Too Close to Me

The Middle-Aged Consequences of Revealing
A Child Called “It”

DAVE PELZER

Too Close to Me: The Middle-Aged Consequences of Revealing A Child Called “It”
Copyright © 2014 by Dave Pelzer

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover design by David Ter-Avanesyan/Ter33Design
ISBN e-Pub edition: 9780795343315

Dedication & In Memoriam

To my B—, my lovely, pure of heart, reassuring, comical, most gentlest soul I know, my bride, Kay, who saved me from myself and for good or ill, simply allows me to be me!!!

In loving memory of Athena Konstan, an extraordinary woman and passionate educator who for well over thirty-five years challenged her students to greatness and all the while lived the adventure of a grand life!!!

In loving memory of Jacqueline Howard, who was the Mrs. Cleaver of Dunsmuir Way. Thank you for being everyone’s mom.

Acknowledgments

This was an extraordinary, gargantuan endeavor—over nine years in the making. While trying to fathom and come to terms with yet another monumental failure in my life, and while simultaneously obtusely putting myself at extreme risk on the far sides of the world, I attempted to write about the experiences that I brought upon myself.

When completed, the word count was over 178,000—the average tome being around 60,000. So, needless to say, I had to go back and not simply trim the fat, but truly rethink and restructure the entire tone of the book.

For me, I’d rather be in the middle of harm’s way than face the grinding, descaling process of a massive rewrite, which I dubbed “Project 9.”

With that confession, I humbly thank editors Elizabeth Stein, for helping me attempt to go around the Horn of Africa in the worst of conditions when it became Book 8, and Emilie Jackson, who helped pilot Project 9 through the still channels of the Panama Canal. I thank you ladies for your tremendous skill and astute dedication.

I also am grateful to my longtime agent and dear friend Laurie Liss for her patience and guidance with me in the New World of publishing.

Lastly, I am truly indebted to the director of my offices, Kathryn Larkin-Estey, who, depending upon the conditions of our hypersonic-filled days, I lovingly dub “Mrs. C” or simply “M”—the hard-nosed, no-nonsense, yet maternal boss who not only protects but warns her operatives of the serious nature of their mission’s true intentions. I can never thank you enough for ALL our endless meetings, your precious time, and putting up with me while I examine and break down complicated situations to the minutest meaning in order to better understand how to proceed in my various crusades.

Special Notes

Some of the names have been changed in order to protect the privacy and dignity of others.

As with the books A Child Called “It”, The Lost Boy, A Man Named Dave, and The Privilege of Youth, in my mind’s eye, I’ve always had a musical thread, a unique song that related to the core of each of these stories. I’ve been blessed to incorporate and draw from the exceptionally talented well of multi–Grammy Award–winning (twenty to date) Pat Metheny.

Because of the complexity of Too Close to Me, I’ve selected a trilogy of songs that best convey the texture of this book. For the first two acts, I’ve chosen Pat Metheny’s “Polish Paths” and “A Change in Circumstance.” And for the second half of Chapter 17, I selected Hans Zimmer’s haunting piece entitled “Time.”

Prologue

It is not about yet another broken affair that appears on various tabloid shows on a seemingly hourly basis. And it is certainly not some salacious, tattletale, tell-all tome.

This book is about relationships, both business and personal, and what we all bring into them. It is about the ramifications of our choices and our failure to take action in a large part because of our unresolved experiences.

It is a deep examination of one’s life while questioning one’s values and purpose during an unexpected, midlife, “fork in the road” crisis.

It is about how some of us, stupidly, even arrogantly, keep repeating lifelong patterns while plowing ahead, placing a great deal at risk, while attempting to repair whatever situation, in the mere hope that one’s efforts will yield some new, transformed result.

On a deeper level, this book is also about our subconscious fears and demons and the devastating effect they can have on the decisions of our lives in the “real world.”

Yet, at the core, this book is about coming to terms and putting down some of the weight of our own crosses that, as middle-aged adults, we all seem to bear. It is about how every day is another chance, another opportunity to achieve happiness and the empowerment of forgiveness. It is about giving ourselves permission to acknowledge our worth and to allow goodness into the remainder of our days.

Chapter 1
Alone Again, Naturally

Two people. Two good people. A loving couple who had dedicated everything they had to making a difference in the cause of assisting others, only to end up with little left for each other.

For endless reasons it was inevitable. I no longer had the stamina to go “out there”—crusading all over the nation hundreds of times a year, crisscrossing whatever area I happened to fly into, giving every ounce I had to my 16 hours a day, let’s all pull ourselves up by the bootstraps campaign. Yet, whenever I was pulled aside by a kind individual pleading if I could just “drop by” and visit the local juvenile hall, detention boot camp, social or law enforcement agency, or a myriad of organizations, how in heaven’s name could I turn my back? Then, in the wee hours of the morning, before the local airport opened for the day, I’d utilize my time sitting beside the airline counter working on my latest book, sorting through reams of faxes and letters, or studying for a correspondence college course.

By the time I’d limp home, having existed without any semblance of sleep or nutrition for days, I was mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally exhausted. But as much as I wanted to disappear from the outside world and be a regular father, husband, and everyday human being, there were still heaps of logistical paperwork and desperate, real-life, day-to-day predicaments that required immediate and meticulous attention.

I never set out to save the world. I’ve never been someone who had to do everything, all the time. I so know my limitations. If anything, when I commit to something, I pride myself in being effective and getting things done right the first time, with minimal bureaucracy and without fanfare.

As a child, I experienced firsthand that we live in world that can be cold and cruel at times. I also accepted that there will always be good versus evil. That there are enormous amounts of human suffering that can be identified as nothing short of an atrocity. So, as a person in my mid-40s, I had a hard time kicking back knowing there were others less fortunate.

It was also hard, extremely hard, for me to let down my guard, and feel safe. My issues with security have to do with my past. As an adult I’ve allowed myself to become hardwired, to the point of being emotionally discounted.

For me it’s always about safety and security. For the life of me, I can’t seem to chill if there’s something that needs to be completed, if there’s anything hanging over my head, I can’t or won’t shut down.

Even before I was married to Marsha, I fought hard not to “spin” over every minuscule thing, to try to let down my guard. And there were hundreds of times when Marsha and I tried to set aside time for ourselves as a couple, but events seemed to conspire against us. The never-ending situations drained my focus and energy. Then, by the time I fixed everything, in a matter of hours, I was back on the road for weeks upon weeks at a time.

My grueling schedule, combined with Marsha and I working together in an intense business atmosphere, while fighting to have a private relationship, caused the tiny crack between us to quickly become a chasm. After years of the nonstop treadmill, there was not only little time for us as husband and wife, but little left to give of myself.

Petty differences reared their ugly heads. Mine was more about not being able to shut down. I became frayed. After bouncing around the country nonstop for years, I found myself becoming frantic at home, focusing on shaving every nanosecond I could to get everything accomplished all the quicker, so I could relax all the sooner. I became impatient and at times I would lash out with sarcasm as my attempt to diffuse the frustration I felt from within.

While Marsha was more open, affectionate, and took a “let’s take a chance while we’re young” attitude, I was far more reserved and much more afraid: physically, emotionally, and especially financially. Again, my parameter was always about maintaining a safe and secure environment.

Without meaning to, I began to feel the walls that had once protected me—that had psychologically saved me from my sickening past—build back up. Both on and off the road. I knew I was overextending myself. Yet above it all, I stayed focused so not to sabotage my blessings. But I still did. I could feel myself becoming shut and closed off from fear. As time passed, my protective, overly defensive behavior began to again take root.

It started right after my commercial success as an author. When I was sarcastically labeled an “overnight sensation,” I gently tried to point out that I had been promoting my cause for well over ten years and was fortunate enough to have received recognition for my work well before I became a public name.

In all, I thought it was completely asinine: it didn’t matter that I had a long-term background of working with kids as a staff member in juvenile hall, the hundreds of extensive day-long workshops I gave, or commendations ranging from several US presidents to The Outstanding Young Person of the World. Once I became a New York Times best-selling author, that’s when I was recognized as somebody.

Yet, deep down inside all I felt was shame. I thought it was disgraceful that while I was receiving all this overrated attention, there were others who had been through far worse than I; or those who had worked harder, and no matter what, were just scraping by.

Then, on top of everything, I also carried a shroud of guilt from my past and that of my estranged brothers.

I had always been alone, relying only on myself. Since my formative years as a child, shivering like some desolate animal in a blackened basement, I was completely isolated to the point that my father—a brave fireman—and my brothers were forbidden to even glance at me. I was the household slave whose name was never to be mentioned. To my perpetrator mother, I was a child called “It.”

Back then there were numerous times when I literally survived hour by hour. There were days when the pain, shame, and loneliness were more than I thought I could stand. During my eight years of imprisonment, I did all that I could to capture my crazed mother’s approval, hoping, and praying with all my heart, for anything I could do to regain her love. Instead, when she didn’t drink to drown her self-hatred, my mother would fantasize about what she could do to degrade and torture me further.

Even before kindergarten, I truly believed I was a dim-witted, horrible problem child who required a great amount of discipline. I had thought it was normal. It wasn’t until one day when Mother announced with high-pitched drama, to my petrified brothers, that “the boy” was no longer a member of the family. That’s when things became far more bizarre for me.

It was on one afternoon after my mother had burned the length of my right arm by holding it just above a gas stove flame that my resolve began to emerge. Alone in the basement, as blisters formed and I had used my tongue to cool my arm and ease my pain, I pledged to myself to do all that I could to survive this madness.

From that point on, my childish vow became an unbreakable standard, a code of ethics: I would never give up on myself, and I would always give everything my absolute best.

Many years later, after working a string of dead-end jobs from 40 to 90-plus hours a week, I proudly served in the Air Force, as an air crew member, when I became a father to the most adorable child in the world. It was during this time, too, that I worked part-time in juvenile hall to supplement my military income, and encountered others who had been abused. It was then that I quietly vowed to do something to help those less fortunate.

When I no longer served in the Air Force and began my career in the civilian world, I clung to the belief of working with those, who like myself, had honorable intentions. I deliberately viewed things in black and white. For me there was very little gray. When I gave my word and shook someone’s hand, that was an unbreakable promise.

Those I met and those I worked with took my ethics as a gullible sign of weakness. For years, I paid the price of being naive. And part of that fee was another layer of trust stripped away.

For me, trust is everything. To be honorable is imperative. Even as Mother’s slave, what she didn’t know and couldn’t see through her sinister, inebriated eyes, even in the worst of circumstances, was that I truly gave my all.

I never meant for all the hoopla that comes with being a best-selling author to happen. I only wanted to help out in some small way. And after the years of nonstop travel, frenzied workdays, and everything that went with it, it all became too much. When I came home, I just wanted to be done with it all. To simply feel clean and safe.

For the longest time, I did all I could to separate my two distinct worlds. But the sins from my past crossed over, spilling into my private sanctuary.

In mid-August of 2004, just days after my son, Stephen, began college, my lovely, and at times zany, redheaded wife, Marsha, and I agreed that she should begin a new life near her family back east.

The afternoon she stepped aboard her private transport with our three lovable bichon dogs, I was, as usual, on the road.

I could have stopped the whole process. I could have begged my wife not to leave. But I didn’t. Even though I had initiated the separation, I was the one who felt horribly betrayed. As much as I searched for answers, as much as I had fallen to my knees with my hands tightly clasped together in prayer, my protective wall was now in full force.

Every belief I had lived by and battled for and protected was now in question. My life was thrown into a tailspin.

Part 1

Chapter 2
Foundation of Defense

In every couple there is a yin and a yang—some opposite polarity that can draw two people together.

Of the many things that Marsha loved, shopping was on the top of her list. With my internal terror of never having enough food or any shelter, saving was on the top of mine.

Of all items in our spacious but cluttered house, one in particular held a deep meaning for me. Prominently displayed on the top of a three-tiered back corner was a dark blue Japanese Raku—a wishing pot. One writes their desire on paper, then places it into the pot before it is resealed. It is legend that the Raku will protect and nurture that person’s desire.

When Marsha placed her wish in her Raku, she joked that it had something to do with being the sole winner of the Mega-Lotto. My son, Stephen, a then high school teenager, confided to me that his had to do with his upcoming college degree.

I had thought a great deal about mine. Yet in a mere second the same one word kept flashing in my head like some headlight approaching from the distance as it became bigger and brighter. Peace. Peace. Peace!

Ever since I was a child in the basement, for me it’s always been about being at peace. About somehow, someway being able to feel safe.

As I began to recognize that my marriage with Marsha was indeed in a tailspin, a phantom from my past began to re-emerge. It was much more than another random set of intense nightmares—falling off a high-rise building, running at top speed through a never-ending maze, or that paralyzing fear of not being able to get away from some invisible monster—those were commonplace. This was “The Specter” that began to dominate my singular place of solace.

In my dream the first thing I recognize is the coldness. It seems as if I’m in some darkened, medieval dungeon. I survey my surroundings, but everything is out of focus. I can see I am wearing my heavy, silver-colored watch that peeks past my long-sleeved shirt—which means I’m an adult. That makes me feel a tad bit more secure, as the worst thing for me is to relive graphic parts of my childhood.

I can only move my head as I’m somehow locked to some hardened chair. I feel as if I’ve been sitting for a long time, though my watch itself reveals nothing. My heart begins to race, and my body shakes from fear and the intense cold.

In front of me I sense an odor. As I take it into my nostrils, it becomes a distinctive stench. Still clamped to my chair, my fear accelerates my breathing. I want to wish this all away. I so want to snap out of this, for I know there’s only one thing that has that putrid smell.

I snap my head down, chin to my chest, just as I had been trained to do so many years ago. Then, after a few moments, I dare myself to raise my face. Now, in front of me is a thick, long wooden table. At the far end on the left side is a knife. The same kind She used when She stabbed me when I was a small child, by accident, the same knife She used when She chased me in my nightmares.

Looking up from the knife, I can make out a figure. I know who it is, but just the same, I mumble a quick prayer that I’m wrong.

Dressed in a worn smock-type dress, I can see the spotted, pasty, puffy arms, the gnarled, clenched fingers from years of painful arthritis. What was once shiny, thick Pearl-shampoo-scented hair is now a frizzy, thin gray-white mop that covers the figure’s face. As the figure moves, hovering just above the floor, the tangled strands part to reveal a thick, swollen face with sunken, dark, unmoving eyes.

Even before I fully raise my head, I know the figure could only the person whom I referred to as Her.

I close my eyes, recalling as a child, after years of physical torture and psychological humiliation, how Mother went even further to degrade me. When my name, David, became too personal, Mother called me “The Boy.” Then, later on, Mother seemed to me more than pleased to label me “It.”

And, how I then in turn went from calling her Mommy—the beautiful, love-filled woman who’s children and husband were her entire universe—to “The Mother.” Then, after Mother would openly call me “It,” I transgressed from “The Mother” to “The Bitch.”

Yet after the unique warm sense of rage that helped lift away the coldness in my darkened world, I became fearful that I was beginning to take solid steps down that same path that my own mother must have made so many years ago. Of all things, I didn’t want to be a duplicate of Mother’s insanity, so I backed off, replacing the title of “The Bitch” with that of Her or simply She.

As I reopen my eyes, the room now becomes more frigid. She seems to study me. Then without moving her lips, She speaks inside my head. I can hear the labored breathing caused from smoking so many packs of cigarettes every day.

“So…,” She begins, “after all this time.” She pauses with a commanding nod as if she wants me to feel the full dagger-like force of every syllable. “After all you’ve accomplished, you must know that you are still nothing. Absolutely nothing.” A stream of coughing interrupts her sledgehammer of words. “Understand, you are now and always will be nothing to anyone or to anything. You are in fact nothing… without me.”

She stops to let another cough from deep within escape her failings lungs. Then in a slower, more deliberate cadence She states, “If they only knew you like I do. If anyone were ever to find out the real David Pelzer, what do you think would happen?” Again, comes a long, chilling pause. “I know you.” She emphasizes by pointing her crooked finger at me. “Why do you think you sabotaged anything and everybody that ever gets near you?

“Maybe they don’t see it? Maybe, you got them all conned? But I see you. I see right through you. I always have and I always will. I am you. And, you will always be me.” She laughs.

I feel as if I’ve been confined for years, and I somehow feel whatever strength I have slip away. I fight the sensation. In my head, I see myself springing out from the locked chair and ripping Her head off.

“How dare you!” She roars. “Sweet, Jesus H. Christ!” She begins to laugh. “Do you think, really think, that you…? Oh my… how sad it must be to be you. Trust me, you don’t have what it takes. If you did, well then, I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

She pauses. Then inside my head, in perfect clarity, She states, “You were always weak. You never had any backbone. You know that you could have stopped it all at any time, but you didn’t, did you? Why do you think I chose you?

“Look at you. You’re so pathetic. You could have stopped it then, and, you could stop it all right now. The truth is you can’t, because you won’t. You lived for it then and you’ll live for it now. You live for me.”

I blink, resetting my eyes to just above Hers. With the tiniest of movements, I can see Her lips move while her words simultaneously ricochet inside my head. “Surely, you realize that it was I in fact who allowed you to live. That you were mine to do with as I saw fit.”

She digs up something from the bottom of her lungs. It takes a while but she seems pleased with the results. I can somehow feel the sensation of Her eyes trying to pierce through me. “Do you think for a moment, that without me that there would be a David Pelzer? Do you? And now… look what you’ve done.”

“Don’t you worry,” She laughs, “She’ll move on, that is, if you didn’t suck the life out of her. I’m just surprised it lasted as long as it did. Isn’t that strike two?” She pauses again for effect. “At least I had the good sense not to divorce him—that father of yours!”

No longer caring if the creature in front of me can hear my thoughts or sense my feelings, I rush to anger when She deliberately runs down my dad.

Silence seems to engulf the room. I fight to not let Her in but I can feel myself continue to weaken. In a tone that reminds me of the time when She was my loving mother, She gently says, “David, I know why you came back. And, I know why you chose them, both of them.” Her last words hang in the air like bubbles just before the increasing pressure makes them pop.

Inside my mind, I fight to snap out of my trance, trying to jump to another dream. I can feel the sensation of my heart race as well as a thick, sticky layer of sweat cover my skin. My sole focus is to keep Her from penetrating my tiny mental lockbox. If She breaks in, I will be completely helpless and somehow, forever stuck in this hell with Her.

I act passive, hoping I don’t reveal any fear. Yet Her statement hits too close to the bone. I try to think of something else. A familiar smell from my past fills my head—the slight scent from the basement where I spent my time as Her prisoner.

The pressure inside my head builds. I feel as if the veins from my forehead are going to burst through at any moment. I tell myself I cannot allow Her to come any closer. Ever so slowly, I hear in a precise cadence, “David, I know it’s you who can’t let me go.”

Suddenly, the table disappears and She is inches in front of me. I clamp my eyes shut, but I can still see Her. She is so close that I can feel the coldness that encases Her entire being. I try to twist away, to escape somewhere else, but I can’t. The temperature drops further, and an invisible finger lifts my chin. Smiling for her own enjoyment, She then announces, “I know what you desire. I know what you crave.” Leaning closer, She shakes her head. “Not now. Not ever. I will never allow it. I will never grant you peace.”

Chapter 3
The Flip Switch

When I remarried, I truly believed it was a fresh start to a completely new life. That I could finally feel clean about myself. That everything would somehow become normal.

I also wanted to believe that I could start opening up—that I wouldn’t have to be so hard-core, hardwired, all the time.

And, because it was my second marriage, I so badly wanted everything to work, to make my new wife completely happy.

But old patterns, especially those mechanisms that I had taught myself as a child, which enabled me to survive way back then, slowly crept back in. In order to merely exist at the most basic level, I had to become completely self-reliant. I had to detach—from pain, loneliness, affection, and any form of need. In other words—I had to learn not to feel.

As parts of my life adult life sped away from me, and even though I gave everything my best effort, still, I fell behind when it came to the never-ending whirlwind of events.

Out of frustration and the exhaustion from all the constant sprinting, I retreated back to my inner sanctum, where at any given moment I could recall critical events from my past and how they made me, in part, become so impenetrable.

It takes a while, but eventually my eyes adjust to the darkness of the basement. The blackness turns into a soft gray until I can distinguish between the different shapes on my father’s nearby workbench. In my dream state, I fight to control my labored breathing. I know I was just attacked by Mother upstairs. I listen for any clue of what She is now doing. Is She slamming back another drink of straight vodka? Is She collapsed on the living room sofa zoning out in front of the TV? Or, is She about to pace the kitchen before reaching beneath the sink to snatch a bottle of ammonia or that cheap, thick, pink dishwashing soap to ram down my throat as She smiles with sickening glee?

Unless She’s sleeping at night, passed out during the day, eating with her family, or blathering away on the phone, my radar is far from passive. Focus must always remain the operative objective.

My internal device was also due in part to my frustration and dismay with my father. I became increasingly and horribly conflicted on how a towering, able man would dash into an inferno and rescue kids, yet would not simply take me by the hand and lead me away. As much as I craved to idolize my father, I came to losing respect for him one summer’s evening.

After being summoned upstairs to receive yet another of Mother’s long-winded, drunken sermons on how to clean the dinner dishes, she added to her own drama with the promise of killing me if I did not meet her allotted time limit.

I wasn’t even scared. She was well beyond hammered and had tried to scare me like that for days. Only this time, she brandished a knife in her clenched hand. Again, none of that mattered to me; my sole concern was for her to shut up so I could perform my task so that I might be fed something, anything to eat.

I should have paid more attention, proper attention. But in my weakness, my pure greed for food, I missed all the signals.

I barely saw the shiny blur before collapsing on the floor as blood seeped from my chest. After waking up and seeing Mother’s frantic hands doing their best to control the bleeding, I actually thought to myself, “This is a good thing! It’s over, the whole ‘hiding the secret,’ ‘The Boy deserves to be punished,’ now, after going too far, it’s finally finished! She can’t hide this.”

But after a few minutes, my dream of freedom evaporated. Without having to say a word, and, with her prior medical experience, I realized that Mother had absolutely no intention of taking me to the hospital—she could never afford for ‘our secret’ to be exposed. With vacant eyes and fast, trembling hands, Mother bandaged my chest as best as she could.

Less than an hour later, She ordered me back to the kitchen. Mother was generous in granting me thirty minutes rather than the usual twenty to clear the table and wash, dry, and put away the dinner dishes and the various pots and pans.

Daring to sneak away, I tried to find solace from my father. Because my injury was in my chest, trying to breathe sent a shockwave of pain through me. It took every ounce of strength I had to just shuffle myself in front of him. I fought to remain rigid as Father sat passively on the living room couch. There was no doubt he knew I was there. He had to have heard my approach. And he could certainly hear my labored breathing. Lost in his own stupor, all Father did was try to hide behind the thin shield of his evening paper. Even after I stuttered, “Mo… Mo… Mother stabbed me.” Not the slightest expression escaped his disguise. Time seemed to stand still except for the rhythmic sensation of my blood seeping from my soaked T-shirt.

I had fantasized that Father would jump up, revealing his mighty red cape, and envelope me in a protective hug, before we’d fly off together to Never Never Land.

Instead, I received a strained, exhaled warning, “Jesus H. Christ, does your mother know that you’re here… talking to me? Damn it, boy, we don’t need to do anything that might make her more upset. I don’t need to go through that tonight…” He paused as if to catch himself before throwing me a bone, “Tell you what, I… ah… I won’t tell Her you told me. This will be our little secret. Go on, now, before she catches us both. Go!”

Psychologically, I was paralyzed. I heard the words. I felt their meaning echoing inside my frantic head, but I couldn’t bring myself to accept them.

“Yet,” my brain shrieked, “is this not obvious? I was stabbed… with a knife… in the chest… in front of my baby brother. I fell to the floor… flopping around in my own blood… like some fish. Hello?”

So, as trained, I stay perfectly erect, exactly three feet in front of Father’s worn, scuffed shoes. My hands are clamped to my sides, and while my chin should have been bowed to my chest, the throbbing pain is too much to do so. I can hear the droplets of blood as they hit the small, dark-red puddle on the carpet.

Seconds creep by without a word spoken between us. I listen for any sound Father might give me. I pray for a mere response, no matter how insignificant it may seem to him. But my onetime superhero couldn’t or wouldn’t even bend the corner of his prized paper to make eye contact.

I wasn’t a stupid, pitiful little baby. I well knew that Father couldn’t defy gravity and transform into superhero. With all the years spent in the basement, I had become fully aware that the strain of Father’s job, his escalated drinking, coupled with Mother’s nonstop violent behavior and total manipulation over every aspect of her world, had siphoned every bit of resistance out of him.

At least my older brother Ron, and my younger brother, Stan, would every once in a while fling open the upstairs door to the basement and toss down a mayonnaise sandwich. Or, on a rare occasion, offer an encouraging word when they traipsed by while I performed a chore from Mother’s endless list of duties. But, out of hardened experience, they did so only when they felt certain that she was not within earshot.

I could see how my brothers would carry themselves with slumped shoulders, or how their voices would drop whenever we’d passed each other. How their laughter would suddenly cease. I could sense it in their eyes whenever I’d dare to lift my head to make virtual contact. There was never a doubt. They knew. And, unlike any capable, mature adult, at least they gave me something that helped pull me through, if only for that one solitarily desolate moment.

As time went by, and as things intensified between Mother and me, and as Ron and Stan matured, she must have sensed her off-the-wall fabricated justifications were no longer holding water. She then set her sights to brainwash the youngest addition, Russell, who was barely a preschooler. She trained him to spy on my every move so he’d look for a reward by reporting fictional crimes to Mother at the top of his lungs. The tokens from Ron and Stan, even their kind glances, which I loved more than food, evaporated. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. I simply came to believe that is was a matter of life in the food chain.

Besides my father, the person who surprised me most in turning a deliberate blind eye to the horror of the household situation was Grandmother. Yet in my solitude I came to realize the common thread between mother and daughter.

In the rare family photos taken with Grandmother, she was always as stiff as a board. She never seemed to even attempt to crack a smile, let alone have physical contact with anyone. I could not recall if Grandmother ever gave anybody a warm embrace, or let out a laugh or paid someone a sincere compliment. The tone of her every word was condescending. And, I came to believe she enjoyed it.

It never seemed to matter to Grandmother what others were doing or how they went about living their lives, when Grandmother arrived it was suddenly and completely her world. God forbid anyone hesitated to instantly conform to her ways.

As a very young child, I had heard how Grandmother, a widow, had raised Mother and my uncle Dan, alone, in the middle of the Depression. And I truly admired that. As fierce and independent as Grandmother was, she was also the smartest person I knew. I would have given anything to sit down in a chair with my feet dangling just above the floor and take in all that Grandmother had experienced—stories about listening to old radio shows, to the sensation of her first flight aboard a sleek jet aircraft. It was all so fascinating to me.

Whenever Grandmother showed up, usually unannounced, Mother would literally lock up. Her body would become tense and her voice became either meek or sarcastic. As preschoolers, Ron, Stan, and I were instructed to play “extra, extra quiet” in our room or outside so not to upset Grandmother; to be seen for a moment or two, but definitely not heard.

Because we’d play so quietly the three of us could hear the eventual volley from the kitchen:

Grandmother would huff, “I don’t understand. If it was up to me, I certainly would have done it different. Let me tell you something, back in my day, I wouldn’t put up with any of this. Not one damn bit. Not for one day. And I’ll tell you something else—”

“Mother, please,” our mother would fight to insert, “the children are going to hear you. Please!”

“Jesus H. Christ, Roerva, I’m not saying one damn thing. Not one damn thing…”

The room would become quiet, then after a slight pause Grandmother would resume, “For God’s sake, all I’m saying is you could have done better. I’m not telling you how to live your life, I’m not telling you what to do, but—”

I could imagine Mother’s face tensing as tight as drum. “That’s all you do! All the time, every hour, of every day. That’s all you ever do. To Dan, his wife, his kids, my life, my husband, my kids… you got your nose buried so far in everyone’s life telling them how to live, it’s a wonder you can barely breathe!

“Does anyone ever tell you anything, ever? You put everyone through absolute hell and you love it.”

“Well, in all my life… I never…” Grandmother would say. “Let me tell you something, Roerva, Catherine, Pelzer, back in my day, you never, never talked back, let alone raise your voice to your elders. I’m so ashamed for you. All I wanted, all I’ve ever wanted was…” Grandmother would trail off as if the pain she endured was just too much to go on.

“Your father… well… that man is another story. To hell with him. To hell with you and everyone else. I did my best. I did all that I could. But it was all never enough. Never enough for the likes of you. Never.

“And another thing, you watch your tone with me. I’m still your mother. Hell’s bells, back in the day I remember whenever you got too big for your britches, that’s when a good bar of soap crammed down that throat of yours and a good sound beating used to put you in your place. That’s how you got things done, let me tell you.”

After every argument Grandmother would depart, but not before issuing a stern warning for the three of us preschoolers to be good.

Starting when I was in the first grade, more than once Grandmother marched into our bedroom to find me staring straight into the mirror stating, “I’m a bad boy. I’m a bad boy,” for hours as punishment for my latest misdeeds. The first time she did I was surprised by her sudden presence, and almost accidentally stopped. But out of fear of Mother, I quickly recovered. Hovering above me, with her boney hands on her slender hips, Grandmother shook her head. “For Christ’s sake, if you’re not the sorriest child I have ever known.” She’d continue to stare down at me without a word, without a touch to my shoulder, before turning away and stomping down the hallway.

In later years, when I lived in the basement, contact with Grandmother was reduced to her opening the door to the basement for a second or two. In February 1973, after my parents separated, Grandmother made a surprise visit. In typical fashion, she began, “What did I tell you? Did I not tell you this would happen? Did I? Well?”

I listened, knowing that after Grandmother stormed off, hell would follow. Yet they couldn’t get enough of each other. If it wasn’t the face-to-face battle royales, they’d blast each other several times a day on the phone for hours at a time. I came to conclude that they fed off each other’s loneliness, broken lives, and complete and absolute misery.

That February, just a few weeks before my sudden rescue, during that last visit, the last words I heard from Grandmother came when she flung open the basement door, flipped on the light switch to examine me where I sat at the base of the steps, on top of my hands, with my soiled face tilted upwards before she declared, “Hell’s bells, if that isn’t cold.”

That day, for a mere second, I was almost certain that our eyes locked. But not being allowed to wear my glasses unless at school, I couldn’t be sure. Deep down, for a split second, I had so craved it to be. But I couldn’t afford to open up and expose any form of desire, emotion, or weakness.

Chapter 4
White Rage

For me, I have a pride-dignity standard of doing the right thing for the right reasons; to lend a hand. To at least try and make a genuine difference, then quietly move along. I do so in part because I know what it’s like to be nothing and have nothing. Not even a name. So, when I commit, in business, and especially in my personal relationships, I give all that I can, and then, even more still.

In all that I do, nothing pleases me more than making others happy and fulfilled.

Yet, in a blink of an eye, I can retreat deep into my core and become the coldest, most heartless person the world has ever known. After all I’ve done for others, and, after all that I’ve sacrificed in my efforts to help people, if I can’t receive even the slightest nod in return, I feel violated, unappreciated, and most of all devalued. It is then that I can flip that switch off to my heart, which became a survival technique I learned during my days in the basement.

I sit in the basement—not at the base of stairs as usual, but in a corner beside Father’s long-neglected workbench. I quickly discover the hardness of the cement floor makes my muscles wince in pain far more than sitting on top of my hands on the nearby wooden stairs.

As in everything with Mother, there is always a method to her madness. It’s not just another perverted form of torture as much as it is convenience for her and “The Family.” As her boys are running run up and down the stairs, I would have been in their way, physically and psychologically.

It is Indian summer in the Bay Area and everything is crisp, bright, beautiful, and warm. Even as I was forced to run from school to Mother’s house, I’d soak in the outside world like a gigantic sponge. I would cheat by slowing down my pace to capture every sight, smell, sound, and most importantly for me, the sun’s embracing rays. It’s enough to get by. And it’s more than I had before.

Now with my head bowed down, a gurgling stomach and numb hands, I’m almost past my limit. My mind begins to swim with colliding currents of immense self-pity, frustration with myself for allowing this to go on as long as it has, and disdain I’ve held against Father… and now even my own brothers.

Before my baby brother, Kevin, was recently born, I discovered that my avenue of escaping was already becoming less and less effective for me. Even before kindergarten, sleep was my secret refuge. When I was literally starving, I’d dream about thick, juicy hamburgers smothered with every conceivable condiment, oozing with bright bubbling orange cheese.

But I’ve become too jaded and disillusioned to even fantasize. Resentments begin to take root. First at myself, but then quickly toward those around me. I know it’s wrong. Completely wrong. But deep down inside where I cry and scream at myself for allowing the situation to intensify, the sensation feeds me. It keeps me warm. It provides me with a sense of control and helps to dilute some the shame and loneliness that never seems to escape me.

Just a few feet away, “The Family” celebrates the seasonal event with a barbecue. The high-pitched screeches and nonstop laughter echo throughout the garage. It seems as if every kid is enjoying themselves in the day’s splendor. From the distinctive scent of charcoal and sizzling food, it also seems that every family on the entire Norman Rockwell–like, goody-goody small-town USA block is making the most of this rare occasion.

My breathing increases as my heart begins to race. I swell with jealousy. Nearby, Ron bounces back and forth, up and down the stairs, happily carrying supplies for the cookout.

Father has allowed Ron to cook the burgers and hot dogs. Since Ron is the oldest, it’s a huge privilege. With every trip back down the stairs before he dashes outside, he yells out the updates: “Everyone showed up,” “Man, is it hot!” “You should see it, it’s a blast…” The digs seem to get a little bit more personal. “Man, there is sooooo much food. Everyone brought over everything. I just hopes it doesn’t all go to waste. Now that would be a real shame.”

Ron knows I’m hungry, that I can hear, feel, and practically drool over every word. He knows that I shiver as he passes by. Ron, who used to sneak me food, knows that I’m real. That I do exist.

While I’m sure his statements are playful, Ron’s words hit me like a sledgehammer.

In a flash, I slip. I lose control and abandon all self-imposed discipline. I step outside of my protective shield, breaking all the rules. My rules.

Ron stops in midstride. If it wasn’t for his right hand gripping the staircase railing, he would have toppled head over. His eyes gleam, then I pick up on his expression, which says, “Uhm… I’m gonna tell Mom and you’re so gonna get it.”

In reality, the incident lasted a mere second or two. Yet by lashing out, especially to someone I truly cared about, it somehow transferred the weight of my pain away from me, if only for a moment. I fully understood my situation was not in any way Ron’s fault, but over the years, it became painfully obvious to both of us that we were from two different worlds.

Soon after Ron ambled back outside, I overheard the inevitable question arise. For the past few years, whenever a group of neighbors gathered, somebody asked: “Cathy, where is that boy of yours… David? I only catch a glimpse of him whenever he’s running to or from school.”

Mother would always try to laugh it off. The first time I heard the question, Mother’s hesitation belied her dismay. Someone had actually said something. Yet over time the response simply became, “Oh, The Boy’s just sick. Touch of the flu. Caught a bad cold.”

This time, from the corner of the garage, as scores of individuals enjoyed the early autumn day, I heard it. The slight, but yet hesitant follow-up, “But Cathy, wouldn’t the warm sunshine do David some good?”

The world seemed to stop. The sound of silence enveloped the party. I could imagine Mother avoiding any eye contact, hoping to scurry away, and do something, anything, other than stand in front of other adults and be held accounted for.

“Well, it’s like I said, ‘The Boy’s sick.’ Too sick. You wouldn’t want him to pass it along. I’m sure, it’s probably contagious. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have to go check on… something.”

After a few seconds, I can visualize the same lady speaking to someone else: “Who does she think she’s kidding? I asked her that same thing the last time. If it’s true, that little boy is the sickest child on this planet.”

A new voice chimes in, “Let me tell you, the last time I saw David, he looked like a ghost. Pasty, pale white skin, sunken eyes. I tell you, it was just horrible… can you imagine even having to see that?”

“And did you see how she doesn’t even call him by name? That’s just horrible, just horrible. There’s something definitely wrong,” the first lady relays. But a heartbeat later the same voice transforms from concern to excitement. “The burgers are ready. Let’s go get us something to eat. I’m famished.”

Part of me is ecstatic that after all these years, someone has actually noticed my absence, that someone has stood up to Mother, if just for a moment. But in the end, it doesn’t amount to anything.

With the distinctive smells and clattering sounds from outside filling the garage, I become disgusted with myself. For God’s sake, all I have to do is stand up and walk out for all to see. Then I could reach out, seize something to eat, and sprint off into the sunset. In less than a minute, my life would change. I know that even if I dared, everyone—the neighbors, my brothers, Father, and especially the former Cub Scouts den mother extraordinaire, Mrs. Pelzer—would be frozen in complete shock.

But all I do is nothing. I can’t even close my eyes and fantasize myself away. Not anymore.

Even though I’m reliving just another sequence, I feel as if it were all happening in real time.

I recollect how, for years, I had tried to be quiet. I had tried to stay out of everyone’s way. Yes, I remember, I stole food throughout the school, but only half a sandwich or part of an apple. I didn’t want those I took from to go hungry. Yes, I reduced myself to scouring through garbage cans, but I was also a school crossing guard and I came with up a catchy name for the school’s newspaper, which everyone voted for.

Even though I know it’s only a dream, I can feel myself begin to shake. By the end of February 1973, I had become so cold and so dark, I lost sight of who I really wanted to be. There were times when I just wanted to explode and go off with the sole purpose of having all those around me feel

Contents

Dedication & In Memoriam

Acknowledgments

Special Notes

Prologue

Chapter 1Alone Again, Naturally

Part 1

Chapter 2Foundation of Defense

Chapter 3The Flip Switch

Chapter 4White Rage

Chapter 1
Alone Again, Naturally

Chapter 2
Foundation of Defense

Chapter 3
The Flip Switch

Chapter 4
White Rage