I kept a daily diary for 34 years, from 1967-2000. I was 15 when I started writing about my life, wanting to express my emotions and keep track of what was going on during that time. I wrote on binder paper, keeping the loose leafs in Pee Chee folders, by year. Unlike my sister Laurie, who was very concerned about her privacy, I didn't think too much of having it lying around for anyone to view.
At first, those pages were filled with subjects that could be considered typical for that age - zits, school, family angst and adventures with friends when cutting school. I never delved into the darker side of my home life, the abuses and dysfunction. I did note some of the concerts I went to, the dances, and boys I went out with. There were blanks in the pages during the days I ran away from home in June 1968 with the boyfriend who would become my husband 3 years later. Our adventure wasn't recorded until we returned home. I wrote about that in the blog post: "All Gone to Look for America."
The next year, 1969, my sister Laurie was killed in a car accident. I wrote about that, and tried to deal with the shock, grief and turmoil my family was going through. That was also the year I finally told my mother what my father had been doing to Laurie and me all those years. I had come home from a date with my then-boyfriend Steve (Perry and I had broken up at that time) and my mother was waiting up for me. She told me that I had better not have had sex with that boy, that I needed to be a virgin for marriage (it's a Catholic thing - my mom was a devout Catholic at the time, and expected us to be). I blew up, and told her that I hadn't been a virgin since I was 8 years old. She asked "Who did this to you?" and I just said "Dad." She yelled for my father to come downstairs, and when she did, she asked him if he had violated her daughters. At first he denied it, saying that I was a liar, as always. He made sure to let everyone know that I was a liar from the time I had been raped, as a protection for himself in case I ever found the nerve to tell anyone the truth. She yelled some more, and finally he caved and admitted it, though somehow blamed me for being provocative...odd, I was an immature child, didn't even develop untilI was 14. He left the house, and my mom wanted me to keep quiet about it from then on. It was all too much for her, and in retrospect, I feel for her, having lost her daughter and then finding out that her husband had been raping/sexually abusing her daughters for years. Her drinking got worse, and when my father returned a few days later, it was as if nothing had happened - except that he wanted me out of the house.
We stayed out of each other's way for the most part, and my mom went back to work. One day, when Mom and I were out grocery shopping, my father raped my little sister Sue. I knew as soon as I saw her face when we got home, but when I asked, she couldn't speak. I only had that verified years later, when Sue could talk about it.
I was still in school, trying to get through my studies to graduate, trying to deal with the responsibilities of taking care of the house and kids. One night my mother found out that my father was seeing another woman, and wanted me to go with her to where he and that woman were staying. She was livid, saying she was going to "tear that woman's tits off" - well, mom was in her cups, but somehow she was able to drive to a seedy motel, where she thought they would be. They were not there, and I was relieved that part of the drama was over, but was puzzled that my mom never had an inkling that my father had been going out with other women throughout their marriage. Not sure why, but I thought she knew. One of the women came out to our house- I was 13 or 14 at the time - and she gave me a blue portable stereo that I was able to play my Beatles records on. I remember getting a huge shock from it once when I had gotten out of the shower in my bare, wet feet on the linoleum, when turning on the record player. But I loved that stereo, and appreciated the gift. I was just puzzled that my mother still loved my father after learning all that she had about him. Her rule was basically to not talk about what my father had done...at least, until he quit hiding the fact that he was stepping put with other women. That is when he moved out for good, living at his shop in S.F. I wrote about all of this in my diary, at least bits and pieces of it. I also wrote about my boyfriend Steve and how we watched man walk on the moon on his little black and white tv set, concerts we went to, and "2001- A Space Odyssey", a favorite of Steve's, so we saw it in the theaters a few times while we were together, and an improv group I was a part of, and a lot more. It was a crazy year. The next year, I graduated high school, planning to go to college...which never happened.
Fast forward to 1971. I was back with Perry, and I became pregnant. We married, and our daughter Kelly was born on Christmas Day, 1971. I continued writing in my diaries, year after year, filling the pages with the highlights, challenges, and also our quotidian activities through those years. Through Kelly's childhood, our 7 moves, health issues, school, work, etc., etc., decades of binder paper filled. After Kelly graduated and left for college, Perry and I drifted apart. So many of our sorrows were too painful to write about. He was often sick and in hospital, I was caregiving him, and we had some tough times through that decade. Volumes filled a part of my bedroom closet, and ultimately when I moved out with Mike, I made the decision to start anew by tossing 34 years of diaries into the recycle bin.
For a few years after that, I wrote nothing about my life - I just lived it...at least until I joined MySpace, then Facebook, which became online journals, accounts of some of my activities. These blogs are part of that, along with all of the photos that I shot through these years with Mike. Last year, I bought a binder where I record some of the notable events of our lives. This is mostly so that if I wonder, for instance, when Mike's Mom had fallen and broken her leg, or when my daughter was in hospital, or when somebody died, memorials, vacations, or any other significant events. That one is ongoing. And this blog? Just another journal, to record that I am here, in this life, for a while.
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