Merriam-Webster defines
Dysfunctional::
"A nonadaptive trait or condition; especially: one failing to serve a useful or adjustive purpose in society."
Yep. That's my family all right.
Not to mention, I was one of those "late in life" children born to a woman almost in her 40's and fastly approaching her days of menopause. Eight year olds and menopausal women are not a good mix. It's a good thing we never saw each other much really.
I happened to walk into Blockbuster the other day and saw a new video out — "A Slipping Down Life" it's called. I grew up on that book. I think every 12-14 year old girl in the early 70s did. I almost rented it. I will when I'm in a more morbid mood. I say "more" because I'm often naturally in a morbid mood. Heck, I'll probably buy it.
Anyway, as I was saying about my so-called life (wasn't that the name of a TV show?) …
My father decided to end his sorry life a couple of months after I turned 7. I remember that birthday to this day; I wanted a tennis ball and a set of paints. Watercolors at that; I didn't ask for much, I wasn't a greedy child. I didn't have to be; I was the youngest of four, the baby of the family. Okay, no smart-ass comments necessary. Anyway, I wanted the tennis ball because I wanted to thwack someone in the head (some boy that lived down the street) and the paints, because I've always loved drawing and painting. And that's what I got, a big set of watercolors and a tennis ball. Two months later my father was missing, his body discovered about six weeks later in an orchard in San Diego.
I still remember his funeral. I was bored and surrounded by his family that were, well, in one word: Strange. My aunt, a dour SCARY woman that I swear was 20 feet tall, kept her furniture covered in plastic — and her carpet. I never got to find out if her toilet was covered in plastic, too. Probably. Those rare times we went to visit her, I had to sit on that sticky plastic — and not move! Children were something she did not tolerate. I was too scared to move anyway. Oh, and I wasn't allowed to sit on "Uncle" Charlie's lap. That was my aunt's — special friend.
Back to the funeral. So there I was, a precocious 7 year old, sitting on the hardest benches ever to be made, seeing a big box covered in flowers that people stood next to and bawled like the big babies that lived down the block whenever I kicked their asses. I asked someone, I can't remember who, "Why are you crying?" and that person tried to claim that in that big box was what was left of my father. I didn't believe them. Nope. They wouldn't let me see him so I couldn't believe them. I guess that's the Missourian in me; my maternal grandmother grew up in Missouri, though I myself never have been there. My 7 year old mind knew too well that words were oftentimes meaningless annoyances.
I thank my father daily for forcing a 7 year old to learn how to spell the word "Deceased" so that in school when we had to fill out those annoying "Contact Information Cards" they gave to us each semester, I would at least not to have to face the embaressment of misspelling that word. I remember the first time after his death, I brought the ten pounds of paperwork home, and everywhere it asked for my father's information, my mother explained to me the word to write. "What does that mean, Mom?" I had asked her that first time. "It means your father went away on a long trip." Hm. Okay, that was perfectly logical to me, because he truly did go away. But then, handing in my paperwork, and the endless semesters of seeing the teachers' faces suddenly turn to frowns when glancing to make sure I had everything filled in properly. "I'm sorry" they would say, and leave me feeling uncomfortable and uneasy for days afterward, casting those pitiful glances my way. I could hear them later discussing me with other teachers, "Poor girl, to have a crazy father …"
My mother, what can I say. I hardly know her really. She was (and still is) a religious zealot. Back then, a highly strung woman who I admired for her strength of raising us alone. Having never worked a day in her life, she was forced to somehow keep us clothed and sheltered, and worked oftentimes 14-16 hours a day (or more) to do so, working as a nurse's aid in private homes and convalescent homes, or doing housekeeping, ironing …
To spend time together, we would make appointments. After church. Yes, I was forced to put on frilly frocks and do the typical WASP Sunday School thing. When I was a kid, I liked church. We got hot homemade cookies and delicious punch and played games. I got annoyed, though, when my friends would learn what church I attended. I grew up in a Pentecostal Church; I was — gasp — a Holy Roller. I thought kids were referring to the cool skating events we got to take part in. You know, Church Skate Night. Holy Rollers. Okay, so don't laugh.
Then, as I grew older, I learned a lot in church. Like, which guy the pastor's daughter was screwing. Which guy tried to screw all the girls. Which guy liked screwing guys. Which deacon was having an affair with the pastor's wife. I could spend an entire day on this subject alone.
The church youth group did offer cool outings and retreats. I learned a lot at those, too. My friend Bobbi and I got a real education though, one summer on a retreat at the San Carlos Indian Reservation in Arizona, and discovered a little orgy in session; we were the babies of the group, 12 years old and — nosey. Those involved in the extracurricular activity filled our sleeping bags with dry cereal, pretzels and potato chips, and told us that we had to sleep like that, for to dump the bags would be a waste of food; too bad that we would have company in our sleeping bags — snakes and things. Smartass that I was, disgusted at the holier-than-thou older kids, I said simply, "Snakes don't eat potato chips nor can even smell this stuff. Neither could spiders or scorpions. But the snakes might crawl into YOUR sleeping bag hunting the harmless little kangaroo rats that would come to nibble the bits of food." Ever see a 16 year old girl scared shitless of snakes totally freak out once common sense sinks in? Needless to say, not only did they dump our sleeping bags, but they cleaned them too.
When I hit my teenage years, I was thankful for sex education at school. It was the new age, sex was free, love was free, and I watched many live, free, instructional lessons on what sex was about, here and there on different stairwells of school … Probably a good thing. When I started my period, I had a box of Kotex thrown at me by my mother, with an announcement, "Now you get to wear these" and the bathroom door slammed in my face while I sat there in tears, having burst out in a sure death-imminent flow of blood that soaked my WHITE PANTS!
From that point on, of course, I was now eternally damned to hell for sure if I didn't make sure to go to ALL the church social events, and my mother barraging me with articles of how everything was linked to sex, drugs and rock n' roll. Though to this day I'm still rather stumped. For instance:
The Beatles were a sure way to hell
-but-
Elvis the Pelvis was a saint.
[He sang gospel, don't ya know.]
"God's Little Acre" was my ticket to hell
-but-
"Dark Shadows" was entertaining.
[Okay, yes I can see how adultery ("God's Little Acre") was a bad thing compared to a horny vampire doing her best to bed the head vampire and kill anyone in her way in doing so.]
"Teen Magazine's Guide to Kissing Boys" was my downward fall to slutdom
-but-
Reading "Mein Kampf" was examining the classical works of a contemporary author.
[Okay, it was a follow up to "War and Peace" which I read when I was eight years old.]
My life's lessons I have to thank my siblings for, truly. My sisters are considerably older than myself (14, 15 years) as is my brother (10 years).
My oldest sister has a brain the size of a pea and my brother is certifiably insane; thanks to that cohesive unit called parents. My oldest sister too was a bit — loose. She didn't have any particular taste in who (or is that what) she dated, and would bring them home, and I spent my tender years keeping at bay the groping hands until on my 16th birthday in fact, one succeeded in raping me. I do not have much love to this day for my oldest sister. My mother? Well, I never told her. Too many times I sat and listened to her speak of women that were raped and her absolute feelings that each one of them must have done something to provoke the man who attached her. I was devasted, and never shared this with anyone, for my friends I was never particularly close to, except for one, who drove me to the free clinic. Needless to say, the boyfriend simply disappeared after that day. Hm.
My other sister decided life at home was just too annoying and drove my mother to explosive fury when she announced at age 17 she was getting married to whatever male it was whom she was seeing. I never knew her dates; she never brought them home. My mother, so furious, decided that getting rid of my sister by marrying her off was for the best. I still have the wedding picture. I was the flower girl. I looked the happiest of everyone. Maybe I was delirious. But then, I was only 3 years old.
Three weeks later I was told that my new brother-in-law had thrown my sister through the living room window. I never saw him again and my sister was living with us once more and always so angry at everything. We had a lot of smashed up pottery in our house. About three years later, she moved out and in with a much older man; they're still married to this day. He's wacky and I adore him.
My brother I no longer acknowledge as being any sort of family to me. My oldest sister's boyfriends were a piece of cake compared to my brother. When he wasn't trying to break down the walls of the house by propelling baseball missiles for HOURS, he was off in his room doing — things. I walked in one night when my mom had gone out to meet her "friend" and found him huddled over naked pictures of women. I was 8, he was 18. I knew a few of the women in those pictures. Two days later, I was climbing out of the bath when my mother passed by and peeked in, wondering why I was so secretive. She asked how I got so badly bruised. My legs, butt, back, stomach and arms were covered in bruises. I thought fast and gave an intelligent answer: "I feel down the stairs." She nodded and walked off. As I grew older and started sprouting things like boobs at that awkward age of 11 and all my friends were FLAT, I generally avoided my brother and his best friend, Donny. Call it gut feeling, or maybe it was the way they stared at my boobs when they talked to me. Dunno. I learned not long ago that Donny has served time up and is a registered sex offender. Imagine that.
What saved me from totally losing myself I attribute to two things: Kung Fu and music.
In junior high, I was too tall, awkward and gangly for gymnastics, though I barreled my way through for three years. I was a good swimmer, but my upper body strength lacked, and so I wasn't a fast swimmer. Besides, we didn't have a swim team at school because, we didn't have a swimming pool at school either. My singing could wake the dead. All my friends were doing something when finally I discovered that I adapted well to muscial instruments. The clarinet was my first attempt, discovering that I just didn't have enough spit, and I'd choke swallowing said spit (hmm). But, the violin was a kindred spirit, and I sped my way from screeching beginner to first chair. I wanted more. So, I dallied with the piano which was like my best friend. Within the first month, I was already playing Bach and Tchaikovsky, surpassing her long-time students.
Sadly, by the time I hit high school, I put away the instruments for our high school band sucked and our orchestra sucked worse, and the music instructors sucked even more.
I discovered, in my quest for inner peace, Kung Fu. Okay, first I started with Tae Kwon Do, but one of the instructors in the dojo also taught Kung Fu. Though I also took classes in Aikido and Shotokan, it was Kung Fu that was what clicked. The rigorous training (my instructor taught hardcore old-school Chinese) made me exceptionally fit (though I still didn't look like a Barbie doll), and the meditation portion gave me confidence and inner peace. I traveled the competitive circuit, met and was instructed for a short time by Bruce Lee.
One of the funny things of life I've noted is that of friendships. In high school, how self-important and self-absorbed so many truly were, even those we called a best friend. I look back and know that 99% of my friends (and this includes my "best" friends) never knew who I truly was, never knew the depth of me, my hopes, my fears, my dreams; never knew the music that I liked, never knew what I wanted for the future. Perhaps if they only truly knew me. Or I them. We were all really pretty stupid back then. But then, most of us grew away from our friends once we graduated, or, if we didn't move away, we simply saw them less and less until it came time for our 20 year reunion and we had a hard-pressed time of remembering a first name, let alone anything else about each other. Good thing reunion planners are smart and provide you with name tags; at least you had the ability to use names when you played "remember when?" and everyone nodding and smiling because they remembered it too and you smile back, almost laughing because you know you just made that up.
It was at such reunion that I had an epiphany of friendships and what that means to many, or at least meant back then. I can truly say that high school is one of the worst experiences of my life; it was a time of great torment for me and I just knew I was being punished for something I must have done in another lifetime. Friends, or rather those claiming to be friends, would lie about their plans for the weekend, denying their intentions of going to some party that I was not invited to. You see, I was not one of the "cool kids." Remember, I was the unfortunate child of an overly religious mother and it was simply assumed by many that I was also incredibly pious. Again, my point of people too self-absorbed to even begin to scratch the surface of another person and take the time to learn of who and what they are. I am thankful high school isn't forever. I survived it and I have no desire to go through it again.
Then, I got really stupid and got married. Even did a stint in the Army right after I did. I ended up leaving the Army and returning to my husband. I should have done the reverse. There's that hindsight thing again. Then there was the very handsome, very cool, very interested, guy I met in the plane on the way home … I really hate it because I was so damn GOOD and PROPER then.
I reconciled with my next-to-the-oldest sister recently, who had done research on our dysfunctional family. I learned, however, that I was probably the lucky one of my siblings, not really knowing my mother, my father, or any of our other family members. I learned a lot about my parents that, well, for some reason didn't surprise me. It was a good visit however; my brother-in-law and I spent hours trying to top each other's jokes. They kidnapped me and took me to the Pala Reservation to do some gambling. The last time I had been near a casino was in Las Vegas, and I was not impressed with gambling. Now, the games are like PS2 games. Yeah, I got hooked. And I lost the $100 I alloted myself for the time we spent there. But I had a blast.
While in California, tending to emptying out my storage unit there in the Mojave where I had lived, I went to hang out with some old friends. Bikers. Well. Now they are all into Zen Buddhism and/or golf.
Somehow, New York City no longer seems so strange.
I got married again. August 22, 2006. Tony and I thought it was about time.
So … what do I want to do when I grow up? I dunno. Maybe become an astronaut.
