Chasing Happiness in an Imperfect Life

By Xiomara Alvarez

This is a story of survival against the odds. It is meant to show the reader that a person can triumph regardless of the circumstances not because of hardship but in spite of it. Although Xiomara's life was scarred by violence and abuse, she learned to translate fear and shame into inner strength. Her memoir speaks to those who seek forgiveness, happiness, and love regardless of the odds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891573260

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Chasing Happiness in an Imperfect Life

Xiomara Alvarez

Copyright © 2024 Xiomara Alvarez

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89157-315-4 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-89157-326-0 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Introduction

In the Beginning

The Separation

The Way of the Saints

Nothing Lasts Forever

The Revolution at Home

Dirty Secrets

Welcome to the Land of the Free

The Gift

Flowers in my hair

The Transformation

Making Ends Meet

Open to the Possibilities

Owning Who I Was

The Conman

On the Road Again

The Education of Clarity

The Sociopath Among Us

The Escape

The Dark Pit of Despair

Who Am I?

My Mother, My Sister, My Self

Finding my way back home

The Unfolding of Self

Acknowledgments

About the Author

For John.

I am a better person because you believed in me. I love you!

Introduction

This is my story about overcoming life's adversities and the lessons I learned along the way. Experiencing dysfunction in life is part of living. Some of us survive to grow stronger while others remain stuck and suffer immeasurably. When we resist, we suffer. When we allow what is, we grow stronger. I have learned resiliency and the grit to overcome adversity because of these challenges. There's no doubt in my mind that these experiences shaped the person I am today.

We are life, and life's energy courses through us. To be alive means embracing all of life and doing the best we can with what we have. We can overcome any challenge by sheer determination and the will to survive.

In the Beginning

In the beginning there was nothing, which exploded.

—Terry Pratchett

I was born in Havana, Cuba, in 1952, the same year the revolutionary Fidel Castro declared himself a candidate for the People's Party, a political movement seeking to mobilize the Cuban working class. That same year, Fulgencio Batista, a former soldier elected president from 1940 to 1944, led a military coup and seized power again when he canceled elections and declared himself the president. He then imprisoned the popular Castro, a move that increased his popularity with the people even more. After his release in 1953, Fidel Castro led the way for the revolution, which touched the lives of many Cubans, including my family.

I was the second child in a brood of ten children. My sister Nora, born in 1950, was just a toddler herself by the time I arrived. After us came two babies in 1953 and 1954 who passed away unexpectedly from SDS (sudden death syndrome). My mother suffered deeply, but she hardly had space to process the loss when Roland arrived in 1956. He was barely a toddler when she had Dania in 1958, followed by Pedro in 1960, Rene in 1962, Roberto in 1964, Eduardo in 1965, and Osvaldo in 1967.

It is still mind-boggling how she survived the tribe of screaming babies clamoring for her attention, but she did; and when entering midlife, she had another baby, a girl named Michelle, in 1975. Our memories remained a constant throughout my childhood, and I do not remember my mother being any other way than expecting a baby or nursing one, mostly both. Bringing twelve humans into the world was a colossal undertaking, and it took its toll on everyone. Having these many kids made it impossible to nurture them equally. There were just too many little hands pulling and crying for love and attention.

Thus, we inherited the position of Mom's helpers and eventually had to parent our younger siblings. The unexpected loss of the babies to SDS left her unable to grieve properly, and the enormous workload made her distant and often impatient. We had to fend for ourselves. Their deaths also brought out her superstitious nature. She thought they died from the scourge of the evil eye, the legend cast by the malevolent glare of strangers wishing to harm babies. Her last kid came when she was forty-four, and we had already migrated to the United States. By then I was the parent of a five-year-old named Michelle, and my mother also named my new sister Michelle because she liked the name, I supposed. Her choice was baffling to me, but like other things in my life, I tried not to delve too much into her reasons.

Our early life progressed in cycles based on her status. While nursing, she transformed into a Madonna, peaceful and happy. During the early stages of pregnancy, her disposition changed, and her patience grew short. We learned to read her moods and stay out of her way when her temperament changed or risk painful objects thrown at our heads for just being kids. This situation would last until she was ready to give birth, at which time her patience and smile returned until the next time she got pregnant again. I don't remember Dad keeping regular hours; but when he came home to a boisterous household full of kids, he, too, was short on patience. When he had enough, he threatened us with the belt. We didn't have to be told twice to shut up, behave, or make ourselves scarce.

During this turbulent time, my mother's younger sister, Lola, a fiery redhead hiding from a crazy jealous husband, came to live with us. We lived in a small two-bedroom flat in old Havana with little privacy for a family of two adults and three kids. Fights would flare or tempers rose at the slightest provocation. To keep sanity, Mom threw the three of us outside on the streets to play and demanded we stay out so she could have a few hours of peace.

My aunt became a big presence in this volatile and emotional household. She was always smiling or flirting with someone. A presence full of energy entertained us with stories, took part in games we dreamed up, and never bothered to reprimand us. Why would I? She'd say, I'm not your mom. We loved her. We weren't the only ones enamored of our aunt. My father couldn't help getting wrapped up in Lola's web of attraction too. Suddenly, he spent more time at home, unlike his normal behavior of staying out as much as possible. He would come home early and stay up long after mom, burdened with another pregnancy, went to bed. The situation exploded one night when Mom caught Dad screwing Lola—on the kitchen counter, no less. Then all hell broke loose.

It was midnight when the screaming fight woke us up. Nora and I looked at each other knowingly and tried to sneak in a look at the situation. But by then all the screaming woke the younger kids, and they joined the adults' screams and tears. It was mayhem all around. Dad barked at us to handle the children, as if we were the ones at fault for their distress. But we knew better than to complain, so we did our best to calm and quiet the babies. Meanwhile, the screaming went on until we heard Lola leave the house with the slam of the front door. The house became quiet again. Another calamity in the telenovela that was our life. Dad slept on the couch for a good long time, waiting for forgiveness. We have no idea how he maneuvered his way into Mom's good graces again. It was a mystery to us that he wielded such powers. He eventually got back into her bed. For Mom, forgiving Lola for her betrayal was another matter. It took many years before the sisters reunited again and made peace. For our dad, Lola was one of many. My father, a philanderer and a womanizer, could not get enough sex at home.

The dynamics of my parents' relationship are rooted in the interdependence created by their differences in age, experience, and power. My father, Francisco Andres Alvarez, a seasoned and experienced thirty-six-year-old, met my mother, Fe Olinda Represas, when she was just a sixteen-year-old dewy-eyed innocent virgin. His quest for business opportunities took him from Havana to the town of Camaguey, three hundred miles away, in search of a money partnership to open a café house in the city. Soon after arriving, he spotted the raven beauty riding her bike with a friend. As the story goes, he was spellbound by her beauty and followed her until she stopped for an ice cream cone. He seized the opportunity to introduce himself and learned her name. My mom was instantly hooked by the sophisticated persona my father presented. He was the first classy man she ever met. On the other hand, he was experienced in romancing women and detected a young inexperienced girl. He decided he must have her and turned on his suave confident style to the max to sweep the virgin right off her sneakered feet. His personality, larger than life, exuded sex appeal and confidence, contrasted with her limited small-town upbringing and inexperienced naivete. No matter that he was twenty years older than her or perhaps because of it, she became captivated by him, by his spirit of adventure, his passion for life, and his grand plans. For him she was a price above all others, and winning her became his sole purpose, and within months he became her only boyfriend and then her husband. What remained hidden until much later was his voracious addiction to sex that made no woman safe around him. Regardless of his debauchery and various deceitful relationships, she remained at his side and, even after his death, never married again.

My father had countless affairs throughout their fifty-year marriage, some short and some lasting years. We learned of his multiple marriages before meeting our mom as we got older, and while we met none of them, he had various kids scattered all over Cuba. One of his relationships lasted three years and ended when we migrated to the US. The mistress lived close by and was a vivacious woman with two kids. Her husband escaped to the US with the promise that he would come for her and the kids once he got settled. As far as I know, he never did. Meanwhile, my father stepped in and provided for her, including keeping her satisfied.

As I got older, I witnessed many examples of his cheating. When caught, the scenario ran a typical course. Things got heated with screaming and accusations back and forth for days, but the storm passed, and things got back to normal. When the showdown happened, all of us kids learned to stay out of the way or else catch the spillover. Dad would cajole and apologize while my mother, unmoved, turned cold and removed for a period suitable to the infraction. No one knew the threshold of her forgiveness, but we all felt punished by her coldness and the wall of her silence. Sometimes, when he had enough of the frostiness, he chose to stay with the mistress just to show her what would happen if he left for good. Looking back, it's clear the economic dependency on her husband superseded her anger and hurt for his betrayals. It was cruel of him to enforce his power over her, but that was the reality of the marriage. And it always worked.

Aside from the temporary excitement of his affairs, my father lusted for adventure. In 1956 he joined Fidel Castro and Che Guevara's efforts to win the revolution. He wasn't alone. The promise of freedom and Castro's inspiring ideals of prosperity ignited the spirit of all Cubans. Men of all ages left their families behind to join Fidel in his grand vision. Castro's plan was simple: take possession of the capital of Havana, claim victory, and push the current dictator Fulgencio Batista out of power.

Castro's message resonated loud and clear with my father—a cause he viewed as more exciting than his responsibilities to our family. He joined an underground group in the city of Havana called the Movement. He told my mother what he had done and promised he would come home most nights. His role in the group was to write call to arms articles in the newly created underground newsletter, seeking recruits for the cause. The group organized volunteers into small teams composed of 10 recruits each, ready to push forward when the time came to strike. The Movement soon grew to 1,200 members, organizing hundreds of teams, most of them coming from Havana's poorer districts. Dad's involvement increased, and soon he was so busy that he spent more time away, checking in on his way to some meeting. On the rare times home, he liked to share stories with us, and we all listened, spellbound. He spoke highly of the Argentinian Che, whom he admired. He was impressed by the Movement and the clever ways they used to avoid capture by Fulgencio Batista's soldiers. We sat enthralled by his stories while our mom toiled in the kitchen to cook dinner, resentful of the fact she was left alone to care for all of us and worried he would be caught.

It wasn't long before he did, and that event changed everything. One evening on his way home he was picked up by the secret police. He claimed that he was kept in isolation and subjected to horrible interrogation tactics to break his spirit, but he held on and admitted nothing. The police finally released him, but he was so weak from torture and sick from the poor conditions in prison that he barely made it home before collapsing at our doorsteps. It finally dawned on him that his activities put us all in danger. Recovering from that event was slow, but it did not break his spirit. Determined to rejoin the Movement to topple the regime, he needed to devise a plan to keep us safe because he feared that someone might hurt us to get at him. He decided to break the family up and parsed us out to relatives in adjoining towns and away from Havana, the epicenter of the Movement. As far as we knew, he never asked his wife for her opinion. Mom was pregnant and close to giving birth to my sister, so she took my toddler brother Rolando and moved to my aunt's home in the rural town of Santa Villa, a two-hour trip from Havana. My sister and I were sent to live with some of Dad's relatives in another small rural town called Matanzas. We were torn from everything we knew and given to total strangers. For three years our lives took different turns. The separation changed me in profound ways. It was a sad and lonely time.

The Separation

We are born alone, and we die alone.

—Xiomara

When I think of all the people that played a significant role in my life, my sister stands above the rest. She was my constant companion, my protector, the keeper of my secrets. From the moment I became conscious, my sister was there. We slept in the same bed, woke up as one, dressed alike, ate the same foods, and communicated without words. We were as close as two humans not sharing a womb could be. And then without notice, we were torn from one another. I went one way, and she went another. My six-year-old brain could not quite grasp the grief squeezing my heart.

That fateful day, my father took me to the train station, and we boarded this big iron machine that spewed dark smoke. We sat on hard cold seats, and without a word, off we went. Where to? I had no idea. We sat next to him in silence on that fateful day, gripped with fear and anxiety, barely able to breathe. I felt invisible. I did not matter anymore. We passed town after town to an unknown destination, and I felt as if the journey had no end.

But of course, it did end. Our initial stop was a small town and from there to an isolated farmhouse where I was to live with a family I had never met. The family, comprised of two spinsters and an elderly dad, lived in this old house built in the 1800s where they made a living farming corn. The older of the two sisters named Cuca was my father's cousin and, unbeknownst to me, my godmother. She seemed friendly enough to others but not to me. I hated her on sight, and with a sense of foreboding, I eyed her with suspicion and could not let go of my dad's leg. I was afraid that he would leave me behind. I refused to budge, not even when I had to pee. Why would I trust him when I just knew he would leave as soon as I left for the bathroom? Time seemed to stand still while they chatted as if this was just another ordinary day. My inner turmoil kept me from paying close attention to their chitchat. Hours went by, and I could not hold it any longer. I peed my pants. Embarrassed, ashamed, and hysterical, I cried as Cuca rushed me to the bathroom to clean up. Meanwhile, my father took the opportunity to rush out like a thief in the night. He never even said goodbye.

Even now, it is hard to express the pain of his betrayal. The moment he left me, my world shattered, and grief crushed me. The meltdown came and my gut-wrenching screams shook the entire house with a power so strong it could not and would not stop. My breakdown had no barriers. I wanted everyone to hurt and feel my pain of abandonment. Cuca soon got tired of my screams. She dragged me to the back of the house and locked me in a room. On the icy stone floor, I moaned for my sister, for my mother, and yes, even for my father. Sometime during the night, I passed out in the cold dark space.

I did not know it then, but the trauma had an enormous impact on me. It left me with deep emotional scars and serious trust issues, and I grappled with a powerful fear of abandonment that governed my life and all my relationships for years. The child in me could not understand what happened or why. It hurt so bad I resolved to never experience that pain again. I learned to protect myself and retreated deep into myself in search of a safe space. I believed that adults caused my suffering and therefore were not trustworthy. My way of dealing with my situation was to be invisible. I felt alone in my world, and I came to understand the world is not a reliable place.

The greatest lessons are often learned through the deepest pain. Things became easier when I learned to stand on my own. I simply had no expectations. I gained a certain detachment from situations and pretended to be mature. I accepted the fact that only I could solve my own problems. One of the best lessons learned in the entire ordeal was to be self-reliant.

I missed my sister terribly, but time heals, and I eventually accepted my fate. I had no choice but to adapt and make the best of my situation. Time passed. I moped around and never uttered a word despite the efforts of the sisters Cuca and Blanca. They tried to force me out of my shell, but I lived in my head. I had no children to play with and no toys of my own. After a while, I gathered my courage and ventured out to the fields to explore the area and entertain myself. The farm stood alone. Miles of rows and rows of corn danced in the Caribbean wind. The plants seemed to know how to cast a spell over me. Little by little, I spent hours lost inside my mind; my imagination wandered where it wanted and created an inner reality that comforted me. It was in one of those alone times when my imaginary friend sprang from thought into reality. Looking back now, I