Letters to My Mother: A Survivor's Story

By Mary Ruth Borg

I knew I liked to write when I was a teenager, locking myself in my room. I was angry, frustrated and needed a positive outlet.  I was tired of breaking things. I was sad having to pick up pieces of my little treasures.  So I picked up a pencil  to write about how I felt and why I was being self-destructive.  I was determined to find a way to diffuse the confusion in my head. Taught very early to pray, I'd put my prayers on paper.  Seeing something written brought me back into reality. I had a reference point.  Something I could read over and over to remind myself who I was and that I would be okay.

This is my story of survival.  My journey from the traumatic experience of being molested countless times by my step-father while living within the strict religious practices of Jehovah's Witnesses to my healing process with Parents United.  I thought my life of confusion, mistrust and low self-esteem could never change.  As I got older, I attracted more dysfunction in my choices.  I didn't know I could change that.  I didn’t know any better.  I became afraid for my children.  I thought I was crazy and didn't have good parenting skills.  After years of therapy, I learned to have control over my life and how to take the power back that I kept giving away.  I am no longer a victim.  It has been a long and twisty road.  Today, I am proud to be happy, healthy and productive in my world.  I am proud to be a survivor!  I hope to inspire others and give them hope that the craziness in their heads can go away.  I want to keep talking about this until the cycle is broken and all children are safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9781467872195

Mary Ruth Borg

Mary Borg is a vivacious, energetic woman who is always smiling and glowing.  She exudes peace, confidence, strength.  She's a joy to be around.  Others often seek her help because she projects the image of a woman who has it together.  This was not always true.  No one would guess all that she has experienced to get to the space in which she is now.  She overcame a horrific past and used her newfound strength and wisdom to help save others in similar circumstances.  This is her story. Mary is well known in her community.  She has served on the Speakers Bureau of Parents United sharing her story of survival to local women's facilities, junior, high school and college students, church organizations and other groups interested in becoming aware of molest and incest and it's effects.  She has volunteered for several fund raising activities for Pride Day events that take place in her home town and organized social groups to promote diversity and awareness of the gay community. She is a proud mother of two adult children and a new grandmother.  Her outlook on life is positive and she is an inspiration to everyone that gets to know her. 

Book preview

LETTERS to

my MOTHER

a survivor’s story

MARY RUTH BORG

Edited by Rebecca Morrison

Kelly Burden

Vanessa M. Horner

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2009 Mary Ruth Borg. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/19/2022

ISBN: 978-1-4490-2851-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-2852-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-7219-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009909540

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1 In The Beginning

Chapter 2 Early Memories

Chapter 3 The First Time I Remember

Chapter 4 South Dakota

Chapter 5 Back to California

Chapter 6 San Jose

Chapter 7 Freedom

Chapter 8 Life With Jim

Chapter 9 Patricia

Chapter 10 Florida

Chapter 11 Sue, Shelly, Terri, Lynn and Gloria

Chapter 12 Joseph

Chapter 13 Gloria and Vanessa

Chapter 14 Daryl

Chapter 15 Raquel Lane

Chapter 16 Parents United

Chapter 17 Vanessa and DJ

Chapter 18 Health and Healing

Chapter 19 Divorce and Spirituality

Chapter 20 A New Journey

To all the little lost children.

May you find the strength and power to come out and play.

And to my own children who have inspired me to heal.

"Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim.

Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself."

- Harvey Fierstein

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Mary Ruth and Mitchell with mom - 1952

INTRODUCTION

I have written this book for many reasons. It has been a life long dream to tell my story. My first attempt to start my book was in March of 1980. I started writing my own story, nothing to hide. That was the original title I chose. My inspiration at that time was twofold. First thoughts turned to my grandpa, Joe Dangcil. Actually, he wasn’t blood related, but he deserved the title. At least that’s what I thought back in 1980. He was in the hospital, very sick. It had been many years since I had to face the thought of a death in my family. I was too young to remember all the details or feel the impact when my mom’s oldest sister’s husband died. All I remember is the rain pouring down and hearing the bugles blowing. It was a military funeral. Listening to the sound of Taps being played made my heart feel so heavy and sad.

My step-dad had moved us to South Dakota when we received the news of my Grandma Mary being killed. Since I was only three when my parents divorced, I didn’t have the opportunity to grow up around her. Tragically, she was stabbed to death during a robbery of their corner grocery store in San Francisco in the early 60‘s. I don’t recall feeling upset or troubled. I don’t think I understood.

All in all, death to me was something that only my friends had experienced. I began thinking what if something should suddenly happen to me? My daughter was just a few months old when Grandpa Joe died. She was the second, but greatest inspiration to start writing. I wanted her to know and try to understand everything possible about her mother. I swore I would love and protect her with my life and she would never have to endure a tormented life like I had growing up. I was determined to make her life full of joy and happiness. She would never become a victim to anyone. Several years later, both of our lives twisted and turned, challenging us in more ways than we ever thought possible.

I am proud to say that I no longer consider myself a victim. It took years of therapy and dedication for me to realize that every day that went by I was inappropriately still giving my power away to my perpetrator. Once I began to heal, I knew I had the ability to take my power back and turn my life around. I became a survivor. So did my daughter.

Part of learning to survive was learning to write. I started journals, writing poems, grabbing a pen in the middle of the night after a terrifying nightmare. I started gathering up my old poems and writings. My mother blessed me with two shoe boxes full of letters that I had written to her over the span of several years. Thus began the contents of my book. Writing in spurts, sometimes every day for weeks, sometimes skipping months and even years. Finally, I pray that my mind can be clear and my heart can express what I have kept inside for many long years.

I want to let victims of sexual abuse, molest and incest, and their families know there is hope. I want to share my experiences of growing up in a strict religious cult that encouraged me to remain a victim. A victim is someone who wants no part of something they are forced to experience. Even if it happens over and over again, a victim can learn to be a survivor by taking back their power and being responsible to make changes in order to change the outcome. I pray in sharing my story that anyone who has been victimized can find the strength and faith to seek help. I promise, the craziness will stop if you make a promise to yourself to never give up.

This book is my legacy and memoirs to both of my children and my new grandson. In writing, I unburden myself of all the humiliation and shameful events of my life. I am destined to share my experiences. To bring light to darkness. To tell of my triumphant healing and encourage strength and spirituality in their lives. I am not boasting about what I did or got away with. I want everybody to understand what I’ve gone through and how I felt growing up with abuse. Each of us have our own unique senses. Our individual minds develop varying perceptions of each experience. Whether it is happy or sad, endearing or terrifying, each of us see and feel it differently. What you are about to read is my perception. You will find through actual letters I wrote to my mother, that many times what I let her know about my life wasn’t fully disclosed. You will see how the world in my eyes developed from what I learned as a child. The burdens I carried molded me into a personality I thought the world expected to see. I took them to therapy sessions and they remained with me until I could safely let them go.

Parts of this book will be perplexing and full of anger. Parts will be comforting. My life has been a roller coaster of emotions. I’ve dealt with fear, pain, failure, indecision, prejudice, success and love. For so many years I didn’t know myself. I went through each day doing only what another expected of me. It was all I knew. Inside I felt like a puppet, as if I had no feelings. More than anything, I wanted to be loved, so I allowed anyone who came into my life and gave me attention to pull my strings and I did anything they wanted me to.

If you have been abused please take the time to take care of yourself. Call someone you trust for support. Remember you have already survived. If you are still being victimized, I encourage you to find a safe place, get away from your abuser now. It may be the most difficult thing you will ever have to do, but it is the first step to freedom.

If you are a teacher, preacher, community leader or just want more information about how you can help stop this destructive cycle please take the time to discuss it with your associates. You can make a difference. I pray you will learn to recognize the pain of others and have the strength and courage to reach out to help those in need. You can save someone’s life. Maybe your own.

I invite you on a journey through my life. This is a compilation of years of writing. You will venture into some dark and desperate places with me. I will share my delusion, anger and the fears inside my mind. You will read the thoughts of a frightened and lost little girl as she matured into a rebellious teenager. You will travel through the years of my confusion, mistrust and identity crisis. I hope to touch your heart by sharing what mine hid so deep inside as my healing process unraveled my perceptions. You will observe my transition from living in hell to living in peace. Peace that I have worked most of my life to achieve, but it is deep within now and I am standing on the mountain top with infinite love and gratitude in my heart for a beautiful life.

I hope my story will inspire each and every reader in some way. I hope to give you strength to find your life purpose and understand the importance of maintaining some form of spirituality. It doesn’t matter what your religious background is, where you grew up, what you’ve been taught to believe or what your family or friends think you should be or do. It doesn’t matter how much money you have, what school you went to, or where you work. What is important is that you believe in yourself. That you are true to what your heart tells you and that you have the faith and courage to listen to that beat of a different drummer. Find that higher power that lives within and let it guide you to true freedom.

IN THE BEGINNING      CHAPTER 1

I was born Mary Ruth Borg in San Francisco, California on November 17, 1949 to Joseph Paul Borg and Maxine Mary Mantele. I believe I was named after my paternal grandmother, Mary. My name Mary Ruth means exalted beauty, I was blessed with a beautiful name. I appreciate it now, but growing up, there were too many girls named Mary. There was Mary Lou, Mary Jane, Mary Kay, Mary Sue, Mary Lynn, Mary Jo, but no Mary Ruth. I still have not met another Mary Ruth.

My parents were married for over a year before she became pregnant with me. My father was 20 and my mother was 17 when I was born. She was a beautiful young lady and he was a handsome young man. I know she got married for the wrong reasons. She needed an escape from her own parents. She went from one bad situation right into another. There was always someone she allowed to control her life. When you’re young and in love you don’t have the wisdom and common sense that comes with maturity.

My dad was born in California to Mary and Joseph Borg. He had one older and one younger sister. They grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. My Grandpa Joe came to the United States as a worker on a ship from Malta, a small island off the coast of Sicily close to Italy. My dad was a butcher by trade. He eventually learned to train race horses because my grandpa owned them and frequented the race tracks.

My brother Mitchell is two years younger than me. We didn’t grow up with our biological father. We have never been close to him. According to my mom he was always chasing other women and worked in a dishonest business with horses and the racetrack. The only time we saw him was when we went to visit my Grandma Mary and Grandpa Joe. They lived in San Francisco above their own grocery store. Mitchell and I loved to go there because Grandma Mary would always give us a little bag to do our own shopping. We could have anything we wanted in the store. We were just interested in all the colorful penny candies we saw in the display cases. I was fascinated watching grandpa use the meat slicing machine when someone made a purchase from the deli. My memories of visiting them are limited. I think we only saw them a few times when we were very young.

I was told that my father never supported us. It was Grandma Mary who paid the child support. And when she was murdered, the payments stopped. I was in middle school and didn’t understand my grandma was gone forever. We didn’t attend her funeral. My mom and step-dad didn’t talk about my real father or that family. I don’t even remember seeing him as I grew up. He came to my high school graduation and when I ran away and my mom put me in juvenile hall, he came and got me. I barely know anything about my real father or his family. He still works with horses, training and racing. But I am fortunate if I see him once a year. I love him but don’t really know him. He calls every year on my birthday and always tells me he loves me and still apologizes for not being a good father.

My maternal grandmother, Lucille Thelma Hilton, or Grandma Redhead, as so many relatives grew to call her, was born in November of 1902 in Nashville, Tennessee. Her father, Clem Hilton, was of English ancestry. He was a descendent of Henry Hilton who built the Hylton (Hilton) Castle in 1072 on a large tract of land that was given to him by King Edward III. The Hilton family originates from Monkwearmouth in Durham, England, where the Hylton Castle still stands. Her mother, Georgia Henderson Rawley, was born in 1866. She was of Scot and Irish ancestry.

Lucille was fair skinned and had long, beautiful, strawberry blond hair and misty blue eyes. She was a beautiful young lady who caught the attention of an older Filipino gentleman named, Francisco Lara Mantele. Grandpa Frank, as we called him, was born in May of 1890 in Imos Caviti, of the Philippine Islands. He was 28 years old when he married my grandmother in Denver, Colorado. It was 1918 and she was only 16. The same age my mother married. Grandma Redhead was an extraordinary person, to say the least. I think she must have led a pretty wild life when she was a teenager. Grandpa had come to the United States when he joined the Navy. He also served in the Army and fought in World War I.

Maybe that’s why Grandma Redhead acquired her ‘sailor mouth.’ She stood up for her beliefs and easily spoke her mind. She was never concerned with who was around or what she said. She was strong willed and ahead of the times in her actions and ideals. She was the strength of the Mantele Family, retiring from the telephone company after working hard her whole life. A generous person, she loved and took care of her family, especially her many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, until the day she passed away. Grandma Redhead always had gifts for everyone. Even the small presents were always wrapped. It didn’t have to be a special holiday. When grandma showed up, she had something for every child. She took us on trips to Santa Cruz to play on the beach. We went exploring caves and caverns in central California. We spent vacations traveling to Denver and southern California to visit family. She never picked favorites out of us grandkids. She loved us all equally and took the time to show us all that we were special.

Grandma Redhead ended up marrying three times in her life, each time to a full-blooded Filipino. It has been a blessing to our family. We are blond and fair skinned. We are red heads with olive skin. We are brunettes with dark skin. We are blond with olive skin. We have blue eyes, green eyes and brown eyes. Some are almond shaped, some are not. We have freckles. We are tall and short, thin and stout. When we get together we all look so different, but we are a very unique and close knit family.

Grandma and grandpa had their first child in October of 1920, a son. By 1936, she had bore eight children, two dying as infants. It was sometime between 1928 and 1932 that grandma must have lost interest in her husband or just wanted to sow some wild oats. I say that because her first five children were born by March 1928 and they were all from Frank Mantele.

My mother was born in April of 1932 and has been raised as a Mantele, but never knew her real father. Grandma rented out rooms in her home and had an affair with one of the tenants. He was a student at the local university, much younger than she. My mother never had enough information to pursue finding him. So technically, I don’t know my real blood roots.

In November of 1936, grandma gave birth to another son. He was raised as a Mantele also. But he was the son of John Laguna. He and grandma were married for just a short time. My uncle was fortunate to locate his real family before he passed away.

Grandma must have realized that her true love was Grandpa Frank. They reunited and bore one more child, a girl. They were married for 20 years before finally divorcing in 1943. My mother grew up with two sisters and three brothers. They were all born in Denver, Colorado.

My mother was the second daughter of Lucille. When she was born her sister was ten years old, her brothers were twelve and four. Grandma had already buried two children, a daughter born in 1924 and a son born in 1925. My mom grew up very insecure and depressed. She told me her mother used to chase her down the streets of San Francisco yelling and cussing at her. These actions were not unusual for Grandma Redhead.

Unfortunately, my mom was a bed wetter. Grandma wasn’t happy about that and wet sheets were often included in the chase. It didn’t matter what the weather was like outside either, rain or sun, screaming and sometimes beating her, the chase was on. It is disturbing to me that she was humiliated in such a way. My brother and I inherited the bed wetting problem. Doctors say it’s a sign of allergies. We both have lots of allergies, but I think it was growing up with fear. Who wants to leave the warmth of a bed that provided safety from the monsters who lived in the closets?

My aunts have told me that my mom was always the one who volunteered to stay home and care for her nieces and nephews. She wasn’t assertive. She didn’t like to be away from the security of her home out in the world. Even if home was not a happy place, it was what she knew, it was familiar. Maybe it had something to do with being the child of an affair, grandma probably took her anger out on my mom. Getting married at 16 was her attempt at running away from her misery, only to jump into more uncertainty.

Grandma Redhead was the matriarch of the family. Her female descendants have continued with that tradition. We are all independent, strong willed individuals who usually try to wear the pants in the family. I consider it an asset. It has given me the soul to fight and the ability to bounce back from my desperate situations.

Grandma married for a third time to Lazaro Impalara Dangcil. I called him Grandpa Joe. I remember most of my aunts and uncles living in the San Francisco Bay area. That’s where most of us grandkids grew up and visited Grandma Redhead and Grandpa Joe. Grandpa Frank was in Denver, Colorado with his new family. He remarried in 1951 and at the age of 62 had another son.

Even though grandma was tough, she had a huge heart. No one ever went without. She was generous beyond expectations. Any hand that reached out to her, she would fill. She worked for the telephone company at night in San Francisco and Grandpa Joe would take her to work and pick her up and they’d drive back to their home in Sunnyvale. I can’t remember exactly what kind of work he did. I think he was called a machinist. But it seemed one of them was always home. They didn’t have any children of their own. Instead they raised poodles and took in any stray dog or cat that needed a home. As grandchildren we enjoyed many summer vacations with grandma and Grandpa Joe.

We experienced the beach at Santa Cruz, fishing trips, caverns and caves, famous parks and recreational places. Just going to grandma’s house was always fun, too. At least after the barrage of the barking dogs was over. Walking into their house was a major fiasco for anyone. Their door was always unlocked but you couldn’t just walk in without a warning. Grandpa Joe had to pick up Baby, a toy poodle who had brain damage and walked in circles because she was blind. Otherwise, Baby would be trampled by the half dozen or more other dogs. They would start their barking and grandma would be yelling, shut up you goddamn dogs, shut up! She’d be yelling at grandpa, You stupid bastard, shut those goddamn dogs up.

Grandma and Grandpa Joe never slept together. She had the master bedroom with its own bathroom at the front of the house and he’d have the back bedroom. Both of them had their own special set of dogs who were privileged to sleep on their beds. These dogs even had their own special chairs. As grandkids we tried to always remember where not to sit or we’d be fighting with a dog or maybe get bit. Those dogs were their children and probably ate better than grandma did. She was always cooking something on the stove or in her pressure cooker. Her house always had a wonderful aroma like a roast being cooked. But 99% of the time she was preparing food for the dogs and not for themselves. The dogs didn’t eat ordinary dog food, she bought quality meat. And the cats got freshly sliced liver. I don’t think anyone ever really knew how many animals they had at once. But the house was always full of animals and kept clean. It never smelled like a house that had three or four times more animals than people.

Grandpa Joe was often in the back yard tending to his garden, growing bitter melon and tomatoes and hot peppers. Or he’d be grooming a dog for a dog show that was coming up. Those dogs won lots of ribbons over the years and provided all of us with lots of entertainment and love. I think over the years many of them were buried in the back yard of her old house in Sunnyvale. My brother and I used to talk about digging up the yard to seeing if they buried money or other treasures with the dogs. Several years later, my brother Mitchell and his wife would own that house.

Grandma loved people just as much as she loved animals, although you couldn’t tell right away. You had to get to know her. Everyone was welcome in her house. I can remember times when I showed up on her porch with a friend and stayed with her for a couple days at a time. I never asked her for money, my pride was too deep. But if she felt you needed it, she gave it. She always had food and an extra bed to sleep in. She seemed to always have a goodie for all her grandchildren and great-grandchildren tucked away for surprise visits to her house.

Grandma’s favorite past time after she retired from the phone company was going to garage sales. Anybody who had a car would be easily coerced into driving her around the neighborhood. She was always looking for something to buy for her grandkids. I don’t think grandma ever had a driver’s license. I never saw her drive. It was crazy when Grandpa Joe drove grandma over to visit. You could hear them the second the car ignition was turned off. The dogs! They always went everywhere with them. As soon as the car door opened, the barking would start and the dogs would be running all over and grandma would be yelling, shut up you stupid dogs, Joe, get those goddamned dogs in the house. Grandpa Joe would be so patient, so mild mannered about everything, the dogs just followed him faithfully. Sometimes he’d just sit in the car with all the dogs waiting for her in the grocery store or at a yard sale.

Oh, the grocery store story. I have to share, it was a traumatic experience for me while I was visiting my grandma one day. It’s a little more insight to the way my grandma was. And unfortunately, I wasn’t the only relative to share a moment like this with grandma.

We went to the corner grocery store, down the street and around the corner from grandma’s house. We used to walk down there all the time. Anyway, grandma had her cart full and I was following her around like a puppy wondering if she’d buy me every thing I asked for. She usually did and I somehow knew not to ask for a lot. It was usually just a candy bar or a coloring book. But, grandma had just approached the check out stand and some younger guy had the nerve to quickly squeeze in front of her with just a few items in his hands. This was definitely the wrong thing to do to my Grandma Redhead, anyone in the family will tell you that!

She got her dander up and blurted out in a very loud voice, You goddamn bastard, what in the hell do you think you are doing? Can’t you see I’m in line here? You stupid ass get out of my way! Or something very similar. It happened frequently. I felt like shrinking into the linoleum. I tried to calm her down, It’s all right, grandma, he only has a few things. But she didn’t see it that way. It was not all right! She’d start all over, Goddamn people, you bastard, I was here first. I learned not to say anything, just stand there next to grandma and be proud she spoke her mind. She was remarkable!

Something else that left an impression on me as a young girl was that grandma liked to use the Ouija Board and she read cards. It was something that intrigued me but my mom was very uncomfortable with. I was made to feel that it was something evil and as children my parents wouldn’t allow us around it.

Curiosity always got to me and when I was at grandma’s house without my parents around, I would play with the Ouija Board just to see if I could make it work. One of grandma’s neighbors had a granddaughter about my age and we would get it out when she came to visit. We’d ask silly questions about boys we liked or if we would be famous when we grew up or how long we would live. Whether it moved by itself or because of our urgings, we had fun. I felt rebellious and knew I was getting away with something I was forbidden to do.

It was a natural activity to grandma, so she never thought to stop me from playing with the board or trying to figure out what her cards meant. To me they looked like ordinary playing cards and I played solitaire while secretly thinking I could understand the markings on them. I always wondered why they made my mother feel uneasy.

Now, about my mom. She never really talked to me much about when she grew up. I knew they weren’t poor, but they weren’t well off either. I think she had what she needed as a child growing up during the depression. I know her brothers picked on her a lot. They used her for a guinea pig when they were teenagers. Her brothers were intellectual and bored and she was the brunt of their experiments. I think they were protective of her though when it came to boyfriends. Grandma was not the typical stay at home kind of mom during those years. She worked a lot and left the older children to take care of the younger ones. Grandma didn’t let having six children tie her down.

My mom didn’t finish high school. But she was always creative and seemed smart to me as I was growing up. She was a good cook and housekeeper. As far back as I can remember, it seemed like my brother and I always had our own rooms and new clothes.

We were always kept busy with activities, mostly dealing with their religion. But my mom taught me to cook and sew and things she thought a young lady should know.

My parents were divorced when I was very young. I had just turned four years old and my brother had just turned two when mom remarried. I don’t remember much of my childhood. My early memories consist of things that relatives have told me or what I have seen in pictures. Almost everything that happened to me before the age of eleven is lost. When I first started writing, my brother Mitchell encouraged me to make a yearly life-line chart to recall events. I think of people I knew, where I lived or went to school. I match that up with my age and that helps me bring back some memories.

EARLY MEMORIES       CHAPTER 2

When I was born, my mother and father lived in Colma, California. When they divorced I was almost three and Mitchell was just a baby. My mom moved to the projects in San Francisco. I think she lived with her older sister. When my mom remarried, we moved again to another place in San Francisco. She married Charles Roy Young on Christmas eve in 1953. We moved again before I started school at the age of four because my birthday was in the middle of November.

I have tried over and over again several times to remember events of my early childhood before I was molested. It is so damn frustrating. I talk to friends and find many people don’t remember their early childhood, but I want to. I look at pictures and it jogs a memory, but I really have to think about it, where was I living, how old was I?

I remember mostly scary things. They must have been terribly frightening because they stuck in my mind. My first memory is that of standing in a doorway my little body frozen with fear. Afraid to wake up my mom but afraid to go back to wherever I was sleeping. I know I was under five years old because I know we were living in San Francisco. I remember other people being in the house, but I don’t know who they were. I was just standing there getting colder and colder, but not being able to move, wanting so bad for someone to see me. Why won’t someone wake up and take me in their arms? Why won’t someone realize this little child is so scared and cold? I stood there for what seemed hours. Just starring at my mommy in bed asleep with someone, I don’t remember who it was, but I know it wasn’t my biological father. Wanting so bad to wake her, to climb into bed with her and be safe and warm. But I never did find that comfort. I never found the words to call out for help. I stood there, forever it seemed. Trying to get up enough nerve just to talk. I was more afraid of waking mom and wondering what she would say than what made me go to her to begin with. As I look back, it seems it was always that way. I had lots of fears, but none of them were scarier than having to talk to mom about them. I didn’t learn to speak up for myself for a long time.

I remember watching a puppet show in kindergarten at school. Then having a graham cracker and milk and laying down for a nap. My mommy and daddy were already divorced. I don’t remember anything about living with my real parents. I have no other memory of my early years. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because the abuse started when I was very small.

I started first grade in a new house in a new city, Santa Clara, California. I remember some things about living there. We weren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses that first year so my mom took my brother and I out to trick or treat for Halloween. Many of the yards were muddy and not landscaped yet, it was a new tract of homes. The weather was cold and damp. My brother fell down, tripping over something. His candy went all over the ground. I remember mom having a wine glass that she took door to door and it got filled up as we got our trick or treat bags filled up.

I remember there was a big cherry tree in the front yard and an orchard of cherry trees across the street. I still love cherries! I remember playing in the orchard with our friends down the street, Billie and Susan. Billie had a hair lip and I felt so sad for him, he always talked kind of funny. Their mom always had the neatest kinds of little candies and treats for us. The candies were wrapped in paper and so colorful. Some had flower designs in the middle. We had some other neighbors that lived down the street that my mom and Chuck seemed to be close to. They were older and had a son who was older than me, probably at least in junior high school. All I can remember is when my parents came home from visiting them, the smell of beer was on their breath. It was a sick, nauseating smell that stuck in my nose for a long time. I still can’t stand the smell of beer. I think it triggers something bad.

I remember Susan letting me ride her two wheeler that she got for Christmas. I never had a bicycle of my own. It always bothered me that I never had my own bicycle as a kid. I had a Betsy McCall doll. My brother Mitchell and I shared a set of walkie-talkies. We didn’t celebrate Christmas anymore either. My parents had become Jehovah’s Witnesses. My brother and I couldn’t go to school parties anymore or salute the flag. I hated having to go home early on party days. I felt so left out, it wasn’t fair. What did I do so bad that I couldn’t go to parties any more? I knew all the other kids were watching me just stand there when I couldn’t salute the flag. So I learned to put my arm close to my chest and pretend. I moved my mouth like I was saying the pledge, but no sound came out. I didn’t like being different. I didn’t understand the change. How do little kids just stop having birthdays and Christmas and be happy about it?

My worst memory of that home on Butcher Drive was the big picture window right next to the front door. When kids would knock at the door to see if we could play, they could see into our front living room. Mitchell and I had bed wetting accidents, just like my mom did when she was younger. My parents tried everything to stop it. I remember special rubber sheets that had some kind of electrical device attached. As soon as it got wet, an alarm was suppose to go off to wake us up. I was always afraid I was going to get shocked, but I don’t remember it ever happening. Maybe they didn’t work. We had to change our own bedding and wash our own sheets. I hated having to take peed sheets off my bed and sometimes having them rubbed in my face. I would pee the bed and just move to a dry spot and go back to sleep. I would sometimes sneak a towel from the bathroom and cover up the pee spot. I would run down the hallway and run back. I only felt safe in my bed, it didn’t matter that it was full of pee. It was warm and safe. I guess it really infuriated my mom that we couldn’t stop. I wonder if she ever talked to a doctor about it? It was probably Chuck’s idea that one of our punishments was that we had to wear diapers made of dish cloths and sit on the couch where the big picture window was so the neighbor kids could see us. Pretty humiliating for elementary school age kids. The mental and emotional abuse started pretty young.

According to my progression chart, we lived there from 1955 to 1958, so I was six to nine years old. Another pained memory I have is being visited by my aunt, my mom’s youngest sister. She was married to a crazy guy that beat her up all the time. She had four little kids and my mom seemed to always worry about her. My aunt and uncle would fight often and I was fearful. I never really understood what was happening until years later. My uncle was a friend of Chuck’s. They had been in the service together. My poor aunt was petite and her husband was big and tall. He hurt her many times physically and emotionally. My parents would drive to San Francisco and rescue her and my four little cousins. Sometimes they would bring them home and they would stay with us for awhile.

When things were good, I remember going to her house to visit. She had a nice house and the back yard was sloped up away from the house. The hill was covered with beautiful flowers. I remember picking flowers and selling them to neighbors. I remember seeing kitchen cupboard doors torn off their hinges. I remember thinking if I could get some money by selling the flowers that maybe everything would be okay.

When I was 10, we moved to Sunnyvale, California. My parents must have had financial problems because I know they bought the house in Santa Clara and all of a sudden we were living in a duplex and I was going to a different school. I have a couple memories of Ellis Street. One was that I had saved some money to spend at our next Jehovah’s Witness Convention. We were packing up and getting ready to go. I couldn’t find my wallet. Where could it have disappeared to? I was frantic. Someone must have broken into the house and stolen my money. I had lots of fears of Satan and evil things. I was learning about God and the devil. And the fear of the devil seemed to stick in my brain more than the love of God. All I knew is that my money was gone and it must have been because I was bad. I was being punished. I did something wrong. I had no money to spend and I was really frightened that a stranger had been in my room.

I can’t remember where I got the money in the first place, but if I was selling flowers, I probably was doing errands or earning some kind of allowance. When we got back from the convention, I found my wallet. It had been thrown up on the shelf in my closet, hidden in the back of something. It haunted me for years. In fact, I was in my early 50’s when I mentioned it to my mom and she told me about one of the daughter’s of a family that I grew up with. She said she was a little thief and had taken stuff from lots of people. Deep down I still believe my step-father had something to do with it.

Another memory I have of Ellis Street is that of singing in the chorus. I wasn’t suppose to be involved in any extracurricular school activities. We weren’t allowed to participate in any sports, ball games, holiday programs, cheerleading, school clubs or dances. But I wanted to sing. I wanted to be a part of something and I enjoyed singing. So when practice was scheduled during school, I went. It felt good to be accepted in a special group. I just never showed up for any of the after school programs or to sing at school events. I always wondered what my teachers thought.

I don’t know why I still did what I wanted. Maybe it was the spirit I had inherited from Grandma Redhead. I already felt that my life was out of my control. I already felt threatened. I was living in fear. It was a feeling deep inside that I learned to carry the burden of day in and day out for many years. At least until I learned to understand what it was and how to let it go.

I dared not disobey my parents. I knew that if they ever found out what I was doing at school, I would be severely punished. I dared not disobey God’s word, the devil would get me. I was only ten years old but had already experienced my step-father’s anger many times. He always made me feel uncomfortable. He kept a watchful eye on me all the time. If I did something he didn’t approve of, I got spanked. It was with a belt, a paddle, a wooden spoon, his hand, whatever he could grab at the time. Mitchell got spanked, too. If we did something wrong during the day when he was at work, Mom always threatened us, just wait until your dad gets home, you’re going to get it. I used to put on several pairs of underwear to try to lessen the pain I knew was coming. I would think about it all day. Dad walked into the house and one by one we would be taken into the bedroom and told to lay stomach down on the bed and we would get whipped. By the time he came home from work, my stomach was in knots and I was already suffering. I grew up in the generation where most mothers usually did the threatening, but it was dad’s wrath that was going to get us when he got home from work

I don’t remember being told anything nice or being complimented. My brother and I were always expected to be perfect, well behaved little children. We were taught how important chores were. I vaguely remember standing on a stool and putting dishes in the cupboards. We had to memorize the books of the Bible, learning a few new ones every week. My mom never really made any kind of positive impact on me. There weren’t very many warm, fuzzy moments with mom. She did the job a mother and wife was expected to do. I never felt a close bond to her. It was more important how we looked and behaved when we were at the Kingdom Hall than anything else.

We had to attend church meetings Tuesday, Thursday and Sundays with all the adults. There wasn’t special classes for the children. My brother and I would get our ears pulled or our legs pinched if we fell asleep at the Kingdom Hall during a meeting. We had to sit there for two hours and listen to adults trying to explain the Bible to other adults. We had to go to meetings and out in service, knocking on doors on the weekend spreading Jehovah‘s word. It took me years to learn to hate it. In the beginning it was all I knew, so it never really bothered me. At least then I didn’t think so.

I have one good memory of Ellis Street. It is important. I mention it now because I think it was the beginning of deeply hidden feelings I had to deal with for many years to come. Feelings that I didn’t understand, but didn’t question either. I was too young to know what was going on and too afraid to express it. Maybe it was Mother Nature, natural for a young lady to feel, but, being cautious of every move I made and every thought I encountered, this experience was truly troubling at the time. It took place at school. One day a new student arrived. When she walked into the room and I looked up from my desk at her, I was in awe. She was from a foreign country, Portugal, and she was beautiful. Perfectly styled dark brown hair surrounding a milk white complexion. Her deep blue eyes were big and round with long dark lashes. Her clothing was elegant. She reminded me of one of the dolls my cousin Maria had in her bedroom, locked up because they were so special, dressed in their native costumes.

I can’t remember this new girl’s name. I just knew I wanted to be her friend. I knew I would somehow find a way to hang out with her and help her get around the school showing her where everything was. I wanted to be with her in our classroom and on the playground as much as possible. I knew I would only see her at school and could never go to her house to learn about her family or Portugal. I knew she could never come to my house either. And then we moved again.

It was 1960, we moved back to Santa Clara. To another duplex. I was turning eleven. Another new school. I must have made friends easily because I remember the cliques starting now and I had to choose what group I was going to hang out with. I chose Linda’s group. I’m sure it was because she was pretty and very popular, she had a boyfriend and wore cool clothes. And she liked me.

I walked to school and always stopped at Linda’s house on the way. When I got there, I would take off my bobby socks. We put on extra frilly slips so our skirts would stand out more. We’d pull our hair back with ribbons. We’d put on lipstick, ever so lightly and use a little to brighten up our cheeks. Sometimes she would let me change into one of her cool sweaters. It was so neat that she let me wear her clothes. I felt really special and lucky to be in her group. I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.

We’d flirt with the boys and get dragged into the boys bathroom at lunch time. Or we’d drag a boy into the girl’s bathroom. The girls would run out giggling. We’d stand at the same end of the same corridor day after day and gossip about the other group of girls who always seemed so immature compared to us. I especially remember her boyfriend because he had a cool name, Ozzie. He was so cute. They were the best looking couple in the whole school. And they were my friends. I felt so lucky.

Of course, I had to stop at Linda’s on the way home from school. I had to change back into the ugly duckling that I thought I was. I was nearly blind, had coke bottle glasses and mom gave me home permanents. I felt like a real geek! Linda was physically more mature than me. I remember starting my period and asking Linda what to do. My mom never talked to me about what happens to young girls as they grow up, physically or emotionally. I don’t recall ever having the birds and bees talk. In fact, it seems that I had my period for about two years before my mom actually found out.

I was always hiding my feelings, my thoughts and especially my actions, from my parents. I was afraid to be myself. I was growing up, developing my own ideas, trying to become an individual. I found out very quickly that this was not the thing to do. Here I was just learning to be a real person and already felt ashamed of who I was and what I looked like. I worked hard at being accepted by the kids who were the most popular or who were the smartest or prettiest. Why was I so insecure? Why didn’t I like myself or think I was worthy of being who I wanted to be? Who did I want to be? Who was I? I didn’t have any answers for any of these questions.

THE FIRST TIME I REMEMBER      CHAPTER 3

Trying to put words to paper, trying to put emotions into words. Scary, sick to my stomach. Relax, let it flow. I have to check my timeline, but I’ve always thought in