Parts of the Story

Someone recently reminded me that each of our lives are like stories--beginnings, climaxes, characters, lessons.  Each part of the story becomes a part of us and makes us who we are.  Each event changes us in some way, teaches us something about ourselves, about life, and about how those parts all come together.  I do believe things happen for a reason. Some times, we'll never know the reason.  I don't know why I have two children with autism but I do.  It's part of my story and it's changed me. The beginning of my story changed me too and, I think, in many ways, prepared me for being this mom of these children.   

As a child, I was quiet and, as my mother says, reserved.  When I wasn't buried in a book, (and I was always buried in a book--in the bathroom, on the bus, by the night light), I watched people.  I watched them closely and I learned early on that people are not the words they say, they are the things they do. 

I still believe that.

School was a safe place for me and maybe that was because no one really knew what home was like.  Plus, there was a library and, if there was a library, I was in it.  Lunchtime, before school time, during school time, anytime I could--I was in the library.  I read voraciously and constantly.  Books were another safe place for me.  Situations wrapped up in tidy little bows--the whodunit solved, the lovers united, the ending happy.  I ate it all up.  Books were an escape then (and now).

As you might imagine, teachers loved me.  I was quiet, respectful, and I loved to read.  Except for my sketchy desk organization skills (a sign of things to come, right?), I was kind of awesome for a little kid.  I loved most of my teachers, looked up to them and wanted to be them when I grew up (also a sign of things to come).  I thought I did a pretty good job of pretending things were just fine when I was at school but, looking back, I can see that some of my teachers knew.  They may not have known what but they knew something.

I don't remember a time when my mom sat me down and told me not to talk about my home life to anyone.  I don't remember being told it was a secret but I knew it was and I knew it was important to keep it that way. 

What no one knew was that my home life was not easy.

The real secret was my step-dad, Vince, the only dad I've ever known.  He was full blooded Italian American and used to call himself "Vinny from South Philly."  Charming and charismatic, he was easy to like.  He had a way of saying things so they you'd believe him. You were sure that the promises he made would come to pass.  But they didn't.  Vince was a promise maker and a promise breaker.

He was also a heroin addict.  I understood very early in my life that this was not good thing and this was not something other dads did.  As much as my mother tried to shield me from it, I remember seeing him shoot himself up with a needle.  I remember how good he felt when he was high and I remember how horrible he felt when he wasn't.  If I came home to find him curled up on the couch, sweating and grimacing, I knew those weren't good days for him.

Vince could have been an amazing father; he had it in him.  He was a wonderful cook and could be silly and fun.  He taught me to play cards and watched Jimmy Stewart movies with me. But he chose drugs over us every single time. He didn't hold a job very often but found ways to earn money to feed his habit.  He was very good at shoplifting.  In the 80's, the anti-theft devices that stores used were almost non-existent.  Vince made a career of walking into department stores, filling up a cart or a bag,  and walking right back without paying.  He'd then return the items for cash.  I know this is how it worked because when I was five, I was with him when he did it and saw him in action. It was impressive and, of course, very illegal.  A couple even saw him do it, followed us out to the car but Vince calmly explained, "My wife is inside paying," and then loaded the car with stolen goods and drove off.

My mother, on the other hand, worked hard, sometimes working as many as three jobs at a time.  She often worked the swing shift or night shift.  As a nursing assistant, she didn't make much money so she supplemented as a home care provider when she could.  We didn't have any family so the load fell on her shoulders, both in supporting our family and in raising my younger sister and I.  She has always been a harder worker, both at work and at home.

When I was in the fourth grade, Vince was arrested and sentenced to four years in prison.   We spent one weekend every month driving an hour and a half away to visit him at the penitentiary.  We were allowed a hug and sat at round white cafeteria-style tables and talked about all kind of normal things (in a decidedly un-normal place).  It was another thing I knew other kids didn't do.  At school, I was smart and confident in that.  No one knew I spent weekends visiting my dad in jail.  I was quiet and stayed to myself.  When I was in the eighth grade, my dad was released.  The next couple of years, he stayed clean and worked hard.  But it didn't last.

My high school years were the most difficult.  We were homeless a few times, having to live on the kindness of friends, my mom and sister and I often sharing one room. My dad drifted in and out of our lives, sometimes living with us, sometimes not. If it wasn't nailed down, Dad took it and sold it--my sister's bike, the small college books' fund I'd saved and hidden in my room, anything of value.

I hated being home when Vince was home.  I hated seeing what he did to our family.  I hated seeing how selfish he was.  Whether or not you call addiction a disease, its influence, its destruction, spreads it's way through whole families.  It leaves broken homes, broken kids, broken lives in its wake.  It's not to just the addict that suffers.

I could easily have been a statistic, another drug addict's kid following in his footsteps.  Besides school and my books, there was one more place I felt safe and happy and that was at church.  One Sunday morning when I was six years old, my mom put me on a church bus and I heard about Jesus.  More than that, the most important part, God got a hold of my heart and He did not let go.  He has always been a constant, faithful presence in my life. I honestly believe without His hold on me, my life would have gone down a much harder, darker path. 

Looking back, I see how all these pieces were parts of my story. The lessons I learned as a kid prepared me for life as a grown up.  The lessons I learned from my dad are hard ones.  I learned to not trust easily and to be suspicious of people who use nice words and make promises.  I've learned that addiction is a powerful, ugly thing. His actions, the way he lived his life, also taught me to protect who you love and that nothing is more important than those people.  I learned that I didn't want to be anything like him.

But I also learned forgiveness even when, especially when, it's not asked for.  I've learned that forgiveness is a gift I freely give without expectations or requirements. Because, in the end, the forgiveness is for me, so that I can go on with my life without bitterness.

The lessons I learned from my mom were different. My mom worked to support my sister and I and I learned the value of hard work, standing on your own two feet, taking care of what matters and to be strong when you don't want to be.  All those lessons have carried me through many times as an adult and as a mom to two autistic boys.

I've thought a lot about whether I'll tell my children about Vince's part of my story.  Do I want them to know about this?  It's not pretty; those memories aren't warm and fuzzy.  But at the same time, it's also a part of me and, for better or worse, helped me become the person I am today.  So I have to embrace it. No more secrets.

My children's stories are being told right now, the parts of their stories that will shape them as adults. Just like mine, some parts won't be easy or pretty, but God will not stop in the middle or leave them hanging; He will always finish the story, even if we don't understand it until Heaven.  The beauty in that is that each life is precious; each story full of trials and triumphs, hurts and pain, strength and loveliness.  Each story is written by a Master.