Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

My therapist recently asked me to recount a childhood experience where I felt or knew that I had been abandoned.

At some point in our childhood, my parents started taking off for little drives on my Dad’s off days. They would leave while we were still at school and come home when the spirit moved them. Or they remembered they had young children. Locked out.

Our porch had an awning and furniture so we could plop down, drink from the hose. Sometimes they’d arrive within the hour so it wasn’t too bad. Sometimes it was longer and we were hungry, restless, had homework. Also, I was seven and my brother was five. Then I was eight and he was six. And then I was nine and he was seven. I think age nine is when my parents finally gave me a house key.

It was a distorted sense of pride that we found numerous ways to break into the house – the living room windows might be unlocked so that was easy. The backdoor left ajar, also easy. The dining room window was often unlocked so we would swing up to the ledge using the awning support beams, open the window. carefully step over the items on the buffet, and slide into the house.

Getting into my parents room was more difficult because there was no support beam. We had to stack lawn furniture and bricks so one of us could reach it. When the window microwave unit was in, we were out of luck.

Once inside, we found things to eat and watched tv. Our culinary skills were not much to speak of. This was before microwave popcorn or microwave meals or maybe even before we had a microwave. We certainly weren’t allowed to use the stove or oven. I know as we grew older, we did start making french bread pizza in the toaster oven and we could make sandwiches without making a mess.

But what I thought that crept into my mind was the time I climbed an extension ladder from the backyard to the second story kitchen window. It was all I could think of to do, every avenue was cut off. I was pretty young. But I was the older kid so I knew I was the one going up.

I have no idea how we got the ladder against the window and we certainly didn’t know anything about adjusting it or fastening the pieces together. I think we just did it because we had to.

I was scared and it is the first time I can remember being angry at my parents. I didn’t feel a sense of accomplishment or pride or physical derring do. I was scared and angry, but determined.

As that story aged, the determined big sister pulling off such a feat became the focus. Like I had taught myself algebra or learned to speak French on my own. I don’t remember anyone questioning why I was in that position.

To start you on your way it just takes
Prudence, patience, personality and you can climb the ladder of success yes yes yes yes yes yes yes
Honest labor, punctuality and you can climb the ladder of success oh oh oh oh oh oh oh (The Horatio Alger song from our 6th grade play “The Good Ole 1890’s”

So what about the neighbors? They were not available for support or use of the bathroom. Their attitude was “where are your parents?” as if I wasn’t also asking the same question. When we did turn to them, they lectured my parents who in turn blamed us for tattling.

They weren’t bad people, but they were products of a time where people smacked other’s people’s kids and people minded their own business with intense determination. Letting us sit on the couch for a few hours and watch tv, use the bathroom, drink some water was not their job.

Sometimes we called our grandparents (yes, grandmonster who was still grooming everyone) but that ended in loud arguments when my parents did get home. So the general lesson was – you are on your own, kids.

My parents were severely damaged by the predator, broken even. They were stuck in a cycle of poverty coupled with addictions. Taking long drives into the distant suburbs was all they had to dream of escape.

Yes, they had two beautiful kids but their demons were stronger than us.

I remember one time standing in the doorway as my mother came in from one of these jaunts, I asked her why she left us to go with our daddy. She said “A wife always puts her husband first, even before her kids. You’ll learn that someday.” And I can absolutely see her mother instilling that value – the men are first.

I never asked my dad so I guess I bought into that sexist slant, too.

My father was the one who gave me the house key and a pair of sneakers called kangaroos because they had zippered pockets on either side. It was highly unlikely I would lose my shoe, but the same could not be said of my backpack or lunchbox. I felt quite grownup having a key to let us in.

But we were still left alone on those two days each week. Sometimes more often when my Dad worked night shifts. The solution was to be home for your children, not fall back on latchkey dynamics of parents who had to work, not chase daydreams.

There’s a lot of blame to go round here – my parents for sure, but also the other adults who knew what was happening and didn’t advocate for us either by taking us in or holding my folx accountable. There was no adult acting for us.

Back to the ladder. If I think about it more than a minute, I an standing looking up at myself and then my perspective quickly changes to being on the ladder, hearing my brother say something unintelligible and then trying to figure out how to get from the ladder into the kitchen window. I was terrified.

I recall that my brother made a similar entrance, but we were locked out so often … it could have been a dozen times.

My parents were absolutely abandoned by their own. My Dad was told in his childhood that his horror show of a sperm donor was dead, at age 12 found out he wasn’t which destroyed his relationship with his caregivers, spent his adult life trying to have a Dad relationship with a predatorial creature. Suddenly there was a sister who was raised by their Dad but not their Mom. It was awful.

My mother’s father worked on the road a lot so he wasn’t around. Her mother bought into the “boys over girls” crap so much that she even fed her young twin boys before their older female sisters. DNA testing also taught me that my grandfather had at least one affair resulting in another sibling no one knew about. My mother never knew. The kids were shuffled around a lot to their grandparents, great-aunts, cousins, etc. It is unclear why.

I’m sure it goes on and on. It doesn’t justify doing it to your own kids, but it does help explain it.

Since that therapy session, I often wonder if any of the neighbors saw me on that ladder. How could they turn away? But in fairness a lot of my friends were beaten often by their parents and everyone turned away. Others had drunken fathers, not much food, verbal abuse aplenty. And enough decent families to know the difference. Our parish priest who lived up the block was indited for sexually abusing children – technically, two were indited and one just got reassigned, then reassigned again.

There was so much violence, neglect, and trauma that when I imagine that childhood neighborhood, it is always with a dark filter keeping out the light and warmth of the sun.

Teaching your kids to be resourceful is important. Teaching them how to use age-appropriate tools safely is also fine. Applauding them for attempting dangerous acts to fix the consequences of adult misbehavior is absolutely vile.

I’ve been ping ponging through adult life having abandonment reactions without understanding why. I knew my responses were disproportionate, but I had nothing or no one to guide me toward an easier response. I’m grateful to have that someone now (my trauma therapist) and to document my recovery here to remind you, my dear correspondents, that you can also make that happen.

Damn that musical is now in my head. There should be a YouTube channel dedicated to all of those little plays for Gen X.