Sharing Me In The Face

Most people who follow my blog know that I write to get the poison out.  Please keep that in mind when reading this selection.

A typical Friday schedule for me includes making up a grocery list from the items on sale, conjuring a menu for the week, paying the bills and doing the grocery shopping.  It was unexpected then, when the story of my past came up and slapped me in the face in the form of the cashier at Kroger. Poor girl.  She is 18 years old.  I don't know how we got on the subject, but she shared with me how when she turned 18, her parents told her to get out of their house.  She had no where to go, no money and no job.  That's when it came flooding back to me.

The date was November 1, 1973, one month to the day after .my grandfather died.

I had been abused by my family all my life.  At 18, I had a job, a few articles of clothing, a stereo and an old beater car that my parents had "given" me.  I had a boyfriend, who turned out to be my first husband.  He didn't have a car, so most of our "dates" were at his parents' house, with them in attendance.  We worked at the same place, so it wasn't a big deal to me where we spent time together.  It was a nice innocent relationship until I came home from his house one night to my mother being in one of her common snits.  Those of you who knew my mother know that she was prone to flying off the handle and the handle was usually directed at my head.  So it was, that night, as she started in on me about how I wasn't going to be going over there anymore, but he was going to have to come over to "our" house.  Our house.  I almost choke on the words.  It was never my house until it came time to clean it.  My word back to my mother was simply "okay" and I started up the stairs to my bedroom.

By the time I had put my purse down and taken my coat off, she was screaming at me wasn't I going to go pick up my brother from work.  With my back to her, all I said was "yeah, I guess I am."  The tirade that followed was not to be believed.  Let the screaming commence.  All I wanted was a little sleep, and all I ever got was abused.  She screamed at me for everything since the day I was born to that day.  She told me that if I didn't like it, I could pack my clothes and leave.  I had heard that same phrase from the time I was a young child, and when I was young, I made myself a promise that the first time I heard that phrase after I reached an age where they couldn't bring me back, I would go.  So up the stairs I went, to get my coat and purse.  While I was mechanically going through the motions of putting on my coat, I heard her scream "get her keys."  I walked down the stairs, turned left, waved, said "bye" and left, never to return.  I got in my car and drove over to my boyfriend's house.  I didn't know where else to go.  I really had no where.  I had nothing but the clothes on my back, and I knew I was going to have to go back at some point and pick up my clothes.  But I would never spend another night under my parents' roof.

The next day, after my mother left for work, I went to pick up my clothes.  She had written me a note and left it on the table.  I don't remember much of what she had written except that the gist of it was to have me come home and we'd "talk" about what happened.  I had already heard all the "talking" I ever wanted to hear from them.  "Talking" in their house = manipulation.  I knew I wasn't wanted there.  It was all a smokescreen.  I turned the piece of paper over, and wrote that I wasn't coming back and that it was time for me to leave.  I know I wrote more than that, but I don't remember what else I wrote.  I know that I was paying board, taking care of everything in the house and working full time, all the while being abused by my father.  I'd had enough.  I'd sleep under a bridge if I had to, but I would never spend another night in their house.  I gathered up my clothes and my stereo, put them in "my" car and went back to work.

I stayed at my boyfriend's parents' house for the next week, with their permission.  They were away in Wisconsin at the time, but I wanted to be sure I had their permission before staying there.  They were so good to me.  They were very giving and understood that I had no place to go.  I left my clothes in the car because I was determined to not take too much advantage of their hospitality, and find an apartment as soon as possible.

Apparently, it wasn't soon enough.  A few days later, I got a call at work from my father, telling me that they had taken my car while I was at work, "because we pay the insurance."  What utter bullshit.  They wanted to make me suffer.  Now I had no clothes, no way to go anywhere, and no place to stay.  I asked my boyfriend (now fiance') to get his brother's truck and take me to get my clothes (again).  He did, and when I arrived at my parents' house, my former family piled out onto the lawn and came at me.  While my fiance' was taking my clothes, I turned to my family and said "If the car means so much to you, KEEP IT!"  I threw the keys at them.  We left, but that wasn't the end of it.

The place that I worked (Bee Chemical) was an account that my father serviced for NCR.  He would find any excuse to come there and make trouble for me.  It became apparent that I was going to have to leave Bee if I wanted any peace.  But I was also going to have to do something significant to make my family leave me alone.  So I married my fiance' on a Friday night in December, with only his parents and two witnesses in attendance.  I wore a green and white plaid dress, and had no flowers, no bridesmaids and no reception.  The Wahls (my in-laws) were wonderful to me.  They took us out to dinner after the chapel wedding and treated me like a daughter from Day One.  Betty, my mother-in-law, said I could call her MOM, which could mean My Other Mother, and call Bud DAD for Drunk And Disorderly.  I loved them both so very much for taking me in and loving me so unconditionally, especially when my own parents were so abusive.  I had never known people like the Wahls before, and not many since.  I miss them.

So when this poor cashier told me of her plight, it was all I could do NOT to wrap my arms around her and tell her it would be all right.  After all, she didn't know me, and did I really know it would be all right?  The truth was, I didn't.  Life is a series of traumatic events.  It's been said that whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  At this rate, I ought to be able to benchpress a Buick.

Nazdrowie'

Paczki Puta