her stomach with her fists and wish the child inside her would die? Nothing but backdoor abortions in the 1940's, otherwise I wouldn't be here.
Was she disgusted with herself? As I grew older and put more weight on, was I a mirror image in which she hated the both of us even more? She had a weight issue also. She hated men and I was afraid of them.
Unlike this TV series, she had no options, probably had no one to talk to either. But we both survived.

It is clear to me now, my mother was on her own journey and responsible for what she made or didn't make of it.

I am on my own journey, so very different from hers. I am responsible for my choices.

The way I see it, our paths crossed once, and only once.

Maybe that's all we needed from each other.

The Price of Healing

Dr. Lubin writes these scalding words on the white board with her fiery red marker. This is the topic of the week for the trauma group. I sit in silence as my fellow comrades in this battle of survival, list what their experiences are with this hot topic of the week.

In the past 1 and 1/2 years we have become mirrors of each other, partners with each other, similar to long term friends, couples who know each other's secrets, finish each other's sentences, laughing as we do. It's a secret club. At times we open the door to each other's pain by asking questions instead of pushing buttons or just being with the moment, as sad and as heartbreaking as it is. We know we cannot change what has happened in the past, but we can change what happens in our future. A year and a half ago, most of us thought we didn't have a future. We have learned how to listen deeply and lovingly to each other. We have a spectacular teacher. Dr. Lubin sets the stage.

We are at times a funny little dysfunctional family, but always working towards that common goal of healing our wounds that have penetrated us physically and emotionally. Difficult to know which one hurts the most.

It's a tough group. No one lets anyone get away with anything. We call each other on our strengths, weaknesses and capabilities. We remind each other of who we are and how we have made it.

The Price of Healing..........There are so many roads I can go down on this one. The Price of Healing Where do I start? Where do I end? Do I end? What has this almost 3 year journey cost me?

The Price of Healing..........How do I describe the depths of dissection my entire life has gone through? Every thought, word and deed I have ever done has been examined, ripped apart, and put back together in some form of functional fashion? I have felt like a frog on the table being dissected in biology class. Nothing left to the imagination. Everything on the table.

The Price of Healing..........Is it the friends I have lost in the past 2 and a half years because I have changed? Is it my voice and my words that offend them, after finally finding it after 57 years? Is it not accepting how I have finally learned how to say NO and mean it? Or is it I have somehow touched on something they have always been good at hiding and they are afraid of being seen for who they are and what they have done to me? I've caught their act and I am now wiser.

The Price of Healing.........Is it the time and commitment I have made to myself with intensive therapy twice a week, so intense and crippling that I was accused of being self absorbed?

The Price of Healing.........Exposing a brother who had sexually abused me along with others who were supposed to be "protecting" me? The dentist, the deacon, the neighborhood baby sitter?

Yes, there is a Price of Healing.

But I would not change one thing about the past 2 and a half years. I am finally moving on.

My mother, the very first perpetrator in my life, set the pace.

It's been 20 years since her death. I have run the gamut of feelings all my life of love, hate and fear.

She didn't like or love me. That I know. I have searched for all these years to find out why. But only she knows why.

Neither myself or my brother have put a grave marker where she is buried. I always thought that she never liked what I did anyway, so why bother. I've long since stopped wondering why my brother didn't.

The Price of Healing.........In several weeks I will be standing with Dr. Lubin at my mother's grave. I finally have gotten her the grave stone she deserves. I think it's time. I will stand there with Dr. Lubin, and I will most likely read something I have written and I will say a prayer for her at her grave. And I will thank her. I will thank her for giving birth to me. I do so love this journey I'm on.

It truly is time for her to rest in peace.

Too bad that The Price of Healing isn't always as simple as just buying a grave marker.

WOMANHOOD: MY ALLY OR MY ENEMY

"Women who have been traumatized often have a conflicted relationship with their body and their gender. For some it affects their intimacy, for others it is a source of embarrassment and confusion. They may associate their womanhood with the pain from the abuse. Qualities such as weakness, vulnerability, submissiveness, and dependency become connected to being a woman, and being a victim. The result can be avoiding intimate relationships, avoiding sexuality, and avoiding parenthood. It is important to remember that being a woman did NOT cause your abuse; your perpetrator caused your abuse, out of a desire for power over you."

From a mini lecture by Dr. Hadar Lubin, MD

I find a black and white faded photo of myself at the age of 12. I am standing in the bathroom on the 2nd floor of Rose Farrell’s apartment.

It is the three story building I live in at 139 Henry Street. Rose’s son Jimmy has just gotten a new camera has taken my photo.

This is what I see and feel.

I am standing next to a bathroom sink. The wallpaper is flowery, ugly and tasteless.

Although I am smiling, I am not a pretty girl. My hair is short like a boy’s, butchered by some barber with uneven patches sticking out every which way. There is no style, no rhyme or reason to this haircut.

I am wearing a boy’s plaid short sleeve shirt, buttoned all the way to the top and buttoned to the last button, making the shirt burst out at the bottom. I am clearly too big for the shirt. I am clearly too big.
I have boy’s pants on, zipper in the front. Everything about me says “boy” or “ugly girl”who looks like a boy.

I suddenly realize that this shirt I have on, is my brother’s. Frankie's. Not mine.

It’s a hand me down from my brother. No wonder it doesn’t fit. Frankie is skinny and I am getting fat.

It’s a toss up. what looks uglier or more tasteless, me or the wall paper.

My money's on the wallpaper being more attractive.

I look at myself today. Still fat, still wearing men’s shirts. My hair is better. That I seem able to control or at least identify. It certainly isn’t short or will ever be again.

No, Dr Lubin. No problem with my womanhood, then or now. It’s always been the same. Unidentifiable UFO – Unidentifiable Fat Object.



I am 8 years old and my mother has just explained to me that in a short matter of time, I will be getting what all women get. I am sitting at the kitchen formica table in one of the chrome and ugly plastic flowered chairs, just staring at her, wondering what she is saying.

“You’ll just bleed for a few days”, she says with the Pall Mall cigarette hanging from her mouth, her eyes squinting from the smoke wafting her way. She is bobby pinning her hair.
“You’ll bleed for a few days every month from down there,” as she points to my “private” parts “from where you pee. I’m not sure when, but just let me know. This is the time when you can get pregnant.”

Three years later I arrive home on a warm summer night, from babysitting around the corner. I go into the bathroom to put on my pajamas, it’s late and my mother is on her way to work.

I take down my underwear and gasp at the patch of blood I see. For a few minutes I think I might have hurt myself climbing the fence in the back that afternoon. I slowly remember the conversation of a few years ago. I run crying into my mother’s room. She is smearing her engine red lipstick all over her lips. I tell her that I think I got “that thing” she was talking about and I am bleeding.

Without looking at me and still putting on the lipstick, she doesn’t miss a beat and says, “get back into the bathroom and I’ll be right there.”

I sit and wait on the toilet afraid to do or touch anything. My mother walks in with a pillow case and two huge safety pins.

“Stand up” she says. She pulls down my underwear, takes the pillowcase and puts it between my legs and makes a big diaper out of it and then pins the sides with the safety pins.

“There, that should do it. Don’t move around too much or you’ll bleed more. Stay in bed for a few days until the bleeding lets up. You’ll be fine.”

“Can I put my pajamas on Ma”? “No,” she says, “you’ll stain them.
The pillowcase will work out fine. No baths and no getting your feet wet.”

With my t-shirt on and the pillow case diaper, I go straight to bed.

“What’s wrong with her”? my brother asks from the top bunk.

“Both of you be quiet and go to sleep.”

I live in fear for the next few days and nights, worried about moving too much. At one point, I stain through the pillow case and go through to the sheet on the bed. My mother is asleep and I ask Rose, the upstairs neighbor if she could help me find an extra pillow case. I guess my mother’s insanity was recognized even then.
Rose’s response is that I had better wait until my mother wakes up.

The pillowcase fix continued for the next couple of years until I discover that sanitary napkins exist. I ask for a box and the pillow case diapers end.

So many questions from Dr. Lubin. Did I know how mean and cruel this was? Did I know how abusive this was? Did I know how crazy my mother was?

Difficult to answer through the uncontrollable sobbing.

But I know now.




My 100th post