Writing on a Saturday afternoon ...

Just something I'm working on this Saturday.  What do you think?

In the thirty years since their wedding day, they had had their share of ups and downs. Way more downs if truth be told. But, despite the addictions, the constant arguments over sex and his uncontrollable need to control everything, she had stuck with him, even when it was time to say goodbye.

“Gotta go”, he had told her when the little they could take with them was packed and in the car.

“Please, I don't want to. Lets just stay here”, she begged.

“Can't”.

“Sure we can”, her voice growing more and more desperate. “ We can make it work. We'll find a bigger place. Take everyone with us. Work as a team”.

“We can't”, he said too firmly, as if talking to a child instead of his soulmate.

“We gotta go, Babe. I'm sorry”, he said and he was.

If he had known the truth, what the takeover was really about, they would have rode it out at home in Brooklyn just like they had for over thirty years.

Now, they were closer than ever but the love of his life was drifting further and further away.” Just like this damn boat”, he thought. 

I want to be a Writer ...

The blinking cursor mocks me.  Its constant presence surrounded by glaring emptiness reminds me “you will never be a “real writer”.  You will never be her.”   Over the years, I have written hundreds of inane articles all about a world famous, best-selling, iconic author who I have never met, detailing her every upcoming project, her every online mention and even her every Facebook page post, all the while, wishing I was her. 

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a writer.  At seven or eight, I started creating my own fantasies to escape the horrors of an alcoholic Father, a bitterly disappointed Mother and four siblings in varying states of emotional trauma.

They were always the same.  All about a beautiful, young princess trapped in a lonely castle waiting for someone or something to take her away.   As I got older, and could escape through other people’s words, I gave up my own fantasies and immersed myself in the worlds of others.

When I was ten, my junkie brother who also loved to read, but used other roads to escape, introduced me to an author who wrote the most beautiful prose I’d ever read all about these wondrous creatures trapped in their own private hell. 

Neither alive nor dead, her characters gave voice to my own private demons.  Her descriptions of a certain time and certain place transported me from the daily terror of a childhood I had no control over into a world where I didn’t have to worry all the time about what would happen next;  I knew she’d take care of the end.

When my Father was arrested and went to jail for bank robbery and my sister started running away, I picked up the pen again.  Only now, I no longer wrote about castles and princesses, instead I wrote about the death of childish dreams. 

After a while, my reading habits also changed.  Gone was the flowery prose and lavish lifestyles of characters who no longer felt like they belonged in my life.  Now, I was reading the memoirs of other people whose dysfunctional childhoods mirrored my own.  I soon discovered my misery not only loved company, it relished the camaraderie.

In my early twenties, I was encouraged by a supportive spouse tired of listening to my longing to be a “real writer” to submit my work to a few women’s magazines.

My first essay was published not long after, but was almost unrecognizable once the editor got hold of it.  The true story of my eldest brother’s escapades as a mob “wannabe” and his eventual placement in the witness protection program was turned into a sappy ode about a heartbroken Mother and the torture of losing her eldest child.  Needless to say, there was nothing sappy about the truth.

But, it was still my name that was credited as the author of the piece and thrilled by the idea that whoever read it would believe it was mine, I continued to write and submit certain that, one day, it would be.

Over the years, I would find myself writing for anyone willing to publish my work no matter how small the publication or insignificant the story.  In turn, I’ve written fascinating pieces on new bus-stops, store openings and even bingo stories for any pay and, most times, none at all.  A byline was all I needed.

A couple of times, I would get lucky and some of my own essays about my life would be printed in reputable newspapers that even had their own subscribers.  On those occasions, there was no one better than me.  My life mattered.  I was a writer.  Someone else said so because they published it.

But, as time moved along and I got older, my desire to write seemed to come and go.  I still felt that same need to put pen to paper and the familiar sense of relief and release when I spilled my guts on the page, but the subsequent loss of confidence in my abilities combined with the rarity of publication and the constant thought that no one else would be interested in my life, endlessly plagued me and terminal doubt became my constant companion.

However, my ego had a mind of its own and with paper publications becoming obsolete, I began looking online for other writing opportunities.  It was then that I found a fledgling news and entertainment website that was looking for writers for specific subjects and even let you suggest your own.

“What the hell could I write about?” I pondered.  I was now 47 years old and married for twenty-five years.  I worked part-time as a medical records clerk and spent my downtime cooking, cleaning or, if I wasn’t too tired, reading.

After researching some of the other topics covered on this website, I could only think of one thing; I would write about my favorite childhood author.

It seemed simple enough.  I was definitely familiar with her books, I knew, what I thought was a lot,  about her personal life and, above all, she had had a significant enough affect on my childhood years that writing about her, might be the closest I would ever come to writing about myself.

In the years that followed and over the course of e-mails and online posts, I like to think that this famous author and I have come to know each other pretty well.  I have told her about my own battles with prescription drug abuse, my many marital issues and even my sick puppy and she has supported me through it all, though we have never met and, probably, never will.

It is a strange online relationship between someone who has longed her whole life to be a famous writer and a truly famous writer grateful for all that life has given her. 

But, for now, the blinking cursor still mocks me.

Just a dream ... just a dream.

The change of light startled her. It was dim yet intrusive and disturbed the blissful dark she'd come to appreciate for its prelude to her precious sleep.
Who is it? Her voice was shaky and foreign to her, the continued result of the pills she took to keep her unconscience.
Feel like talking?, he said.
Christ, is that what you woke me up for?, she was bitter, angry. This was not the first time he tried this crap.
Well we're going to have to talk sooner or later.
There it was, that air of authority that his tone took on whenever he got exasperated with her. God, she hated it. The only male authority in her life had been her Father and he was always too drunk or in jail to use any tone.
Later, we'll talk later, she grumbled.
You can't sleep forever, he bitched as he closed the door and she was once again immersed in blessed darkness.
Maybe not, she thought as she closed her eyes. But shit if she couldn't try.
This pattern of him disturbing her sleep continued for two more days until finally she got sick of his daily requests to talk about what happened.  At one point, he even threatened to leave for good and never come back.
She thought about it. Thought that would be just fine.
On the third day when he tried again she begrudgingly got up.
She wouldn't change though or wash her stank ass. He didn't deserve better than her filthy hair and dirty pajamas.
How're you feeling?, he asked and once again she could tell he really didn't give a shit, he just had nothing else to say.
What type of fucking question is that?, she felt the same old anger growing.
How do you think I feel; how do you feel?, you condescending mother-fucker, she thought but didn't say.
Fine. It's been awhile.
Yep.
Are you still having those nightmares?
Nope, she lied.
Really, he said, more statement than question.
You're kidding, right?, she asked sarcastically, I said no.
Her skin started to itch again like it always did when she got aggravated.
One only had to look at the scars on her arms to see she got aggravated often. 
Let me ask you something?  She struggled to speak and remain still at the same time.
What do you want from me?
What I've always wanted, just to talk this out.
I'm tired.and we're not getting anywhere.  I'm going back to bed.
The Xanax she had downed when she realized there was no avoiding him was just kicking in.
Sure, if you're tired, sleep. Ill be here when you wake up.
But, will I?, she thought.
Before long, she was dreaming again. Only they  weren't really dreams. They were the same old nightmares she'd been having for years. 
She was trapped. The locations sometimes changed but it was usually a large building as tall as the sky or  a huge cruise ship with hundreds of decks. But the terror she felt was always the same.
She was running and couldn't find him and couldn't find the way to where he might be.
The sheer panic was the worst. No matter how far she ran or how close she came, he wasn't there.
Most times her mind couldn't handle the terror and her sub-conscience would force her awake.
Tonight was different. She couldn't wake up. And, this time it wasn't only him she couldn't find but her kids and the dog too.  And so she just kept running.
Finally, when she thought she'd be stuck in this limbo forever, there was the blinding light that broadcast his arrival.
I heard crying, he said sweetly.
You wish. I told you the last time you hurt me I'd never cry for you again.
Yea, you did.
Fuck you. You left.
I never left, he said, his voice barely above a whisper. I'm still here.
Only part of you, she whispered, the truth of the statement to painful to say at a normal timber.
Want to talk?
Dear God, she screamed at him, why don't you just leave me the fuck alone?
Can't.
Why the fuck not?, she asked, knowing the answer before he even said the words.
Because I love you.
Mother of God, she prayed to a deity she no longer believed in, make it stop.
I miss you, he whispered. The feel of your body, the smell of your skin, that look in your eyes when you still thought we mattered.
I wasn't the one who fucked up, she spat, realizing the tears she swore shed never spill again were now flowing freely.
I know ... I know, he implored. But what do you want me to do about it? It's done, over. I can't go back in time and change things.
Just go away, she heard herself say and wished she could take back the words the second they left her lips.
Is that really what you want?, he asked. Are you sure?
Yes, she said softly and for the first time in a long time, without malice.
Once more, she found herself alone and in the dark.
Before long, the door opened.
Get some sleep? Dr. Murphy asked.
A little.
Feel like talking?
If I talk to you, will you stop bothering me?
Maybe.
Lets start with what happened.
Inside she screamed. She tried to hang on to the image of him that day.
Helping the girls into the car. Walking to the back to lift Chunkys fat butt up and in the hatchback.  Of course, he didn't have a coat on. Just because it was 45 degrees didn't mean he'd put one on. He was too macho (or at least he thought so) to wear some damn jacket.
She tried to remember the feel of his lips on hers as he kissed her goodbye, turned and said miss you much, love you more, see you soon
It was impossible.
Do you remember anything?
Yes, she whispered.
Tell me, he said.
Mike and the girls were driving home after going shopping and a drunk driver going the wrong way, crashed head first into their car.
And, he pushed.
And, they died and they're not coming back, she lied again.
Good, he said, sounds like you're finally accepting what happened.
I'm a little tired. May I lie down?
Sure, I'll check in on you later. And, with that Dr. Murphy left her alone.
That night her dreams returned. Only this time it was no nightmare This time she recognized her surroundings and didn't panic.
She was home again. Their home. The girls were playing in their room, Chunk, her english bulldog was asleep at her feet and Mike was next to her in the bed they'd shared for 20 years.
God, he felt so good, so right. She hadn't felt this safe since they'd met so long ago and she immediately knew he would always be there for her. No matter what.
Thought you left? , she said.
Just had to say goodbye one more time.
Don't go, she begged.
I thought you wanted me too?
Never ... ever.
Got to, Babe. Places to go. People to see.
Will I see you again? the tears automatically came.
Sure you will.
Where?
In your dreams.  In the light.
Miss you much,  Babe, love you more, see you soon.

Thank you to Ran Valerhon for the use of his beautiful image.  Check out more of his work at "Valerhon.com

The Things You Learn as a Child

It was dark under the covers on my bed, but it was safe.  The air was still and the loud voices could still be heard but they were no longer shouts, simply muffled sounds that were undescernable.  I wondered when it would stop, when it would be okay leave my bedroom.  Though, to be honest,  I was in no hurry.

I learned a lot of interesting things hiding in the small bedroom I shared with my sister in a NYC housing project located on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.

When I was 5 or 6, I learned that no matter how hard a person tried or how much they wanted to, they would never be able to fly away even if, in your eyes, they were a super-hero.

Back then, one of my favorite past times was looking out the bedroom window of our 13^th story apartment building at all the different cars and trucks as they raced up and down the FDR Dr. The Drive began at the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn bridge exit and ran up South St. until it turned into the East River Dr. in the teens.  I would watch these motor vehicles for hours always wondering where all those people could possibly be going and why were they in such a hurry to get there?

 I would also stare for hours at the East River.  On certain days, at certain times, the grey murky water that separated Manhattan from the lesser boroughs sparkled from the glare of the sun and during that period no one could tell that it was filthy or filled with dead things.  In those moments, the river was beautiful and I would imagine my future self, rich and happy, on one of the boats that traversed the shorelines on my way to happier places.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one in my house to enjoy the view.  I had heard my parents whispering, on more than one occasion, about how my older brother John was always on the roof of our apartment building and figured he liked to look out and envision his future, as well.

John was my Mother’s second child and my favorite brother.  He was the cool one, the one with the long hair that made him look like Jesus and the hand-painted denim jacket decorated with peace symbols and pretty green leaves.  He wore killer construction boots and introduced me to the Beatles, the Stones, and Bowie.  He read really interesting books like “ The Lord of the Rings”, and “The Anarchist Cookbook” and then passed them to me when he was done.

He never made me feel invisible like the rest of my family and went out of his way to convince me that my opinions mattered, even if I was always considered the baby.  We never spent as much time as I would have liked together because of our 8 yr. age difference and the fact that he couldn’t wait to get out of our house almost as soon as he woke up.

I just figured, like everyone else who lived there, he didn’t want to hear my parent’s daily arguments about money, drinking or a job, so he ran as fast as he could to the streets, his friends, and where things were better.

Lately though, I started to notice changes in my brother.  When he was home, he was always so tired, he sometimes fell asleep at the dinner table or skipped dinner and went right to bed.  Also, he seemed to be getting thinner and his normally lustrous hair, just wasn’t as shiny. 

Back then, I chalked it up to the flu or some cold that he contracted and simply waited till he felt better and would pay attention to me again.

My parents were a little more concerned.  Often, I would hear loud whispers coming from their bedroom and, although, I couldn’t make it all out, I did pick up certain words like, needle, syringe and babanya.

I didn’t understand any of that back then, but the disgust impossible to hide in their tone, spoke volumes about how serious my brother’s problems were.

One day, money was taken from my Mother’s wallet.  This was not an unusual occurrence given the fact that my alcoholic Father, when he couldn’t get money from picking up discarded scratch tickets at OTB, or no one gave him a few bucks for sweeping up one of the neighborhood social clubs and their was no way to get any more credit from the liquor stores, would occasionally take what he needed from her.

But, for some reason, this time the arguments and accusations between my parents never materialized.  It was as if they both knew what had happened to the missing cash and quietly accepted the situation.  Their nonchalance at something that would have otherwise caused a shit-storm terrified me to no end.  Where was the explosion and what were they saving it for?

The whispering and side way glances continued for a couple of weeks.  During that time, other things began to turn up missing.  One day, it was an old toaster that never got hot enough to brown anything.  Another day, it was my Mother’s fake gold chain with the real gold “#1 Mom” attached.  Then, I noticed my beloved tape recorder was gone.

The tape recorder had been a Christmas gift from my parents.  Back then, there were no CD players or ipods and digital music wasn’t even heard of yet.  If you wanted to record your favorite song, you would need a tape cassette and have to wait by the radio till the station played it, with two fingers placed firmly on the play and record buttons and, simultaneously, press down on both once the song started.  If you were lucky, you got it just in time.  Most times, however, the first few chords were always missing.

I loved my tape recorder.  Not simply because it was the coolest present I’d ever gotten till that point, but because my sister and I would play for hours with it, taking turns recording our voices or making silly sounds, and for a short time we’d forget about the constant arguing and bitter feelings that permeated our apartment like the cold in winter.  It was an easy escape into a land of make-believe that never really existed for us as it does for so many other children.

Apparently, the tape recorder was my parents breaking point.  The fact that I was inconsolable and they certainly didn’t have any extra cash to replace it and make me happy again was definitely a factor. Even at 5 or 6, I already understood the power of my tears.  As the baby of the family I was my parent’s last chance at a normal child and was treated accordingly.  I got whatever I asked for (within their means) and if something was broken in the house or there was a fight, it was already a given that it was not my fault.  Sometimes I felt guilty when one of my other siblings got the blame for something I did, but mostly I was ok with it. Especially this time.  I didn’t care who took it (though I was sure it was my Father) I just wanted it back.

Had I known about the fallout that would ensue from a simple missing tape recorder, I would have happily given it up without another word.

I had been playing in my room with my make-believe dollhouse that I had constructed of cardboard boxes using old toilet paper rolls and empty match boxes as furniture, when the fireworks began.

“Where the fuck were you?”, I heard my Father shout as soon as the front door closed.  In my room, I couldn’t see who just walked in, but I had a good idea who it was.

“It’s none of your business”, John replied, slurring his words, “Why don’t you find another bottle to crawl into?” 

“You fucking junkie lowlife”, shouted my alcoholic Father.

 Then I heard a loud bang and some additional muffled shouting; muffled because I had already climbed into my bed and was desperately squeezing my ears closed with my covers.

After a few minutes of this, I couldn’t hear anything anymore.  Carefully, I began to lower the covers and, instead of shouting, heard the quiet sobs of my older brother.

As I bravely opened my door a crack, I witnessed something that I hadn’t seen before.  My Father, who everyone considered a waste, was cradling my brother John in his arms, a small cut bleeding from his forehead as they both sat on the floor, a broken ash tray at their feet with my Father’s old camel cigarette butts haphazardly strewn about. 

My brother was crying hard and all my Father kept saying was “Ssshh, it’ll be alright; it’ll be alright”.

After that, I knew who had taken the missing things.  I even kind of knew why.  As young as I was, I had heard the term “Junkie” on T.V. shows and even read the word in a couple of my Father’s books that I wasn’t supposed to go near. 

I hadn’t yet learned about drugs and what they could do to a person.  From my little exposure to the word, I knew that a junkie was a tragic figure that people were afraid of and cops always went after.  Later on, I would learn the hard way about being strung out on some substance or another and doing anything you had to, to get to that place in your head where the pain went away. 

But, at 5 or 6, all I knew was whatever a junkie was, it was bad.

After my Father had that big fight with John, my brother didn’t leave the house.  During that time, however,  I noticed he wasn’t the same.

He didn’t want to talk, or listen to music or even read.  He was jumpy and irritable and ate lots of chocolate candy.  Mostly, he stood in bed shivering and shaking.  My mother who ordered me not to go into his room, would go back and forth, all day long, emptying and cleaning a bed-pan for him.  I was certain he must have had the flu and she just didn’t want anyone else to contract it.

The very next day, I woke up to my brother screaming.  The sounds were guttural and reminded me of a wounded animal caught in a trap.

There was clear and distinct desperation in his voice when he shouted, “Get out of my fucking way … I’ve got to get out of here!”.

It was then I realized that my emotionally disturbed older sister wasn’t in our bedroom.  My first and only thought was that she would be terrified and too afraid to make a run for it.  When bad things happened in my house, she often froze and tried to disconnect from her reality.

Even though I was also afraid of the horror I would find, I also knew I couldn’t leave her out there with them.  I had to go get her.

“Get away from the door … move it you fucking bum”, my brother shouted, his anxiety and desperation growing.

I knew I couldn’t wait any longer.  What it Kathy was physically in the way and got hurt.  As I took a deep breath and opened my door, it wasn’t the figure of my sister sitting in a corner of the kitchen, her eyes blank as she rocked back and forth, back and forth that made my stomach drop and a silent scream emanate from my lips.

There, standing on the ledge of our 13^th story wide open kitchen window, one foot dangling out, was my brother.  My Father had a death grip on his arm and was pulling him back with all his might.  My Mother stood guarding the front door, sentry like, her eyes wide as she kept screaming, “Al, get him … get him!!!”

This time, it wasn’t my sister that stood frozen; it was me.  I was glued in place, terrified, I didn’t understand what was happening.

After what seemed like forever, my oldest brother Harry knocked on the front door, took one look at the situation, and made a dash to the window to help my Father with John.

Together, they pulled him safely back in, closed and locked the window and, as a group, all fell to the floor.

My Mother, regaining her senses, finally noticed her two terrified daughters in various forms of emotional distress and ordered us back to our room.  I picked my sister up off the floor and walked her to safety.

Before I closed the door, the last thing I heard was my brother John tell my Father, “you’ve got to let me go … I’ll die … I can’t do it like this”.

That night, my brother John went out.  He came back a few hours later, infinitely calmer, if a little sleepy and headed straight for bed.

The next day, I noticed a look of defeat on my parent’s faces that I hadn’t really seen before.  I also realized that each and every window in the house was kept closed.  At breakfast, I heard my parents trying to whisper in the corner.  Again, I didn’t really understand what they were saying, but I could make out words like, treatment, methadone and last chance.

When my brother John finally woke up and left his room, my Father asked him how he felt?  “Okay”, he answered, “I guess” and I noticed he sounded a lot older than he was.

“Are you ready to go?” my Father asked, the tone of his voice sympathetic and consoling, something I had only heard after I’d been crying and he wanted to comfort me.

“Yea”, John replied almost in a whisper.

“Then let’s go”, and with that Father and son left the apartment for places unknown to me.

As I got older, and my brother would try and fail and try and fail again to kick his heroin habit, I understood that on that horrible day he tried to jump out the window rather than suffer any longer, he simply didn’t have the strength to go “cold turkey”.  In fact, it would take many years of a Methadone program, before he would finally be able to get clean.

By then, he was no longer my hero.  After everything that I saw and heard, he was just my junkie brother.  Though I would always find great joy in the Beatles and the Stones and J.R.R. Tolkien, his recommendations no longer had as much influence with me, as they once did.

No longer the same was the view from my 13^th story windows.  For quite some time, I couldn’t even bare to look out.  After awhile, when I finally did, what I saw wasn’t the same.  I realized I would, probably, never drive back and forth over the FDR and never have a need to be in any rush.  I no longer enjoyed speed and buses would be just as good.

Also, looking at the murky, gray water of the East River, I finally saw it for what it really was; a way to keep Manhattan separate and apart from other New Yorkers while providing a dumping ground for not only dead people, but dead dreams, as well.

The Lies We Told

The office was cold and non-descript.  An eight by twelve box with a small wooden desk covered in psychiatric textbooks on one side and a tiny window obscured by institutional vertical gray blinds on the other.   The remaining furniture consisted of an old wooden book case filled with board games, children’s books and magazines, and a white painted toy box which sat inconspicuously in a corner almost as an afterthought.  In the middle of the room, impossible to miss, was a circle of hard plastic, multi-color school chairs strategically arranged to encourage discussion.  It was a place where people were supposed to reveal their deepest, darkest secrets in an atmosphere of safety and security.  In retrospect, it was the scariest room I’d ever entered.

It was early October and the air was brisk and the sky bright as it usually is that time of year in New York City.  I was ten years old, soon to be eleven in just a couple of weeks and thought I knew it all.  On this day, my whole family, which consisted of my three older brothers and older sister, as well as, my mother and father who were seated to my left and right, found ourselves in a state run family therapist’s office after my sister’s 8^th grade school counselor strongly recommended we attend.

Everyone in my family knew there was something wrong with my sister Kathy, but no one talked about it. With her coke bottle glasses, bushy hair and unfixable slouch, she just looked different.  Back then, people called children like her slow or retarded, even though she had been diagnosed as emotionally disturbed rather than mentally handicapped.  “She has no trouble learning and easily picks up new concepts”, her teachers said.  In fact, they were absolutely certain she would one day graduate.  However, she was constantly and viciously teased by other students at school.  They would call her names and throw things at her.  In addition to the bullying was the non-specified trouble at home.  All of which would cause her to withdraw and sometimes disengage from her surroundings.  She was the reason we were in that office, displaying various degrees of disinterest and not looking at the twenty five year old family therapist, a recent college graduate, whose sole idea of dysfunctional was what she read in textbooks.   

In fact, if my normally unshakable mother wasn’t completely at her wits end over her first-born daughter’s penchant for running away, we wouldn’t have been there at all.  Like most wives and mothers, she would have preferred her children be normal and her husband not a complete waste but at this point any solution, even one she didn’t believe in, had to be considered.

As I sat on the uncomfortable yellow plastic chair, its rounded seat made sitting up straight impossible, hoping I would get to play with some of the wooden puzzles or look through the array of books on the shelves, I realized the chair wasn’t the only reason I couldn’t sit still.  Something was very wrong; I could tell.  It didn’t help my fluttery stomach or sweaty palms that each and every member of my family was looking at anything else but each other.  They frightened me as the sight of their own scared faces and nervous tics caused my own anxiety to increase.

 I had lived my life up to that point constantly afraid of things that normal little kids didn’t usually have to worry about.  Things like my mother finally giving up and kicking my father out of the house.   I imagined him drunk or passed out on some park bench near the Bowery, where a bunch of teens looking for kicks or an easy bum to roll, would rob and beat him up.   I worried about my sister running away,  wandering around the dangerous streets of the Lower East Side, where we lived,  and maybe never coming home, leaving me to sleep all by myself in the dark bedroom we shared where every word was spoken in anger and every noise intensified.   But my biggest fear was that some faceless person from the Department of Children’s and Family Services would come to take me away from the life and people I knew while they repeated over and over again that it was for my own good.  These were the thoughts that kept me up at night.

But, as I sat in that office surrounded by those very people whose presence in my life simultaneously terrified me and comforted me, I was certain this experience would be worse than anything else that ever happened to me.  Even worse than when my oldest brother tried to punch out my father, missed and put his hand through our twenty gallon fish tank.  I cried as I watched all those fancy tail guppies and angel fish, who had given me hours of pleasure, flail about as they gasped for air.

The therapist, in her by-the-book psychological speak, started with the prerequisite, “Is there anything anyone would like to say?” and answered by our blank looks and staunch silence, proceeded with “Well okay, I’ll begin.”.  From that point on, I zoned out.  I wanted to be anywhere else but there so my mind turned to the most mundane thoughts.

I wondered what we would eat that night and if my mother had enough money for Gino’s pizza or Chinese from our favorite place at 16 Mott St.  I also wondered if my father, when we finally left, would sneak away to buy a bottle for later, or perhaps stumble in after downing one, reeking of booze and drunk out of his head. 

Things were so different when he didn’t drink.  He was so different. At least, I thought so.

 My father never spoke about his past or revealed anything personal to his children.  But sometimes, when he didn’t drink, he would reminisce and tell me things that he hadn’t told anyone else.  There was one story that he told me that always seemed to mean more than I could understand.

 When my father was young he’d had an accident.  He had tried to climb over a fence and in doing so, slipped and cut his hand on the rusty iron.  For whatever reasons, the wound was never treated properly and he developed gangrene.  The infection caused the doctors to amputate most of the fingers on his left hand.  What was left was a misshapen claw and my father’s patented excuse for the rest of his life.

His mother, the grand-mother who, voluntarily, didn’t recognize any of her grand-children, sent him to a rehabilitation center to recover and adapt to his new circumstances.  He told me about all the disabled kids he’d met there but the image of the pretty young girls with recently amputated legs (for a variety of reasons) forced to attend dances, as they sat on the side-lines and watched the more capable children enjoy the music in a way they would never be able to, haunted me for weeks and left me with a sadness I didn’t really understand.  As I watched him describe such a difficult time in his life, I saw his eyes cloud over and his memories come rushing back.

When he didn’t drink, my father and I would sit in the small, roach infested kitchen of our three bedroom, railroad shaped apartment and talk about the Yankees and what kind of season they were having.  Even though I was the baby of the family and a girl, his other children had long since given him up as a lost cause.  It was only natural that he shared his love of baseball with me; I actually listened and learned that the NY Yankees were one of the few things in his life that made him happy.  Besides cigarettes, a good cup of coffee and a pint of alcohol.

 He showed me how to create a score-card by making nine columns for the number of innings on top and listing the names of the players in the line-up on the side.  Then, depending on whether the player hit, walked, or struck out, he showed me the symbol for each one and where to put it. 

When he didn’t drink, he also loved to read.  He often stayed in his room for hours and hours devouring his latest paper-back.  Spy novels by John le Carre and Ian Fleming were among his favorites.   I also loved to read, getting lost in the adventures of other children my age.  Although at ten, my taste began to venture into more difficult subjects like “The Diary of Anne Frank” and “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” (one of my favorite for obvious reasons).    Books were my escape, my way out of a life that was totally different from those in the stories.  Perhaps my father felt the same way.  He and I had many things in common.  When he didn’t drink.

When he was drunk, which was most of the time, he was sad and pathetic.  Not a mean drunk and since he stood at five feet seven inches tall and weighed around one hundred and thirty five pounds, he was far from physically imposing.  Instead, he would often get silly, dancing around the house to music only he could hear and repeating himself over and over to whoever was in ear-shot.  Eventually, as he had hundreds of other times, he would pass out.  Sometimes, if he drank way too much, he would lose control of his bowels and crap all over himself.  At those times, my mother would clean him up just like she had for all of her children and put him to bed.  On occasion, though, she would leave him in his own mess laying wherever he passed out and stinking to high heaven.  Which option she chose depended on how pissed off she was.

And when that happened, when the world just got to be too much for her, she would go to one of the three Bingo parlors in the neighborhood and try to forget for a while how she wound up this way.   She would usually be gone from six to eleven in the evening, leaving my sister and I all alone with our father.  My brothers had stopped baby-sitting when they figured we could take care of ourselves (after all they had survived) and my mother could no longer force them to do it.

I wasn’t afraid of him but I was certain my sister was by the terror in her eyes whenever this happened.  My fear was caused by the uncertainty of the situation.  The thousands of horrors that could befall two young girls alone with a drunk in a NYC housing project where everyone knew even the police were afraid to go.

 What if someone knocked on the door while he was passed out cold?

My sister and I were both instructed early on in life regarding project etiquette.  The first lesson was to never answer the door to strangers and always look out the peep-hole.  When your family was one of only five white households in a predominantly racially mixed building and you were brought up to believe that was more than enough reason to be afraid, the front door was terrifying.   My sister would never go to the door even if she knew who it was and I couldn’t even reach the peep-hole.  But what if we didn’t answer and the bad people thought we weren’t home and tried to break in like they did on the eleventh floor?  Most nights, there would be loud voices in the hallway and the tone of the menace and malice they conveyed terrified me to the core.

 Once, while my father was in his usual drunken stupor, I heard something outside.  Summoning up all my courage, I moved one of our mismatched kitchen chairs over to the door, climbed on it and peered through the peep-hole.  Staring back at me was another eye.  It took me months to even go near the front door again and years before I’d look through that damn hole.  By then, I no longer needed a chair.

When he was drunk, he would want to talk for hours and I was his captive audience.  I didn’t like it.  It made me uncomfortable.  Not because of what he said (which was usually how mean my mother was and how his sons didn’t give a shit about him) but because there was no way to get away from him.  Once started, he demanded your attention for the rest of the time he was conscious.   All the while, my older sister cowered in our bedroom under the covers and just waited for me to return and tell her everything was okay.  I found myself more and more strained as a result of the responsibility of taking care of an alcoholic father and an emotionally disturbed sister and quietly blamed my mother for unnecessarily putting me in that position.

I loved him, though, this I knew without doubt.   Drunk or sober.  It didn’t matter that he wasn’t like any of my friend’s fathers or that I secretly feared he would show up at school inebriated and embarrass me.  The results of his drinking and the reasons he drank were inconsequential.   I was too young to understand that there were demons that haunted people and caused them to seek safety and solace in any way possible.  Despite who he was or maybe because of it, I felt I had to love him.  If I didn’t, who would?

In the back of my mind, I always knew there were probably other secrets about him that were yet to be disclosed.  I had walked in on my parents way too many times only to have them abruptly stop whatever conversation they were having to think I knew everything.  The fact that it was forbidden to go in their closets or look through their dresser drawers didn’t help ease my suspicions either.  But, I didn’t care. Whatever the secrets were, they wouldn’t matter. 

“Al, is there anything you’d like to tell your daughter?”  The sound of my father’s name spoken by a stranger’s voice coupled with the word daughter woke me from the comfort of my own thoughts.  As I looked up, I noticed everyone was staring at me.

“No”, my father said quietly his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor, “You tell her.”

And she did.  In a cold and analytical tone, this twenty five year old who probably never had a childhood terror in her life and who I’m sure came from a nice home with a white picket fence and nice parents who never had a bad word to say to each other, explained to my ten year old self, that her Daddy, who she loved because he was her Daddy, was a criminal.

In the following moments, I was told he robbed banks before I was born.  I also found out that my father had spent many years in and out of prisons and my mother would sometimes have to take very long trips to visit him, even once when she was pregnant with my sister.

 Naturally, he blamed his disfigurement and the fact that no one would hire a cripple as the reasons he was forced to steal.  After all, he had to feed his family.  But I knew that was bullshit.  The truth was he thought if he gave my Mother any money at all, she’d get off his back about getting drunk.

Years later, when I was older, and rummaging around in my parent’s mysterious closets, I found a black and white clipping from an old Daily News.  It was in a cheap shoebox filled with letters he had written to my mom while incarcerated.  The picture showed my father with a defeated look on his face and his hands cuffed behind his back as two detectives stood to his side and three very frightened young boys looked on in shock. The caption read “Bank Robber Nabbed at Home”.  As I looked at the image of my father staring up at me, I saw the eyes of someone I’d only thought I knew.  This guy wasn’t my father drunk or sober.  He was a stranger.

I find it remarkable that even as I write this, the discoveries made on that otherwise common day, in that otherwise common office, still seem as revealing as they did then.  I often wonder, what would have happened if I’d never found out?

 After all, as far as I’m concerned, honesty never gets you any closer to the truth.

Life as I knew it (part 2)

Besides, she cherished her privacy.  It gave her the opportunity to "self-medicate", away from the prying eyes of her Mother or her husband's satisfied look that said, "see, your no better than me".  Or the disgust and disappointed look in her adopted daughter's face at the realization that the one woman she was supposed to count on was nothing more than a junkie.
It was never her intention, when she started taking Tylenol with codeine, and eventually, percocet, to become a drug-dependent pill head.  Like millions of others, it just happened.
However, she had to admit, for numbing pain, dulling hopes and forgetting about that piece of her heart that was, conspicuously, missing, they worked wonders.
The fog they created in her mind, thirsting for the solace of forgetfulness, was easily granted by these little white pills.  The heavy limbs, the extra sleep and the glorious lapses between conscious and unconscious thought were amazingly accessible through a simple sip of water followed by a swallow.  She could ask for no more and, at the price they paid, expected nothing less.  Regardless of the self-loathing at the junkie she'd become or any future physical concerns that could be associated with constant pain-killer abuse, she needed them to go on, to live.
"What's for dinner?", the kid asked, bounding down the stairs, despite her warnings, two at a time.
"Chinese ... and be careful, you'll kill yourself.", she said and hoped the kid would believe her concern.
"Again", the kid replied, ignoring her again.  "I don't want Chinese".
"What can I tell ya ... then don't eat".
"Why didn't you cook?", the kids voice climbed a couple of  octaves, in hopes her husband would hear.  "You haven't cooked all week".
"Didn't feel like it", she said, barely containing the resentment and rage that welled up inside her at the thought of this spoiled, disrespectful 12 year old, who actually expected her to move and, can you imagine, cook.
This kid had the best of everything.  The finest clothes, the best education and, most important, at least, one loving, caring parent that she, totally, took for granted.  How dare she try and make her feel guilty ... feel anything?
"You don't have to get nasty", the kid said, her voice climbing even higher as she loudly stomped her way back upstairs, two at a time.
"And you don't have to be such a bitch", she wished she could say, but thought instead.
She knew if she had said it out loud, there was a change that her husband would hear and start arguing, yet again, naturally choosing the kid's side.
She also knew, she'd scream if she had to listen to, "She's just a kid ... cut her some slack", one more time.
She lit another cigarette, rocked in her chair and sighed.  The smoke filled her lungs, it's toxins invisible, but deadly, much like her life.  And, just like the animosity that surrounded everyone in her family.  She couldn't remember the exact moment everything changed, but she, certainly, knew why it changed.
The phone rang it's mandatory two times before the answering machine, acting as a screener for all those people she had long ago left behind, picked up.  Acting on it's own, yet again, her anticipation rose along with her hopes.  Maybe this time it would really be Mary.  Maybe, she had found a way to call or maybe, had someone call for her.  Time stopped at the sound of the beep.
"Hello ... hello... pick up the phone.  Alright, later Dude".  It was only her husband's business partner.
She never learned and knew she never would, even though, there would be no phone call. 
It had been four months and if Mary hadn't called yet, than there was no reason to hope that she ever would or ever could, for that matter.
The motion of the rocker soothed her.  She closed her eyes and tried to remember.
Waking up at the crack of dawn, preparing breakfast, getting them ready for school, and than filling the day with all those little tasks most people find mundane, but she relished.  Cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry.  There was a pride to be felt in doing these things well, with love, for her family.
After they came home from school, she gave them a snack, something small, and helped them, the best she could, with their homework.  Then dinner, some T.V or video games, a shower and bed.
Once in a while, Mary would fall asleep on her queen size bed, entrenched in her husband's large arms.  Safe and secure, she looked like a doll wrapped in the big down comforter.
The therapist once told her, Mary had said, it was the safest place in the whole wide world. 
She smiled at the thought and the truth it represented.  There was a time, locked in her husband's arms, she knew no harm would ever befall her.
They had both been wrong.

END OF PART 2 - PART 3 COMING SOON!

Is fighting throughout your life, a life?

Hey folks, sorry it took me so long to update.  You know, I thought I could do this, I really did.  I figured working 3 days a week, would give me plenty of time to work as the "Tampa Bay Buzz Examiner" for the lowest paying online site in the known world, and pour out my heart on this page, at the same time.  Now, I'm not so sure.  I'm just so tired all the time.  But, is that from working on getting my name in print and getting my soul in check or is it because of the tremendous amount of work it takes to deal with the other life-draining forces in my life (my husband, nieces and nephews).  I just don't know.
I mean, as writers, we have to admit, part of the attraction, beyond exorcising the demons that have laid hidden and dormant so long in our psyche's, is the possibility that we will see our name in print, point to ourselves on some top ten list, or just touch somebody who feels the words, as we do.  But, at what point do we say, you know what, I know I'm good ... I know I can write ... but, I'm just tired of waiting for someone else to recognize it?
You know what, don't listen to me.  Take as long as is necessary to attain your own individual goals.  I'm just pissy from fighting all day with my husband.
It just seems like I've been fighting and pushing at barriers in my life, for soooo long, that I just don't know if I can do it anymore.
Now wait, don't start calling suicide prevention lines.  Shit, I'm way too chicken for that.  I'm just tired of fighting. 
Tired of fighting my husband over ever second that I'm not paying attention to him, tired of dealing with a family that is soooo needy, sometimes it feels like I'm pulled in 20 different directions and tired of having to justify this need in me to express myself some other way than working, cooking, cleaning and worrying.  Is it so terrible to be good at something and need to pursue it, even if it leads nowhere?  When does your life become your own, or was it ever?
Anyway, sorry to bring your asses down, but that's just how I feel.  I am not stupid.  I realize, that being the child of an alcholic, whose family was as dysfunctional as anyone in a Tennessee Williams play, gives you some type of psychosis that makes you prone to depression and, actually, prohibits you from enjoying your own life.  No kidding, I read this in a real book!
But, realizing that does nothing to put your life right, to make happy memories that can sustain you and take you through to the end.  I'm tired, alright.  Tired of being unhappy, but, mostly, tired of not being able to enjoy a pretty good life, because of something I had no control over.
Who knows, maybe I need a psychiatrist.  Nah, hell with that.  I hate shrinks.  Always have, always will.  Ever since family therapy where they bared my father's soul all over their cheap beige carpet in front of his 7 year old daughter.  But, that's a story for another day.

Life as I knew it (part 1)

"What'dya want for dinner?", she said, as she, precariously, rested her cigarette in the overflowing ash tray that sat next to her bed.
"What're you cooking?", his reply reflected his total disinterest.
"Whatever you want".
"I don't care ... pick somethin'".
She wanted to scream at the monatony of a conversation they repeated daily and the stifling boredom that had become their only form of communication.  Instead, she took a long deep drag on her Marlboro, turned over, and looked around her room.
Through the smoke, her eyes found the collection of expensive porcelain dolls, dust-laden and haphazardly arranged on the entertainment center, that had once meant a great deal to her.  These were not your everday dolls.  Each one was a limited edition, complete with its' own "certificate of authenticity".  Back when it mattered, her husband would buy them for her all the time.
She used to admire their intricate detail.  Especially, their individual and distinct facial expressions.  Each one was unique, but, it was always the Mother and child dolls that she loved the most.
The way they gazed at each other with such adoration.  It was almost, as if, she could feel their bond.
Now, their hair messy and matted, their outfits dirty and stained, she saw beyond the illusion.  Now, cold and lifeless, they mimiced her existence in almost every way.
"Maybe I'll just order", she said.  Her eyes welled up, but her gaze never wavered.
"Whatever"
"Yea ... whatever".  She clenched her teeth.  If she had to continue this farce one minute longer, she'd pull out the .22 he kept hidden in the closet and blow her brains out.
But, for now, she reached for a slower, and much preferred, method of self-destruction.  She lit another cigarette.
She barely noticed whether the match was still lit or whether it had hit it's intended target as she got out of bed, made her way through all the clutter on the floor and put on her sweat pants.
"Chinese it is", she said and glanced at her husband, hoping, yet again, he'd look up from his comic book, just once, and acknowledge the fact that she was still, somewhat, alive.
"Sounds good to me.  Get me some fried won-ton."
Not even a glance.
"Oh ... don't forget to ask the kid what she wants", he said casually, turning another page in the gripping saga of good vs. evil.
"Sure", she lied and left the bedroom.  That he cares about.
She walked down the stairs and knew she had to let it go.  There was no way she'd get into that again and there was also no way she'd ask the person who couldn't decide what shade of red lip-stick to wear, to choose through an entire Chinese menu.  God didn't make that kind of patience.  And, he or she, especially, didn't make it for her.
Once upon a time, she used to cook.  She enjoyed preparing large meals for her family.  Pot roast with potatoes and carrots, homemade lasagna, or their favorite, chicken soup with Matzo balls, made from scratch.
They loved them all and she loved making them.
But, that was back then. Back when she still cleaned, still washed, still cared.
On the phone, the woman at the chinese restaurant read her mind.  She'd ordered so often from them, that they, automatically, knew what she wanted and where she lived simply from the sound of her voice.  She preferred it this way.  The smaller the effort, the better.
After she hung up, she sat in her favorite rock in the living room, the one her husband said she loved to wallow in.  She knew, to some degree, that was true, but even more than the misery which had become her constant companion on this never-ending journey, she simply loved the quiet.
The other members of her family were, probably, in their respective rooms, electing as always, to ignore each other at all costs.  Either that, or the kid would be in the toilet, prancing and preening in front of the mirror, pretending she was anyone else and hoping, above hope, she was somewhere else.  Her Mother, unless the soaps were one, would be watching a Barbara Streisand movie for the 100th time.
Whatever they were doing, it didn't really matter.  She had nothing to say to either of them.  As far as she was concerned, the war could wait.

The lies we tell ...

“Mrs. Rivera”?
“Yes”, I lie, not fully knowing why I answered to that name from the past.
“It’s Detective Jones, from the 73^rd Precinct. We have Mary here. She wants to come home”.
I could feel the silence, made so much more palpable by the rapid beating of my heart, as he waited for my answer. The problem was, my answer was just another question, “What home”?
She was two when we met. Bright and beautiful, with the biggest brown eyes I had ever seen. Her dark hair, the same chestnut color as mine, was naturally curly, with ringlets that framed her face like a Botticelli angel.
I knew from the moment I held her in my arms, that she was mine. But, she wasn’t, not really.
Mary and her 6 yr. old sister had been abused and neglected, left for days in the same dirty diaper, by their drug addicted, 16 year old, biological Mom. We would be their 3^rd foster home and, hopefully, their last.
The social worker explained to us that the state was in the process of terminating the Mother’s parental rights to the 6 year old and she would soon be free to adopt. Legally, things had not progressed as far for Mary, but they saw no reason why things wouldn’t go the same way. Everyone involved was certain, given the bio-Mom’s track record, that the girls would never be separated and we should treat them as our own.
Nothing was easier. Since we could not have children, naturally, we poured all the love we had to give into the girls, who soaked it up like dry sponges that hadn’t felt water in years.
Their birthdays were always catered affairs. Theme parties where everyone dressed as princesses or Disney characters, complete with clowns, magicians and, one year, Barney, the Purple dinosaur, who sung his signature song with Mary on his lap.
Christmas’s were, also, special. Each year we’d have a real pine tree with ornaments that the girls had hand-made, candy canes on it’s branches and so many different lights, it would take hours just to sort them all out. By the time we were done decorating, the house looked like something out of a Rockwell painting.
Of course, we knew, monetary pleasures were not what the girls craved. Love, as the song says, was all they needed.
It was all we needed, too and despite the nightmares, always about going back to their biological Mom or the temper tantrums, normal for children who have been shuffled around since birth, they were happy and we were happy.
6 years later, sitting on a hard wooden bench, etched with the names of those who have worried and agonized before us, we waited for a stranger to make a decision that would change our lives forever and tried to do what we were told, since the legal proceedings for Mary began, which was, plan for the best, and prepare for the worst. Or, at least, we thought we did.
Two weeks after that day, as I drove Mary to the same foster care agency where we picked her up all those years ago, something we saw struck us both as hysterical and we laughed and laughed forgetting for the moment that this was the last time I would make this trip and the last time I could be considered her Mom. I thought about how much we shared and the true joy she brought into my life. Trying not to cry, was one of the hardest things I have ever done.
For awhile, we tried to stay in touch for the sake of the girls, but it was like jabbing something sharp into an open wound and took weeks to recovery in between attempts.
In our longing to have children and the fervor with which we fought to stay a family, we had failed both girls, miserably.
The older child, adopted by my husband and I, while still fighting for her sister, could never come to grips with why her bio-mom wanted her younger sister, and all her subsequent children, but never wanted her.
She would remain with us, until she reached 18, decided she could no longer live with our rules and moved out with her boyfriend. I see her now and then on Face book, but any attempts at communication is always met with privacy settings.
Mary returned to her bio-Mom, but could never forgive this stranger for taking her away from the only parents she had known and loved. Eventually, she was placed in a group home for troubled children, where, last I heard, she had been raped and tagged a habitual runaway.
I heard once, while on the run, she had tried to find us, but her biological Mother destroyed anything we had given her, including our address and telephone number, so she was sent back.
Now 6 years later, the Detective on the phone still waited for my answer.
During what seemed like hours, but, in truth, was mere minutes, my mind went through all that had happened in my life, since Mary left. The troubles with her sister, my husband’s business failing and his, subsequent, heart attack. My own prescription drug addiction and the emptiness, with me always, that the pills could never fill and I heard myself give the only answer I could, “I’m sorry, Officer, but Mary doesn’t live here anymore. Maybe, you should call her “real” Mom”.

Sometimes adulthood is scary ...

Something happened last night that I feel compelled to write about.  You see, about a month ago, my niece and nephew came to visit me from New York.  They are both young adults and just like their other four siblings, they are always welcome in my home.
Now, if you have ever spent "any" time in my home, you would know that I only have one rule ... no drinking ... ever!  You don't have to contribute any money to the house, you can eat whatever you want and cleaning is your option, depending on how long you want to root in your own garbage (I don't clean anyone else's room).  Just follow that one rule, and I'm cooler that an icicle on a hot summer day.
Last night, that rule was broken.  And, broken to such an extent that I had an immediate and uncomfortable flashback.
When I was growing up, my Father was an alcoholic.  He wasn't a mean drunk ... not by far ... but he was an annoying drunk.  Singing, crying, repeating himself before he fell down somewhere and passed out.  My sister and I, both very young at the time, would hide in our room, under the covers of our bed.  It wasn't that we were afraid of him, we were afraid of not having any control of the situation.  It was a feeling of helplessness and hopelessness that I thought I would never feel again.  Especially, after my husband swore off all alcohol 1 year into our 25 year marriage.  Last night brought all that back to me.
This morning, after puking all over the spare bathroom (no I WON'T clean that either) my husband and I spoke with my nephew.  We explained our one rule, once again.  Only this time, we told him, the next time would be it ... end of the line, shit, shower and pack your bags.  We'll drive you to the nearest Greyhound station.
Do I feel bad about my ultimatum?  No, I felt worse last night under the covers.  Do I love him less?  Not possible.  My nieces and nephews are the children I never had.  They mean the world to me and I love them unconditionally. 
So, I guess what I'm trying to say is ... Drinking sucks!  My nephew disappointed me, but I know he's better than his behavior.  And, lastly, I wish I could do my childhood over and make all the nightmares go away.  But then, come to think of it ... why would you read my stuff anymore.