It was a home where you could feel the tension just being there. There was tension between my parents, and my mother was often angry. My father was ALWAYS angry. I never, ever saw any demonstration of love between them. As for me – I was the “difficult child,” and my parents never ceased letting me know that. And it never stopped until the day I left at age 18. Every word directed at me was a word of criticism or humiliation. I wasn’t just lazy, I was the laziest, I wasn’t just hateful, I was the most hateful, and so it was with the name of the day, whatever it may be it would have “est” after it.
I had a cousin who I would later in life realize he had some problems I would recognize as demonic in nature. From his babyhood he caused constant turmoil, shaking his crib so fiercely that he’d shake it all across the room to the other side. As he grew older he was destructive, destroying toys, destroying whatever was in front of him. I particularly remember that we went to their house one day just before Christmas, and as we were leaving he came out into the yard with us …with no shoes on. The driveway was covered in snow and ice, and he stood there for quite awhile seemingly unaware of any pain or discomfort. One day his mother dropped him off at our house for a day, and during that time he managed to destroy some of my brother’s toys, and caused such havoc that when he left we all breathed a sigh of relief. Several days later I viewed my opportunity to maybe receive some emotional relief from my mother, and I went to her and asked, “At least I’m not as bad as Mitch, am I?” “Yes,” she said, “you are!” And from that day forward I viewed myself as some kind of monster. Until that day, Mitch was the most terrible person in our world. And now I’m being told that I am.
My entire experience in my parents’ home was this and more of this and more. I heard my father tell my mother one night, after we kids were in bed (so he had no idea I’d hear him.) He said, “I just wish God would come and take her.” He couldn’t make me into what he wanted me to be, so he hated me. In grade school, we sat according to our rank in the class, and my father demanded that I not only be in the first row, but that I must be near the beginning of the first row. I was constantly asked what position my desk was in the row, and after awhile I came to hate it so much that I gave up. I couldn’t please him no matter what I did, so I gave up. And that was to set the tone for the rest of my school years – I was so unable to please them that I went entirely the other way, into total rebellion. I became the “difficult child” that they always said I was. Somewhere around the 4th grade I stopped doing homework and accepted that I was just the black sheep and that was never going to change. I stopped trying and allowed the hatred in my heart to take over me.
My sister was two years younger than me and she witnessed the hatred, name-calling, and constant humiliation leveled at me, and she went the other way. She became the “good girl,” and as I saw her constantly praised, I hated her too. I was filled with hatred. There was nothing good inside me. Dad was right, on that point.
There was another element in this story which I would realize only later in life. When I was born, my mother had three unmarried sisters at home and I was the new excitement in the family. From what I could gather later, my aunts doted on me, swathering me with all kinds of attention. My father also had an unmarried sister, so between them all I was the golden child. Until my sister was born two years later. Then SHE became the new excitement in the family, and no care was taken to help me avoid the jealousy that would fill my heart towards her well into our adult years. I have a particular memory of this. We went to another city to visit other relatives who lived “away,” and I was very excited because I hadn’t seen these cousins in a long time. All the way there I kept asking, “Are we almost there?” Then finally when we arrived, the cousin I was so anxious to see, ran out of the house toward us yelling, “Cinnnnndyyyyy!” I just sat there, unnoticed, and incapable of translating this correctly to my soul. She was the new golden child and would always be …because she was “cute” and I wasn’t. She was passive and I wasn’t. She was demuring and I wasn’t. I couldn’t compete and I knew it. My hatred of her was deep-seated and would someday take the almighty power of God to heal.
Silvermount, Waterville
12 years old…
The summer shortly before I turned twelve my parents decided we were going to move across town. What excitement! A whole new place to live and maybe …just maybe …a friend? It sure would be nice to have a friend. I had had two friends, but Warren’s family who lived upstairs over us moved away, and Nancy, the little Jewish girl who lived down the street also moved away. My life had become very, very empty and lonely. So I was beside myself with excitement when I was told we were moving. Suddenly there was hope again, for something good to arise in my life.
It was the summer before seventh grade. I walked down to what was to be our new school to take a look. It wasn’t as grand as our former school and church, it was an older brick building and not attractive, but it was the parish church and school for that part of town. I wondered if the kids would like me. I’d never had a friend at school before, maybe this would be different. On the first day of school I was filled with anxiety, but hoping for the best. I was dressed in the new skirt my mother had made me, a pretty blue with tiny white flowers. I took my assigned seat and looked around. No one looked back at me.
On the third week I came back to class early from lunch one day, and Candace was alone in the classroom. She came to me and leaned forward as though she was going to tell me a secret and said, “I just want you to know that the girls don’t like you.” Have you ever heard Satan speak through the mouth of a twelve-year-old girl? I simply replied, “thank you for telling me,” hiding the pain behind a forced smile. From that day on I just sat silently at my desk and wished I could disappear. The thought Satan planted in my mind that day would keep me in the same expectation throughout the rest of my school years. I didn’t make friends, but that was because I kept quiet and kept to myself, “knowing” the girls didn’t like me.
But something new was about to begin. Across the street from our new home there was a boy about my age, and he sent another boy to ask if he could come over and just sit around with me. Now THAT was a shock! Someone liked ME??? Are you kidding??? A boy, at that??? Of course I said yes, and Don began coming over every day. He was from a good family, his father was a doctor and his mother ran a spotless home. I think that impressed my parents, allowing him to come freely whenever he wanted to. It didn’t take long before I was totally “in love” with Don. “When school gets out each day,” he said, “come by my school and we’ll walk home together.” After 6th grade, girls’ classes were girls only, and and the boys went to the boys’ school, run by the “Brothers,” which was only a short walk away. So at 3:00 every afternoon I’d walk over to “the Brothers” school and Don and I would walk home together, as he lived just across the street from me. My mother was working so the house was empty when we kids got home. My sister Cindy became close friends with Ellen, Don’s sister, and most days they would play at Ellen’s house, while Don came over to mine. Don became my whole life. He filled a very, very deep void inside, a place that the love of parents should have filled, but didn’t. I had only known love one other time in my life, and I lost it. When Ladd died.
Don and I were together every moment we weren’t in school, and one day he asked if he could kiss me and I said yes. We were “in love.” One day Don gave me a love letter, and asked me to respond. I did, and from that day on when we were apart we were writing love letters to each other.
One afternoon Don asked his mother if he could take me up to his bedroom to show me the totem pole he had made. The previous summer he had attended a boys’ summer camp and a real live Indian had made that totem pole with him. Don had it standing next to his window in the corner of his room. It was very colorful, and almost as tall as he was. He took it and showed me the different carvings on it and I handled it. It was a true work of art and I told him I loved it. He was relly proud of it. Someday that totem pole would have a greater meaning to me.
After about a year, our parents became very concerned at how close we had become. They told us that we had to stop seeing each other. Neither of us understood why they felt this way, but they did and our parents suddenly became “the enemy.” We began talking about how we were going to continue without them knowing it. Don had the idea first, “Let’s meet at the cemetery,” he said, “that way no one will see us and we can just be alone there.” “Ok,” I said, and then proceeded to tell Mum that I had made a friend at school, that her name was Sylvia and she lived on Water Street, (which was true) but they don’t have a telephone (which was not true.) I told her that I’d go to her house every day until suppertime, then I’d be home for supper. My mother believed me. Our plan worked!
Don and I met at the cemetery every day for another year. We walked among the graves hand-in-hand and read the tombstones and just talked and enjoyed each other. At supper time we both went home. Then before going to bed, we had a “good night” signal. Don would flick his bedroom light off and on several times, and I would answer by flicking my light off and on several times. And then we each would go to bed dreaming about each other.
I was happy. I didn’t have a single friend in the world, but I didn’t care that the girls didn’t “like” me as Candace had told me. I had Don and I would have been content to love only him for the rest of my life. He agreed. Every day we parted with “I love you,” and a kiss that became a bit more intense as time went on, but never more than that.
One day two years later, Don called me at home. It was a Friday night and we were nearing the end of the school year. We had to get together and “synchronize our plans,” as he put it. One thing we could do was go to the public swimming pool as often as possible, our parents wouldn’t be there so we could be together there. “But we need to talk about this and make sure we have the right stories,” he said. “Meet me at Rummel’s tomorrow at 10:00.” Rummel’s was the ice cream store nearby, where we had met several times in the back by the woods for short visits. “Ok,” I said, “see you tomorrow at 10:00.” “I love you,” he said. “Love you too,” I answered.
Then I went downstairs to put my rock-n-roll music on. My sister Cindy would often join me downstairs. We each had a rocking chair and we’d sing for hours along with our favorite singers like the Everly Brothers, Neil Sedaka, and the Beatles. We had one song we acted out – and would we ever laugh. “If I was a tower of strength,” the song went, “I’d tell you goodbye, I don’t want you, I don’t need you, I don’t love you anymore, and I’d walk out the door!” We made all kinds of grimaces as we’d act out the words to that song, and then we’d laugh like the crazy teenagers that we were.
Saturday morning came and I was up early. I had breakfast and then I told Mum I was going over to Sylvia’s. I arrived at Rummel’s at quarter of 10 and sat at one of the picnic benches they had there in the back. It was a beautiful sunny Saturday morning in June. The birds were singing and one dropped a “turd” right next to me. It didn’t bother me, in fact I had to laugh. Everything was right in the world.
By 10:15 Don hadn’t showed up. I began to wonder what was wrong. I suspected that his mother intercepted him. I waited another fifteen minutes then I went home. I looked over into his yard and saw him there, so I cornered one of the neighborhood boys and gave him a nickel and said “please go over to Don and ask him if he plans on being at Rummel’s today.” So the little boy left on his bike. A few minutes later he came back and said, “Don told me to tell you to go to hell!”
? ? ?
I told that boy I’d never give him a nickel again as long as I lived and that he’d better be outa my sight before I could count to five. The little boy squealed his bike tires as he zoomed out of my yard.
I went into the livingroom and kept watch over Don’s back yard. He lived across the street from us, but the front of his house faced the street parallel to ours, so when I looked over toward his house, I was looking into his back yard. I watched and waited. Finally, I saw him get onto his bike and leave. He left in the direction of downtown, so I knew which way he’d be coming back. I went down the street to a wooded lot and hid in the bushes and waited. After about half an hour, I saw him round the corner on his bike and I ran out in front of him. He either had to stop or run me over, I didn’t care which. So he stopped. And I said, “Donny, what on earth is this all about???” He grabbed his bike away from me, went around me, and blurted out something like “when we’re older,” and left me standing there.
I watched him go, and went into a state of numbing paralysis. Later in life I would recognize this first reaction to shock. I just go numb. No emotion. Just numb. For hours. And there would be many more of these to come. Someone’s “plan” for my life.
I just stood there for a long, long time. Then I walked home and went in and sat on my bed, still numb. And then …this was the first time of many to come, when I went truly out of my mind. My heart was reeling with shock and horror. He had not given me a reason, although I later found out that his father told him they were sending him to Alfred, a boy’s school up north, if he didn’t say goodbye to me forever. I heard it was quite a scene and they terrified him.
I was a child. Experiencing all the emotions that an adult would experience at having the same thing happen. An overwhelming shock that hurts beyond the enduring. My life as I knew it was over. And great damage was added to my already-ruined soul.
After many hours of being just silently stunned, the tears finally came and filled my eyes and stayed there for the next several years. It would be months before the initial shock wore off, but years before I would be able to come out of emotional hell. Truly, the rug had been pulled out from under me. I felt like I had died and gone to hell. Hell was beginning to feel like a familiar place.
I did not have a friend in the world. I had not made friends when we moved across town, because before school began I had entered into this relationship with Don and was with him exclusively every day for two whole years. I did not have a mother, I was “a difficult child” so she kept her distance. I did not have a father. He was a tyrant and felt that I was getting what I deserved. He hated me, and I certainly hated him. I had no aunt, no uncle, no teacher, no friend, there was absolutely no one for me to turn to. Life had left me totally abandoned, and I was spinning out of control. Modern medicine might have called it “a breakdown.” A child having a breakdown? Yes. That’s what it was. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and all kinds of evil entered my soul. I filled up with even more hatred, and rage, and my world became total darkness. And that’s the way it would stay for many, many years.
I lived as a zombie after that. Went through the motions of life. Began a new school in the fall, as I entered the all-girls Catholic high school in town. Every day I went home from school, went into my bedroom, closed the door and got on my knees on the hardwood floor before my statues of the Blessed Virgin and the saints that I had on a shelf in the corner of the room. Every day, every single day, I sobbed and sobbed till my body was shaking all over. I pleaded with God, “oh please, I’ll do ANYTHING if only you’ll send Don back to me.” But God wasn’t listening to me. And I knew that I had lived in sin with Don, not sexually, but lying to my parents and sneaking off to be with him daily for a long, long time. My life had become a lie. I knew that this was punishment. But I had no relief, nothing, not a single friend, no one. My mother surely heard my sobs, but left me alone to suffer it. There was not a soul in the world who loved me. Not one.
As the school semester was coming to a close Ellen, Don’s sister, came over to our house and told us that her family was moving to Ohio. I felt the blood drain to my feet and my stomach turned hard as a very cold stone. “You’re moving to Ohio?” “Yes, right after Christmas, my father will be taking a course there and we’ll be gone for two years.”
Reeling now, the world spinning around me, this was God’s answer to my desperate pleas that he send Don back to me? To say I was devastated is the closest but remotest word I can think of to express the depth of emotion taking over me. Not only was Don out of my life, but now I wouldn’t even be able to see him in his backyard. My life was over. I entered the world of the walking dead. And believe me, that’s no exaggeration. I began to have “tics,” which caused a whole other set of problems with my parents humiliating me because of them and telling me they’d never be seen in public with me as long as I continued to “do that.” One night at the supper table my mother said that she saw a man today, walking across Main Street “doing that thing that you do,” and how totally stupid he looked. My father told me another time that he had planned to get seasons tickets to Colby’s concerts and would have taken me, but “I’ll never be seen in public with you as long as you shake like that.” I remember sitting down and watching a clock with a second hand going around, to see how long I could “stop the shaking.” I couldn’t do it for sixty seconds. How was I supposed to “stop it?”
Desperate for SOMEONE to listen to me, I wrote my heart out to “Dear Abby.” Several weeks later I received a reply in the mail. She said, “you’ll be starting a whole new life in Ohio, you’ll meet many new friends, just be patient and all will be well.” Not even Dear Abby could comfort me. She hadn’t even read my letter right. It’s not I who was moving to a whole new world, it’s Don who’s going away. To find new friends, and all will be well …with him.
The day after Christmas at 5:30, the time Ellen had told us they were leaving, I went out to the roadside and hid behind a snowbank. I watched them load up the car. I watched the car slowly back out of the driveway, and I watched them turn onto Silver Street and drive out of my life. I stayed there a long time, sobbing, just sobbing, my body wracked with the heaves and convulsions of the deepest kind of grief.
In all this, I didn’t hate God. I knew how sinful I was and never questioned the fact that this was judgment on my sin. Besides, if I didn’t have God to cry to, and cry I did, I would have no one. No one. Not a single one in this world.
I was totally alone. Dying. If a dead person can die.
For many years I was absolutely convinced God had abandoned me because of my sin. But I had no one else to turn to, so I turned to him. I repented before him. Then I took a needle, scratched my leg, and wrote out a dedication of my life to him – in my own blood. Then I pasted a picture of myself onto the paper, folded it, and put it in my jewelry box. God was my only hope, and I surrendered my life to him, without knowing who he was, only that he was God. And then I forgot about that and just put one foot in front of another to walk out the rest of my miserable existence. What else could I do?
One item of interest: my mother had put me in school a year early when I was four years old because I was taller than all the kids my age. During my heartache over the loss of Don, and as I turned to the Lord because he was the only one there, I made one more request: “Please, please don’t let me grow any taller.” And I never grew another fraction of an inch. I leveled out at 5’4. One prayer answered. I remained at a totally normal height for a girl. Other than my begging and pleading for God to bring Don back to me, this was the first prayer I remember praying, and it amazed me that God answered it immediately.
The Way Of Suffering 