duality“I walk on for a while and reach a round sort of clearing. Surrounded by tall trees, it looks like the bottom of a gigantic well. Sunlight shoots down through the branches like a spotlight illuminating the grounds at my feet. The place feels special, somehow. I sit down in the sunlight and let the faint warmth wash over me, taking out a chocolate bar from my pocket and enjoying the sweet taste. Realizing all over again how important sunlight is to human beings, I appreciate each second of that precious light. The intense loneliness and helplessness I felt under those millions of stars has vanished. But as time passes, the sun’s angle shifts and light disappears. I stand up and retrace the path back to the cabin.”  – Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

After spending nearly half a century in this life, I still marvel at the duality that occurs before me each and every day. The darkness that gives way to light, the silver linings that provide a sugar coating to even the most acerbic morsels. It is the yin and yang that provides some sort of karmic balance to life – the rushing in and recession of the tides, the endings that lead to beginnings balancing out the beginnings that ungratefully lead to endings.

And, while I know this duality appears before me daily, it is only on rare occasions that I stop to take notice. It is like a gentle tap on my shoulder reminding me to pay attention, letting me know that an important plot point is about to revealed. A gentle nudge as I doze off in the classroom that is my life, reminding me to take note for this will be on the final exam. This week, I was jolted awake as I sat on an airplane heading out on yet another journey. As I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes to rest for a few moments as I normally do when the plane is racing down the runway, pushing the engines to launch the giant tin can into the air, I was reminded of the significance of the day. That day was my mother’s birthday. My mother, who has been dead for 2 years now.  Or, is it 3? I have lost count.  I could probably stop for a moment and try to remember if it was 2012 or 2013 when she finally departed but the time elapsed is meaningless. For, I did not mark the months with remembrances. I did not light a candle each year. I did not grieve as so many of my friends have, deeply mourning the loss of their beloved moms. Their supporters, their nurturers, the presidents of their fan clubs, their best friends. I don’t recall exactly which day she died and I was not there with her when she took her last breath. I did not go through the rite of passage that children are meant to experience when their parents take their journey to next life. I did not hold her hand or stroke her brow, reminding her how much I loved her or how we would all go on without her, missing her every day and feeling the void of her presence. I have no idea what the end of my mother’s life was like. I don’t know what she looked like, I don’t know if she suffered or passed with ease, relieved to have unburdened herself of the weight that she carried so deeply inside her. I don’t know if anyone stood by her side or if she drifted off alone and bewildered. And, frankly, I don’t care.

My mother’s birthday is also the day my oldest son was conceived. I know this because he was conceived at a fertility clinic. I remember the day, back in 2000, when I lay in the darkened room, after having been inseminated turkey-baster style, laying with my knees in the air for the suggested 30 minutes in hope that just one of my husband’s sperm would find its way to my lone egg that sat alone, hoping for some attention. Despite the efforts to pump up my hormones that would generate many follicles from which many eggs would spring, I produced one and my doctors, in their reassuring way, left me with the optimistic hope of “there’s always next month.” But, always the overachiever, I would not fail. I was confident that my solitary egg would find its partner and we would produce a healthy bundle of joy. And we did. And it all began on my mother’s birthday.

My mother died just days before her birthday. She never was honest about what year she was born so I suspect she was around 82 or 83 or 84, or something like that, when she died.  I can’t remember the last birthday I celebrated with her but it was a long time before her departure. My mother left me emotionally and spiritually long before her body ceased to function. My mother forced me to remove her from my life to finally escape a lifetime of mental and emotional abuse. I believed that the day I shut that door for the last time, even though I may not have realized it had been closed for good, that I was releasing the toxins from my body. It felt like the beginning of the journey to recovery and that I was providing myself with the space and freedom to explore my pain and heal myself. I don’t remember how many years ago that was anymore. I try not to think about it. I suppose, as survivors, we are supposed to have psychic calendar notations that are engraved in our minds but, for me – someone who memorializes everything – these dates are fuzzy. The ink has bled and I can no longer make out the dates or the numbers. I simply don’t want to mark the passing of time. I guess I just don’t want to preserve them with the same significance as I do the milestones of my or my children’s lives. I want them to be erased over time. I want them to cease to exist. Perhaps this way it might all be less real.

It is not at all ironic to me that my motherhood began on my mother’s birthday. In fact, it is symbolically appropriate. It is the duality of my life. The beginning of this new chapter, the creation of my first child, was the denouncement of my victimization by my mother. It made sense. I would never forget the day and the two would be inextricably intertwined. Because they are and they should be. While my own mother tortured me, motherhood freed me. Motherhood saved me from my mother. Motherhood, over time, reaffirmed what, deep inside, I always knew to be true. Children are not supposed to be treated the way I was. I deserved to be loved and nurtured and cared for and respected and adored and cherished and encouraged to reach my full potential. I was not meant to be demeaned and demoralized and undermined and sideswiped and beaten and marginalized and penalized and tormented and hurt. I needed to see for myself that the natural order of things was that parents love their children – no matter what. I had to experience, first hand, that it is not a natural occurrence that, with frustration and anxiety, comes abuse. I could not survive unless I realized that I would not be the monster that I experienced my own mother to be. And my son, conceived on that cold day in February in Millburn, NJ, the same day my mother enjoyed another spin around the sun, and then my other son just three short years later, liberated me from the fear that I could never break the cycle of abuse and that perhaps, in fact, I deserved just what I got.

After my flight that morning was reaching cruising altitude, I opened my eyes and took a deep breath.  The realization that today was that day, the mother of all dualities, I stopped thinking and decided to turn on my iPad an enjoy the remainder of my short flight listening to an audiobook. I had been waiting to listen to Not My Father’s Son by one of my favorite actors, Alan Cumming. There had been a resistance in me to start the book because I knew enough about the story to feel a sense of dread. Alan was telling his own story of abuse. He was sharing the outcomes of his journey towards healing and, without question, I knew I would experience disruption and dismay. But, today, it made sense. Today was the day that I needed to take this on. Sometimes you just know. It seemed fitting.

February is now this odd month for me. As a child, I worshipped my mother. I would lay by her feet and love on her endlessly. I would spend my weekends sitting in our kitchen, in our little row house in Queens, playing Rummy 500 with her. She never let me win but I didn’t care. I treasured those hours because she was peaceful and we were together, far away from the yelling and screaming, the hitting, the painful words, the outbursts, the overdosing. Those afternoons were quiet and calm and predictable and reassuring, filled with hope that my mommy really loved me and would soon stop being so angry with me. Every year I waited with anticipation for her birthday because I wanted to shower her with cards and gifts to show her how much I loved her. I felt certain that if I made her feel special that she would reciprocate, returning my affection with kindness of her own. But, just two days after her birthday was my parents’ wedding anniversary – a day that ultimately left my mother filled with sadness after she and my father divorced. It was a constant reminder to her of failure and loss and it often overshadowed the joyousness of her special day. And, like a sponge, I absorbed her duality and struggled to balance her yin and yang. I adopted her pain as my own. And February became a month of quiet conflict. Atop the normal mountain of malaise that many of experience in the period that lay between the holidays and the first chirpy songs of birds signifying the onset of spring, I navigated my own way through the murky waters of my mother’s disdain and disappointment. I fought her battle. And she never shielded me from the shrapnel that pierced my skin after each and every explosion.

I finished the book before I landed on my return flight home the following night. I couldn’t stop listening.  In the gym, I lost myself in his story, so different in his homeland of Scotland than mine in New York, far across the pond. Yet, his words resonated with me. I felt the pain as he shared every blow he endured from his father who battled his own demons, releasing onto his children the pain that he could not process. On the plane ride home, I stared out the window, holding back deep sobs as I listened to him recount his indignities, recognizing, perhaps for the first time, that I was not alone. Hearing him describe his deep wounds, I instinctively felt my own scars and they nearly ripped apart, revealing the gaping holes that still lie opened inside of me.

The duality this week began benignly – almost with a hint of joy. The reminder of that day I sat in the darkened room filled me with joy. Seemingly a lifetime ago before I understood the restorative power that motherhood would offer me. Before I laid eyes on the beautiful boy who would grow into a tall, handsome young adult, all attitude and confidence and humor mixed with the expected level of obnoxiousness we have come to expect from teenagers. Before I understood that I was not meant to live inside a prison forever and would be set free to experience the euphoria of unconditional love towards and from my own children. As a child who grew up feeling alone and out-of-place, never truly belonging to a family or having an assigned seat at the table, the luxuriousness of looking at my children and knowing they were mine and I was theirs – that we were a family, with bonds that need not be broken – cascaded me into a sense of peace and serenity that never seemed a reality when looking at my life from the other side. The counterbalance of that day – the marking of my mother’s birthday also seemed benign as I have healed so many wounds and have forgiven her for all that she took from me and all that pain she bestowed upon me that was never meant to be mine. Yet, unbeknownst to me, this year, the duality would be marked differently. There are no coincidences and no accidents. Life takes us places that we sometimes don’t want to go and forces us, often begrudgingly, to accept those things we would rather ignore or reject. The duality for me this year was not the lightness and dark or the beginning and end. This year, the duality was the denial and acceptance.

I have accepted so much about the pain I have endured in my life and I have learned to nurture myself in replacement. Through no choice of my own, I became extremely proficient at tending to my needs and ensuring that I was able to move from one day to the next, as best I possibly could. I learned, regrettably, that I would have to care for myself because there was not going to be anyone else around who would take on that responsibility. For as far back as my memory will allow me to go, it has been me – all alone in the world – navigating the pathways and hoping for a positive outcome. That, in itself, has its own duality for it has made me strong and it has caused weakness in my foundation. I am closed and withdrawn at times, protective and defensive, fearful of intimacy that might cause me to drop my guard and stop protecting my fortress of solitude. And I have resilience and strength and power that allows me to sit on the front lines, sipping a cocktail and awaiting the next round of fire with ease and assurance that my line is protected. Yet, while I have accepted my fate and processed through the pain and disappointment of never having had the opportunity to be loved in a way that was my birthright, I have also spent a great deal of my life in denial. I struggle to accept how deep my wounds are, how painful the burn is, how limiting my existence can be. I force myself to look away when I am confronted with the loneliness and alienation and abandonment that resulted from ongoing and erosive abuse. Being told I am worthless and not a good enough person to be loved again and again finally sinks into your cells and it becomes part of your hard-wiring that no amount of therapy or medication or restorative affection can ever heal. Never having felt the safety and security that allows a child to mature into adulthood and endure the obstacles that are assuredly blocking your path with dignity and grace, creates a perpetuating stream of anxiety and self-loathing that requires a virtual exorcism to eradicate. One that I have yet to perform. By the end of that flight, after the last word was read and I was left to ponder my own experience, I knew, of course, the timing was pre-determined and the context was appropriately set. The scabs needed to be ripped off and I was meant to be catapulted back into space. It was time to embark on the next leg of this mission.

I am alone and I am frightened and, at the same time, I am secure in my ability to navigate my course. I hope that there is a day, some day in February in some year before me that I will look back and remember the day that I started to stop feeling so isolated and solitary and overwhelmed and insecure. And, I know that it may never be that way. For it is, perhaps, my destiny to live this life and endure these struggles for a purpose far greater than I will ever know. And the duality of my life is to enjoy the beauty that lies right beside the pain.


dont be ashamed

Here’s how this goes.

When you grow up with abuse, the world does not look the same. The lens through which you view is clouded and cracked. Your perception is warped from the damage inflicted, from the weight of the pressure forced against you as you try to navigate through the murky, shark-infested waters, low on oxygen with low visibility.

When you grow up with abuse, you are forever damaged. No matter how much you heal, never will you feel quite right.  Never will you stand as tall. Never will your feet be firmly planted in the soil because you’ve learned to stay loose so when you are pulled out from your roots, the blow is less intense. When you’re already wobbly, the disruption feels less volcanic. It becomes the steady flow of your life.

When you are abused, you fall down again and again. Then you get up again and again. And each time you start to rise, you shudder as you prepare with anticipation for the inevitable onslaught so you recoil.

When you are abused, your pain is so deep that, after a while, you become numb and you forget you feel it. Until, so abruptly, someone rips at your scabs and you are startled back into reality. When you have forgotten to pay attention because you focus your energy on assimilation – trying to blend in so no one can see your wounds, your scars, your ugly scabs. Your brain is trained on looking normal. The blood flow is targeted to only one spot so that when the cleaver comes down and makes contact with your flesh, you are shaken, reminding you instantly who you really are and where you come from.

When we are abused, we wear a cloak of invisibility. We hide behind our fear and hurt and make it look like we are strong. We are actors, worthy of honors for our portrayals of functioning adults. We have read the script, we know our lines but when we trip over our mark, we fall face first and the pain is unimaginable. We scream so loud yet it is heard only within ourselves. Only those who can receive the frequency that we transmit can hear us. Only those who know the hallmarks can see us. We look like we are standing up and brushing ourselves off yet we are imploding, collapsing so deep within ourselves that no one notices until we turn to dust.

When we are abused, we turn against ourselves. We learn to abuse ourselves. We perpetuate the crime again and again. We hurt ourselves physically, emotionally, deeply, powerfully, irrevocably. We carry on the trade, perfecting our craft. We look in the mirror and set our sights on our target. We see the ugliness and shame, all fertile ground to make our mark. We remember the words, the slashes, the burns. We remember, even as it quiets down, after decades of healing, after the skin has grown over, leaving only the slightest reminder of what came before. Yet we remember, in our cells. We carry it deep within ourselves, reminding ourselves, reluctantly, begrudgingly, to never forget.

When we are abused, we close our eyes each day, trying to imagine a different life, a different outcome, a different reality. We try to put behind us the sadness, the disappointment in an effort to love ourselves and stop the torture. We cover our faces, wear our masks, don our costumes, practice our speeches, internalize our message. We beg and plead with ourselves to move beyond, move past, move away from the pain. Sometimes we break ties. Sometimes we forgive. Sometimes we suffer silently, never uttering our truth. Sometimes we shield our eyes and pretend it is all ok. Until it is not.

When we are abused, we look like everyone else on the outside. We won’t be picked out of a crowd. We are professionals. We are leaders. We are influencers. And we are broken. We never achieve in the same way for we are always filling, compensating, working around, making good, fixing up, repairing, struggling, crawling through the mud to find our way to peace. An elusive peace that we fear will never come.

When we are abused, we are alone. No one can fill the void, share our space, hold our hearts. We have a protective shell that builds up over time, gaining thickness and density becoming harder and harder to crack. It is clear and transparent so impossible to see unless you know what to look for. Unless, perhaps, you wear one yourself.

When we are abused, we struggle to help the others. The ones we can see who live our truth. We are often kind and helpful, while still needy and selfish. We atone for ourselves by attempting to heal others while we continue to persevere, turning on ourselves again and again. We are loyal and bountiful with others while we betray and withhold from ourselves. We outsource our tenderness, hoping others can bridge the gap we create when we punish and berate ourselves, desperately seeking to escape the fear and hopelessness that are tattooed on our flesh. It seems like we will never get off the ride that loops around and around, flashing visions of optimism that ultimately disappear into the distance when we return to the start and the gate never opens.

When you grow up with abuse, you are just like me. Trying to make your way in the world and struggling to find the peace of mind to ease your burden. You love with everything you have, praying that your heart won’t be ripped to shreds once again. You trust too easily, wishing that this will be the one who will not let you down. You are hopeful that tomorrow will make the crushing pain subside and your ache will dull and you will feel your lungs fill with the fresh air of promise. You smile and assure everyone that you are ok. For this is not their burden. This is not their puzzle to solve. This is not their cross to bear. You cannot be their trouble.

When you grow up with abuse, you travel the road of life on a very different path that looks awfully like the path of others except there are demons. Demons who show themselves to you. Demons who you shield your eyes from and hope will disappear before you open them once again. Demons who look just like you.

When you grow up with abuse, you are a silent sufferer for even you cannot understand how the people who are meant to love you most and provide you with the foundation for your future, so selfishly and heartlessly rip up the ground beneath you, carelessly watching you fall through the floor, crashing down cut and bruised and watch without a speck of remorse.

When you grow up with abuse, you feel like you are at fault. You never truly grow up. You never fully heal but you will try. By God, you will try. Every single day of your life until your journey ends.

When we grow up with abuse, we must tell our stories. We must remind the world that we exist and remind them that no matter how good we look on the outside, we are suffering on the inside. We must shed the shame and learn to survive.


mosaic babySometimes, putting your past behind you is not as easy as it seems.

Sometimes, just when you think you have placed it back on the shelf, tucked away safely in a box, it comes to life, pushing itself out, forcing open the lid, jumping out in front of you.  All while you were looking the other way.

The other night, I was having dinner with my business partners while in Boston for a few days of business meetings. We were taking a respite from long days of planning meetings, financial discussions, strategy sessions and all the hard work that goes along with birthing a company. We needed a break and some time to interact with each other as friends. It was a little maintenance.

Many of our meetings recently have been with those who have walked before us – brave souls who took the leap into entrepreneurship, put everything on the line, worked day and night and then, miraculously, reaped big rewards. These are the success stories that catapult you forward. They inspire you to believe that you can do this. That there is a chance that you can succeed. These are the role models and advisors that force you into the arena and encourage you to brave it all. Without them, it is hard to navigate this obstacle course. In fact, the evening prior to our little team dinner we had met with one of those brave souls whose life was changed from his venture. He made many millions of dollars and managed to retire from his corporate life in technology to spend his time dabbling in real estate on Cape Cod. It’s a dream story.

At dinner that evening, one of my partners was sharing more stories of this friend who had hit it big and talked about how he celebrated his victory. While telling the story, my partner wistfully began sharing his own visions of what life might be like if we have a successful outcome. And then my other partner chimed in. One told of how he would take his extended family to Hawaii because his father always wanted to go there. The other shared ways in which he would provide his large, extended family with security and stability. And then they looked at me. They smiled and waited expectantly for me to talk about the dreams that motivate me. They looked for me to share the ideal that propels me forward each day. I was meant to discuss the place that I go when thinking about why I put in all the hours each day, struggle through the uphill battles to create something out of nothing.

But, I had long ago tuned out of this conversation. Because, for me, there are no dreams like that. For me, it is always about survival. I just want to survive. And, for me, the success is to survive more easily. There are no dreams of big family vacations or summer houses or leaving a legacy for my parents or siblings. There is no extended family to share my success with. There is no one rooting me beyond my little family of four. For me, I celebrate when I’ve made it through one more day, one more week, one more year without slipping into darkness. My legacy will be to not perpetuate abuse.

It was difficult to share with my partners – two men who come from robust families rooted in love and strong values – that I did not have such visions in my mind. “What motivates you forward?” was the question my partners asked. And, meekly, shamefully, painfully, I admitted that all I could ever think about is getting to tomorrow. Watching their twisted, pained faces reminded me of what I had managed to tuck away and forget: I am a child of abuse.

Sometimes I forget where I come from. I have managed to create a life for myself that resembles one of normalcy. You have to look really close – pull out your magnifying glass – to see the deep wounds that have settled in under my skin. The scars are barely visible but they certainly know how to erupt out of my skin at the most inopportune times. Like many other abuse survivors, I have constructed a world that allows me to operate at a high level, dodging the triggers that may set off the landmines that are scattered around, buried just deeply enough that I rarely see the tripwire laying beneath my feet. From the outside, most people have no idea of the gyrations that occur each day to allow me to function. In fact, most days even I don’t see them. It is second nature. It is reality. It is normal.

Until those days that I am reminded that I am not like everyone else. And the bomb goes off. Just like that – “boom” and I am hurled backwards, flat on my back, covered in debris and I pray that I can dust myself off and get back up again.

During the discussion the other night, I excused myself to use the ladies’ room. I needed to get away from the table because I couldn’t breathe. Their innocent question was like an assault rifle in my face. I could feel the cold metal tip pressing into my flesh and I tightened up awaiting the blast to come from the barrel that would blow me to pieces. I quickly walked to the back of the restaurant, scurried into a stall, sat down and sobbed. I was blindsided as I often am. I never see it coming. I get lulled into complacency and forget that I need to be aware of the perils that often lay before me. And, like this night, they seem innocuous. They are wolves in sheep’s clothing. Of course, my partners were delightfully bantering about their hopes and dreams and could never imagine that a conversation like this would induce anything less than positive chatter. Of course not. They have not been abused. And that recognition left me feeling isolated. I could not help but see, in bright neon lights, the message that I am different. My eyes see something so radically different. My brain functions with a different operating system. And, no matter how I try to engage, I cannot escape my reality. Nor, probably, should I.

Later that evening, after succumbing to the pain when the bullets sliced through me. As I bled out, back in my hotel room, I tried to make some sense of my feelings. After all, it has been a long time since I’ve fallen back into that space. It has been months since I found myself flying in this cockpit. I had reframed it all for myself, acknowledging that my reality today is so different from where I came from. All of my abusers are dead or have been forcibly removed from my life. I am living in a safe space, protected from the ghosts of my past. As I thought through the reaction that even surprised me, I could not escape the painful reality that no matter how hard I try to paint over the ugliness, no matter how many different ways I attempt to rewrite this story, I cannot erase it. I cannot undo what was done. I cannot unknow what I know. Every experience in my life is coupled with my past because I am always a part of it. I cannot untether myself from myself. I cannot selectively slice out the cancer for it long ago spread into all of my cells.  And, while it might lie in remission, it is always there and there is always the possibility that the disease will flare up.

I sat in my hotel room and mourned for that little girl once again. The little girl whose light was so abruptly dimmed. The one who knew, without really knowing, that life was not going to be the same as all the others around her. The one who walked around shattered, holding herself together with scotch tape, hoping no one would notice that she was frequently coming apart. The adhesive has gotten stronger over the years but the glue still dries up and pieces fall off, needing to be mended.

Through my tears, I saw that little girl, so broken and sad and tried desperately to comfort her but, on this night, I was depleted. For no particular reason. The winds blew me down. I lost my footing and I stepped on the mine. I was blown to pieces and could not protect that little girl. I was weak and vulnerable and she peeked out, scared and alone. I could not rescue her. I could not shield her from the blast. I could only acknowledge her, sad that she has not been able to rest in peace.

It’s going to take some time to put the pieces back together. You see, mine is an intricately-woven mosaic. There is no blueprint for how it all sits together but, when firmly in place, it’s beautiful to look at.  As the tiles fall off and the cement below is bare, it looks battered and bruised and it is difficult to remember which pieces go where in order to restore it to its original beauty. For me, I need to, once again, process my truth. I need to take this new piece of information about myself and add it to my mosaic and find a place to put it so as not to disrupt the others. I need to gather up all that fell off and try to restore myself to perhaps an even more magnificent array. But, for now, I will contemplate my design. I will try to heal a bit before I get back to the work of restoration. I will conserve my energy and prepare for the marathon that lies ahead.

And, I will try to move beyond. I will try to adopt the thinking of my partners. Perhaps there is more for me than mere survival. Maybe I can envision a world that offers a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But first, I need to find the rainbow so I can climb on up.


damaged goods“No amount of soul-searching would fix my past. There was no magical Band-Aid I could stick on my heart, no special glue I could use to make myself whole again. I had shattered to pieces like a fragile vase on concrete; some fragments could be roughly cobbled back together, but many of my vital parts had simply turned to dust, pulverized and scattered by the first gust of wind.”
― Julie Johnson, Like Gravity

I am all hard edges.

Corners and pointy angles that poke you if you get too close.  Like furniture in a house with a baby, I have bumpers and pads strategically placed to cushion my sharpness.  To soften the blow.  You can bump into me but you probably won’t get hurt.  You probably won’t feel a thing.  You probably won’t notice my severity.  Unless, you take the time to peel back the foam, untaping it from my surface.  Unless you go in – all the way in to get a close up look at the grooves in my wood, the distress of my finish.  If you venture down deep, head into that exploration, if you are brave enough to look under the hood, you might find a sharp object.  It might jump out at you.

That would be me.

I like to fool myself into believing that I am soft and squishy.  Like a rubber ducky or, perhaps, a sweet plush toy.  But, alas, I am less mush and more solid.  Harder than soft.  Rough and tough.  Yet, fragile and impermanent.  I’ve been broken apart, rebuilt, refinished, then scraped and scratched all over again.  My bumpers hide many of those scars.  You need to use a zoom lens – move in real close and look really carefully to see those scars.  And, only if I let you.

I appear like an open book but am a diary guarded with a titanium steel lock.  You can’t just walk up and approach my surface and attempt to remove my shield.  You cannot simply strip my wood without first gaining my express consent.  And I offer this rarely.  I am guarded, vigilant about protecting my contents.  Even after I have offered you the key, permitted your entry, validated your parking, I might change the locks.  Switch up the game.  Change my mind.  Retreat to my corner.  Go into hiding.  I might pick up my marbles and head on home.

After all, I am damaged goods.  I’ve been broken apart.   I’ve been rebuilt and refinished.   I’ve been scraped and scratched.  Again…and again…and again.

And again.

Damaged goods sit on the discount shelf.  They are sold “as is”.  No returns.  No exchanges.  You get what you get.  Damaged goods come packaged only with a single disclaimer.  You knew what you were buying.  You better really want it.  It’s up to you to fix it.  We take no responsibility.

Damaged goods often get tossed away.  They’re written off as a loss.  Forgotten about long before the new merchandise even arrives.  Damaged goods become an after-thought.  A nuisance.  An eyesore.  They need to be dealt with.  We are the sad puppies.  The last one’s selected.

I am all hard edges.  Trying to be soft.  Trying to let the foam and padding adhere itself so when it comes time to pull it away, it leaves a residue.  A reminder that softness was there.  A muscle memory.  An assurance that I am more than just sharp lines and angles.  That my corners which jut out and protrude beyond their appropriated space are not as menacing as they appear.

Inside a fire quietly burns, in hopes of melting away those hard lines but often looking more like an all-consuming inferno.  A flame that oxygenates and destroys all that crosses its path.  The forest before me is unknowing, unaware of what is headed their way.  My furnace burns hot, fired up each day to keep the engines running yet mindlessly overheating, sending sparks, leaking fumes.

It is inexplicable how I sit from my perch, my lofty vantage point and watch as the demons escape.  I see them scurrying about, wreaking havoc at every turn.  I observe them and tell them to settle down.  “Quiet yourselves!”  Yet they ignore my urging, my prompting, my coaxing.  They are relentless.  They are imps who want only to run free and cause maximum devastation.

Of course they do.  They are part of me.  Part of my damaged goods.  Part of my hard edges and sharp objects.  Part of my mindlessness.  My foolishness.  My weakness.  They cause me shame.  They make me angry.  I become apologetic.  I am, far too often, paralyzed.  The imps take over.  The demons rule me.  They prey on my damage.  They confiscate my vulnerability.  They devour me whole.

I am damaged goods.  I’ve been broken apart.  Rebuilding is harder and harder.  My tools become dull.  My acuity weakens.  My exhaustion becomes great.  Sometimes I just close my eyes and need to sleep.  Not to examine and process and explore and excavate and suffer.  I want to rest myself in hopes that I will regain my strength and mend my tattered wares.

I am all hard edges.  Desperately seeking a soft cushion to meet up with my corners, to protect my angles.  A netting to cover my wood to prevent the scratches, to avoid the scrapes.

I am a little girl, roaming around inside a woman’s body.  Living inside her brain and trying to understand her thoughts, her words, her ideas.  Trying to live up to the expectations.  It’s Freaky Friday.  I need my body back.  I don’t have a manual for this vehicle.  It’s a little scary in here.  I hide out, finding dark corners and safe spaces where no one can find me.  No one can get too close.

I seek safe harbor.  Alone.  In the quiet.  And then, just when I think I’ve tucked myself away, protected myself from the elements, created a world where I can exist in my solitude, someone walks in.  Uninvited.  Unannounced.

And he loves me.


abuseMany survivors insist they’re not courageous: ‘If I were courageous I would have stopped the abuse.’ ‘If I were courageous, I wouldn’t be scared’… Most of us have it mixed up. You don’t start with courage and then face fear. You become courageous because you face your fear. ― Laura Davis

I never wanted to admit that I was the victim of abuse. I suppose I always knew it in the back of my head but something about the powerlessness that comes from that type of admission along with the shame attached to it, prevented me from joining the club of survivors. I struggled with the notion of being a victim. That moniker never worked or me. Instead, I labeled myself as strong, as powerful, as having free will. I never considered myself to be weak and incapable of defending myself. How would I ever fall victim to someone else? No, not me.

When I came out of hiding. When I shed my skin and unveiled my truth, I could not help but acknowledge that I had, indeed, been abused. Consistently. Painfully. Extraordinarily. It was outrageous and unacceptable. And, for me, I was born into it. I had no sophistication. No awareness. I never saw it coming. Yet, I was no more unaware or blindsided than a fully grown adult who might find themselves in what they believe to be a loving relationship that ultimately becomes abusive because the abuser has set their sights on prey that offers up love and warmth and acceptance, only to be betrayed and exploited.

As a young girl, I adored my parents. More my mother than my father because he was quickly absent from our lives. His philandering ways were present long before I was born. After all, he and my mother began their relationship while he was married to his first wife and, unbeknownst to her, had landed himself a pregnant mistress. Honesty, loyalty, respect and fidelity were not strong character traits for my father but how could I possibly know that at the tender age of 4 or 5? My mother, on the other hand, was ever-present in my life. I believed that she loved me like all mothers do and every day, before school, I would kiss her goodbye, affectionately expressing my love and adoration for her. I somehow failed to notice her growing inability to offer me unconditional love as I matured, began to think for myself and had more sophistication. I grew suspect of her lack of empathy, compassion or ability to wholeheartedly support my emotional growth but I continued along my flower-lined path worshipping her and aggressively shoving away the negative feelings that were beginning to overtake my mind.

I was nearly 40 years old before I admitted (only to myself) that I was abused. The word would shout out in my head and I would swiftly shut it down, unwilling to entertain the notion. I stifled my feelings, like I had for so many years, masking them with pints of ice cream or cookies or anything I could shove into my mouth, forcing back the words abuse and victim. Sure, my mother hit me but practically every kid in my generation endured the same punishment. It was commonplace. The welts from the belt buckle or the stinging pain from the spatula that she beat me with seemed an appropriate response for when she became frustrated with my behavior. This did not make me a victim. The years of being told “I love you but I do not like you” as a pre-adolescent as I naturally explored my boundaries while hormones began surging through my body were her way of indicating that my behavior was unacceptable and that I needed to change. The emotional torture resulting from finding envelopes in my mailbox in college addressed to “Palazzo,” signifying her disconnection from me, her dehumanization of me, her attempt to annihilate my identity were a just response to my lack of frequent communication. Then, years later, her lashing out at me the day after I helped her to move into a new condo, closer to my home in New Jersey to be closer to my family was simply her right because she was stressed and overwhelmed. Telling me that I forced her into making the worst mistake of her life after I spent months and months, at her request, helping her find a new place, packing her house and supporting her through the sale of her home was simply something she had to do and I had to accept as her loving daughter. It was my job to absorb her pain.

The day when I was down on my kitchen floor, on my knees and 6 months pregnant , and I begged her to stop hurting me and she looked at me with cold, empty eyes telling me how worthless I was, I started cracking. Even though I begged for her forgiveness as she reminded me of all the mistakes and bad choices I had made in my 36 years of life, I looked up at her through tear-stained eyes and pleaded. I knew this was not ok. And yet, I continued to beg her to love me despite the fact that I didn’t believe I was worthy. I still did not look at her as my abuser. I was not the victim. I had disappointed her. I was faulty goods. I could do better.

It was several years later, as I, once again, sobbed to her on the telephone, begging her to stop hurting me, feeling the strikes and blows she so brilliantly issued with her tongue, that my awareness shifted. When I slammed the phone down, hyper-ventilating, sobbing to the point that I thought I would stop breathing, I suspected I might have a problem. When my four year-old son asked why grandma made me cry so much, the lightbulb went off. Thousands of lightbulbs, flashing in my eyes, burning holes in my skin indicated that something was not right. My son, so innocent, so gentle, so sweet and so, so smart and insightful told me what I could not tell myself for nearly 40 years. Grandma was not supposed to make me cry. No she was not but, sadly, it was sport for her. She played games with my mind to entertain herself and used me as her emotional tampon. Her pain was transferred to me in order for her to cope, to survive. While my instinct as a parent was immediately to protect my son when he shared his concerns with me, her instinct was always to protect herself. She never considered her job as a mother to be about making me better or stronger. She was about self-preservation. Sure, you are supposed to put on your own oxygen mask first before assisting your child but, once your mask is securely in place, you do not then sit back in your chair and watch your child suffocate.

I was a victim.

She was the abuser. It was often a quiet battle and sometimes more obvious to those wiser than me but it went on every single day of my life. I endured it for 13,505 days. I lasted 324,120 hours. I tolerated it for 19,447,200 minutes. 20 million minutes of my life were spent being abused. That’s a very bitter pill to swallow. A terrifying admission to make. A shameful recognition. A shattering discovery. I felt weak and broken and not ready or courageous enough to tackle the mountain of recovery.

Admitting that I had a membership to this not-so-elite club was perhaps the most painful moment of my life. It stung far worse than any strike my mother could issue. Suddenly I felt like I had allowed this to continue for so long and I could see with new eyes and a laser-sharp clarity all the damage that I had incurred as a result. I realized quickly that her abuse certainly wasn’t a secret because most of the people in my life knew my mother and knew about her behavior. I told stories of the awful things she had done to me and made jokes over the years of the absurdity of her behavior. But I kept it at arm’s length. Sure, it was part of my story but I strategically removed myself from it. She was the central character and I was simply the narrator. I bore witness with minimal scars. I had survived it. I was all good. I was all good. I was all good…

I was not all good. I was so incredibly broken but I had not allowed myself to open the door to the room where all the pain lived. I masqueraded myself as someone who just had some challenges. I did not wear the badge of abuse victim. I did not honor the power of my truth. I did not respect the pain. I was not ok and could not begin the healing process, could not attempt to repave my road until I accepted that fact.

For years, I have worked on recovering. I have unpeeled the onion, studying the many layers of the trauma of emotional abuse. I began to relearn so many basic aspects of life. I would never get the apology, the acknowledgment or the replacement of what was lost. I had to be courageous, dive into the waves and tumble through the rough seas only to find my way back to the shore. Only I had the power to fix things. There were no carpenters or repairmen I could call on to fix my broken house. I was the only one with the proper set of tools. I could try to bring in some helpers but, ultimately, it was my journey to travel, my pain to heal, my abuse to confront.

I still struggle with the idea of it all. I have long since come to accept my mother for who she was and have begun the process of forgiveness. It is not an overnight fix. You do not heal 20 million minutes of pain in a day, a week, a month or even a year. It is a process, slow and steady. There are detours, setbacks, roadblocks. Often there are new doorways that need to be opened and more layers to unpeel but now I take them on a bit more boldly. I stand up strong and tall with my hands on my hips and say there is no kryptonite that can destroy me. I can take whatever comes my way but I cannot promise that it won’t knock me down sometimes.

I try to remember now that victims of abuse don’t always walk around with black eyes and overt bruises. More often, their pain and scars are on the inside. They mask their trauma – no one wears a suit with a giant V on their chest to properly identify themselves. I try to take the time to look deeper when something seems off. I try to empathize and acknowledge that something might have gone wrong somewhere along the way. They may still be hiding behind the shame, the pain, the fear, the absolute exhaustion of trying to pretend everything is just fine. In the end, though, trauma leaks out of us. It seeps out of our pores and shows up in ways that make no sense to us. Until we are ready to connect the dots and feel the pain, one more time, we often deflect it, redirect it or shove it down but the trauma is strong, mighty and fearless. It will not be stopped. It will not be boxed up. It will not hide out. It will rear its head, however it sees fit.

I am grateful to my son for those words that day. He may never know how his innocent comment, his tender words meant to comfort his mommy as only a small child who adores his mother can offer, affected my life. He may never think of himself as my savior for how can a little boy accomplish such a herculean task. But, heroes come in many shapes and sizes and display themselves in ways that we often miss. I’m just glad that I paid attention that day so many years ago.

I am no longer a victim. I am a survivor. And, I am proud.