This is the draft before the memoir.
The place where everything is still wild.
These pages hold the unedited truth. Scattered memories, sharp edges, unfinished scenes, and the emotions that haven’t learned their discipline yet.
Nothing here is polished.
Nothing here is final.
This is where I dig, sift, and lay the pieces out on the table before I know what they belong to.
PROLOGUE: The Black Box
In my chest, right in between my breasts but deeper inside, there’s a black box. It’s relatively small with sharp fucking edges, rusted and flaking like old paint on a car that was once beautiful but got into a wreck and was left in a junkyard. My black box has a lock on it. The lid hangs on squeaking metal hinges that barely give anymore. It hasn’t been opened in years.
There’s irony to this, because while the lid has stayed shut, the contents still seep out…often. The dark, green, putrid smell of the innards oozes through the holes, some large, some small, all made by years of damage: some from neglect, some from pounding, a few just for release.
Sometimes I can hold it all in, appear like a well-put-together woman of intellect and poise, but there’s no hesitation for the stench to leak out when I’m triggered. When that happens, the outer shell of Stepford shatters and comes crashing down like a hammer to a Fabergé egg. Then everyone can see. They all have a front-row seat to the carnival sideshow that is me. And they laugh in corners when I’m not around. They taunt me on invisible paper written in ink I can’t see. But I know it’s there. Everyone knows it’s there.
This is why I run. Because once I’m exposed, there’s no going back. It’s a blacklist tattooed in ink. Once people see it, I have to leave, or end it all. And sometimes I’m too tired for the cycle, too tired to face those who have seen and smelled my stench. Don’t you dare tell me I’m brave for staying. I have bills to pay. Suicide is no longer an option.
The box has dents. I like them. They add character, much like my dented Jack Daniels flask that makes me feel so fucking cool when I take a swig. But this box, my box, doesn’t make me feel special. It hurts. Sometimes more than others. “Hurt” feels so broad, so juvenile, but yet, most appropriate. The box sits deep in my chest like a child’s secret. Back then, it was light. It was placed gingerly inside me with the best of intentions.
Now, sometimes it aches. Sometimes it slips into my stomach. Sometimes it bangs against the walls of my chest cavity, sharp edges tearing tissue as it moves. Most of the time, it’s just heavy. So very heavy.
I wish I wasn’t so fragile, because I know other people have boxes too. They just learned how to contain theirs. Not me. Mine seeps. It slices. It reminds me.
It reminds me that anyone can have power over me by ignoring me, by being slightly mean, or by doing nothing at all.
It reminds me that my fragility is my own fucking fault.
It reminds me of a past I can’t remember.
It reminds me that I am not good.
Most importantly, it reminds me that love, even when genuine, will inevitably flee, fade, break, take off like a goddamn rocket. There’s just not enough room for love. My box won’t allow it.
I try to warn people. I even bought a big red flashing sign that says GET OUT for $149.99 on Amazon. It’s for everyone’s safety. But no one listens. Hell, I rarely listen. I fall victim to my own heart. Yes, I have one of those. A heart. And it tries to counter the pain, to freshen the putrid smell that leaks through the metal. It rarely wins.
“So do something about it, you lazy bitch.”
Oh, I have.
I’ve tried to clean it out with Xanax, Prozac, weed, therapy, journaling, food, no food, faith, silence, recklessness, self-hate, self-love, honesty, lies. I even tried WD-40 on the hinges. My dad always said WD-40 does the trick more often than not. In this case, the trick remains.
I’m confronting it now, giving it a name, a description, a body. If you have a box, you should know: it will fight to stay. It will call the front desk and ask for late check-out. It will chain itself to your soul like a protester to a tree. And when that doesn’t work, it will find new ways to remind you it exists.
These days, my box gives me daily reminders by forcing out small doses of sludge, only some of it. There’s still plenty left. I come into contact with it multiple times a day, stare at it, then throw it up and flush it down the toilet in the name of “healing.”
I tell myself that if I do this enough, eventually the box will be empty. Then maybe it can be repaired, and I can fill it with what it was meant to hold: confidence, self-love, and all that other bullshit.
For now, no such luck.
This is a story of the reckoning.
Of the days that revealed that the box might not be the enemy.
It just might be the vault that is keeping me safe while I gain the courage to peek inside.
And this… this is what I’ve found so far.
Chapter 1, Part 1:
My younger years (until about 10 years old) were terrifying. I pretty much just tried to survive. My father (Larry) and my mother (Edele) got divorced when I was in the 4th grade. I remember very little of my childhood in regards to specific instances. I mean, I do have quite a few stories - some I'm sure I will share here with you here, but for the most part, I just remember how I felt.
Do you remember way back when computers first came out? When one caught a virus or ‘died’ the screen would turn blue. Back then, they called it the blue screen of death. The computer was still alive but couldn’t actually function. It was just “there”. That’s how I like to describe the way I moved through my younger years of childhood. I call it “Blue Screen Mode” I was there. I was alive but I wasn’t functioning. My parents didn’t just fight, they went to war. The house was a battlefield. They screamed until their voices cracked, hurled insults and objects with the same force, shattered things that could never be fixed, and slammed doors so hard the walls trembled. There was always something breaking… dishes, furniture, trust. The air was thick with anger and fear. It wasn’t just loud; it was chaos. Every sound felt like a warning. Every day, I braced myself for the next explosion. I remember being little and having so much anxiety and fear (especially at night when I was in bed) hearing everything and just knowing that something bad was about to happen. I would tip toe outside their bedroom and listen. I remember distinctly tiptoeing as close to the wall in the hallway as I could because that area didn’t creak. Sometimes I would meet my sister there so we could trauma bond together. Not sure why I did that. Maybe to have control? If I heard everything, I wouldn’t be so jumpy and scared in bed? The physical act of standing up, giving me the ability to have the fight/flight response? Who the fuck knows. For now, I’m just putting it all down. I’ll figure it out later.
My father, Larry basically terrorized my sister and I throughout our childhoods. I was terrified of him. When he screamed, things shook. He was so loud. And since I never knew what behaviors would elicit those responses in him so I was in a constant state of agitation and fear whenever he was around. I was always scared. He was just so fucking angry. He terrorized us. That is the only way I can accurately describe it. He was also desperately depressed. They didn’t have the words for it back then. Mental health wasn’t exactly on the forefront of the early 90’s culture and so we just explained it away as ‘dad being really tired’ I remember for a period of time, he was always in bed. I had to regularly go into their room and wake him up for ‘dinner’. I was terrified to wake him up because he would scream. It didn’t matter if I gave him a kiss on the forehead, whispered “dad, dinner is ready” or gently shook him, he would scream. It shook my core. That is to say, conscious or unconscious, I was terrified of him. So was my sister.
And on the opposite side of the coin, my father was and still is by far the funniest man I have ever met. He used to make Shayna and I belly laugh. I remember we used to tell each other stories of things he had done the day or weeks prior and cry doubled over unable to catch our breath. I think that is one of the most interesting parts of depression, is that the deeper it runs, the funnier you are. For the most part, that is the case. I mean, things are so bleak, so dark that a sense of humor is the only element that can mask or alleviate it. It almost takes on a ‘fuck it’ persona because honestly, at your lowest point, what do you have to lose? I got that from my father. My dark sense of humor. It is only matched by my oh so gifted ability to sink into the floor while drowning in my own tears, coming up for air only to laugh at the madness of it all. One of the many downsides is that most people don’t possess that darkness and so, the humor, in turn is not taken as, well, humorous. But as my father used to so eloquently say… fuck em.
You will find that this duality is a common theme throughout. In advance, I don’t blame you for being confused. Shit, I don’t even blame you for not believing me. Most of this shit is truly unbelievable. I suppose that is why this story might be so compelling for some.
I have no idea where to go next with this and honestly the only sentence that comes to mind is.
She stepped on my bird.
Quite the segway, I know. But it is not only chronologically relevant but it also sets the stage for some serious character building.
When my parents were still married, we lived in a normal sized home in the middle of New Jersey. It was a standard 3 bed, whatever bath yadda yadda. We couldn’t have pets because Edele was allergic, but one day, for some ungodly and strange reason, we went out and got two birds. Cockatiels. “Lovie” and “Freddy”. In hindsight, it is quite telling simply by the names who’s bird belonged to who. Lovie was mine, because my father always used to call me Lovie. She was fluffy and chunky and soft gray with a hint of baby yellow. And Freddy, was lean and vibrant and oh so very present. Freddy was my sister’s. Well, these two little creatures became a part of our little fucked up unit. Lovie was more reserved and afraid. She stayed in her cage for the most part, but Freddie was a staple, he would squawk around, climbing up pant legs at dinner and hang on our shoulder as we ate. He would bring joy to our every day. Boy did we need it.
I’ll admit, I am struggling with the words to properly describe what my childhood home was like. I’m almost afraid that I will miss the mark and as a result, this will all come out as being flat and commonplace. Maybe these stories will help paint the picture. Maybe, if I get the them all just right… if I choose the right ones at the right times, I won’t have to struggle to properly capture the kaleidoscope of facets that constantly blinded us in our own goddamn home.
I could get into details about the Freddy story. I have tried. I just wrote it all out and deleted most of it because my heart hurts. It aches. I don’t want to put you through that and so I will only provide what is most relevant. We loved that bird. He walked around our home. Edele was vengeful, jealous and cruel. I didn’t realize just how deep it ran until much later when we lived alone with her, but on one particular morning, just before we went off to school, she stepped on him. Freddy. She stepped on him and killed him. I remember far more than I am going to put on paper, but I do remember screaming his name as I lay on the stairs sobbing. I also remember being sent off to school. She killed what we loved and sent us to school. I don’t remember him being mentioned much after that.
CH 1 Pt II
I remember a few other stories in that house. The blue one on Nathan Hale Drive. The house that we lived in until my parents divorced in the 4th grade. I’m chuckling to myself at the phrases I want to type here “buckle in because the post divorce stories make these tales look like a walk in the park...a really nice park on a lovely day” …
Should I write everything out? I don’t think I could if I tried. I simply don’t remember. They say (by they, I mean mental health professionals) that people who have experienced CPTSD (complex post traumatic stress disorder) have blocks of time that they lose memory because their brain/system shut down during those times to protect itself. Makes sense.
I feel almost guilty for even considering putting these one-off memories on paper. Exposing you to the devastation. The cruelty. Violence. I suppose I will keep it brief for the sake of context and nothing more. I think It’s important that you understand the scope of all that I endured. Additionally, and more notably, I still struggle with the question of whether or not I was truly abused. I mean, honestly, I had food on the table each night, clothes on my back, I had shelter and so on. There were good times. What gives me the right to believe or relay that I was abused when others have had it far worse? I question, I doubt, I validate with my therapist. I’ve even taken tests. I just don’t know. I still don’t. I want to say and/or pose the question ‘does it really matter though?’ but I can’t because to me, it does. It does matter. It matters that my story is validated. Not just for being real, but for being wrong. The simple statement that no, what happened to me was wrong. I don’t always believe that. With that, I think about “little Rachel”. This little girl who lives inside of me. She sometimes sits next to me. Other times she cowers in the corner as, I an adult deal with the hardships life throws my way. In that, in her, seeing her, talking to her, imagining and remembering not just what she endured but what she felt… in that, I am devastated to confirm that not only was I abused, but it was bad. Really fucking bad.
Getting back to the one-off stories. It’s so unconventional for an author to just list profound events with no context. I have done that before though. I have told this story, my story, many times to almost anyone that will listen. Part of it at least. I have snippets that I am able to pull from and recite almost like a script. You would think that wouldn’t be the case. That someone with a story as marred as mine would be kept close to the chest, but no. I almost wear it like a badge of honor. Maybe there’s a part of it that wants to represent the amount of pride I have for just how far I’ve made it. How far I’ve come.
Ch 1 part III
I wasn’t a popular kid. I got terrible grades and definitely was not cute or petite like most other girls. I had no concept of self and as I’m sure you’ve gleaned, was in a constant state of fight or flight. If I really think about it, my constant state was attention seeking. I wanted so badly just to be noticed, acknowledged, cared for. Not even by my parents. By anyone at all. I remember as a child, couldn’t have been older than 3rd grade, before going to school, I would climb up onto the counter in my kitchen and reach up for whatever processed baked good we had at the time. Twinkies, those brownies with the sprinkles, mini muffins… I would grab them and bring them to school. In the morning, I would give them to my teacher and tell her I baked them myself. She went along with it, of course. I mean, who wouldn’t want a processed break from reality?
I would say that is embarrassing. What I did. But when I really think about it, it’s just sad. It’s sad that I needed such contrived acknowledgement. Similarly, I would come up with days at random where I would put my head on my desk or just flat out pretend that I was going through some major tragedy, which, in hindsight, I was. Either way, there were so many attention seeking behaviors that I exhibited that to begin to catalogue them would be a job in and among itself. I think you get the point.
I was a terrible student. I mean truly. Throughout my entire childhood, I failed every single subject. Not like Shayna, my sister was and still is an absolutely brilliant mind who seamlessly excelled at pretty much everything she laid her hands on. Academics, debate, that international club…uhmmmm something union (I’ll come back to this one), AH United Nations! French Horn. Yep, she purposefully picked the most difficult instrument and mastered it. There was nothing she couldn’t and didn’t absolutely obliterate. I, on the other hand, was ‘tested’ for ADD and was put on Ritalin in the second grade. It did nothing, but I remember going to the nurse each day to take the pill. The fruitless effort only exacerbated the very real label that was given to me at a young age by both my parents and Shayna. A staple word that stays with my soul, haunts me and consumes an embarrassing amount of my every day.
Stupid.
I was called stupid almost every day of my life up until the age of 16, and even then, there was a joke that permeated throughout whatever familial space I occupied. I still believe that I’m stupid. It’s an interesting dichotomy but it is one that I have never been able to shake. Rightfully so, I mean the proof was in the pudding. I failed everything and as hard as I tried, there was nothing that I could do about it. I remember putting in effort but truly, if I had to wager, I would say that my rock bottom performance was attributed to my overwhelming need to survive. I simply had no room, no safety and no mental capacity to focus enough to care. I got in trouble, but more notably, was made fun of a lot. Mostly by Edele and Shayna.
There was one occasion in particular where I was getting ready for school and I left my room to leave for the day and edele told me to turn around and go back inside because ‘there was no point’. That’s what she said. There was no point in me going to school because it was a fruitless effort. She was right. I learned nothing. Fuck, I wanted to though. I wanted so badly to be anything, anyone but myself.
Ch 1 Pt IV
So we can jump forward a touch. To the night Edele had my father forcibly removed from the house. She claimed that he beat her, which I now can say with absolute certainty did not happen. That having been said, I remember her tucking me in at night and saying “your father is a very sick man. He is dangerous and you need to be scared of him.” Granted, that was true to a degree, but the reality was that she was setting the stage for an argument that he simply could not win. I remember coming home from school one day and seeing the Shabbos candles lit (Think candelabra, but religious lol). It made absolutely no sense that they were lit. Not only were we not religious, but it wasn’t the sabbath and we had just gotten out of school. Edele had a party prepared for the three of us. I was in 4th grade, Shayna in 6th. Edele had wine, the candles lit and a camera ready. She had us drink under candle light and flip off the camera in celebration of having my father removed from the house and being no longer with us. I was told a few years later by my father the exact turn of events that took place that day. The police came, gave him 15 minutes to gather his things and kicked him the fuck out of the house. To this day, it breaks my heart because while he was an angry man, more than anything else, he was broken. Not like Edele. He was a human being much like myself, probably like you too, who was in need of love and consistency. Who had a lot of healing to do and unfortunately had no outlet other than what I have previously mentioned. I’m not going to beat a dead horse here. He was abusive. He did his best.
I still have some of the pictures from that night. I was in a sports bra next to Shayna with the candles lit. Holding a wine glass in one hand and flipping the bird with the other. That was our ‘celebration’. What else is there to say about that?
They divorced very shortly after. Things only got worse from there. Both Shayna and I moved in with Edele. This small apartment in the middle of the hood in NJ. I feel that that is when the ‘directed’ abuse started. By that I mean that we were both abused as bystanders when they were married, but when they divorced, Edele’s illness was solely directed towards my sister and I. Shayna suffered the majority of the physical abuse, while I was subject to most of the emotional abuse. I have thought quite a few times in my adulthood about the reality of what we went through, the choices Edele made and just how vile those choices were. It’s truly unfathomable to me that a person, let alone a mother, would have the capacity to treat another human being that way. She was/is a very sick woman and while I am aware of that, I find it hard to separate my empathy for her from my sadness and pain. Anger as well, but I know that all that anger is truly presented as masked sadness, and so I feel that the anger is implied.
Rage though. I wonder about rage. How deep the ‘sadness rabbit hole’ must go in order for someone to feel my level of rage towards another person. While I would like to think that I forgive her, I don’t know if that forgiveness is true or real. Forgiveness and empathy are two different things and I believe that part of ‘forgiveness’ is the ability to let go. I have not done that. Not yet. I know and do feel sad for her, though. There is simply no way that she was able to do the things she did to us… to have the capacity to abuse us as she did and not have experienced terrible injustices, pain and brutal realities herself. She must have suffered a great deal, at some point in her life. She has always been very secretive about herself and her past. Shayna and I to this day have no idea who she is. My father didn’t either.
Additionally, her genetics must be taken into consideration. She had different personas/characters that would present themselves. You could call it Multiple Personality Disorder, or simply just a part of the mixed bag of hell she gifted to us. She had a ‘Lucille Ball’ one, a ‘Tigger’ one (from Whinnie the Pooh) and several others that were unnamed. I don’t remember much about that other than the flickers of memories of her hopping around the house, her quoting Lucille Ball from I Love Lucy and overall encompassing those personalities as if they were her own.
Things would have gone very differently for her in her adult life if she wasn’t so stunning. I mean absolutely gorgeous. Magnetic almost. Incredibly charming, witty, loveable, funny, dynamic, sweet, powerful, classy, very well put together etc. Everyone wanted to be around her. She played the ‘mother role’ impeccably. Protective, caring, affectionate, attentive, and so on.
She always had so much energy. She never stopped. She never sat, relaxed, showed any sign of depression. She was often referred to as ‘the energizer bunny’. I don’t know how she did it. How she was able to keep that up with no reprieve. I have yet to meet another soul that has that ability. She was also a very sexual woman. Always surrounded by men in some way. (Remind me to tell you the story of the time she took us to California to meet a man.) It is also important to note that in public she was incredible. Peers were jealous that I had her as a mother. She was masterful. I often wonder if my own behaviors and persona are masking the evil that she held behind closed doors. Almost like I don’t know who I really am or rather that there is a part of me that I have no awareness of. Much like Edele. I’m afraid that I am truly ‘her’ on the inside.
I am afraid. I don’t know what I have, how deep it runs. Both genetically and as a result of my childhood. Fucking nature/nurture isn’t working in my favor in that regard. I don’t want to be her. I fear that I am. I have similar qualities. Without sounding boastful or self-absorbed, I possess the traits that she presented in public. I can be witty/charming, very loving, funny, powerful. Is all of that bullshit? A ruse? I have no idea.
There is a very real possibility that on the inside… I mean really deep in there, I possess her darkness. That there will be a day that I snap and take on any one of her horrific personas or characteristics. That is my greatest fear. That I am her. Imposter syndrome isn’t quite the fit for what this is. I don’t fear that I am pretending to be someone I’m not. I fear that I am someone that I am unaware of entirely. Goodness this is hard to explain. Bottom line, am I capable of killing an animal? Of one day switching personas on a dime behind closed doors to the point of literal madness?
There was rarely a day throughout my first 16 years of life where I wasn’t, in some way, in contact with or experience Edele and her abuse. While I lack memory of most of the occurrences, I have a few examples that are crystal clear. I’ll get to those in a bit but throughout it all, as long as I can remember, I was called ‘lazy’ and ‘stupid’ (as you know) I was also constantly called a liar and sneaky (those are big ones, as well) Sneaky, Liar, Lazy, and Stupid. Those were all her favorites. Those labels weren’t abusive events but rather a reality that I faced throughout my childhood. It was reiterated to me constantly. I would imagine that plays a role today in my type A, perfectionist personality along with my hypervigilance to overshare information. I’ll briefly mention that my sister was abusive to me as well. She bullied me a lot and in the next breath was a ‘battle buddy’. We protected one another from Edele. It’s complicated. Overall, Shayna has always been very cold and mean. Absolutely brilliant but not open or loving. She took on a parental/controlling role, which in hindsight was more of keeping us both alive than anything else.
Back to Edele. I realize that she has taken up the majority of this space thus far. I don’t take pleasure in that. I do, in fact, want to move on from her. In so many ways. Lol. But here, in this specific medium, I will do my level best to end Edele’s chapters as soon as possible. It’s just so important, ya know? Her presence set the stage and the whole fucking theater for chapters to come. Let me get back to it so we can end it.
She was so fucking mean. Nasty even. She made no bones about the fact that she hated me. Regularly made it clear that she did. On her own timeline, though. She switched at the drop of a hat. While there was the appearance of love, she never actually held love for me. I never had a place inside of her, I was never a piece of her. She never “held” me. Even the performative love was completely transparent. Regardless of that fallacy, I was relieved whenever it was expressed because it took the place of the painful abuse. I never knew when she would switch. I never knew her next move. I never knew what I was walking in to. Who she would be, what she would be. The level of cruelty wasn’t a spectrum. It was more like ‘levels’ When I think of a spectrum, I think of a smooth scale. Something that you can gradually move through. She ‘jumped’ from a 10 to a 1 without notice or explanation. Regardless of her ‘number’ whether it be loving or inhumane, I never felt safe. That sentence holds a lot of weight. If I were to encapsulate this entire narrative into one sentence, that would be it. Her loving performance was very easily and suddenly replaced with pure cruelty. Again, I was never safe. Always in danger. With both my father and mother. As far back as I can remember. I was this worthless, ugly, lazy, lying and stupid “bitch” that she was subjected to. Shayna on the other hand, was BRILLIANT. She still is. While my room was a mess, I received failing grades, I peed the bed (until I was 16), I took terrible care of myself hygiene wise etc, Shayna was the complete opposite. She was ‘perfect’ for all intents and purposes. Straight A’s, was in an internationally known honors program, her room and personal space was impeccable, she had a full circle of friends and so on. Granted, she was not exempt from Edele’s cruelty. Edele, as stated previously, was much more physically abusive with her than she was with me. She once put Shayna’s hand in a doorframe and slammed the door on it over and over again. I clearly remember the image of her hand, the deep and open slit with dark blood dripping from it. I wish I could say that was a monumental event. It wasn’t. Edele was merciless. She would ignore me for weeks on end. Not just ignore me, but quite literally act as if I didn’t exist at all. She would walk from point A to point B and continue walking as if I wasn’t in front of her. She would just slam straight into me and continue. Like I was a ghost of some kind. I remember on quite a few occasions I would stand in front of her crying and begging her to just acknowledge me. To say anything at all to me. I wrote so many notes over the years. That was a big thing of mine. To write notes of apology and slide them under her door late at night. I still have a couple of them. The apology notes. Admitting how terrible I was. How I “see the error of my ways” (these were the words of a fucking child). Apologize for it and beg her to come back. Remembering all of this, bringing it all back to the surface and naming it. I read those letters now and am just broken for that little girl. Ignored, terrorized, abused, hated, scared, always on alert, unsafe. I never knew what was coming. As a result, that is one of my greatest fears. The constant state of ‘waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Then, of course, randomly there would be the switch and I was the greatest thing. Hugs, kisses etc. I never knew what I was getting, what would walk through the door. I have anxiety even now if I am alone and hear a doorknob turn because someone is coming in. Sad.
We were in a store once and she told me she didn’t want me to walk near her because I smelled bad and she didn’t want people to know that I was her daughter. Those occurrences were just as frequent as those of the opposite nature. We had songs we would sing together ‘Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off’ was one of them. She would sing a part and I would sing the other. We would dance in the kitchen, she would make these monumental and dramatic declarations of love. The song “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” was another one of our songs. Oh, the irony! Ha!
To move on from the moments we danced in the kitchen would organically lend itself to the other side of Edele. The one that allowed for good times to be had all around. As stated, she was a gorgeous woman filled with vitality and a level of self assuredness that was only matched by her uncanny maternal instincts.
I know, quite the mind fuck.
As I type though, I’m bored. I’m also exhausted. I simply don’t want to talk about her anymore. This is my book, damnit, so I won’t. Not for a little bit at least. Much like in the real world, I simply need a break from her. Believe me when I tell you that this hiatus is just that, and we will inevitably, make our way back to the stories, foundational anecdotes and wildly outrageous tales that simply can’t be overlooked if we are going to get to the bottom of what makes me, me. I mean, we still have the tale of her literal garbage bag full of drugs, so rest assured, we aren’t done with her. Not yet.
Hopefully one day, I will be, but even symbolically, the earmark remains.
CH II Pt I
“The Yellow Rat Bastard”
When my parents first divorced, my father moved to a little studio in Queens, New York. My sister and I would visit him every other weekend for a couple of years. We, for the most part, had great times. I mean it’s much easier to have fun during finite spans of time when there are little to no pressures or responsibilities, especially when you are with someone so funny. I mean, truly, the man was a fucking riot. We watched “The Iron Chef”, but the Chinese edition. The one with subtitles and voiceovers that was filmed in other asian countries. My father would do accents and impressions. Feel free to be as offended as you’d like, but that shit was funny as hell. My sister, the ice queen, even got in on it.
I remember one of the best days I’ve ever had with my father. We went into the city, just the two of us. I’m not sure if this is where I want this story to go in the book or if i want to fit it in at all but I am going to type it out for the purposes of posterity.
Yeah, it was just us which typically wasn’t the case. I had to have been no older than 13. He picked me up on a friday afternoon after school and we took the two hour drive from NJ to his place. Most of you probably don’t remember this, but way back in the days, when CD’s existed, there were these subscription services where you would choose like 20 CD’s and they’d send them to you at crazy cheep rates. My father had me pick a few out a couple weeks prior. “Desert Rose” by Sting was charting and so on a whim I chose a Sting album. Well, that particular weekend, we had that CD on repeat from the moment he picked me up until Sunday afternoon when he dropped me back off in NJ. We woke up on that Saturday and drove into the city (Manhattan, for those of you that aren’t from up north). I remember we did all the things. We started the day with bagels stuffed with cream cheese… all over our fucking hands and faces, while freezing our asses off, waiting in line for tickets to a Broadway show. Back then, you would just wait in this random ass line for tickets that other people gave up or seats that couldn’t get filled for a show that was happening that day. I think it was called “last call” We ended up getting tickets to a show called “Bring in the Noise Bring in the Funk” We took the day walking around the city. We went to China Town and I had Dim Sum for the first time. It was so fucking cool. He was so excited to bring me there. It was this big red room with vaulted ceilings and several large round tables seating 10-15 people each. My father and I sat next to one another as he would flag down server after server, each of them carrying their own little silver trays. My father would flag one over and the server would lift the lid, steam covering his face as these little dumplings appeared in perfect circles. My father would nod (like he had any idea what each of them was) and the server would place two on each of our plates. I just remember the vastness of the restaurant and being so impressed and excited by the whole thing. The amount of dumplings that we ate was almost comical. Just so cute, each of them. Filled with what? I don’t know, but boy did we have Sum Dim that day!
After that, we walked up Canal street. Back then, it was lined with tables. Tables that were covered in counterfeit purses, sunglasses, hats, dvds, you name it. My father taught me how to haggle. “Ok Rock, look for one thing you want. Pick a number in your head and no matter what, do not spend a penny over that number, got it?” “Yes, Dad”
Then it began.
I pointed and asked “How much for this?” I was coached to ask as if I didn’t care.. Almost like I barely looked at the item at all.
“$35”
“I can do $15” I scoffed remembering my dad’s lesson (“Rock, you gotta go really low at first”)
The person behind the table acted as if they were wildly offended. I was prepared though. I was coached. My father told me to walk away. And so I did.
“FINE $32!” They screamed after me.
I wouldn’t move. I would not double back, I would simply turn on my heels to face the person and provide another offer. “$18”
“No No”
The play continued. I would turn and take another few steps as they screamed one last time “$27!”
“$25 is my final offer”
“Ok ok”
Smirking and so goddamn proud inside, I almost skipped back to the table to claim my prize. Years later, I am a master haggler and I have my father to thank for that.
We continue to walk around the city, smoke spewing up the sidewalk from the underground subway system. Cabs banging into one another as they screamed at pedestrians who gave no fucks. There were crazies, pretzels, protesters, and a chill in the air; and if you stood still and looked up just for a moment, the tops of the skyscrapers looked like they were moving with the clouds.
I remember a lot from that day.
I remember walking around and passing a store called “The Yellow Rat Bastard”... I giggled and pointed to it because, ‘bastard!” that’s a bad word and it was wild that it was on a storefront. My father took me inside and bought me a pair of sneakers. I wore those until they fell apart. Bastard shoes. Lol. just so fucking cool.
Then we made our way back to the car, engine on, sting on… it was the soundtrack to the day. We made our way to the other side of town where the show was going to be. We valeted. My father was a smooth mover. I always thought so (as did the many girlfriends he had over the years) He was just always so slick. Knew what to do and when to do it. Cool guy, but very much ‘a man’. He had nothing to prove and it showed and truthfully, I think that is what gave him that ‘it’ factor that has been erased from our generation. We made our way into the theatre. It was my first broadway show and I was just so tickled. I don’t remember a whole lot about the show specifically, but i do remember there were garbage cans. People banged on them. It was this larger than life experience with energy that filled the space of the room and every single person that sat within it. It was almost a bonding experience among strangers. If you have ever been to a broadway show, then you get it. They’re profound. I just remember being so impressed. I remember seeing my father staring at me out of the corner of my eye. He was happy. He was really happy. He had the opportunity to show me so many things. Bring me so many experiences, opportunities. I appreciated it then, but now I understand just how deep that ran for him. It ran just as deep for him then as it does for me today.
The show ended and we walked around a bit more as dusk settled. We went to dinner at a lovely restaurant. It was this little italian spot that we happened upon. We sat up against the cold storefront window and people watched. I had pasta filled with cheese and pears. Yes, pears! It’s a thing. I have had it since, but I remember it was absolutely delicious.
The whole day had a hum of protection. It was this bubble that I was in with him. Just following his lead as he carted me around the busiest and most chaotic of places with such ease and certainty. New York was my father’s hometown, after all. The environment was nothing new to him. Still, though. I was so impressed with all of it. I was in awe and excited. Back then, of course the thrill came from a place of wonderment. All that surrounded me, all that i was seeing, tasting, smelling, etc. was new and fantastic. Now, sitting in my living room in silence, i am still in awe, but now, more so of just how easy it all was for him. Of all of the effort he went through to curate the perfect day for me. For us.
After dinner, we got back in the car, Sting picking up right where he left off as we drove out of the city. Lights fading behind us as we headed back to Queens to the nearest movie theatre. He got us tickets for the first Harry Potter movie. I sat next to him, exhausted and buzzed as the most magical story of our generation played on a massive screen in front of us. Me sitting there in my bastard sneakers, tummy filled with dumplings and pears… All of my stuff neatly tucked away in my knockoff purse. It was the best fucking day of my life. To this day, I am a die-hard Sting fan.
Ch II Pt II - Russian Nesting Drugs
“Does it look like oregano?”
“Yes”
“Oh, that’s pot”
I held this little bag in my hand as my childhood friend explained to me that among the many different sizes, colors, textures and smells that filled up the backpacks wrapped up in black garbage bags stuffed in my sisters trunk, among them, was pot.
We moved to the next one. “Coke”
And the next. “Maybe Crack? What does it smell like?”
Phil. My friend’s name was Phil and I had known him since elementary school. We were now Freshmen and went to different schools in the same district, but stayed in touch. He didn’t come from the best of families and I knew that he was the only person I could call who would have any idea what the shit I had scattered all over my living room floor was.
Edele was at work. At the time, for a very brief time, we had two cars. Shayna was driving the old car while Edele tried out a shiny new one.
My father had just moved from NY to Fl somewhat on a whim. That’s what it felt like it at least. It was spring break my freshman year of high school and Shayna and I were going to go down to visit him. I was beyond amped. I had my discman with the best burned CD one could contrive from Limewire (if you don’t get it, just put the book down, you don’t belong here). I was ready to go.
I remember wheeling my suitcase out from our little apartment to my sister’s car. To reiterate, my sister Shayna was a perfect specimen. I mean it. She really was perfect. Straight A’s, in all the honors classes, did all the things, shook all the hands and kissed all the babies. She was the absolute ‘tits’ and everyone knew it. She played by the rules and honestly, it was the best way she knew how to survive in our little corner of hell. She built up this beautiful little fortress of perfection around her. Everything that could have a place, did. I would imagine this provided some level of comfort to her. I mean, It’s why we all feel so good when our room is clean, house is organized etc. Because life is so out of control that the one tiny little bit of it that we can keep in order, makes us feel somehow that we will be ok.
Now multiply that times a very sick mother and the universe crumbling around you and that is what I would imagine Shayna’s life to have been like as an adolescent. Now that I really break it down, as stated previously, shayna suffered the majority of the physical abuse. Her way of coping was to keep every bit of the physical world around her that she could control intact. The words she wrote in perfect order, the notes she played neither sharp nor flat. Her smile bright and her clothing clean. She ran for office, she studied, she took part in every extracurricular that one could imagine. Softball, Debate, Band, International Studies, etc. Her room was immaculate. She also had little things that were hers. Like shampoo. No really. She had small little things that were just hers. Nothing extravagant and honestly, nothing notable but the one I do remember most vividly is the Aussie Shampoo. It was this 5 in 1 purple bottle that was called “the hair miracle” or something like that. She would cart it to and from her bedroom to the shower every time she bathed. It was hers. I stole it and used it as much as possible, but it was important to her. I kind of get it now. We had so little as kids. So little that was ours. So little that allowed us to be people. Our identity was decided for us moment by moment but in this case, this little purple bottle carved out a corner for Shayna to be...Shayna.
In hindsight, I wish I never touched the thing.
Back to the car, Shayna drove us to and from school every once in a while. The most notable point here is that Shayna used it exclusively on several occasions.
I’m staring at this fucking line blinking on the screen wondering how to segway to the moment that I found them. It’s hard to do because there is so much to note and so little to say. Shayna never did drugs, neither did I. We were good kids. We never snuck out, never went to parties, never stepped out of line. I mean, honestly, we lived a life out of a fucking horror film, there was no room for recreation, legal or not.
I wheeled my suitcase to the car. The one filled with clothes for Florida all ready to go. I opened the trunk and was immediately annoyed. There was no space for me to put my suitcase! The trunk was filled with these huge plastic garbage bags. The Hefty ones. What the fuck?
I opened one of the bags and was even more confused when I saw backpacks. Jansport Backpacks. Like 4 or 5 of them. I opened the next garbage bag… same thing. Then I started to open up the backpacks. There were more bags. Smaller ones. Filled with even smaller ones which were filled with smaller ones. I had no idea what the hell was going on, but I knew it wasn’t good and I sure as hell knew none of it was Shayna’s. Shayna was too neat to have anything be in such disorganized chaos.
I dragged one of the bags into the living room and started unzipping. Dumping all of the russian nesting bags out around me as I sat on the floor and laid it all out with a flat hand. Just pushing everything into a big circle to take a high-level look at just what I was dealing with here. I remember sitting there for a minute with a sinking feeling.
I found the yellow pages, crawled on the couch and called Phill. I found a pillow to hold close to me with one of the bags burning through my palm as he answered.
I told him what I was looking at.
And then he told me what I was looking at.
We did this until each bag was accounted for.
Like a human Google for drugs.
I hung up the phone cleaned it all up. Neatly. I put everything back in its rightful place. Categorized just as it was.
I took the bags back outside and opened up the trunk. Then I emptied the remains of the trunk and threw it all in the dumpster. Every single fucking gram.
I put my suitcase where it belonged, closed the trunk and went back inside.