I Grew Up Fearing for my Life
If you've read my Featured story, you know my mother was a scary woman. I was afraid of her, and so were many other people.
She could pick up the phone and ruin your life--or arrange to take it. She was a powerful person in the ranks of Internal Security for the Communist Party USA during the Cold War era. She was also married to a mob connected man, a doctor and a psychiatrist for mob people. Between her CP connections (which included use of the Soviet KGB) and her mob connections, she could pretty much get away with anything. She knew famous lawyers, judges, doctors, professors and everyone else in our city (LA) with any power or influence. All of her "friends" were terrified of her.
My mother was angry at me most of the time. She was sadistic and enjoyed any possible opportunity to punish me. Looking back, it seems to me that she just plain hated me with a passion. I really believed she wanted to kill me and eventually would do so. And she would get away with it, too, I was very sure of that. Everyone would support her. She'd have the best possible legal "dream team." I think the idea that she would never face justice for my murder bothered me much more than the thought of losing my life did. It would be the final proof that no one cared about me at all, something my mother told me almost daily. My life was meaningless to those around me and I knew it, believed it was true.
But not quite, as it turned out. The only time my mother ever actually tried to kill me was at a family friend's Christmas party. She chased me into the library and I fled jumping over furniture and screaming. Her friend, our hostess, heard me, opened the library door, and basically let my mother know there would be no mayhem or murder in her house. My mother left me alone as I sobbed and shook. The hostess gave me a minute to calm down and dry up before I had to go out and face party guests. I am very grateful to this lady to this day; I believe I wouldn't be here without her interference that evening; I would've died a violent death in that library. And I also feel sure that if it had happened and I had died that night, Rose (that was her name) wouldn't have hesitated to phone for the LAPD. Maybe my mother knew that in this instance she might not get away with it. Maybe that's why she stopped and left the room.
Rose is gone now, I hope and believe to a better place. She saved my life and I have lived a long life because of her courage in standing up to my mother. Thank you, Rose. I will always remember her. No one else in my childhood was as responsible, as caring or as brave. Everyone feared for themselves. Rose was afraid of what could happen to me if she had done what everyone else did during my childhood, which was to ignore my very obvious abuse. Rose was the exception to all the frightened and uncaring people around me.
She could pick up the phone and ruin your life--or arrange to take it. She was a powerful person in the ranks of Internal Security for the Communist Party USA during the Cold War era. She was also married to a mob connected man, a doctor and a psychiatrist for mob people. Between her CP connections (which included use of the Soviet KGB) and her mob connections, she could pretty much get away with anything. She knew famous lawyers, judges, doctors, professors and everyone else in our city (LA) with any power or influence. All of her "friends" were terrified of her.
My mother was angry at me most of the time. She was sadistic and enjoyed any possible opportunity to punish me. Looking back, it seems to me that she just plain hated me with a passion. I really believed she wanted to kill me and eventually would do so. And she would get away with it, too, I was very sure of that. Everyone would support her. She'd have the best possible legal "dream team." I think the idea that she would never face justice for my murder bothered me much more than the thought of losing my life did. It would be the final proof that no one cared about me at all, something my mother told me almost daily. My life was meaningless to those around me and I knew it, believed it was true.
But not quite, as it turned out. The only time my mother ever actually tried to kill me was at a family friend's Christmas party. She chased me into the library and I fled jumping over furniture and screaming. Her friend, our hostess, heard me, opened the library door, and basically let my mother know there would be no mayhem or murder in her house. My mother left me alone as I sobbed and shook. The hostess gave me a minute to calm down and dry up before I had to go out and face party guests. I am very grateful to this lady to this day; I believe I wouldn't be here without her interference that evening; I would've died a violent death in that library. And I also feel sure that if it had happened and I had died that night, Rose (that was her name) wouldn't have hesitated to phone for the LAPD. Maybe my mother knew that in this instance she might not get away with it. Maybe that's why she stopped and left the room.
Rose is gone now, I hope and believe to a better place. She saved my life and I have lived a long life because of her courage in standing up to my mother. Thank you, Rose. I will always remember her. No one else in my childhood was as responsible, as caring or as brave. Everyone feared for themselves. Rose was afraid of what could happen to me if she had done what everyone else did during my childhood, which was to ignore my very obvious abuse. Rose was the exception to all the frightened and uncaring people around me.
70-79, F
