0. Preface

Many survivors insist they’re not courageous: “If I were courageous I would have stopped the abuse. If I were courageous, I wouldn’t be scared…” Most of us have it mixed up. You don’t start with courage and then face fear. You become courageous because you face your fear. — Laura Davis

I love detective stories, particularly ones where the case is solved, bit by bit, over time, as evidence is collected and analyzed. When I began this book, I secretly wished a detective would step in and solve the mystery of who I really was. Then, I could watch objectively as the case was being solved. But, I have come to realize that it is my responsibility alone uncover my identity by recounting my life as fully as I’m able.

I have created a case file of the events of my life, compiled from my own memories, conversations with my family, and the extensive legal documentation of my childhood. In these documents, I have found a bottle of valium prescribed to me when I was two, arrest warrants for my mother and uncle who were charged with kidnapping me, a newspaper clipping showing my father’s film Klaximo, starring my mother, featured in the 1971 New York Erotic Film Festival, letters from my father claiming my mother was a prostitute, court testimony that accused my mother of letting me play with hypodermic needles, and an assertion, by my father, that my mother’s lawyer had my father’s mother killed in a hit and run. My research revealed, however, that the truth of my past is far more complex and twisted than I had ever imagined.

I first began my autobiography when I was just twelve years old. I had already experienced far more challenges than most adults by then. Ever since I can remember I have known that my life, and in turn that I, was different. However, every time I tried to write, I would get stalled. I both desired and resisted writing this book, knowing I would have to relive my experiences in order to complete it.

I was reared in a constant state of cataclysmic crisis. I spent most of my youth in hospitals while my home life was extremely unstable and toxic. The positive memories of my childhood are buried under family battles, hospital procedures, court judgements, and eight long years of imprisonment by my own father. Those moments where I played with dolls, lost teeth, laughed and cried just like other children are mostly hidden from my memory even though I know that, sometimes, they were also there.

In one form or another, I was a captive my entire childhood. As a very young child I was in a near continuous state of captivity in the hospital. Upon discharge, my lack of mobility kept me from being free. Additionally, my father groomed me extensively, so once he had me in his possession, he was able to keep me completely captive through isolation, manipulation and the threat of violence. He deprived me of contact with the outside world, including keeping me out of school, so I had no friends, and indoctrinated me with lies, ultimately forcing me to become the equivalent of his surrogate wife.

I have learned that no one is completely whole — all have been touched by tragedy or trauma in some way — but few, thankfully, are as fragmented as I feel. I used to resent those that seemed perfect, but now I understand that we are all both strong and fragile, with demons and darkness as well as joy and light. Sometimes I feel I’ve gone on a trip around the world where my luggage has been lost. I’m here, but ill-equipped. Other times, I feel too strong, too capable, and that is why I have been given extra challenges to overcome.

I never considered myself a victim. I am a warrior with scars instead of medals.. I don’t know how I survived. Even more, how I still see life filled with wonder and joy, a promise of better things to come. But that is just how I’ve always been — not a blind optimist but a survivor who refuses to be defeated, to give up, one who at all costs will always carry on with one’s head held high. I chose to survive, overcome, learn, grow, and heal. I chose to never, ever, give up. My story is a journey of self discovery and survival.

* * * *

excavation

the coffin of my heart
began to rot;
the lid is shut
the walls are wood
the worms are eating through

i feel the dirt
tickling
the scratchy pain
burns my skin
someone, is shoveling
i see the bright blue sky

the gateway of my pain
was rusted shut;
cemetery of my love
it hurt a lot
to shove me in a space
unfit for rats
to wait through endless rain
in cold, dark earth;
to cry again, again
without a church
to save my lonely soul
to know the great unknown

in time i felt
i had to stop the clock

the sky is bluer
than i’ve ever known
bestill the lonely earth
the dirt, the worms, the hurt
seemed warmer
than the cold of all alone

slowly, i emerge
the resting place
gently, i’ll allow
the dirt embrace
to fall beneath my feet
to crumble in defeat
someday soon i’ll walk away
unscathed