Wednesday, October 14, 2009


I thought I was doing it for the right reasons. It seems now maybe I was wrong.

I have spent a great deal of my life protecting those I love. My mother, my father, my brother, my children and my husband...and yes myself.

My childhood was not an easy one. Though if you would ask me, my pat answer about the way my parents raised me was always, "they did they best they could with what they had." I could recite it at the drop of a hat, a recorded statement on a taped reel in my mind.

My father was an alcoholic who pretty much stopped coming home after work when I was around 11 years old. He spent his evenings drinking in the Glass Bar. An establishment I thought if I could just burn down, all my problems would be solved.

My Mom began to work evenings in a restaurant when I was in forth grade. She would leave shorty after I came home from school. There was to be less than an hour before dad was to be home and I had two older brothers who were here with me. Childcare right? Not so much.

My oldest brother was so detached from our family he moved out when I was 11. The middle brother, I was the youngest, took every opportunity he had to beat the hell out of me. I suffered at his hands more times than I can remember. But I also remember he would beat the hell out of anyone who tried to hurt me. A true love hate relationship.

My parents didn't do much to intervene in the beatings...not that they were around when they happened. I am not sure what they could have done. I am not sure they had the tools to do anything. I remember when I was around 15 or 16 I went to a local children's shelter and tried to get some help. They told me I was an abused child and could seek shelter there. When I tried to tell my mom that what he was doing to me was abuse she was so pissed at me. I was the trouble maker.

The abuse even continued after I was married. My brother was my husband's best friend. On two occasions my brother was at our home and he and I were fighting about something, I don't remember what it was and he physically attacked me.

My husband wasn't here. I think he was at work. But I remember I wanted him to do something about it. I don't know what. But there was nothing. I think he felt like it was a brother/sister thing. He didn't want to be involved. I felt like someone just beat on his wife...why didn't he protect me?

Where is this going? Oh as time has gone on I have found myself creating this image of these people. "They did the best they could with what they had." Yea maybe. But you know what. I suffered because of what they didn't have.

When my brother committed suicide I didn't tell people what he did. Not because I was ashamed of it. But because I wanted to protect his memory. I didn't want people to think he was crazy (even though he probably was). The need to protect.

I have never shared much of my childhood with my kids. Never told them too much of my teenage years (ugly), did not tell them about their uncle (oldest is the only who had much of a memory). Although my husband shared that information with our son without my knowledge when he was a teenager...serious problem between us! Thought I was protecting them. They didn't need to know ugly things about their mother and her family.

Now I find out I was wrong. My son thinks it would have helped him understand me and why I am like I am. What makes me me. So do I do a complete disclosure. Tell them the ugly truth behind their mother? Because there is a whole lot more to know. I don't know. He seems to think it would help him. He doesn't want family secrets. No more protecting.

Gotta go to work...more later

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