PUNISHED FOR PURPOSE:
FROM OUT OF THE DARKNESS CAME A POWERFUL HEALING LIGHT
By
Lauri L. Burns
“Powerful, inspiring and courageous. Lauri’s story will open your heart.” – Justin Carroll, writer & actor
Living proof of the power of forgiveness. This book demonstrates that every life has a purpose. I highly recommend it.” – Melissa Brown Levine, Book Reviewer
"One of the most profound books I have read. Lauri's story made me cry, made me laugh, but most importantly made me think. Lauri's transformation reinforced my belief in the resilience of the human spirit and the power of spiritual change. I highly recommend it." Christine Patrick, Editor.
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Lauri Burns on Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 by Lauri Burns
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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PUNISHED FOR PURPOSE:
FROM OUT OF THE DARKNESS CAME A POWERFUL HEALING LIGHT
Sitting at the vanity in my suite onboard the Royal Caribbean cruise ship I took a deep breath, collected my thoughts and closed my laptop. I had written a good deal in the privacy of my cabin, but had barely scratched the surface. Recounting my life thus far had been painful, and realizing how much of the nightmare still remained untold overwhelmed me. There were many days when I could only write a line or two, most days I couldn’t write at all. On this particular day, I felt like I had made some real progress. Living through this life once was plenty for anyone to endure, but now I was voluntarily reliving it through my writing. Was I crazy? I couldn’t say, but any thought of stopping was countered with the hope that I might help someone. Even if I only helped one person to take a different path, my nightmare would serve a higher purpose, and somehow out of all of this badness would come something good. The moment I began my story, I knew I couldn’t turn back; regardless of how long it took me, I was compelled to get it all out. Although I was on a roll that particular morning, I needed to stop. The ship had docked at shore and it was time to pack up and prepare to disembark. The fog horn would sound any moment and I hadn’t even started packing. With my laptop now closed, my mind kept on writing.
As I rushed around the room, grabbing my belongings and shoving them into my suitcase, I got that ominous feeling one gets when a great vacation nears its end. My cell phone remained on the side of my bed where I had set it several days ago in the off position. I figured preserving battery power would be good, as there was no signal out at sea. As a sign of defeat and a confirmation that my vacation was nearly over, I retrieved it, turned it on, and set it back down. Better to jump right back into action than to delay it any further.
As expected, less than a minute later it jingled alerting me that messages were waiting. Conflicted by my desire to know who had called and my unwillingness to punctuate the end of my cruise, I could only stare at the pestering phone. The longer I procrastinated reconnecting to my life on land, the more my curiosity grew. Conceding to the inevitable, I gave in, picked it up and dialed my voicemail…To listen to your voice messages, press 1.
“Hi Lauri, it’s Mom. Oh, I forgot you’re on the cruise. Good luck with your speech honey, call me when you get home.” Beep.
“Lauri, this is Michael Gold. I’m a social worker at St. Martin’s Hospital. We have your father here with us and he’s made some statements. I need you to call me back as soon as possible. Myoffice number is…"
I grabbed a pen and paper off the nightstand and wrote down the number. A range of emotions bombarded me. What could he have possibly done this time? I thought I had closed out the past when I shutdown my laptop, but I was wrong. I couldn’t have possibly prepared myself for this call. Feeling trapped, I set the phone down and stood by the cabin’s small window and stared out at the vast blue sea. I began to talk to myself in my head. I often do this when I need some inner coaching and this was certainly one of those times. You can do this…you are a grown woman Lauri…it’s all different now. Breathe in and breathe out…just dial…and breathe. Thoughts adrift, I was snapped back to reality by the ship’s booming fog horn. I regained my composure, reached for my phone and slowly dialed. I was relieved to hear the machine at the other end, as it extended my vacation a few more minutes.
“This is Michael Gold. I’m not in the office right now, but please leave me a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” Beep.
”Hello Michael, this is Lauri Burns; I’m returning your call. I apologize for the delay but I was on a cruise and had no signal. Please return my call as soon as possible; I will keep my phone close by.”
From the loudspeaker above a man’s voice declared, “Blue tags on deck for departure.” I shoved my cell in my back pocket, threw my remaining things into my suitcase and headed for the lobby. Exiting the elevator, I joined the long line of passengers who had arrived before me. My children, who shared their own cabin, showed up shortly thereafter and filed in behind me. “Did you comb your room to make sure you got everything?” I asked. Mary mumbled yes in that child annoyed by a bothersome parent tone, Chantel smiled and nodded and Danielle responded with a chipper, “Yepper! Went through it twice!”
Seconds later, the phone rang. Reluctantly, I retrieved it from my pocket, “Hello, this is Lauri.”
Then I heard the deep familiar voice on the other end. “Lauri Burns, this is Michael Gold.”
“Yes?” I responded.
“There was an incident involving your father and he’s been here with us for a few days. Up until yesterday he told us he had no family. Today he’s saying he has one daughter. He gave us your number.” Although I have two sisters, I was too intrigued to interrupt.
“It seems that your father was planning on taking his life and that of a lady named Lydia. Do you know Lydia?” I made that sound one makes when answering yes to a question without saying any words, “Mmm hmm.”
As he continued to talk, I dropped my bags and slowly walked away from the line. I found refuge in a shaded area behind the lounge, crouched down and closed my eyes. Was this really happening? Now?…
“Your father had called his Rabbi and his brother-in-law and told them he and Lydia made a suicide pact and wanted to be left alone so that they could die in peace. Someone called the police. When they arrived, your father wouldn’t come out of the house. From the doorway, they could see two guns on the table behind him.”
“They ordered him out of the house and told him to kneel down on the lawn. Although he came outside, he told them he couldn’t kneel down because of a recent knee surgery. Apparently, they didn’t believe him so they took him down physically. It appears he was injured and he’s very upset.”
My vacation was clearly over. I continued listening. “Now he’s saying he did some bad things and he’s going to be put away.
Do you know what he’s talking about?” Again, I somehow replied, “Yes.”
* * * * *
I flashed back 20 years ago to a visit with my therapist at the time. I was 24 years old sporting long black hair down to the middle of my back, dark liquid eyeliner emphasizing the intensity of my large brown eyes and torn jeans that exposed my knees and butt. These were my favorite jeans—as reckless as my state of mind. Underneath the jeans, I wore black fishnet stockings to conceal my skin. While that might have lured some in, my large black steel toed boots and anger kept most at bay.
The therapist calmly asked, “When did you first become suicidal?” It was precisely at that moment that I realized that I had no recollection of ever wanting to live. As far back as I could remember I wanted to die. I responded with a simple, “I don’t remember.”
Unable to extract an emotional response out of me after several weeks of treatment, she suggested we try an exercise. "I want you toask little Lauri how she feels about what we’ve been discussing and I want little Lauri to respond. I’ve done this before and it seems to work quite well. I am going to give you a pen. Since you normally write with your right hand, I want little Lauri to respond with her left hand. We use this method to access our inner child. I’ll leave the room so you don’t feel any pressure from me. Any questions before I go?"
What did she think, I was Sybil or something? Although I thought she was out of her mind, I did as she instructed. Shortly thereafter, she came back into the room excited to hear what “Little Lauri” had written. I looked her in the eyes and said, “Sorry, I’m not Sybil. No little Lauri’s came out while you were gone. It’s just me in here.” And I slid the paper toward her.
It had been a long time since I had felt any emotion about my past. I was cold. Like watching a movie about another person, I was completely disconnected from anything that had happened in my life. She looked at my sloppy response and somewhat dejected, read it aloud…I don’t feel anything. It was a long time ago.
* * * * *
I sat with my mother recently to discuss my childhood. At first she was reluctant, but began to open up when I assured her that I was emotionally stable and needed to know. Although I could recall the broad strokes, I couldn’t remember the details. I assured her that anything she could tell me would help. Although somewhat undecided, she began to talk.
My mother married my father at the young age of twenty-one. My father was five years older than she was and seemed to be a great catch. Having joined the Navy right out of high school, he studied to be an airplane mechanic. By the time he proposed to her, he had a full time job at the local airline and a beautiful new Mustang Coupe. Wanting to escape her father’s control, it couldn’t have progressed fast enough. Within six months of my dad’s proposal, they were married.
With my dad’s meager wages they were able to rent a small one bedroom apartment in Rosedale, a suburban neighborhood in the borough of Queens, N.Y. By the time my mom was twenty three, my sister Nadine was eleven months old and my dad had advanced in his career. Having a good understanding of airplane mechanics, he had completed a training program and landed a job as a Flight Engineer with a major airline. Things appeared to be going very well until a few months later.
In September of 1962, the airline went on strike. Having just begun his career, with a family to support, my father had nothing to fall back on. When the paychecks stopped, he spiraled downward. That was just about the time my mom realized she was pregnant with me.
When my mom revealed the situation to my dad, he was furious. Although it wasn’t my fault, my mom said, he resented me before I was even born. As my mother’s stomach grew, my father’s anger intensified. Never having agreed to a second child, he was convinced that by getting pregnant, she had intentionally disobeyed him. Although as an infant I was incapable of doing anything to upset my father, the moment I was born, I became his number one target.
My mother, father and sister, Nadine all shared that tiny one bedroom apartment. When he was home, my father demanded that my bassinette be placed in the hallway just outside the front door of our apartment. Aware that it was not only wrong, but also dangerous, my mother did so reluctantly. By this time she had already established a fear of defying my father. She did as she was told. Having just left the hospital as a newborn, I was not welcome in our home. During the night, if my mother heard cries from the hallway, she would sneak out to feed me, while trying desperately not to wake my father.
To make matters worse, whenever she fed me I would throw up, and cry again. My mom was a nervous wreck. Stuck in the hallway, crouched down over my small bassinette, she was terrified of waking my father. It wasn’t until I was ten weeks old that my mother took me to a doctor. He quickly determined that I wasn’t keeping the food down because I was allergic to the formula I was being fed. Bottom line—I was alienated and alone, agitated and hungry from the start. Not being a psychologist, I can’t say for sure how this situation affected me, but I suspect being cast aside as an infant is at the core of my lifelong sense of aloneness.
I was twelve weeks old when my parents purchased their first home. It was a charming little three bedroom house in a pleasant suburban community on Long Island, called Smithtown. The house was bright white with conservative little black shutters and neat as a pin. With two small strips of green lawn lining the driveway and a lamppost by the walkway, it couldn’t have been nicer. We lived in a quaint little neighborhood populated by young families. The grocery store was just around the block and there was an elementary school within walking distance.
Being so young at the time, I don’t remember much about Smithtown other than the birth of my little sister, Alyssa. She was born when I was nearly four years old. I still recall anxiously waiting for her arrival from the hospital. Before leaving for the hospital, my mother announced that she would be bringing home a baby and presented Nadine and I with small porcelain dolls to prepare us.
Like a little porcelain doll herself, the excitement when I saw Alyssa for the first time was life changing. For the next few weeks when the adults left her room, I would sneak in and stand alongside her crib, wrap my fingers around the bars and whisper to her. With large dizzy eyes, she strained to focus on the musical chimes that hung above her. Although I knew she was too young to understand me, I imagined she knew exactly what I was saying.
We only lived in Smithtown until I was six, but, according to my mother, my father’s abuse started there. She remembered like it was yesterday. I was three years old at the time it began.
Nadine and I were fighting over a toy in the basement. My dad ran down the flight of stairs, grabbed my arm and yanked it so hard that my mother thought it had been disjointed. She watched as my dad dragged me to the side of the room and continued to hit me. She pleaded with him to leave me alone yelling, “Stop! You don’t even know what happened!” Soon thereafter, she discovered that Nadine was at fault, not me. When she told my dad, he seemed disinterested. With a painful sigh, my mom told me that from that day forward my dad instinctively came after me whenever anything or anyone had upset him. For the next several years, beating me was his only remedy for expelling his rage.
From Smithtown, we moved to an upscale neighborhood on the outskirts of Long Island called Centerport. We lived in a neighborhood called Golden Bridge Estates. When we first moved there it was just a dirt road and a lot of trees. I can still remember the smell of the wood as our house was being built and the sound of my sneakers on the thin plywood that covered the foundation. Within a few years of moving there, the development had grown. The neighborhood was complete with large homes, lush landscaping and a great expanse of woodsy areas in the backdrop. Our house was a on a large hill with a brick stairway lining the way up.
The foyer was both elegant and inviting with a large glass chandelier hanging above and a wide view of the surrounding rooms. The formal living room was off to the left, complete with off-white carpeting and a baby grand piano. This room was rarely used, with the exception of family pictures and my older sister’s short-lived piano lessons. It was common knowledge that this room was off limits and for “looks” only. The formal dining room was off to the right and used mainly for Passover dinners. The family room was straight ahead complete with French doors and a view of the redwood deck out to the woods. Immediately above the chandelier was the grand balcony, which offered a preview to the second level sewing room.
Our neighbors were all well to do, the majority Catholics. Most of the moms stayed at home and the fathers were doctors, lawyers and a few organized crimers that the neighborhood kids assumed were car salesmen due to the constant change of vehicles. The impromptu arrival of a small fleet of flashy new Cadillacs and the finely dressed men that drove them seemed ordinary to us kids.
It was breathtakingly beautiful in Centerport. I loved the first snow. Nothing was better than walking outside in my pj’s with my snow coat and boots on. I’d fall into the soft bed of crystals and flop my arms and legs to create snow angels or crack off the longest icicle hanging from the rooftop and sit on the front steps licking it. The brisk cement pierced my flimsy pajamas and awoke my senses as the sun sparkled off the white blanket surrounding me.
In autumn, the swirling winds reminded me that Halloween was just around the corner. As the wind blew on my face, I’d strut around in my sneakers crunching the crisp orange and golden leaves covering the ground. The change of seasons was always majestic to me. It gave me the sense that there was something bigger out there, but I couldn’t begin to imagine what it was.
About a mile from our home was a place called the Old Barn. It was a big red barn that had been converted into a general store. While known for selling horse and pet supplies, the other kids and I were drawn there by “the table.” Situated to the left just beyond the entrance, was the most magnificent table you could imagine. Some of the best candy you could buy sat on that small wooden table. There was Bazooka, fun sticks with flavored sugar, baseball cards and candy necklaces. All of which sold for less than a quarter. But the candy wasn’t the whole draw; it was also the journey to the barn.
The walk from our house to the barn was about a mile through the woods and over a red bridge that rested on top of giant wooden legs and appeared to be held together by little more than rusted chains and old nails. It swayed and creaked as I walked over its 2” x 4”s. Train tracks weaved through the forest and eventually made their way under the bridge. I never knew where the train was coming from or going to, but whenever I heard that whistle blow, I knew it was time. With my candy in tow, I would race to the bridge, sit on the edge and hang my legs through the chains. As the powerful steel monster approached, the bridge would vibrate and rattle. With my hands tightly gripping the chains and my feet stretched straight out, I was ready for the ride. When it finally passed beneath me, its mighty force caused the entire expanse to shake so intensely that it bounced me around like a huge roller coaster. Although it never fell and was probably much more stable than I ever could have imagined, the thought of it giving way was enough excitement to keep me coming back for more.
From as far back as I could remember, I loved anything that promised to give me a jolt. As a small child I was crazy about scary movies. I was a dedicated fan of Creature Feature, Frankenstein and King Kong. The House that Dripped Blood was also one of my all time favorites. As the beatings from my dad escalated, I often imagined that like Carrie at the prom, I could use my powers to get revenge on him or anyone else that hurt me. Although it didn’t work, I never gave up day-dreaming about it.
To the outside observer, everything in my life seemed perfect. My sisters and I attended public school, went to Temple twice a week and were Bat Mitvah’ed, as was expected in a nice Jewish family. We had cleaning people since the time I can remember and never seemed to lack anything monetarily. I had brief singing lessons, played the viola and, although I revolted immensely, I joined the Brownies as soon as I was old enough. Everything was beautiful on the outside, but when the doors were closed and the outsiders were gone, it was very different. A dream on the outside and a nightmare within. As a child I would have welcomed a quiet death rather than to endure another day.
* * * * *
The beatings continued. Whenever they started, my mom would rush to the door and scream at my father to stop. Although he persisted as if she wasn’t even there, I felt somewhat comforted knowing that she at least cared. I will always remember the day she stopped coming to the door. At first, I thought she couldn’t hear us but, a few beatings later, I realized she just wasn’t coming anymore. As clearly as I recall a small sense of safety with her at the door, I remember the feeling of being an accepted casualty. It was acceptable that I be beaten from that point forward. The loneliness and desperation fueled a silent ongoing discussion between me and God…“It is clear you hate me…just let me die!” I had a diary filled with large dark curse words directed towards my dad and God. With an inability to confront my dad due his size and anger, God received the brunt of it. After all, he chose this place for me.
Being raised Jewish I always knew there was a God and I was keenly aware that he knew me. Although you’d think that was a good thing, it was not in my case. The only logical explanation that I could come up with for my circumstances was that I had done something bad in a past life. Maybe I had been a witch or something. That was why I was being punished in this life. My perception of God was that he knew who I was and we both knew that I was sentenced to this house because of my sins. There were many times in my childhood when I would scream at God, “I hate you!” I believed that if I angered him enough, he would just let me die. He never did, and that only made matters worse.
My father’s beatings always ended the same way. He would expel all of his anger until exhausted and say, “Now get up, give me a hug and tell me that you love me.” If I refused, the beating would resume until I gave in. I still recall the violent revulsion that erupted within me as I forced myself to hug him and tell him that I loved him. In order to survive, I did as I was told. Getting physically abused was painful enough, but being forced to show love to a man that repulsed me was nothing less than torture. As time went on, I became numb to my innate emotional reactions and I merely existed with little or no response from within. I became cold and detached from my body.
As my father’s beatings escalated, so did my self-hatred. By the age of five, I was completely alienated from everyone and was prone to throwing myself down flights of stairs, banging my head on the walls and punching myself in the face. The harder I punched myself and the larger the bruises, the better. I wanted everyone to know, especially my parents, that I got it! I am worthless! I knew I was worth nothing and maybe if I hurt myself enough, they would stop hurting me. I never got the desired affect; the beatings only got worse. And now my entire family’s attention shifted to ongoing talk about something being wrong with me, or more directly, my brain. This only fueled more self-hatred.
In addition to my self-injurious behavior, I also started to become violent with others. My first act of violence was in nursery school. There was a girl in my class that was much larger than the other children and her tongue hung out. In a world of her own, she would often be staring off into nowhere, with her mouth wide open, tongue out the side and drool running down her chin. In clothing too small to cover her protruding belly, she looked like a giant baby. Everything about her made me angry. It was all I could do not to yell, “What the hell is wrong with you! You look stupid!” She needed to be hurt. Since she was twice my size, I had to be creative.
I was eventually able to get her alone. In a soft whisper, I said, “Come here.” Without much of a response, she drifted towards me. I guided her to the large wooden stairway and said I wanted to play house. When she agreed, I told her I would be the parent and she would be the child and it was time for bed. Pointing to the stairs, I asked her to lie down. I told her to close her eyes. As soon as she was relaxed, I put my foot on her ribs and shoved her down the stairs as hard as I could. With each thud, her body tumbled downward until it finally rested at the bottom of the stairs. Hurt and disoriented, she slowly got up and began weeping. By the time she found the teacher she was hyperventilating so badly that she could barely speak. She struggled to tell her what had happened and dragged her by the arm to point me out. Thinking ahead, I was already gone. By the time she saw me again, the teacher had stopped listening. I don’t recall feeling any guilt that day, only relief that I didn’t get caught.
I stored more rage than you could ever think possible in the tiny body of a five-year-old, and I had to contain it. Clearly, I never felt five. From as far back as I can remember, I had much more serious problems to deal with than most kids my age. At snack time in nursery school, they served cookies and juice. In an attempt to stay invisible, I sucked my cookies. I always thought that if they heard me crunching they might notice I was there. I did everything I could to avoid communication. I was sure if someone talked to me, they too, like my family might think I was crazy. Having the kids make fun of me would be more than I could handle. I would lose control, and then they would all know. As you can imagine, it takes a long time for a Chips Ahoy to melt down, but the fear of being noticed overrode the impulse to chew. While the other kids my age were learning how to share and play with others, I was becoming adept at survival skills.
By the time I was six, I was acutely aware of both my dad’s mood and his location within the house. Regardless of what I was doing, if he was home, I instinctively knew where he was. I knew the sound of his walk just by the weight of his body, even without shoes. When I heard his voice, I quickly registered the tone. As I got older, I became skilled at anticipating a beating by the sound of his voice and the pace of his steps as they hit the floor. Like a skilled war veteran, I knew where to find cover, regardless of my location. Sometimes it was in the attic, alongside the fireplace or on many occasions in my closet, behind my clothes. This was always the scariest because the open area beneath my clothes left my legs fully exposed. But with no other option, and under the bed being obvious, it was all I had. I had studied him long enough to know that in the midst of a rage, he would instinctively come after me, but he never had the patience to search me out. Frustrated, he would storm out of my room, verbally abuse my mom and leave the house. But the fear that this would change was always with me as I shook behind the clothes, trying my best not to breathe. Another favorite hiding place was in the attic near the sewing room, which would eventually become Nadine’s room. At the time she was moved there, I was told this was a privilege provided to the eldest sibling. Over the years I became suspicious about the real intent of her seclusion.
In the long run, the bathroom became my safest haven, with the lock on the door providing an extra level of safety. Although my dad knew where I was, he never kicked in the door. He must have realized at some level that he would be the one to fix it. I guess you could say he was a rational rageaholic. Knowing I was in there, he would simply submit to waiting me out. My fear would always outlast his anger. I spent many nights curled up in a ball on the small, soft rug in front of the sink with my feet tucked close beneath me to avoid the chill of the cold porcelain floor.
I was always thankful for my father’s job. Being a flight engineer, he and his crew were gone on trips at least three days a week. Although I was thankful for the reprieve, the time he was home between trips seemed far too long.
When I was about seven years old, my parents brought home a dog. Her name was Pepper. She was a beautiful fawn pug. Pepper was the first living creature I would ever bond to as a child, and also the last. Up until that point, the thought of dying was always a welcome one. But now that she was there it was different. From that point forward, I wasn’t alone. Greeting me the moment I came home, she was always by my side. On the nights in the bathroom, on the small rug, she would curl up beside me and I would drape my arm over her. As she drifted to sleep, her purr-like snore would comfort me and remind me that she loved me. As small as she was, I don’t know if I felt protected by Pepper or if I felt I had to protect her. I think it was a little of both. The pain that I felt the day my dad kicked her off of the stoop and into the snow, yelling, “Get out there and go you stupid mutt!” was unbearable. It was much easier for me to withstand his abuse than to watch Pepper get hurt. When Pepper became a target as well, I was conflicted with committing suicide, as it meant leaving Pepper alone with my dad.
One day Pepper didn’t greet me when I came home. She was always so excited to see me and, sensing my approach, would be waiting anxiously for me when I entered the house. On this particular day, she was nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere for her, but came up empty handed. When I eventually asked my mom where she was, she sadly proclaimed that, “We gave her away.” Although we had had Pepper for at least seven years, my mom said she had suddenly become allergic to her. Attempting to ease my pain, she told me that she had dropped her off with a lady who owned a farm. In spite of my constant pleas, they never took me to see her. To this day, I will never know if Pepper actually went to that farm or if my dad had done something to her. No one in my family ever discussed Pepper again. It would be many years later before I would ever bond again.
Although I didn’t care anymore, my dad continued playing games with my head, trying to hurt me. One summer day he brought home a kitten for me. She was an orange and white tabby that I named Lacey after my best friend at school. My friend Lacey was a redhead with an upbeat personality. Although Lacey was my best friend, she knew nothing of the insanity of my family. Lacey’s family was over-the-top normal, so I pretended mine was as well, out of fear of being judged. Lacey the kitty was a little ball of innocence. She was a wonderful contrast to my solemn life and access to love that I so desperately needed, but had lost the capacity to accept. I can still remember a certain excitement as I would near the house from school just knowing that I would find Lacey in my room.
One day I came home and Lacey was gone. When I asked where she went, my dad would only say, “Gone.” He continued to bring home kittens and take them away. After a short time, I lost interest in the new kittens. Although he continued to beat me, his psychological torture no longer affected me.
The only person who ever hugged me other than my father was my grandmother. My Grandma Rose and Papa Joe lived in a tiny one bedroom, upstairs apartment in Bushwick New York. My grandma was a short, overweight woman, who projected nothing but love for us, and Papa was a frail, quiet man with a cane, who rarely spoke. Upon arriving at their apartment, Grandma Rose would mutter something in Yiddish and grab each kid for a huge hug.
She would wrap her arms around us and hug us as tightly as she could. As she closed in on me, I would be smothered up within her huge breasts and pillows of human cushion. I would seize with panic the moment she grabbed me. It was as if my body had a memory all of its own and it would react as if I had just been beaten. I would never pull away because I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, but the inner eruption was almost unbearable. It was a fierce storm of anger, coupled with an uncontrollable urge to scream out in tears. The feeling of being enclosed in the grasp of another person’s arms spelled fear and loss of control for me at a young age. I was able to think my way through it by repeating in my head…it is almost over…she’s not going to hurt you…it is almost over…it is almost over…I was only able to breathe again when she finally released me.
She was a sweet old lady who threw on her apron the minute we arrived and spent our entire visit in the kitchen pushing food on us. She’d always say, “Nosh, nosh” in her broken Yiddish accent and watch us eat to our heart’s content. As soon as everyone finished, she’d immediately start cleaning. That woman was always doing something around the apartment, somehow never finding the time to join us at the table. While our conversations with Grandma Rose were limited due to her inability to speak English, she spoke volumes with her enormous heart. It would be years before I would learn how such a gentle and loving woman raised such an angry and overbearing man. My Papa, on the other hand, was a mystery. He died while I was young and I never learned much about him because my father never spoke of him. Although we visited my dad’s parents regularly, we were much closer with my maternal grandparents, Nanny and Poppy.
Nanny and Poppy lived in a charming little house in Newtown, New York. Nanny was a small woman, a bit overweight, good-natured and well-educated. She was an English teacher in her day and it was evident in both her communication and crossword puzzle skills. She never seemed to sleep; she was always made up with her hair curled and dress pressed. She was subservient to my grandfather’s needs. Poppy on the other hand, with grey hair almost to his shoulders, was an old beatnik. He spent the majority of his time in his big leather chair by the large bay window in front of their house. With a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray next to him, he always seemed to have a full martini and a fresh olive. With legs outstretched on his stool, reminiscing about life in the day, he was perfectly content.
Nanny was very close to my mom, while Poppy seemed to be closer to my dad. We would visit them often for dinner and family get-togethers. They were nice people, but I never felt a connection. I mean you can only take so much of meaningless conversation like, “how is school?” and “what did you do this summer?” when you are living in a situation so hostile that you hate yourself and everyone around you. I could never understand why no one said anything about what was really going on. Surely they knew about the problems with my dad? My mom must have mentioned it. After all, she saw and heard the beatings regularly. No one cared. The failure to mention it kept me alienated from everyone.
I will always remember the day Poppy finally said something. I was eight years old. My father and grandfather were having a heated conversation in our kitchen. I don’t think they knew I was home because I had learned to be very quiet when my dad was around. I had become accustomed to doing everything possible to avoid his detection. I overheard my grandfather say, “If you don’t stop hitting that kid, she’ll never grow up normal.” This was the first time I ever heard anyone discuss the beatings. Those words were so foreign and so sought after that I felt not only a sense of shock, but also a sense of panic. My grandfather’s validation confirmed the intensity of the situation. It was no longer just in my head. It was real—very real.
Although it was never mentioned again, I instantly felt something for my grandfather that I had never felt for another human being. As a child, I never would have used the word “love” unless it was in reference to my feelings for Pepper. My parents never said I love you and they certainly never hugged us, unless, of course, it was after a beating. The lack of understanding for when and why a beating would occur, coupled with my family’s decision to cover everything up, made it impossible for me to trust. I revolted at the thought of ever bonding with anyone—ever. But that one simple statement did something. From that day forward, I always felt a sense of safety around Poppy. Someone knew.
My grandfather’s words confirmed the intensity of the situation, but also my desperate need to somehow get out. Unfortunately, not having experienced any sense of safety in my world or having a physical plan of escape, I thought my only way out was suicide. As time went on, my self-injurious behaviors took control and I began to develop strange personality defects.
By the time I was ten, I had developed another personality but, unlike a schizophrenic, I was aware of my duality. I knew the other me as Licorice. I’m not exactly sure why, but I got the name from a wiry brindle Boxer we had. I only became Licorice when I was around Alyssa. I spoke in a strange voice and acted like a child. Alyssa played the role of my mother and I referred to her as “Alyssa Ma.”
When I was Licorice, Alyssa would tend to my needs as if I was a child. Lying in my bed, I would say, “Aly Ma, I am cold and I am also hungry.” Alyssa would say, “Oh don’t worry, Aly Ma will take care of you.” She would grab a blanket and softly tuck it around my body and say, “Now, now baby, I will get you something to eat…would you like some cereal?” I would nod my head yes. She would promptly leave the room and return with a snack from the kitchen. Still pretending I was a baby, she would say, “Do you want Aly Ma to feed you?” I would nod my head yes and she would sit on the side of the bed and feed me my food.
I only recall feeling vulnerable enough to be dependent and childlike when I was Licorice. Alyssa was six at the time and I knew she would never hurt me. To this day, Alyssa and I have never discussed Licorice again. She knew I was being hurt by our dad and we both knew this was her only way of helping me.
* * * * *
As i got older, i began pushing Alyssa away, just as i had everyone else. I shunned her and verbally abused her. I had a strong desire to be isolated and could no longer accept comfort in any form from anyone. By my own design, I was completely alone.
As best I can remember, Alyssa was not around a lot when the abuse was happening. A few years ago she confided in me that she spent a good deal of time hiding on the roof during those incidents. She told me she couldn’t stand to hear the sounds associated with the beatings. Although it was horrific for me, it must have been scary as hell for her. She was so small. When I think about it today, it breaks my heart knowing how alone Alyssa was. She was so tiny and afraid. Out of desperation, she climbed by herself up the side of the house onto a very high roof. She often stayed up there for hours without anyone missing her. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anyone ever asked her where she was until our conversation thirty-five years later. For all intents and purposes, she was invisible. I can only imagine how alone she felt.
My relationship with my older sister Nadine was completely different. I never felt close to her. It was as if she, like my dad, didn’t want me around. It had been that way for as long as I could remember. I thought little of it, until the whispering started. I was about eleven when I first heard my mom and sister talking to others about “something being wrong with Lauri.”
When approaching the kitchen it was not out of the ordinary to hear my mom on the phone quietly talking to her friends about me. Never about what my father was doing, but only about me and my crazy outbursts. The mere idea that she never mentioned my father would bring on an immediate explosion. I would run into the room and grab anything I could, and throw it to the floor. As it shattered into tiny pieces, I would scream, “I hate you! I fucking hate you!” The crazier and louder, the better…I had to stop her from talking. As I learned from my father, your point is most clearly heard when it is felt. I used fear to control her when my father wasn’t around.
That was also about the time that Nadine starting whispering and alienating me from the other kids. Whether we were with cousins or friends, she would make sure they were off somewhere else, in a place where I wasn’t invited. They would go in her room and as I approached, she would say, “Everyone can come in, except Lauri.” After the door slammed, I would hear muffled whispers and then giggles. This only solidified my hatred and distrust for my family. Distance from Nadine I was certainly used to, but when she turned others against me, I turned from her and never looked back. Nadine was my dad’s favorite. Being gone two or three days at a time, my dad often returned home from work bearing a single gift. It was always for Nadine. They seemed to have a special bond. Her efforts to isolate me, and her relationship with my dad fueled the violence within me. Over time, I developed an immense hatred towards her.
I have come to define my dad as a “rageaholic.” At a young age, I knew he was different from other fathers, but I thought he was just weird. He was violent, irrational and prone to enormous mood swings, but I had no idea what that meant or why he behaved that way. While I don’t really remember him drinking until I was a bit older, whenever he did drink, he became more volatile, more unpredictable and much more dangerous.
In order to cope, I did everything possible to rationalize or justify my dad’s behavior. I desperately needed to convince my friends that he was normal. I feared that if they thought otherwise, they might think something was also wrong with me. With my whole family already against me, the last thing I needed was to give anybody else a reason to alienate me. It was one thing to be alone by choice; it was something entirely different to have everyone shun you.
The beatings continued throughout my childhood, sometimes regularly and sometimes intermittently. They rarely came as a result of my behavior. More accurately, my father beat me whenever he needed to vent about anything or anyone. To him, I was like one of those punching bags that many men keep in the garage. In addition to the irregularity of the occurrences, the methods also varied. Beatings with a belt occurred most frequently, but in the midst of a rage, a shoe was a close second. The one thing he avoided without question was my face. Even though he seemed to lack any form of control, he always made sure the impact occurred on my back, my legs or my butt.
As my home life intensified, the thought that it would ever get better dissipated. Knowing there was no rescue team coming, daydreaming and fantasizing was all I had left. My favorite daydream was the “spacemen.” We would all be asleep in the wee hours of the night when the doorbell rang. Alarmed by the hour, my parents would rush to the door. There they would be greeted by two men in white jumpsuits (I don’t know where I thought they were coming from; NASA?) Dismissing all formalities, they would get straight to the point. “We need to see Lauri. We found her real family; there was a mix-up at the maternity ward.” Needless to say, they never showed.
Knowing my rescue team wasn’t coming, I worked with what I had. The following is a good example of superb rationalization and coping mechanisms developed for optimal success in an abusive home: My dad’s driving. My dad drove as if there was no speed limit and the lines were there simply to provide unemployed painters a pay-check. Curbs? They were used like the walls of a pool table. He used them to bank off, keeping him somewhat within the automotive playing field.
Although I only hung around with a few girls from school, none of them ever rode with my father a second time. One time was plenty. One girl even told me that her mother forbade her from ever riding with my father again. I was appalled. Although deep inside I knew they were right, I needed to convince them otherwise. I would rationalize his behavior by saying, “Don’t you know my dad’s an airline pilot? He’s used to going 550 miles per hour in the plane. You try doing that all day and night and then slowing down to 50 afterward. He’s safer going a hundred than most people are going the speed limit!” Although I deplored him, I did everything I could to defend him. It was all so confusing. After all, he was the only dad I had.
On one occasion, when I was around seven years old, we drove to Nanny and Poppy’s for dinner. While we visited them on a regular basis, this trip was specifically planned so we could pick up a spare bed they had offered us. In those days, it seemed customary for every family to own at least one station wagon. Ours was white and brown with wood paneling on the sides, tan leather seats and matching carpet in the “way back,” the open space behind the back seat.
For long trips like this one, my sisters and I would make sure to bring coloring books. Not to color on, of course, that would be too normal. We were simply maximizing our investment in my dad’s crazy driving. We would sit in the way-back on the coloring books as my dad turned corners at high speeds and weaved through the traffic. As he sped down the road, we would slide around the way-back with our behinds on the coloring books and our hands tightly clenched on the sides of the book. This was the Burns’ E-Ticket ride.
The drive up and dinner went as usual that night, but I clearly remember my dad and grandfather struggling to get the bed out of the house and on top of the car. Once content that it was properly situated, they worked hard to secure it tightly with a long piece of rope. On the way home my sisters and I fell asleep, as was customary on long drives at night.
When we arrived home, we were woken up to the sound of my dad screaming. “Get out of the car!” Although I was still half asleep, I clearly recall him looking around and yelling, “Where the hell is the bed?!” I had no idea I was supposed to be watching it. Luckily he was so distracted by where the bed had gone; I made it out unscathed that night.
I didn’t think about that incident until many years later. Now, as an adult driver, I can’t imagine how he didn’t notice a queen size bed flying off the roof of the car. Certainly, the average person would have felt such a substantial change in weight, or if not that at least spot the bed in the rear view mirror bouncing around the freeway in busy traffic. Evidently he saw and felt nothing.
Believe it or not, in addition to my dad’s rage he was also the family clown. He was not quite as entertaining as he thought, and his jokes were usually “off” in a big way. Not surprisingly, the humor generally capitalized on the weaknesses of others. After delivering a punch line, he’d wait for his audience to laugh while they looked at him skeptically. Although the laughs never came, he never tired of trying to be the funny man. I could never reconcile how he thought I would accept him as the “funny man” when he was the scariest man I knew.
From a young age, I used sarcasm and humor to deflect the pain I was feeling. Although I feared my dad tremendously and wanted to be nothing like him, I eventually emulated not only his warped sense of humor, but also his appetite for violence.
I had a strange recurring dream when I was a child. In my dream, there was a war outside of my house. There were explosions, shooting and people were dying. I was alone in the house and all of the doors were locked. I was safe. Both versions of my dad, the funny one, and the violent one, stood outside the locked front door begging me to let them in. Although they were pleading for their lives, I never allowed either of them in. Not knowing which one was which, I remember thinking that I would rather let them both die, than to allow the wrong one in.
When I first watched Jack Nicolson in “The Shining,” his character seemed all too familiar. Whenever my dad entered the house, I immediately assessed his state of mind. I never knew what to expect. My ability to quickly assess his mood saved me from many beatings. Ironically, that same skill would help save my life in later years.
Even though my mom kept our house organized, she herself was a mess. Our home was always picture perfect. It actually looked like no one lived there. To give you an understanding of how accurate that is, let me tell you about “the bench.” Right inside our front door was a bench. I guess it would most resemble the bench at a piano, except this bench was stained to match the golden browns in the felt on the wallpaper. Yes, I said felt. This was the 60’s—you could pet your wallpaper. As a kid coming in from school it was customary after walking two miles to get home and put my books on the bench right inside the door and head for the kitchen. That is, unless mom was home. If she was home, the first thing she would say is, “Who left books on the bench?” I could never understand why it was there. My mom had the house spotless at all times; she could tell whether we were in a room by the fingerprints on the table. I realize now that was probably the only part of her life she still had control over, so in this area she overcompensated.
On the top of our fireplace lay a large pile of family photo albums. The pictures were filed chronologically and dated all the way back to my parent’s childhood. My dad’s pictures started when he was around nineteen, but my mom’s pictures went back to the time she was a toddler. I distinctly remember the ones from when she was a teenager. Smiling from ear to ear, surrounded by friends, she was absolutely radiant. She had silky long caramel brown hair, a figure to die for, and a beautiful smile. I can only tell you that the woman I called mom had features that resembled the girl in the pictures, but the twinkle in her eyes was long gone. Depression hung over her like a dark veil. By the time I was five she was fragile, nervous and withdrawn, and emotionally unavailable. Yet, I knew in my heart that she did the very best she could.
My best memories of my mom center around the nights I had bad dreams and the times I was sick. When I was little, I often had nightmares. In an effort to help me to feel safe, she would sit in the rocking chair alongside my bed until I fell back to sleep. She was also very nurturing when I was sick. I suffered from pneumonia several years in a row and, while I was bedridden, she made sure to bring me tea with cream and toast with jelly. On several occasions, she also brought home my favorite comic book, “Archie and the Gang.” To this day, although I can’t rationally explain it, I actually enjoy being sick. It’s the only time I truly allow people to nurture me.
Other than the pneumonia, I rarely got sick. That is, other than the problems with my head. I was about eleven when the blackouts started. It felt like when you stand up too quickly, and the room rocks and fades to black. For me, this could happen at any time. Without notice, and with my eyes open, whether sitting or standing, the light faded. The first time it happened, I was in my fourth-grade classroom. One minute I was looking at the teacher and the next it was dark. It was like the lens on a camera, slowly closing. I could still hear him talking, but it was more of an amplified echo. Within less than a minute, I was back. Not wanting to be wimpy, I didn’t tell anyone at first. I actually thought it was kind of cool. It allowed me to drift away. After about a month, I told my mom. The only reason I told her was to gain attention, similar to when I was sick. My mom took me to the doctor. He gave me something called an EEG. My head was measured and my scalp was marked with a pen. The technician then glued electrodes on my head and connected me to a machine. Could things get any stranger? My God, my mom and I both knew the problem was a result of being hit by my dad, but since she never brought it up, neither did I. After finding nothing on the EEG, the doctor prescribed Dilantin.
In an attempt to understand both the blackouts and violent outbursts, while still denying the effect my dad had on me, my mom continued taking me to doctors and psychiatrists. In addition to the Dilantin, I was prescribed a variety of medications, but for some reason, I took Melarill, a medication used to treat schizophrenia, the longest. After several EEGs revealed nothing, my mom pursued “other” alternatives. One day she brought home a pile of books on psychic experiences. I later learned that she obtained these books from a support group on space travel that she had attended.