Eating My Way to Heaven - Chapter 3

eating2heaevn By eating2heaevn, 10th May 2015 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL http://nut.bz/mr9l-8hj/
Posted in Wikinut>Health>Recovery & Coping

A chapter about puberty which includes a tale of getting busted at 12 for stealing a pair of socks.

Puberty must be Greek for Hell

The book is a chronological story. If you missed Chapter 1 find it here: http://health.wikinut.com/Eating-My-Way-to-Heaven/3dd3eyjx/

Chapter 2 is here: http://health.wikinut.com/Eating-My-Way-to-Heaven-Chapter-2/95fu63tc/
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Physically, I hit puberty at twelve, which was considered early in 1969. These days, little girls are sprouting breasts and menstruating at eight, thanks, in my opinion, to all the steroids and hormones in the dairy products and the meats.
Apparently, 1969 was not to be my year. Whether it was ghostly experience at camp, the new rush of hormones, my father’s crap, I don’t know, but this shaped up to be the worst twelve months of my short life.
Along with the new breasts (I’m talking puberty, not implants) came a boyfriend. Robby Moravec spent most of his energy trying to get his hands on the new breasts or get me in bed. He spent hours talking dirty to me on the phone every night. I don’t remember why we broke up, but I do recall getting quite worn out on the sex talk and trying to fight him off. Interestingly enough, a few years later, I dated one of Robby’s best friends, Robert Pastor. He eventually dumped me because I was too “fast” for him. I was frustrated because he was too shy to kiss me or even hold my hand. Go figure.
Boys weren’t my only challenge at this point in my development; men were even worse. My father derived great pleasure from humiliating me in front of his friends, our neighbors. My descent into puberty furnished him with a plethora of new materials.
As I revisit those memories of him and his friends laughing at me over some demeaning comment he would make about my breasts, I wonder whether these men were really as cruel as my father was or just didn’t want to risk offending him. David was a powerful man, a top executive for Texaco.

Shopping

Each year, from the time I was twelve until I got my first real job at fifteen, my parents bought me a new winter coat, shoes and some boots. My mother, God bless her, would dip into the grocery money (David never knew) and buy material to sew me up some fabulous garments to supplement my wardrobe. She also popped for a few new store-bought items each fall.
Shopping was a very grown-up privilege that my parents had bestowed on me. They wanted to teach their children how to be responsible with money (a lesson that has been lost on me thus far). I was given twenty dollars a month to purchase the remainder of my wardrobe. But we also had other expenses for which we were accountable.
As kids, we were charged a nickel every time we left the room and left the light on, a dime for each outgoing phone call, and then there were those “five dollar per cavity” dental bills. I could spend what was left of my allowance on movies, candy or whatever. Rarely was anything left over. But I did odd jobs and babysat throughout my childhood, and so was able to keep the money rolling in fairly consistently.
Perhaps it was a good theory for fostering responsibility, but I think a child should concentrate on reading, writing, arithmetic and play, instead of pulling down a living to pay off Daddy.
Anyway, if I could get myself the five miles to downtown Valhalla, (my hometown, which I understood loosely means “Heaven” in Norse mythology), I could get on a bus and ride the twenty miles or so to White Plains to go shopping. I usually went with a friend whose mother would drive us to the bus stop. Sometimes my mother would drive us or we would walk.
On this particular day I went to White Plains with Nina, the most popular girl in the school. I had twenty dollars on me. I don’t know how much she had, but I imagine it was at least that much.
We decided to steal something for the thrill of it. I stole a pair of socks. I think Nina lifted a bra. I remember standing in front of this post that had mirrors on all four sides. I was holding a sweater up to my chest and admiring it in the mirror. After stuffing our ill-gotten booty in our shopping bags we headed for the door. There was a young woman walking ahead of us who looked like something out of Laugh In with her mini-skirt and go-go boots, and an old woman walking behind us.
As soon as we stepped out the door, they grabbed us. They were undercover security officers for Alexander’s Department store. I later found out that the mirrored posts were hollow. Security people stood in them to watch shoppers. And I thought I had been so clever the way I had been admiring that sweater in the mirror while I slipped the socks in my bag. To this day I can’t seem to keep a decent pair of socks in the house — more karma I guess.
I experienced a level of terror that was even a step up from the séance. These women scared me, but that wasn’t it. The six-foot-five store manager scared me, but that wasn’t it. The threat of the police scared me, but that wasn’t it either. I knew that eventually they would turn me over to my father. That scared the hell out of me. So, I did the only thing that I could think of in my terror — I lied. I gave them a false name, address and phone number.

OMG!

Meanwhile, they were extracting information from Nina in a separate room. The woman who was questioning me walked across the hall to Nina and asked, “What’s your friend’s name?” I was toast.
The store manager was then called in to intimidate me. He said that he was going to call the police because I had lied and made matters worse. I think I told him that I would rather face the police than my father. So, of course, he called my father.
Amazingly, my parents seemed pretty calm. I was told that they were on their way to a football game. I was to take the bus home and wait for them in my room. It’s incredible how time stands still sometimes. Perhaps it was the longest football game ever. It was certainly the longest day of my life.
As their car pulled into the driveway, my blood ran cold. They came to my room. I expected my father to be out of control with rage and fury. He wasn’t.
My mother tried to get me to admit (attempting to help me I’m sure) that Nina had pressured me into doing this. God only knows why I chose that moment to find some integrity. I assured her that I was a willing participant, not a victim. I thought I’d score a few points with my father for that one. Apparently, I was too far behind in the game; any points I may have picked up did not impact the outcome.
David sat down on the bed next to me and began this calm, cool and collected speech. His oration included statements like I was the most disgusting person that he had ever met, and he was ashamed to be my father. I was grounded for a month, at which time we would reconvene to determine if I had learned anything from this experience.
I was in shock when they left my room. I thought, “What just happened?” I had expected a vicious beating or some time at the rock pile or something. Visions of Sing Sing had danced through my head. Earlier in my childhood we had stopped to see Sing Sing, the infamous prison in Ossning, New York. I was petrified at the time that David would leave me there.
I vividly remember thinking on the day of my so-called arrest. “No matter what happens to me for the rest of my life, it will never be as bad as this day.” So far, that has rung true. When times get tough I have had the comfort of thinking, “It’s not as bad as that day!”

Jail time

During the month of my sentence I wasn’t allowed out of my room for anything except school and meals. My father ate in the living room, and we were fed in the kitchen. He felt that he shouldn’t have to be bothered with children after a long day’s work at the office, so I saw very little of him in that thirty days.
Being grounded was no big deal. I had plenty of toys and imagination and enjoyed playing by myself. I did the time with ease. At the end of the month, David came to my room. He asked if I had learned my lesson. I said, “Yes.” I was paroled, or so I thought. Some time passed before I actually noticed and registered what was going on. It was very subtle. If David passed me in the hall, he would look the other way. If I threw out a comment, he would ignore it. If I was out late babysitting, he would turn off all the lights and go to bed, never even checking to see if I got home safely. The cold war was on.
This continued until I went off to college six years later, with the exception of a handful of occasions. In all fairness to David, I will take a moment to tell you about those occasions, but first I must commend him on his ingenuity. By ignoring me he had inflicted on me the most painful punishment known to man, and I hadn’t seen it coming. It was a setup to rob me of my self-esteem. For him I ceased to be as a person. Duke got more attention than I did. It hurt for decades!
During that six years I would feel physically nauseous while sitting in the same room with David. I also discovered alcohol and drugs shortly after my parole. Abandonment digs very deep.

Parole

During the month of my sentence I wasn’t allowed out of my room for anything except school and meals. My father ate in the living room, and we were fed in the kitchen. He felt that he shouldn’t have to be bothered with children after a long day’s work at the office, so I saw very little of him in that thirty days.
Being grounded was no big deal. I had plenty of toys and imagination and enjoyed playing by myself. I did the time with ease. At the end of the month, David came to my room. He asked if I had learned my lesson. I said, “Yes.” I was paroled, or so I thought. Some time passed before I actually noticed and registered what was going on. It was very subtle. If David passed me in the hall, he would look the other way. If I threw out a comment, he would ignore it. If I was out late babysitting, he would turn off all the lights and go to bed, never even checking to see if I got home safely. The cold war was on.
This continued until I went off to college six years later, with the exception of a handful of occasions. In all fairness to David, I will take a moment to tell you about those occasions, but first I must commend him on his ingenuity. By ignoring me he had inflicted on me the most painful punishment known to man, and I hadn’t seen it coming. It was a setup to rob me of my self-esteem. For him I ceased to be as a person. Duke got more attention than I did. It hurt for decades!
During that six years I would feel physically nauseous while sitting in the same room with David. I also discovered alcohol and drugs shortly after my parole. Abandonment digs very deep.

The Piano

He did break down on a few occasions though and treat me lovingly. He came to my room one morning and barked, “Get dressed, we’re going out.” Man, I was scared. When we got in the car his tone changed.
I had wanted to take piano lessons for as long as I could remember. I watched enviously as my older sister, Paula, went off to her lessons. I loved to listen to her play. But David wouldn’t let me take lessons because Paula had quit after six years, so I had taught myself to play.
Paula had a piano in her room. I’d ask her to show me which note was middle C and then I would follow the notes up the scale on the page with my finger as I advanced to the next note on the keyboard. I’m no Billy Joel, mind you, but I can read music and pound out “In the Garden” or “The Maple Leaf Rag” to my great delight.
During that unnerving car ride, David said that he had been wrong for not letting me take lessons just because Paula had quit. He also expressed that he was proud of me for sticking to it and teaching myself how to play. He took me to a piano store and told me to pick a brand new one. He paid cash for it and had it delivered.
Of course, the piano turned into a power struggle eventually – a gift with a million strings attached. But I am crying as I remember that brief moment of love he showed me.

The Treasure Hunt

My parents gave the coolest party every Fourth of July. They called it a Treasure Hunt. Fifty couples were invited to attend. It was the most talked-about event in their circle.
Two couples were paired up and given a cute, whimsical clue to start with. If they figured out the clue, it would take them to a spot somewhere in a five-mile radius of our house – a goal post at the high school, the flagpole at the post office, or something like that. There they would find a Texaco oil can with a new clue in it, until they got to the last location and clue that would lead them home. If they couldn’t figure out one of the clues, they could call in for the answer, but would have twenty minutes docked off their time. The winning car received $100, $50 for second place. Then the eating, drinking and dancing would start. Those were grand times for my parents. My father could be a real blast when he was looped. The code of silence was lifted each Fourth of July, and I truly enjoyed the bond I felt with him once a year.
There were two other occasions in my life (that I remember) when my father treated me with warmth and value. One was the week before we moved to Texas. My sister was off at college and my brother had run away from home (a long-established pattern for Sam by now).
David put his arm around me and apologized for being such a lousy father. He said that things would be different when we got to Houston. It would be my turn to be spoiled. Unfortunately, things got worse in Texas.
The other occasion was at the little country church that we attended, outside Houston, when David wasn’t golfing. At fifteen I was a deacon in that church and got to be “Minister For A Day” one Sunday. I gave a sermon, played the guitar and sang, and was quite the little leader. My father beamed with pride and gave me some wonderful strokes. His feelings were sincere and were never retracted or used to manipulate me. That was heaven!

Drinking and driving

Anyway, back to hell, I mean puberty. I had one friend named Susan who seemed to be as miserable as I was. She was overweight and had deep family problems. Between the older boys she hung out with and my brother, we could usually get our hands on a bottle of whiskey.
Susan’s parents would let us sleep in the camper in their driveway on weekends. We would hold our nose and chug that whiskey until the bottle was empty. We usually puked and passed out, but it was still a welcome reprieve from the emotional pain we were carrying.
My other friend, Nancy, who lived next door, was a year older than I. She ran with even older guys so she got her hands on marijuana and speed.
Nancy’s mother was a wonderful loving person, sometimes. The rest of the time she was a falling-down drunk. She would come up to us on her hands and knees and beg for booze. It was pitiful.
One day Lois Andriola found Nancy’s mother face down in the back yard in the snow. When Lois turned her over, a liquor bottle rolled out of her hands and she went crawling after it. Needless to say, Nancy had some emotions to sedate. So did I, especially after her mother took us on a wild, drunken ride home one afternoon from the swimming pool. I needed a drink by the time we pulled into the driveway.
It took me many tries to get high on pot, but the speed got me off the first time. I remember running up Greenwood Lane feeling like an Indian warrior. I could have run forever. I was a little scared, but I liked the feeling.

Recap

So let’s see. At the advanced age of twelve I had a number of addictions to support. I still had my candy fetish (which stayed with me for another twenty-six years),I drank heavily on weekends, and I smoked pot and tried whatever hard drugs Nancy could rustle up. My brother told me then that he would kick my ass if he ever caught me smoking dope. A year later he was sharing his best weed with me.

Food For Thought

It seems that people are getting tired of the abuse excuse because it has often been exploited in the courtroom. I argue both sides of the issues depending on which trial we might be discussing. I do think, however, that I have offered sufficient evidence to support my belief that I came by my addictions rightly. I take full responsibility for choosing to abuse sweets, alcohol and drugs, but the alternative was to cope with all these emotions straight, alone and without a crutch. I couldn’t do it, especially in puberty.
My mother and I had a conversation about drugs a few years ago. It was her belief that kids try drugs looking for a thrill and then get hooked. I disagreed. I believe that a child who is loved and nurtured can go for a joy ride with drugs and walk away. It is those of us who are trying to use drugs, sex, money, work, whatever to fill the hole in our hearts who get hooked. The answer is more love, more love, more love.
I think that we need to stop raging at and blaming troubled teens for their behaviors. Let’s try to help them through this difficult time. Puberty is when we really start to develop a sense of ourselves as a person. The shift in hormones can cause great physical turmoil along with all the emotions that arise concerning the passage out of childhood.
We accept that women have major mood swings because of the rise and fall of our hormones each month, but we don’t give adolescent children any slack when their bodies are being hammered by hormonal shifts. I believe that the support we give children throughout puberty is one of our greatest tools for raising happy, healthy adults.

Just For Fun

On the subject of stealing…
A burglar broke into a house one night. He shone his flashlight around, looking for valuables. When he picked up a CD player to place in his sack, a strange, disembodied voice echoed from the dark saying, “Jesus is watching you.” The burglar nearly jumped out of his skin, clicked his
flashlight off, and froze. When he heard nothing more after a bit, he shook his head, clicked the light back on, and began searching for more valuables.
Just as he pulled the stereo out so he could disconnect the wires, clear as a bell he heard “Jesus is watching you.” Freaked out, he shone his light around frantically, looking for the source of the voice. Finally, in the corner of the room, his flashlight beam came to rest on a parrot. “Did you say that?” he hissed at the parrot.
“Yep,” the parrot confessed, "I'm just trying to warn you.”
The burglar relaxed. “Warn me, huh? Who the hell are you?”
“Moses,” replied the parrot.
“Moses,” the burglar laughed. “What kind of stupid people would name a parrot Moses?”
“Probably the same kind of people who would name a Rottweiler Jesus,” the bird answered.

Tags

Addictions, Bulimia, Detox, Eating, Eating Disorder, Eating Disorders, Eating Habits, Eating Healthy, Eating Healthy To Lose Weight, Incest, Recovery, Sexual Abuse

Meet the author

author avatar eating2heaevn
My passion is writing about natural health, addiction and human behaviors. I have saved my life twice with conscious living and am devoted to helping others do the same.

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