I was not, for much of my life, what might be called “a productive member of society.” I quit school and left home running scared straight into a new unlivable situation, marriage to a man available to rescue me. He had his own agenda. His dad was pushing him to finish college and become a psychiatrist. He wanted out. But during the Vietnam War there was a lot of fear of the draft and he didn’t want that either. Marriage might save him. He dropped out of college, his dad blamed me, naturally, but that was entirely Fred’s idea. I am sure that little bit of history fell by the wayside when much later he blamed me for everything he and I both did wrong.

But I am not here to tell Fred’s story. That is for him to take responsibility for. I have played the scapegoat and I am done.

I had my own idea of marriage gleaned from Leave it to Beaver and Father Knows Best and The Donna Reed Show, all perfect families with perfect wives who knew their place and lived it to perfection. I tried to follow in their footsteps with the old-fashioned idea that they were proper models to follow. Backtracking a wee bit, we were isolated on the farm, with very few outside influences besides relatives. My parents marriage was cold and silent as was their parenting except for the intermittent rages. Because of that and the other abuses heaped on me I had spent much of my growing years in a self-made cocoon of fantasy and day dreams. In my favorite, one version was that I had run away from home and was hungry and stole an apple from a tree. An old farmer caught me (hard to get the farm life out of me) and took me home. He and his wife were childless and so very full of love. They kept me and raised me as their own.

I daydreamed much of the time, at the dinner table, in the classroom, pulling weeds, and picking strawberries, my fantasy life was never out of reach. Reality was too hard for me to stay in 24/7. So when I stepped out into marriage I had no idea what I was doing, the sappy TV shows and my own dream world had partially shielded me from facing reality with its cold, cold face.

So there I was, trying to be the ideal wife in a world where none exists with a man who was not too pleased at where he’d landed either.

I didn’t think of working. The ideal wife cleans and cooks and looks pretty for her husband when he comes in tired from his hard day at the office. Besides that, we lived way out in the country. We had no phone, I had no license, and no high school diploma. Add to that the coping mechanisms that followed me to my new life though they did not actually serve a purpose and I was one confused, lonely, and depressed little girl at 17 and life looked endlessly unkind.

When the children began to arrive, no, I did not think of working. I had so much morning sickness stretching all the way into evening that I lost nine pounds the first month of pregnancy with my first child. The doctor gave me something for it, but it would not stay down either. And as more children arrived, Fred and I decided I would not work outside the home until the youngest began school. That did not work out too well because he met his new wife when our youngest was about 3.

My work life began, forced out into the public to fend for myself with 4 small children in tow and no job skills or people skills, I did my best. But the separation from my husband was a roller coaster ride from hell. There were times when the phone rang and I would go into a panic because it might be Fred. There were times I could not bear the the thought of being on my own and begged Fred to come back. He was addicted to me and I to him, but for very different reasons.

It was hard to hide my emotional instability, that had always been there, once I was in the workforce dealing with people as a waitress. I remember my first day on the job at Sonny’s Barbecue walking up to the first table pad and pen in hand and the dining room supervisor, Carolyn at my elbow, and staring mute at the couple sitting there. I could utter no word, I was that afraid of people, one on one contact with strangers was traumatic for me. I was 27 and had no clue how to live in this world on my own.

But there was no choice to it. Fred was gone and the children were there to be cared for and I somehow made it through the first day. When I saw how much money I had made, I determined that I would make it work somehow. And I did, for 2 1/2 years until I was fired for an emotional outburst against a co-worker.

I was a hard worker. That I had learned on the farm. I earned my money and was always there for extra shifts. I was loyal to the people I worked for. I had this weird belief that if you tow the line and work your butt off you got ahead. I did that, but I was still not equipped with any kind of people skills.

Over the years I lost many jobs, mostly due to my inability to cope with everyday life. One I remember in particular I worked for a small upholstery company. One evening I was working overtime at a sewing machine in a little corner alcove when the boss, Charles, stopped to chat. I am people claustrophobic. I am OK in a small space unless there are people blocking my escape. Panic began and no matter how I tried it erupted and I screamed and as Charles stepped back I ran screaming out the door. Yes, I lost my job.

Another time, in 1998 I worked at a car parts factory. There was a very disturbed girl there that I empathized with because I was also a bit disturbed. one day there was a scare and it was believed she might come back to harm us so the shop was closed and we were all ushered out. Come Monday morning the boss told me that he had chosen me to work with her as I seemed to get along with her. I said no. He said either agree or leave. I left. Of course he had no right to do that, but I did not think, as I often did not think clearly with so many emotions to process.

Then I went truck driving and the long hours on the road with tons of time to think was a disaster for my mental health.

I tried to be a productive person. Eventually physical difficulties cropped up to haunt me almost as much as my emotional difficulties. I could not stand for long periods, carpal tunnel, I could not lift heavy objects, it cut way down on the types of jobs I could apply for. I even applied at McDonalds and they rejected me because of my physical disabilities. Well, no, I did not want to work at McDonalds, but I had to have a job for the usual reasons. I got a job at Good Will, but I could not do the heavy lifting. I got a temp job delivering phone books in the heat of the Florida sun. I saw it through but it did me in.

The effects of childhood haunted my life in every way possible. Childhood is not an event a person can put behind them. Childhood is where we are prepared for being an adult in the real world we live in. I had no preparation, and once I was on my own life was just an inevitable round of floundering about trying to keep from drowning. In that respect, I succeeded, I did not drown. That was success for me. i did not go under today. I got up.

What is the point of writing all this? Is it self-pity? No, I stopped, or at least put strict limits on self-pity. It has no good use. Is it because I think I am unique? I have learned well that I am not unique, and knowing that has saved me.

Here is why. Something happened to make my parents who they were. They passed the suffering on to twenty children. Their children passed it on to 67 more children, and there the counting stops because I do not know and do not want to know how many that generation passed the pain on to. I passed it on to my four children and now three of them are not a part of my life. One I have not seen for ten years. These were my little babies, my responsibility and there is no apology can fix it. I have granddaughters who hate me, ten grandchildren I do not know and I do not even know if I have great-grandchildren.

I have fixed me as best I can over decades of struggling to survive. I get to enjoy the little things in life now more than the previous sixty some years. But the big things are already gone. And the big things are people.

My sister Valerie told me why she had an abortion rather than to have a child. She somehow knew she did not want to do to a child what was done to her. There I was having babies and thinking I am doing what women are “supposed” to do according to what I learned and the whole God thing and she had an abortion to prevent more pain in the world. I know she loved my children, but I do not think she ever regretted not having her own. The woman suffered a pain filled life just as I did and most of my siblings. It is inevitable that she would also have unwillingly passed on what we all tried and failed to bury.

I speak because there are children who might benefit from knowing the cold, hard truth that their parent was damaged, not bad or mean or hate filled. My first book told me, when family members spoke up, that I had accomplished something. They saw their parent in a new light and that made their life just a little easier.

We accomplish nothing when we hide the truth. We accomplish nothing when we bury the past. In fact, more harm has come out of burying the past than ever came from telling it. I wish my siblings could have seen that, but they were too scared, just as I had been for decades, that someone might discover the real DeGolier family. I feared my children would see the real me and turn away. If there had been some way to tell it like it was from the beginning, childhood abuse would not have clung to my insides like a parasite spewing hurt with every breath I took.

I kept my silence because I believed it was the right and safest path. I was incredibly wrong.

My sister had an abortion for the same reason.