BITTER MEMORIES: A Memoir of Heartache & Survival (28 page)

One of the worst beatings I ever had was when I asked about what I’d been hearing from the kids at school. Olivia went ballistic! Again, she accused me of trying to break up her marriage by “making up stories” to turn her husband against her!

Say what? Her logic made no sense whatsoever! How in the world could she think what I’d heard had anything at all to do with
her
?

At eighteen, with the help of a boyfriend, I left home to get away from the controlling Olivia. Well, actually, I snuck away while Henry and Olivia were at work. The neighbors saw me throwing clothes into the boyfriend’s car, so of course they called Henry. Luckily, I managed to slip away before he made it home to stop me. 

After a week I still hadn’t contacted them. I thought they didn’t know where I’d moved to, but one quiet night Henry and the alien-mouthed Olivia showed up on my doorstep. Henry informed me that he’d known the “dump” I’d moved into before I could even unpack my toothbrush!

After he made a rude comment about my bed being unmade at seven o’clock at night, he literally
forced
me to leave the duplex I’d rented and return home with them that night.

Now, you’re probably thinking he had no right. After all, I was eighteen and of legal age. He couldn’t
force
me to do anything…well, that’s what I thought, too, but boy was I wrong! I found out real quick since Henry was a cop, he
could
force me.

Of course, if I’d had money I could’ve hired an attorney, fought it in court, and I’m sure I would’ve won, but I took an easier, more drastic route—I married the boyfriend! And somehow, our
loveless
arrangement worked for a year and a half.

It took two weeks to get the blood tests, the preacher, and the wedding out of the way, but finally, he was free from his parents to drink his beer, and I, free from my adoptive parents, began searching for those answers about Mama’s
accident
everywhere I could think to look.

I felt I
needed
to find out the truth.

Soon I discovered Henry had all records of Mama’s death sealed (or hidden), and he’d also sealed my birth records after he and Olivia adopted me. Everywhere I searched I hit a brick wall.

I slammed into that damn wall so many times word filtered back to Henry what I’d been doing. He wasn’t too happy to learn of my search, but Olivia became outraged and ordered me to stop my
foolishness
.

I stopped searching, but not because Olivia told me to. I stopped because no one would talk to me about any of it and I had no other avenues left. The only thing that hadn’t been hidden was the obituary in the local paper and that had been written by the family. It didn’t tell me a damn thing in the way of
truth
. 

While writing this book I heard another side of the
truth
. Aunt Julie had heard from Grandmother that Olivia
pushed
my mother over the banister.

Whoa! I wasn’t ready to hear that one!

But, after giving it some thought; then considering the original source, my Grandmother who didn’t like Olivia in the first place, I chose not to believe Mama had been pushed—at least, not by Olivia. And, I didn’t remember Olivia being with Henry that tragic night when he came and took Mama away that last time.

Of course, it is possible she was there and I didn’t see her, or after all this time, I forgot she was there…but either way, suicide or accident, I’ll never know. Everyone who knew the truth is deceased, not that I would’ve heard the
actual
truth anyway if anyone were still alive to talk about it.

I know someone spoke the truth years ago. I just don’t know which one
—
Henry with his accident story? The neighbors and kids at school with the tale of suicide? Grandmother with her story of murder?

Or, was it my mother all along?

I can only presume, but I still believe my mother’s words—spoken with conviction—that she’d die before being locked away again. I know what I believe could’ve happened, maybe happened, probably happened, but still, the
truth
of her death will remain a mystery, forever.

Since I began writing about my life, I’ve been asking myself if I still loved Daddy, the man who hurt me, lied to me, abused me over and over again, and I wasn’t sure. I thought I did until I started writing down everything I’d been told, or overheard, as well as all my own memories.

Thinking back to the times when he left me alone in the car overnight or for days on end while he went off with some strange woman, I know I loved him, then. Even when he starved me for days and weeks on end, I still loved him. 

I worshipped Daddy.

I worshipped him right up until the day I found out he’d been lying to me all those years. And even then, when I knew I couldn’t trust him any longer, I still loved him with all my heart. Only one thing had changed for me on that truthful day so many years ago when I saw Mama again. I no longer
liked
him. 

I still have a vague idea of what Daddy looked like from a picture I had years ago. The black and white photo showed him with his arms around Mama; his dark hair appeared thick and wavy. They were smiling.

I never had any other snapshots of Daddy, but in that picture, just like Mama had told me, he really was tall, dark and handsome. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what he looked like in person, and that one photo has since been lost.

I’m left with a struggle to hang on to what’s left of my vague memory of that man’s picture in my mind because when it’s gone, I won’t remember what Daddy looked like at all.

I don’t know if it’s really important to recall his face, but because of all my other memories—everything I’ve tried to forget, but haven’t been able to—I feel that man needs a face for me to associate with.

I think back to Mama and how she must’ve felt during those sad, lonely years after Daddy kidnapped me. She didn’t know where he’d taken me or if she’d ever see me again. Against all odds that I’d be found alive, with the help of her brother, Henry, and the FBI, Mama still looked for me. She hung on to her determination to find me; she refused to give up. Then, after all those years of being away from her, when she did see me again, she still remembered me.

That had to be love.

But, what does that say about me? Did I stop loving Mama? Was that why I forgot her? I
thought
I still loved her after Daddy took me away. I can only imagine how devastated Mama felt when I didn’t remember her at all. I’m sure it broke her heart, and yet, she did an excellent job of smiling and telling me everything would be all right. 

Of course, I had Daddy to thank for me not remembering her. During those years on the run, he did everything he possibly could to make sure I’d forget her. But even after he banned me from talking about her, I still tried to keep her memory alive in my secret thoughts. I tried so hard not to forget my mother, the woman who had tucked me into bed believing when she came home from work I’d be there and we’d have pancakes.

After a few years of heartache her memory began to fade; I couldn’t recall her voice or her touch. Then, one lonely day, I realized I couldn’t remember what Mama looked like. All my memories that I’d tried so hard to hold on to were gone. 

Thinking back to my memories of the woman who came for me, I recall she didn’t get mad at me, or yell at me, when I didn’t remember her. She seemed really nice, and we had lots of long talks for three wonderful days.

It wasn’t until she told me she
wanted
me to come home with her and
promised
to never let me out of her sight again, that I honestly didn’t care if she was my mother or not. I wanted to go with her. I wanted to be with someone who wouldn’t leave me. Someone who would love me—no matter what.

I guess I should’ve been angry at Aunt Molly for secretly calling Daddy after Mama and the FBI came to her house. I hadn’t seen him or heard a word from him in nearly two years and, I should’ve been angry at him for showing up,
begging
me to not leave
him
!

Of course, he didn’t know I’d found out about his lies, or whether I even believed what Mama had told me. Since that day, I’ve wondered if Daddy
claiming
he wanted me to stay with him wasn’t just another feeble attempt for him to hurt Mama.

Hadn’t he hurt her, and me, enough already?

Then, I think about
me
deeply hurting him when I told him I couldn’t stay, I had to go home with Mama. I guess that’s why it was called brainwashing. I felt so sorry for Daddy when he started to cry. I never wanted to hurt him. But, he’d told one too many lies, and he’d left me one too many times.

That day, by the Grace of God—that same God I’d given up on even existing—without consciously knowing it, I cared more for myself than I did Daddy. Luckily, I never saw or heard from him again. Daddy
really
was a good-for-nothing creep.

I did see Aunt Molly once after Mama died. I hadn’t been adopted yet, but I was living with Henry and Olivia when Aunt Molly and a woman friend of hers came to visit me. She tried her best to get Olivia to let me go with her, alone, to the store. It was just before Mother’s Day. Aunt Molly said she wanted me to pick out a gift for Olivia. However, Olivia didn’t trust Molly, and refused to let me go. Olivia believed my daddy would be waiting around the corner to run away with me again.

Maybe he was, but I’ll never know. 

I spent so many years trying to go it alone; trying to understand all that had happened to me, and it was a long, exasperating journey to get where I am today. But, thanks to a friend’s referral close to twenty years ago, I found a superb therapist.

I’ll call him Dr. D. 

Dr. D helped me to understand all those things that had happened to me were not my fault, and, if not for my ‘voices’, my disassociation, I wouldn’t be alive today. I also no longer believe those horrible things Olivia said about that scared little kid who just wanted so badly to be loved. 

I probably should feel sorry for Dr. D because of all the
crap
he had to read week after week. But, with the help of those journal entries, or most of the time just ramblings of whatever popped into my head that ended up on paper, he was able to break through the protective wall I’d put around myself.

I always remembered bits and pieces about my life with Daddy, but when I first started working with Dr. D, and we began to delve into all that
crap
, I started having nightmares every night again. Shortly after the nightmares began, Dr. D discovered the others: Ann, Jean, Polly, and Scottie. He was able to talk to them while I was in a hypnotic state. Eventually, through dreams, I also remembered them and what they had done to protect me.

In trying to forget my past, I’d suppressed all memories of
the others
, but with Dr. D’s help, I learned they really weren’t just a figment of a child’s imagination, and despite the fact that
normal
people don’t hear voices,
maybe
I wasn’t crazy. 

In nightmares, just like they’d done for so many years, they again, talked to me. They showed me all the things I didn’t remember had happened, and all the things I’d blocked out—all those things Daddy, his brother, Frank and his sons, Janet, and Molly’s husband, Frank, had done. Everything came rushing back.

When the memories first returned I was scared to death of the others; especially Jean. Jean was so damn much like me, at least the temper side of me, and I still have one hell of a temper when pushed into a corner. I suppose I always will since I’m German/Irish. Not an excuse, but the heritage explains my temper, and my hardheadedness. 

I always knew it wasn’t
normal
to hear voices whispering in my head, but what else had been normal in my life? It wasn’t until after a suicide attempt that I learned to deal with that never-ending pain (that loss) I felt inside, and I no longer felt frightened of Jean or the others.

I finally
believed
I wasn’t insane. 

In the very beginning when I first disassociated, the only voice I heard was Ann, my guardian angel. Gradually I started hearing the others, too, and soon after, I could see them in my mind. Jean was the pre-teen
me
. It didn’t take long to learn, because of her temper, she was the tough, brave one, and she
liked
to cuss!

Polly, always so sweet and quiet, wasn’t much older than me. She acted more like the
real
me than the others. She was shy and withdrawn and tried so hard to make people like her. Polly, like me, only wanted to be loved.

Scottie, the only male
me
, trapped inside with a bunch of girls, was just a few years older than Jean. I always liked listening to Scottie’s accent. I thought he
enjoyed
doing what those men wanted, but he promptly set me straight; informing me he didn’t enjoy it at all. He did it only to keep the girls from having to do it since they always got sick, and being gay, he never had to throw up. Logical? I thought so. But Scottie also had a heart of gold.