Does our childhood affect us as adults?
My mind was whirling; I was on the verge of tears. I knew my face was red with embarrassment and fear. My father was holding the garden hose and yelling at me from across the yard. Could the neighbors hear? “Can’t you even figure out how to turn the damn water on! What is wrong with you?”
How is it possible that more than five decades have passed and I still remember this event? The scars remain. I didn’t have an easy childhood. Did you? I know many have had it far worse than me, and I’m sorry for you. Our parents did the best they could with what they knew, or so I’ve been told. And I believe that, kind of.
That does not change the past. It does not make it okay that my father took his belt to my sister and me, on our rear ends and our backs for transgressions mild or perhaps even non-existent. Roller skates left in the driveway. Playing outside after the street lights came on, our curfew. No, it wasn’t right. He should have known better. Any human would know better.
Perusing my bookshelf, I came across Louise Hay’s international bestseller You Can Heal Your Life. I have read this book countless times, and it never fails to enlighten and remind me of what I have learned throughout my life. She states:
"When we are very little, we learn how to feel about ourselves and about life by the reactions of the adults around us."
My father’s reaction to my confusion while turning on the faucet created fear and feelings of inferiority.
I wanted him to love me, to like me, to accept me. Now I know; he did not love, like, or accept himself. Still, that is not an excuse to be abusive, emotionally and physically. Child Protective Services would intervene if that happened today.
In retrospect, we understand so much. My father attended art school in New York City and was a working artist until I was born. My sister was born the year before, but having a second child put the expenses far beyond his income. He had to relinquish his dream of becoming an artist.
My dad took a job he detested to support our small family, with my mom helping out with a part-time job. He was stressed, and he took it out on my sister and me. My twin brother and sister, born five years later, managed to escape his fury.
Oh, and he was a drinker. Well, maybe an alcoholic. That may have had a little something to do with the fact that he was always angry, impatient, and a bully.
We moved from the city to the New Jersey suburbs of Bergen County when I was eight to a modest-sized three bedrooms two bath home with a huge yard, three cherry trees, a pear tree, and a quince (whatever that was) tree. This home was the first one my parents bought, and it was an exciting time for all.
It was a lovely white clapboard house, with black shutters and a wrap-around porch. Maybe not beautiful enough to satisfy the gaping hole I had in my being — reasons unclear at that age.
I wrote a letter to the friend I left behind, Anita Lang, telling her of the gorgeous, gigantic home with a swimming pool I now called my residence. The effects of my father’s heavy-handed child-raising already affected me, or what other reason could there be that I would lie? My shame was already deeply embedded within me.
Horrified was I when I answered the doorbell several months after mailing the letter and there stood Anita at my front door! This house was clearly not the one I wrote about in my letter. My lie and my humiliation were crushing. How do I explain this? Will she forgive me for my deceitful fantasy? Perhaps she did, but our friendship was over.
Enter the high school years, and my sister and I had a ball — at least when we were away from home. Rarely did we invite friends over for fear our father would explode over something minor, either at us, my siblings or my mother.
Michele and I learned to self-medicate by filling a jar with alcohol snitched from several different bottles — a little vodka, maybe some brandy, a dash of rum. Ugh. It was gross, but it did the job.
My sister and I always slapped on a happy, carefree face when we were with our friends. The shame we hid was too much to share. At least we had each other.
My mother was a gifted cook and baker. Every Christmas season, she would stay up till two or three in the morning baking delicacies — flaky pastries, butter cookies dipped in chocolate, pink and white shortbread candy canes dusted with crushed peppermint candy- what delightful treats.
We would have a Christmas Eve party with the highlight guests being my grandmother and my aunt Marian — my father’s mother and sister, along with Marian’s children, my cousins.
Sadly, my most prevalent memory of those events was my father growing increasingly agitated, awaiting the guests of honor. He would have a cocktail, then another, pacing and anticipating their arrival, threatening to lock them out if they didn’t appear soon.
Eventually, they would arrive and smooth over the ruffled feathers, and the evening would proceed without further upsets.
My father’s behavior elicited nervousness and apprehension; despite my efforts to enjoy the evening, he ruined the party for me.
The Christmas Eve upset wasn’t an isolated event. I spent my days in constant worry my father would erupt or arrive from work agitated or fuming. I lived my childhood in fear and anxiety.
Not surprisingly, as an adult, I was a people pleaser. I couldn’t please my father; perhaps I could please others. For years, this was my approach.
As you may have guessed, I sought out husbands who resembled my dad in many ways. Crazy, I know.
"You’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. "— A.A. Milne/Christopher Robin.
I’m okay today by navigating through rough waters, making tons of mistakes, and reading a library’s worth of “self-development” books, psychology texts, and spiritual works. I have learned I am more than okay. I am a woman of power and strength and fully deserving of love.
Each of us is on a journey. We are put on earth to love and enjoy life, not suffer, though pain is part of the adventure. We have become the being we are because of our past, not despite it.
I never would have guessed your past! You are such a strong and wonderful person!
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