Summer with the grandparents

My Grandmother at this point realized something was wrong with me, she didn't know what but she knew that I was having problems. I had already been removed from the public school system due to the principal questioning my near constant injuries, and I was back down to a dangerously low weight.

Grandmother nursed me back to health and when I was able to stand for more than a few minutes at a time she taught me how to cook, garden, and tend house. She and I spent most of our time together in the kitchen with breaks to go pick whatever was ready to be brought in that day and crocheting while we took turns stirring pots of sauce, stew, and the like.

My grandfather had always favored me and was intent on spoiling all of his grandchildren, he would kidnap me from my place in the kitchen several nights a week and take me to McDonald's or the ice cream parlor, it was a great summer. Around the end of the summer all of my cousins were in, we all lived down in the basement where the toys, games, and the least amount of breakables could be found. One night, several hours after bedtime my grandfather sneaked down the stairs with a box full of bowls, spoons, ice cream and toppings, then proceeded to wake us all up for an ice cream party. What made the night so great was my grandmother, who was usually a stickler for bedtime came down and ate ice cream and played board games with us. It was the last big event at my grandparents house.

After that night my cousins went home to get ready to go back to school, I stayed for another week or two before my mother showed up to carry me off to the ends of the world again. I think we'll stop here, I don't want to ruin all of this good with any bad.

Maine

If there is anything more miserable than January in Maine I have yet to discover it. Don't get me wrong, Maine is a beautiful part of the US, The architecture is awesome, and the people generally quite friendly. The problem with Maine is that it's so damn cold all winter long.

When we arrived at the bungalow my mother had found I was asleep, I stayed that way until all the heat had trickled out of the car, if there ever was any heat in the first place that is. My mother not only rarely felt hunger but seemed immune to the cold as well. After sitting up and looking around, searching for anything familiar, I spotted the house through the snow and forced myself out of the car and into the mini blizzard. I've no idea how long it took me to cross that yard, at the time I truly felt like it took hours, in truth it was probably only a few minutes. I stepped into a drift at one point and got lost for a moment before spotting the light in a window, beyond grateful that she had left a light on for me I darted the last few yards to the house and slammed through the door. Big mistake... Mother did not like noise, not one bit. The moment the door slammed shut my face slammed into the door, the hot blood was actually comforting, it warmed my face, unfortunately the comfort was short lived. Once I had regained some of my senses I realized that I couldn't breathe, I was laying in the floor, against the door watching my mother in a blind rage kick in my direction.

The next morning I realized that my ribs had been her target and that they didn't look quite right. I was bruised pretty much everywhere and my left side seemed to have collapsed. I managed to get myself to the bathroom and when I looked in the mirror I couldn't even recognize myself. I spent the next week or two in bed, I honestly don't know how long it was, when I finally started trying to move around the house most of the bruises were gone, my ribs still looked wrong and hurt but I could deal with it.

I went into the kitchen hoping for something, anything to eat, if not eat at least a glass of milk. All I had taken in since that night was water from the bathroom sink. After digging through the pantry and refrigerator I accepted the reality that there was in fact no food in the kitchen and made my way back to the room I had claimed. That's where I tripped over my little backpack, my toe had hit something hard and smarted a bit so I decided to see what had caused the discomfort. Inside my bag were several cans of food from New York, I had completely forgotten about grabbing them and was beyond excited to know there was something to eat. Unfortunately I did not bring a can opener, when I realized this I sat down, exhausted, and started sobbing. Later that day I succeeded in beating the can with a rock until it opened for me, those cold beans were possibly the best meal I had ever eaten.

Maine was relatively short lived, by Valentines day we were on the road again. We finally ended up in Florida, dad was there and so was all of his immediate family. Most of them I had met only once and barely remembered but it didn't take long for them to feel like family. I started gaining weight again and energy, I was able to climb my grandfathers grapefruit tree by Easter, a task that I never could have managed a few months prior.

Things went well for a while, I started to relax and let myself believe it was all going to be alright. Then one night dad went with a couple of the guys from work to watch a game and I was left alone with my mother. I tried to slip off to bed and stay out of her way, it didn't work. I made it as far as the door to my room before she noticed me. She yelled at me to go start a shower, that she needed to wash up. I knew what this meant and I fell apart, I was on my knees sobbing when she came up behind me and grabbed my hair to haul me into the bathroom. She forced me to my knees in front of her and handed me a bottle of liquid soap before telling me to get to it. I left that bathroom broken, spiritually and physically. That was the last night I spent in Florida for many years.

I honestly don't know where I spent the next few months, I think I blocked them from my memory. By midsummer she had deposited me at my grandparents house in North Carolina and had disappeared again.
I need a break, and you probably do too. We'll talk again later.

New York...

After leaving Charleston we headed north. My mother having friends and family in New York decided she wanted to go up there. By now dad was once again rarely around and I was largely at her mercy, of which she had very little.

That first winter was all but unbearable, I knew no one, I had nobody to protect me, and I was constantly hungry. The great thing about being hooked on drugs is you are rarely hungry, for the child of a drug addict it means you always are.

I eventually made friends with one of the neighbors children and managed to score a meal almost nightly through her. Before long I had a safe, clean bed a few nights a week as well. Eventually my mother became annoyed at my constant absence, and barred me from seeing the one person I had in the world. When I realized she was not going to give in I learned to whine, incessantly, and about everything, although I usually stuck to the basics, "I'm hungry, I'm cold, It smells bad here." I wore her down in the spring of my fourth year and she sent me to my grandparents.

My grandparents house was so different from my own that it was like stepping into a fairy tale. My grandmother lived to cook and garden and there was always something on the stove or in the oven. For the first time I can remember I knew what it was to be full, it was wonderful. I also learned what it was to be clean and to live in a clean home, that was such a foreign concept to me that it took most of a month to accept it. By the end of that summer I was a new person, I had been brought up to a healthy weight, I had energy, I was loved, and I was happy. But as we all know, all good things must come to an end, for me they did on my fifth birthday.

My mother showed up and informed my grandparents she would be taking me home. My things were packed up and I was pushed out the door with barely a moment to tell my grandparents goodbye. We went back home and life went back to normal, or at least normal for me. By Thanksgiving I was once again severely underweight and sick, dad came in and with him came money and food. He told me I needed to be eating more and made a point of feeding me every few hours. At first I could barely hold a few bites, within a week I was eating like a normal child again. Dad stayed through Christmas and then was gone again. I sobbed as he carried his suitcase out the door and made his way to his car. Once he was gone my mother walked out the door and that was the last I saw of her for several days. Thankfully dad had left a good deal of food in the cabinets and I managed to make it last for a while. I don't believe any food came into that house again.

Around New Years, I remember this because there were fireworks and lots of people visiting the neighbors, my mother came back. She took me to the shower and afterwards told me we would be moving. I asked where to but got no response and decided it was best to leave her alone about it and go find my things. I didn't have much to pack, a few well read books, three stuffed toys and a couple of outfits. We were out of that house that night and on the road.

More to come later, right now it's supper time and as you now know I understand what it's like to not eat and I don't like it.

Charleston

Charleston, South Carolina, I was three then, I remember more of my early years than I probably should. More than I would like. Some of the memories are wonderful and some still send me into that dark place that children go when things become too much to bear.

We'll start off with some good, I could use some good right now. When we moved to Charleston dad made it a big adventure. We would walk down to the pier to buy fresh fish regularly, I had by this point learned to read and had become obsessed with it, so I would read off the signs to dad and he would let me decide what we would have for supper. He was secretly building my math skills at the same time by forcing me to create supper for under a certain price. I would have to figure out how to get fish, vegetables and bread for his determined price of the day and I ended up loving math almost as much as reading. I owe him a lot for that.

One day we were investigating a shop when I noticed a sign advertising Dolphin, I was enraged, I walked up to the man behind the counter, full of all the self righteous indignation a three year old can muster and informed him that he was a very bad man, I then turned to the shocked customers who were listening, pointed to the sign and wailed "He killed Flipper!" They found it hilarious, my father turned very red and the man behind the counter roared with laughter. It took my father several years to convince me that it was not a dolphin but a dolphin fish.

Dad also had a crazy aunt that lived relatively close to us, by crazy I mean bat shit fucking crazy. She was great fun most of the time. I remember very well her wandering around her home in a slip and nothing more at all times  except for when it was time to bathe, at those times she would go into her room, dress herself in a mans shirt and overalls and then go out in the yard and wash with the hose. I told you she was bat shit crazy. I remember her putting me and two of my cousins in the turkey pen and telling us to catch one and wring it's neck. We looked at her like she had two heads and then at the turkeys, she shooed us towards them and after a few steps they became agitated. I was flogged on the head, one of the other two has a scar running from ear to lip and the third, the biggest caught the damn thing and attempted to wring it's neck as we were told to do. It didn't work, the turkey got away and we were all told that we were completely useless on a farm and let out of the pen. She then went and got a gun and shot the turkey we attempted to strangle. I have never understood why she thought it a good idea but I have laughed about it many times since.

Things in the house started changing in the early part of my third summer. Dad was around less with each day, and when he was there he was not the same. My mother became increasingly less tolerant of me, until one day she finally snapped and I ended up in the hospital with a broken arm, that was the first of many broken bones over the course of my life.

We've reached a point where I feel I must once again state that this is going to become pretty graphic, this is not a story that a child should read, nor is it going to be pleasant for most adults. If you decide to keep reading you've been cautioned.

When my arm healed and the cast was removed that's when things started getting really bad. Dad moved out, most of his family quit coming around and my mother started finding true joy in hitting me. Most of the time it was a quick slap, just enough to sting. Occasionally it was a full blown attack that left me lying in the floor sobbing. She also developed a habit of forcing me to bathe with her, to wash her. Some days she would seem to be almost normal, she would get out of bed in the morning hours, sometimes even cooking breakfast. She would brush my hair and paint my nails. These were the days I dreaded most, when the ceremony was over she would pull out a camera and tell me I was going to model, modeling for my mother was not like when I modeled dresses for catalogs, that I enjoyed, I felt like a princess... Modeling for my mother I was expected to traipse about in my underthings and when I cried I was slapped for messing up her shot.

Those days were for a while gone when dad came back and we moved again. I found out later that my mother was being investigated and it was leave or face possible jail time.

We'll talk again later, for now I think that's enough. I feel the need to go crawl under a rock for a while and just hide.

Life begins

Now that you know a bit about my family, I suppose it's time to tell you about how I came to be. This part has been pieced together through family, family friends, and medical records.

When my mother was in her mid-twenties she married a minister and they moved from New York to North Carolina to a parish he wanted to be a part of. During that time they were living in a house that was far too large for two people so they rented out a couple of the rooms to different people. My mother was already secretly using heroin and drinking when no one was around to notice.

She became pregnant, much to her husbands surprise as he had undergone a vasectomy a few years before marrying her. When she told him he informed her he knew I was not his but that he would raise me as if I was and he would never tell a soul. As the pregnancy continued she grew less and less interested in raising a child, and more interested in sampling different illegal substances.

She went into labor roughly three months before her due date, not realizing what was going on she shot up and went to bed. a few hours later she was being rushed to the hospital and I was born. Needless to say I had some pretty serious issues, between the premature birth and all the drugs she took the doctors were convinced I would not live out the day. I proved them wrong.

My grandfather disapproved of the name I was given and refused to use it, because of my size he called me Pipsqueak, the name stuck. When I was born he would hold me in one hand, resting my head in his palm and my feet in his fingers. He was a huge man, standing over seven feet tall, his hands were no exception but I was rather tiny as you would expect. As I got older he shortened the name he used for me to simply Pip, I still go by that name, it keeps a part of him alive.

Three months after I was born I was released from the hospital into my mothers care, she and her husband were beginning negotiations and looking into divorce. He being a minister would not be able to remarry if divorced and eventually they had the marriage annulled. While that was going on she began seeing the man whom I call dad.

Dad was boarding in the house she and her husband lived in. He like pretty much everyone else was unaware of her drug habits and drinking. I am now and will always be impressed by the shear sneakiness of the woman. When the relationship came out my mothers husband asked dad to leave the house, he simply could not handle it. Dad really isn't that bad of a guy, he left quietly and respectfully. My mother followed suit shortly thereafter.

Within months of the annulment my mother and dad were married. We moved around a good bit over the next few months, I still don't know exactly where we lived nor will I ever most likely as dad is suffering from senile dementia.

Over the next few years we moved over two dozen times before settling in South Carolina for roughly a year. South Carolina is when things started getting interesting, however that will have to wait for the next post, I believe it is going to require a bit of liquid courage, and truth be told it's a bit too early to start that.

Dad's family

My adoptive father's family is in many ways a mystery to me. I know that his mother's mother was a Sicilian immigrant, from what I hear she was a tiny, yet intimidating lady, apparently I am much like her. Grandpa was born and raised in southern Georgia as was his father. Grandma I couldn't begin to tell you about.

When Dad was growing up his father was a traveling salesman and rarely home. Grandma was an alcoholic although most of the family would deny this vehemently.

Truth is truth and there will be a lot of it yet to come.

Dad is one of four children, three boys, one girl. I know only a few facts from before my childhood.

His sister, the eldest of the children was a remarkably sweet woman and the one with whom I was closest.She never had children, something I know always bothered her, because of this she relentlessly spoiled all of the kids in the family and I would wager most of the kids in her neighborhood. She passed a few years back.

When they were teenagers the boys played in a band for a while, one of them still does. They all three are very different, each with his own unique views and opinions if it weren't for the obvious physical similarities you wouldn't even know they were family.

Dad joined the Army as a teenager, later he went into the Air force and after that worked as a civilian for the Navy. He has worked in several fields, and when I was younger would work in as many as three jobs at a time. Some of his career choices include a game tech for a casino, a DJ for a local radio station, a pizza chef, and a technician for a cable company. He truly is a jack of all trades.

One of his brothers owns a landscaping company, the other works in construction I believe. I've had very little contact with that side of the family since my grandparents passed a few years ago.

I could tell you a few of the family stories that have been passed down along the way, and I probably will before it's over. I have quite a few that will make you laugh and at least one that you will be convinced is completely made up. Sadly everything in this will be truth. Stay tuned for more.

My grandparent's children

All four of the girls grew up in New York,

The eldest went to college, met the man she eventually married and led a relatively normal life, When her second child was about three years old a drunk driver crashed through the fence around their front yard and struck him and his playmate, my cousin died on impact, his friend was not so lucky. The child lived another six years before passing away, during those six years he was in a vegetative state, he couldn't move, think, live. I have always supported any and all drunk driving laws and their penalties because of that. The accident did a lot of damage to the family at large but particularly to my aunt, she was never the same after that and I have only the vaguest memories of her from before the tragedy. She has had her share of romances and marriages and I believe she has finally reached a point where she can be called content if not happy.

The second girl married a horribly abusive man the first time around, there was but one good thing that came of the marriage and that was my favored cousin. He passed away at thirty as a prisoner of war. Her second marriage was much better, he was a good and loving man, they had two children together but her eldest was treated as his own. He suffered a heart attack at work and died instantly, leaving her alone, in poor health and very miserable. She had a gambling addiction, had/has? I'm not really sure if you can ever use past tense when it comes to addictions. The gambling eventually caused her to lose her home, her nest egg, everything they had worked for. Last I spoke with that part of the family she was back on her feet and learning how to cope.

The third (my grandmothers first) was a bit rowdier as a child and only got worse as she aged. You will hear a good deal about her later as she is my mother, but that story should not be gotten to just yet.

The youngest could best be described as a wild child, while in college she sampled every illegal substance she could get her hands on, had more than a few "boyfriends" and a fairly decent number of troubles because of that. She eventually settled down, got married and put her energies into building her career. To my knowledge she has never had children and at this point in her life I can't imagine she would.

So now you know a little about my maternal side. I will have to tell you about my adoptive father's family as I have had no exposure to my biological sire or his family. That however can wait for a while, I feel the need to go ransack the kitchen cabinets right now

The Beginning

To tell this story properly I must first tell you about the people who came before me.

My Grandfather was born in Germany and grew up there during Hitlers reign, he was of Armenian, German, and Jewish decent. I have only recently dug into the Armenian background, it broke my heart to read some of the stories from those people. As a young adult  he and his family fled the country, in the process he lost his brothers, one of his sisters and his father. He, his mother, and two of his sisters survived and succeeded in entering America where they were given an easier to pronounce last name and very little hope of a bright future. With no money, no patriarch, and no idea what to do, they somehow managed to not only survive but to thrive in this strange new world.

My Grandmother had it bit easier, her family came from Italy in search of an adventure. She was raised with the best of everything, and had never wanted a day in her life. She more than once embarrassedly admitted to that. She was however never particularly vain or haughty, she never looked at those with less and thought less of them, her finest attribute was her ability to judge a person solely on that persons intelligence, drive, and heart. She did as much with my Grandfather and they spent many years together, most of which appeared to be very happy ones.

Prior to my grandparents meeting my grandfather married a woman and they had two daughters. I have never been certain of the specifics but the marriage ended and my grandfather was once again a single man. Shortly thereafter he met my grandmother and married her. She proceeded to give him two more daughters, their eldest later became my mother.

My grandparents lived in New York, in both Brooklyn and in Queens until my grandfather took early retirement due to his health and reestablished themselves in a little town in North Carolina. Since then both have passed away and are buried in what was once their garden, under an oak tree.

Next time we will talk about their children, my aunts and mother. For now I need a break and another cup of coffee.

The explanation.

I have been told repeatedly that I should write a book about my life, I don't feel it to be all that interesting but after years of being pushed I agreed to a blog instead.

Over the next few months I'll walk you through the life of a second generation immigrant child, born premature and addicted to heroin, raised in an abusive home by the mother who tried to abort through drugs and alcohol. And the people who got her through that and turned that broken child into the mostly functional adult I became.

This will be a very graphic and shocking read. These stories are not for the faint of heart and are certainly not for children. Perhaps though there will be one person who will read this and know they are not alone in this world, there is hope for a better life and in the end there is truth in the statement "That which does not kill us only makes us stronger"