Me. Volume 1.

I put my makeup on today with more fervor than I ever remember before, you would think it was Christmas morning. But, it's only November 29th. 8:07am. Making coffee this morning, I had a brilliant idea. Why not use this blog to it's potential?? Why not allow this venting to be more than my take on politics or ethics, but also use it to heal me. So that I may become the strongest me I can be for me and my children?? It's not like my one, single reader will mind a little personal info here and there. And through this personal vomiting of emotions, I should be able to recognize habits and make solid changes. Enough rambling.

I don't remember much about being a child, especially a small child. One of the two of the earliest memories I have of my life was when I was approximately 4 or 5 years old, in tears, climbing the big tree in my front yard to hide and get away from the yelling and screaming going on inside my house. The other memory was being yelled at by my sister's husband when I was around 3 or 4, while playing with my nieces on one of those tiny Fisher Price slides, because children aren't supposed to be laughing, having fun, inside the house. Yes, this is the disfunction I call my upbringing.

I'm sure I don't remember anything because it was all so terrible. An alcoholic, abusive father. And a victimized, enabling mother. I was the baby out of six kids, all who were, in today's view, practically grown when I came around. My days, of which I can remember, were saved first, from afternoon soap operas, and then from school. My mom wasn't yelling as long as she was watching her soaps. And I couldn't hear any yelling while I was at school. Another saving grace was that my father worked long days most of the time, I think. The beligerent screaming and emotional and psychological abuse didn't start until well into the night, typically. But we knew when it was about to start. There were common precursors, the most common of which was my frantic mom scrambling to get the house immaculate and screaming out orders that we kids should clean or else our rear-ends would be in pain. It was never enough though. My dad wasn't satisfied if we had baked cookies. It wasn't enough that dinner was ready for him on the table if he decided to be sober enough to stumble inside once in a while. Why is there a fur ball on the floor. Stupid cat. *Cue the cat getting thrown across the room* But my mom was our martyr. She took most of the abuse. Of course until he started in on the oldest kids, of whom most stood up for themselves pretty well. Needless to say, there were a lot of broken dishes, holes in the walls, and that poor cat took a few herself.

Not only that, my mom was given a ridiculously measly allowance for the family. A family of three couldn't survive off what my dad gave her for the two of them and the six kids. But she did her best. She cut coupons, and made sure to shop only where they doubled them. She got the government milk and cheese. She made what I remember to be gourmet meals off a dime. And she saved the rest. Well, in reality, she hoarded the rest. Along with a lot of other stuff. But who could blame her. When my dad got home, she was given the third degree on how every single penny was spent, and how dare she spend SO much here and SO much there. I just remember feeling sorry for her and wondering how I could take some of the blame to make it easier.

Now, I have good memories too. I remember taking my brother to CAP and laying my head on his shoulder. I remember my dad being home one day, and racing me down the sidewalk. (Of course, I don't remember how he got to the finish line without falling, but it was funny enough to remember as happy.) I also remember teaching myself to read the little beginner yellow books (See Spot Run) and showing it to my mom and dad in one of the other habitual actions my dad would do in his stupor; sit next to my mom and slur the words, "I love you. Do you know how much I love you?" And it would eventually turn into a much louder, "How do you not know how much I love you?? I do all of this for you." But needless to say, I read about Spot running, what seemed to be a marathon, in the middle of my mom and dad, on the couch in the dark living room. Another positive memory.

I suppose if that is enough for me for the day, that is plenty for my one reader. I will make sure to continue the group...I mean...personal therapy tomorrow. Thanks for listening.