Living Proof

Lately I have been neglecting my blog for a bit, unintentionally of course. Between getting plagued with the flu and trying to stay focused on my second book, which has been challenging in itself because a lot of it has to do with my life growing up as a child well into my adulthood. Some of the content brings me back to where I felt safe and loved for the most part, but there was a whole other world around me to which I knew nothing about. Some of the subject matter has everything to do with this post I had written here . Other content shows you how the typical Italian household functions; endearing moments to which many people can relate to, especially Italians in New York. My dad’s a good sport. Although he is willing to provide me with many stories of his past, I can’t write about that because it’s not “my” experience. I want to share my own experience in the eyes of a child (me) and let the reader decide what is what, and how I perceived everything to be as “normal”. You’ll be doi...

In a perfect world, nobody suffers over anything. There is no such thing as anxiety disorder, depression, anger, resentment or any other emotion that could possibly push us out on a ledge somewhere hoping someone, somewhere will save us; a cry for help or just a need for someone to realize: “Hey, I’m suffering over here!” But, it remains all too silent for the most part and not one person hears your cries for help, because those cries are set deep within your heart trying to make its way out. Unfortunately, most of those attempts to ‘make it out’ are indirected anger or repressed emotions that target innocent bystanders, loved ones and acquaintances. As I push forward on the anniversary of three months of sobriety, I was making my way over to AA, which is on a road that has a 25 mph limit. I was doing 35 because it’s morbidly impossible to go 25. A cop pulled me over and I tried explaining to him that I didn’t want to be late for this meeting because it was my three month mark o...

"Come on Deb, you’ll be late for school, let’s go!” “Coming! Hold up!” I said, fumbling for the rest of my stuff trying to make it out the door. The bus never came to pick me up because I lived on a mountain that was one mile high up a dirt road. My mother had to drive me down to the bus stop every morning, or I could have walked. I never walked. There were no kids my age on that hill and it was too desolate. Never mind the bear problem- the neighbor’s dogs were to be feared. My parents never let me walk that hill alone anyway. I was sixteen years old at the time and always managed a way to miss the bus. I did this purposely, because I didn’t like the kids I rode with. They all irritated me and I would isolate myself almost next to the front seat, so I wouldn’t get agitated. I always got carsick sitting on a bus for some reason, and my poor mother always ended up driving me to school. If I could catch my sister Cathy with her awesome little white pimped up Dodge Daytona to drive...