I am not always angry. I know that many people have had it worse than me. I spent years in therapy dealing with my past and the scars it left on me. For the most part, I have dealt with my demons; but every once in awhile…

This is not the childhood that dreams are made of. My mother was cold hearted. My father was volatile. My grandfather was omnipotent. He ruled the extended family with an iron hand and a pocketful of cash for bribes. He hated my father. He always thought my mother married beneath her. Yet, my father left Italy and never saw anyone from his family again; all for my mother. He worked hard in the family mason business, harder than my mother's brothers. But still his efforts went unnoticed. My mother berated him, because my grandfather berated him. And my siblings and I watched. There was no place to hide in an angry household.

There were five of us. My brother is six years older than me and my sister is six years younger than me; both born on the same day, 12 years apart. The symmetry in that amazing coincidence transcends to the bond we share. It is equally non-existent among all of us.

My twin brothers were born when I was three years old. Three years later we found out that they were severely mentally retarded. This devastated my parents, especially my mother. Our lives would never be the same. My parents could barely deal with one handicapped child, let alone two. There simply was no time for nurturing the rest of us. We were fed. We were clothed. But hugs and kisses were out of the question. Emotionally, we were starved beyond belief.

And then the sexual abuse began. I believe my grandfather started to touch me when I was 7. I have both vague memories and vivid recollections of incidents between me and my grandfather. He would fondle me. He would stand me on a chair and lean hard against me from behind. He would hurt me. He would expose himself to me and shout "See, look what you have done to me!" My eyes would widen in fear. He seemed angry at me and I didn't know what I had done.

His feet; I would see the basin and know that he wanted me to wash his feet; filthy, crusty, smelling awful. My stomach would turn, but I dare not say no. To this day, I shudder at the thought.

My brother started touching me when I was older; perhaps ten or twelve. The rift between my brother and me was huge. It went way beyond sibling rivalry. Our fights were frequent and painful. No one intervened. Our hatred grew deeper, unchecked for years. And so when he touched me for the first time, I didn't stop him. I knew it was wrong, but I let him. I thought maybe now he would be nicer to me. Maybe now we would share a bond like so many of my friends shared with their brothers and sisters.

Of course that never happened. The rift only widened and to this day we can barely tolerate each other. But I understand now what motivated him. And although I can never forgive him, I can acknowledge that his actions were that of a victim too. He was a product of the same angry dysfunctional family. My grandfather's perverse power touched his life as well as mine.

I only wish he would deal with his demons and seek help. Then maybe his anger would only appear every once in awhile. Just like mine.



Note to all: This was written on January 16, 1998. It is a very personal part of me. I am OK and a survivor so there is nothing to worry about I knew I wouldn't have time to write something new for today and so I decided yesterday that I would share this essay here. It felt like the right time. It actually won some sort of prize back in the days on AOL. I think the topic was anger....

I won't have time to read all your blogs today. We are leaving in an hour or so and will be gone for most of the day. I will read them as soon as I can because what you have to say is important to me. I hope everyone has a wonderful day