Cinderella Lives in a Bomb Shelter E-Book

Mariel Martin

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Ratgeber
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 499

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

This is a true story of a highly sensitive girl who is searching for love and faces challenges to rise above what is not love. Her memoir captivates; it is unlike any story you've ever read. Mariel is a natural-born clairvoyant with a God-given ability to 'see' into the future. She is also an empath who shares the eye-opening experiences of sensing and feeling more than other people do. Have you wondered about your own sensitivity and abilities? Insights are woven into Mariel's story for your own self-discovery. Mariel continues to 'open doors' for others. However, that didn't give her a way to escape being enslaved by her narcissistic mother. When domestic violence worsens at home, she feels the family's pain. And her mother demands she be "the helper' with a heavy load of chores. Mariel's story is not a children's fairy tale. So, what's a girl to do? Mariel continues to give the love she seeks. Awakening one night to a visitation from angels, she is rewarded. With renewed hope, Mariel holds on to her dreams to achieve a happier life. This memoir will inspire you, mature teens, survivors, and seekers who believe in the spiritual healing power of love. Visit www.Insight-MarielMartin.com.

Leseprobe

Cinderella Lives in a Bomb Shelter

A True Story of a Daughter’s Search for Love

Mariel Martin

Note to All Readers:

The author chose to use her real identity and name.

The names of family members and friends have been changed to protect their privacy. It is the intent of this memoir to portray history as accurately as possible other than changing names where it was deemed appropriate to do so.

Copyright © 2023 by Mariel Martin.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author and publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Arc Insight Publishing

10700 SW Beaverton-Hillsdale Hwy

Park Plaza West #470-6

Beaverton, Oregon 97005

www.insight-MarielMartin.com

For information about scheduling workshops, public speaking events, podcasts, or discounts on bulk purchases please contact the author at the above address or website.

First publication printing October 2023.

Amazon KDP

Editing and related support services provided by Paper Raven Books LLC

Interior Book Formatting by Jeanne

Interior font: Book Antiqua

Cover Design by Santo Roy

Baby Portrait of Mariel Martin by Loring Studios

Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER 1: BORN SENSITIVE

CHAPTER 2: THE ORPHANAGE

CHAPTER 3: SHOPPING WITH MOM

CHAPTER 4: WHERE LOVE BEGAN

CHAPTER 5: GOD GAVE ME A BABY BROTHER

CHAPTER 6: A NEW HOME

CHAPTER 7: BURNT SOLES AND MUMMY WRAPS

CHAPTER 8: BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

CHAPTER 9: A VISION OF ANGELS

CHAPTER 10: EARNING MONEY AND RESPECT

CHAPTER 11: MOM DROPPED THE BOMB

CHAPTER 12: THE BOMB SHELTER

CHAPTER 13: TOXIC TORMENT

CHAPTER 14: MY FLYING DREAMS

CHAPTER 15: THE FREEDOM OF FRESH AIR

CHAPTER 16: A STRONG LONGING FOR BELONGING

CHAPTER 17: MY NEW BEST FRIEND

CHAPTER 18: THE NEED TO RUN AWAY OR DIE

CHAPTER 19: MY FATHER’S DOWNFALL

PART TWO: THE GOOD NEWS

CHAPTER 20: SOUL AWAKENINGS

CHAPTER 21: LOVE LIFTED ME UP

CHAPTER 22: ABUSE DOES NOT DEFINE ME

CHAPTER 23: HOLD ON TIGHT TO YOUR DREAMS

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

MARIEL MARTIN AUTHOR BIO

INTRODUCTION

This is a memoir about being strong in the face of adversity. How do I know?

I am a sensitive empath who was given the cruel twisted fate of being born to a narcissistic mother. I am the one who had to remain brave in the storm of narcissistic attacks that continue to rock my world with the aftereffects of abuse. I remember every aspect clearly, especially due to how deeply I feel emotional trauma as an empath and because I am also a natural-born clairvoyant with a photographic memory. Everything began with my birth.

The ugly behavior of my mother’s narcissism began in 1952. And it only got worse. The details of everything that happened may be disturbing and even shocking to most of you. What kind of mother would do all this? You’ll find out. If you’ve lived with a narcissist, whether they were a parent or partner, it may be a little too familiar. And for some, it won’t be nearly as bad as what you went through. So, what can you do to protect your heart and mind from the pain inflicted? There is some good news about that. That’s all part of this true story that I share with you. You’ll also be joining me on a ‘magical mystical tour’ about what it's like to grow up a clairvoyant who can ‘see’ auras, ghosts, and premonitions of the future that others don’t see. I also receive visions of Angels that lift me up. I predict the experiences will lift you up too.

Stay tuned to everything here because, in addition to being on my spiritual journey with me, you’ll also receive many insights to help you on your own journey. Delve deeper into the story to receive spiritual insights and practical help for you to heal the past. This is the guidance you won’t receive anyplace else. There is also a surprise ending awaiting you. If you are like many previous readers, you will find it hard to put down this book once you start reading it.

If you are a teen, older survivor, or sensitive empath who absorbs too much of other people’s energy, this book is the perfect resource for you. And if you want to support someone who has been through experiences that wounded them, this book could help you understand how to be there for them. We are all in this together.

And, please, if you wish to lend support but have never lived with abuse yourself, please don’t ever tell a survivor, “It made you who you are.” That is the biggest lie I have ever heard!

Abuse hinders personal development, robs us of the love we deserve, affects physical health, can even lead to suicidal thoughts or actual suicide being committed, and holds each of us back from accomplishing the good that we wanted to do right from the start. It is important to realize I am not playing the victim role when I say this, just stating facts. I am releasing what never felt good. And I am releasing the wrong doings the abuser did against me because they did NOT make me who I am! I was born who I am. Much of the work I did on myself involved fighting hard to get back to being me, my true self.

Now is the time to examine how we all were conditioned to believe what was not true. Part of being on a healing journey is examining everything to separate the lies from the truth. Unlearning what was not true is the first step to finding rewards that lead to happiness and love. This book is all about finding rewards for yourself.

I was motivated to write “Cinderella Lives in a Bomb Shelter” for all the above reasons and to release the darkness into the light. Now is the time for all of us to break free from the past and the “cycles of abuse” that run through some families for generations. I discovered it certainly ran through my family.

Keep in mind that when we lift ourselves up, we lift others up with us. We can only change ourselves, yet we are all connected energetically speaking. Be that shining example that influences others to shift their awareness. I am on a mission to help you do that and to rise above the past, no matter how bad it is or was.

After so many years of being shut down and suppressed, I found my voice. I think it is important to now mention that part of my spiritual awakening occurred later, during my near-death experience (NDE). That happened in my early twenties following my childhood and teen years that I share in Cinderella Lives in a Bomb Shelter.

The close brush with death is an experience I will always treasure despite experiencing massive physical injuries that took some time to heal because it allowed me to shed some light and gain insight into what already occurred in my life. However, I don’t think I would go so far as to write a thank you note to the drunk driver who ran me off the road and almost killed me. I was pronounced ‘dead’ in the hospital yet miraculously survived to be able to live and talk about it.

I am grateful I was able to visit heaven during my NDE, which gave me a “higher education” in every sense of the word. It was also then that I was assigned to bring back healing to those in need and share what I learned on ‘the other side’. Every day I wake up grateful for having had that learning opportunity, although I first had to endure some very tough times recovering from serious physical injuries. I am here and I am glad. I was asked to return so that I could bring help to many who need it beginning with my own family.

This book is my labor of love. I wrote it from the heart. I am on a mission to help you. You might find it interesting that I started on my memoir over three years ago during the Covid-19 pandemic isolation. I hope you will join me in celebrating the publishing of my story as this: Something good can come out of something bad.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In regard to producing my first book, I wish to acknowledge all who gave me support. First, thanks go to Katarinah Mazar, my TV producer friend, who read my first draft and patiently guided me in creating the structure of my story. Next came Paper Raven Book’s senior developmental editor Colleen Tomlinson, plus their team whom I felt privileged to work with. And I am also grateful for my friends and clients who continued to encourage me and gave valuable suggestions about the cover of my book while reading the prerelease copies.

I also hold dear and wish to acknowledge my lifelong friend, Trisha (real name Patricia), who was my best friend. From the time I was twelve years old, she became my lifesaver. If it had not been for her, I probably wouldn’t still be here. Many more good things also happened in my life due to all her love and encouragement, including my applying and receiving a full-ride scholarship from the University of Hartford, which got me started on my university education and my career in counseling.

Last, and most importantly, I am grateful to you – the reader – for joining me on this spiritual journey. And double thanks to all of you who take the time to recommend my book to help a friend in need. And your book reviews are much appreciated. We are doing this journey together. Thanks for doing all that you can to “pass it forward”.

CHAPTER 1: BORN SENSITIVE

From the time I was a newborn, my mother liked to sit me down in a baby bouncy chair by the open window. The breeze blew in the fumes of diesel trains, creosote-oiled wood that held the locomotive’s iron tracks in place, and the earthy smell of sawdust piled up at the sawmill across the street.

My parents, Randy and Louise, brought me home from the General Hospital proud as could be of their tiny, but healthy, red-haired girl. We lived in the small east coast town of Plainville, Connecticut in the part of town known as Whiskey Row. Our apartment on High Street was across from the railroad tracks’ noisy electronic device that moved the position of metal rails. The sawmill was located next to the railroad tracks, and on the other side of the mill was an old rundown tavern.

It wasn’t glamorous. Vagabonds could be seen standing on the street corner, bottle in hand, hoping for a handout. But from my earliest memories I enjoyed the breeze because, without it, the combination of strong aromas from the outdoors intermingled with my parents' cigarette smoke indoors, which often caused me to cough just from inhaling the air. This formed the core of my early memories of our first home.

You might think it strange I can recall moments from my infancy. I attribute it to being born a psychic child with a photographic memory. It was easy for me to memorize details about people, places, and whatever was happening.

You might ask, “How is that possible?” The answer is simple: I was born an empath and a clairvoyant, which means “clear seeing” in French.

As an empath, I’m sensitive to other people’s emotions and absorb them as if they were my own, even when no words are spoken. It’s instinctual. I’ve always felt everything going on in my surroundings. Sharing this I hope will explain why I am able to connect with people on a deeper energetic level.

As a clairvoyant, I was enabled to sense things about each person’s future. Sometimes events I foresaw took longer than expected, but they happened. And the experiences of sensing what would come next still continues. Some people are born sensitive, and others are born clairvoyant, yet I was born with both abilities.

As an infant, ignorant of the world and unable to talk yet, but being fully observant about what I was seeing, I stored images in my mind like a catalog. I developed a photographic memory which came with my psychic abilities. Later, I would relay the images I saw. But first, I was just an infant needing to be cared for and loved.

When I was born in 1952, my parents were newlyweds just starting out in life. They had recently settled down in Plainville, happy to be married and past the worst times of the 1930s and 1940s.

Me? I was a bubbly baby despite the challenges of living with heavy smokers and inexperienced parents. I would cry to be fed. I would cry even harder if left alone. That was something my parents didn’t like about me. Otherwise, I was a happy baby girl.

My parents liked having company. Relatives visited and stayed with us. Aunts, uncles, and cousins loved to hold me and cuddle with me. I bounced up and down to the music they played on our crank-up phonograph before I could walk. I liked to dance and to entertain them.

I felt lucky to have them with me. They were very caring and noticed I had a cough. They asked my mother about my condition.

“Louise, do you think the cigarette smoke might be causing the baby to cough?” Auntie asked.

“Not at all. We leave the window open. A little smoke is okay. Besides, we have lots of love.”

She’d wink at them, grin ear to ear, and continue to cheerily puff away on her favorite brand, Lucky Strikes. She dismissed their suggestions, which made them give up, and they didn’t mention it again.

In my mother’s eighteen-year-old mind, everything was fine. My cough was of no concern to her. Being in love with my father was what she cared about. Secondly was the importance of her being the center of attention with relatives, friends, and neighbors who visited.

It’s true that the window was cracked open to bring in more air to breathe. That gave some relief, but not enough for me, or anyone else, for it to be healthy. She and my father were constantly lighting up. Encouraging them to change their habit of chain-smoking was as hopeless as expecting a cat to become a dog.

On warmer days, there was very little breeze, but lots of humidity, which made matters worse with the stench thickening in intensity before it seeped into the apartment. My parents were oblivious to it or downright ignored it. I learned later that smoking dulls your sense of smell making it practically nonexistent. They certainly weren’t going to squander money on a fan they considered a luxury item.

A consequence of their habit was that my parents woke up with a smoker’s cough every morning. I did too. They were uneducated regarding health hazards. However, at some point, you might have thought common sense would have kicked in. You didn’t have to be a rocket scientist to notice the obvious symptoms that came from breathing in too much tobacco smoke. Still, they thought it was normal. It is amazing how the mind can bend reality to believe whatever we tell it. And the body learns to tolerate it no matter how bad a habit is for us health-wise.

Visiting friends and family members didn’t like the secondhand smoke any better than I did. Adults choking on secondhand smoke were ignored too. They encouraged my parents to quit, which didn’t go over real big. Suggestions to cut down weren’t a big hit either, as they had a three-pack-a-day habit. Heck. They were heavily addicted. Habits can be hard to give up. Especially true about cigarettes. Relatives referred to it as “that wicked habit.”

But remember, it was 1952. Smoking was common. And so, my parents simply opened the windows wider to accommodate company and me. However, this only let in more of the stench from outside. And in winter this made the apartment colder. What started as my morning cough soon developed into asthma. There was no easy solution. I, of course, had no say in the matter. Especially since I wasn’t even talking yet. And, unless I was dying, or appeared to be close to death, my mother was reluctant to take me to the doctor.

My parents were young and low on cash. Spare money went to buying booze and cigarettes, not items to make our home more comfortable, nor were doctor visits for me a priority. With all the pressure from work and life in general, they were a bit edgy and defended their habit, claiming it calmed them down. Maybe it did, or maybe they were just making excuses for their addiction.

My mother liked to place me in the swing-seat on the back porch outdoors.

Manually, she’d crank up the swing for it to glide back and forth automatically. There, I felt content swinging back and forth. I also enjoyed the cigarette-free breeze. I came to prefer being outdoors in the fresh air for many reasons.

The big back porch was my happy place because I was able to avoid absorbing my family’s emotions and the carcinogenic smoke. Being born an empath meant I felt everything the adults around me were feeling. Their emotions just flowed to me as if I had a built-in radar. It was like being a holding tank for telepathic transmissions of their feelings that were received, then stored inside of me as if they were my own. Overwhelmed by their emotions, the outdoors provided a breather for me.

I also loved being outside because I enjoyed birds flying around me. My little chirpy bird-friends were happy and didn’t carry frustrations or other feelings humans carry. Adult drama frustrated me. I preferred listening to the song of sparrows nested in the porch rafters. I loved being around them.

Often, being in the swing on the back porch lulled me to sleep, which freed my mother to do other things. She never liked to hold me. She was a cold woman. She didn’t like to interact with me, but diligently took care of my physical needs to be fed, bathed, diapers changed, and put to bed. At best, it can be said she tolerated me.

Instead of my mother lovingly cuddling me like I wanted, she avoided holding me and preferred to hand me off to my father or relatives. When I cried, she was detached and unfeeling toward me. In response, I clung to her, desperate to let her know how much I needed her. Even with my cute coos and gurgles, nothing seemed to win over my mother. I never did receive the love I pined for.

Around her I was a fussy baby. She did not understand that my entire mood was reflecting back to her how annoyed she was with me. She blocked her heart off from me, and I could feel that she didn’t want me. I picked up her feelings as early as I can remember.

I preferred being with my father who was affectionate. He wanted to be with me and loved playing with me. He liked to bounce me up and down on his knee. He fully expressed how much he loved me and that he was thrilled to have me as his little girl. He also danced with me in his arms and gave me piggyback rides on his shoulders. There was no shortage of fun and love when it came to being with my dad. He was the affectionate parent and was pleased that I looked like a female version of him. I had his same big brown eyes, long luscious eyelashes, and a full head of curly red hair. His loving nature and enthusiasm for being with me made me happy. He was proud of how smart I was and liked to brag about me to everyone.

However, he worked during the day as a journeyman carpenter, so I spent most of my days on the back porch.

At one year old, I was allowed to play by myself outside on the back porch. When I cried out for my mother, she would come and let me back inside. Otherwise, I was on my own. Much of the time, I was lonely because there were no children for me to play with. I was often left there all afternoon until my father came home.

The back-alley porch stimulated my senses with an interesting blend of aromas from the various ethnic families cooking nearby. Spices and the smell of cooked kielbasa sausages were prevalent, and sometimes masked the diesel fumes and sawmill odors that were produced out front of our building. There were other cooking smells too, like that of Hungarian goulash stew with lots of garlic and onions left simmering on the stove. We lived in an ethnically diverse community. The aromas from meals being prepared, and the variety of sounds surrounding our home, heightened my awareness of my senses. And those smells still bring up memories of my early days.

Then there was also the noise. Ongoing all hours was the chugga-chugga-chugga and clickity-clack-clack on the train tracks. This got my attention first. Next came the big flatbed trucks rumbling down the street hauling away newly sawed planks of wood from the mill to their destination. And the sawmill’s whirring buzz of blades ripping through timber logs added high-pitched background noise from six a.m. to closing time six days a week. I listened intently, trying to make sense of what all the noises were. The memory is so strong of my early days that any time I encounter a familiar sound or smell, it triggers me, and I’m transported back to my earlier days of childhood. I relive it in every sense of the word.

At first, when I was so little that I could not see anything over the porch railing or window, I’d just listen to learn what was going on around me. I even learned to anticipate the freight train’s hourly whistle every time it crossed the intersection’s switching station.

I had a heightened awareness of senses that included a strong sixth sense that helped me prepare for things before they happened. Other times, I was sensitively picking up on everyone’s emotions, which felt overwhelming and caused me to cry. It was not easy being born an empath. No one understood my sensitivities, including how loud noise was aggravating to me. I believe it is a challenge all empaths have. The worst sound was that of my parents yelling at each other. This upset me greatly. My parents didn’t understand why their yelling brought me to tears and loud wailing. I could feel the pain they were carrying.

I learned much later that I was born an empath. At the time, all I knew was that I felt other people’s emotions and physical pain as if they were my own. When they were angry, or unhappy, I felt it too. When they were feeling joyful, so was I! All my senses were heightened.

I thought this was a natural part of being connected to people I loved. I didn’t know how to detach from their emotions. This proved to be a tremendous ordeal for me, as it is for any highly sensitive child. I compare it to being a soft-boiled egg without a shell. Others have a protective shell that repels emotions for them to bounce off. Empaths do not have the benefit of a protective shield. Therefore, I was more exposed and vulnerable and felt overwhelmed, but was helpless to do anything about it.

I longed to be immersed in an ocean of happiness and liked to make people smile so we could all be happy together. Unfortunately, when my parents had fights into the wee hours of the morning, I was a restless sleeper. I had sleep deprivation even in my infancy.

Growing up so sensitive with no one understanding how overwhelmed I felt led to temper tantrums. My tantrums were out of frustration that they just didn’t understand me.

When I got older, I developed good listening skills—partly out of a curiosity to gain a greater understanding of people. And paying close attention to how things were said, I found humor in that there were two types of mills next to one another where we lived. Each of the two had completely different purposes. There was the gin mill with the sign on the front of the tavern that proclaimed it was The Paragon. The other mill, located next to it, sawed wood.

Thankfully, the gin mill was quieter than its industrial neighbor next door. The only exceptions to this were the occasional fistfights that occurred outside when someone had too much to drink. Or, on a happier note, I would hear someone singing out their favorite tune in an off-key drunken slur of words. There was never a dull moment in our neighborhood.

Later, adults informed me that The Paragon played an important part in the history of our town. During the era of liquor prohibition, it was one of the illegal drinking establishments. ‘Gin mill’ was a slang word used for bars and taverns back then. The Paragon was that kind of place.

Originally, it was a small general store where bootlegged liquor had been smuggled in and out the back door. That was during the 1920s. In the 1950s, it was still a popular hangout for factory workers, construction workers, and World War veterans who all liked to drink. Occasionally, women joined them. Mostly, old men occupied the place.

From the outside, it was a dilapidated, ramshackle, rundown wooden building with green peeling paint that made it look like it needed to be torn down. Weeds grew out of the sidewalk cracks in front of the building. However, to the drinkers who nestled up to the bar inside, it was a revered institution.

Initially, I became acquainted with the tavern from our apartment window. I was tremendously curious about everything. I liked seeing the bright blinking lights of the ‘Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer on Tap’ neon sign in their window. I was always fascinated by lights, but even more by people-watching. There were always interesting people coming and going at all hours.

I remember The Paragon well because by the time I was one year old, my father would take me there with him when he would visit his drinking buddies. The tavern was nicer inside, but smokey. It had an eight-foot-long mahogany bar and six tables on the floor that were always occupied. No food was served, but you could buy bags of chips or peanuts to munch while drinking. And it had a Wurlitzer jukebox, two pinball machines, and a dartboard on the wall.

While my father was there enjoying a PBR draft on tap, he’d put me up on the bar, then pick a song to play from the music machine’s menu. Standing up on the bar, wearing my cute little dress and patent leather shoes, I’d dance to the music while the kindly old men, who were his veteran drinking buddies, oohed and ahh-ed over my cuteness.

I loved the attention and was having the time of my life! No doubt about it, there was a side of me that was a bit of a show-off just like my father.

Besides the old men, occasionally, a couple of women in the bar would come over to hug me, but my father would shoo them away.

“She’s just like Shirley Temple. She could be in the movies!” two women commented in unison.

“They’re just old floozies. Ignore them,” my father muttered under his breath as he pushed them away from me. In the past, the women had tried to hustle him for free drinks; he didn’t trust them. He was protective and wouldn’t let anyone touch me.

That’s the fun we had on Saturdays, for about a year, until I was about two. Then my mother found out. She returned home early from shopping for groceries, looked out the window for us, and spied us coming out of the tavern across the street. There was no denying where we had been. Plus, my father smelled of beer and whiskey. My mother caught him red-handed with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

She gave him hell for taking me there. There wasn’t much he could say to defend himself. I just wished she had not ended our good times with ‘the boys’ as my father called them. I liked the crew of characters in the bar.

The early days of having fun with my father still play out in my memory. The scolding my mother gave him when we arrived home is also something I remember vividly.

“Don’t you drink enough at home? And now you stoop so low that you’re bringing our daughter to that dive? What’s wrong with you?!”

“Well, uh, it seemed okay. No harm done.”

“Randy, it’s a wolf den full of drunks and loose women. What were you thinking?!”

She, herself, did not like going to bars, especially not there. She banned my father from ever taking me to the tavern again. Of course, no one asked me what I wanted or liked. Now that our going there was banned, I missed dancing on the bar for old men. When it came to my upbringing, my mother always had the last word. Later, when my father had me with him while we ran errands, he would run into one of his bar buddies on the street. During their friendly conversation, they would inquire about us.

“Hey, Randy, how come we haven’t seen you at the bar for a while? How’s the little one?”

He was good-natured about her calling all the shots. He’d simply say, “Well, I caught hell from my wife for bringing my daughter there. Got to keep the little Mrs. happy, you know.”

My mother insisted on making all the rules about how I was raised and disciplined. And she insisted on controlling my father’s behavior too. My father always seemed to accept that my mother was the one calling the shots.

CHAPTER 2: THE ORPHANAGE

My parents’ marriage had always been combustible. My mother told me mutual friends introduced them knowing she wanted to get married. My father was the small town’s most eligible bachelor. He was a handsome guy, with a great sense of humor, larger than life, and he was well-liked in the community. Six years older than my mother, he was a veteran who had just completed his military duty in the Second World War and was successfully employed as a journeyman carpenter.

He was also quite the ladies’ man. Maybe friends introduced them because they thought my mother would help him settle down. He worked hard, but it was also known that he liked to party a little too much.

What they shared, besides a strong physical attraction for each other, was a common dream of wanting a family. Plus, both were French Canadian and Catholic, had lived in the same small town in Maine, and were smart people with ambition. But, other than that, they were total opposites in their personalities.

Initially, they had a long-distance relationship. On Fridays, my father would take the Greyhound bus or hitch a ride back to the small town up north. He was a very devoted son who made time to see his mother and siblings while dating.

Then, on Sunday night, my father would return to Connecticut where he rented a room in a boarding house. He lived there until he got kicked out when the mattress in his room caught fire because he had dozed off while smoking in bed. Then he moved to another room for rent. Mondays, regardless of where he lived, he’d get up early and catch a ride with a buddy to work.

Later, I was told by relatives that initially, my father dated other women besides my mother. But, as my mother explained it, she fully captured his attention and became his main interest. From the very beginning, they shared the feeling of being in love.

My parents had a whirlwind courtship and got married six months after meeting. Turns out that my mother left out important details about their fast engagement and marriage, which she no doubt did to save herself the embarrassment. I learned the whole truth, later, from my Aunt Tammy that my mother thought she was pregnant and told Randy that with a baby on the way, she hoped they would get married.

That sped up their wedding date. My father didn’t want her father to come after him with a shotgun, which most likely would have happened if he hadn’t agreed to wed my mother to protect her reputation.

Aunt Tammy further elaborated that my mother’s pregnancy turned out to be a false alarm. However, they were already married by the time this was figured out. Possibly it was her scheme to get my father to make a commitment, which, of course, was not something my mother would have wanted me, or anyone else, to know.

My aunt then went on to share that it appeared to everyone they were so in love that her false alarm about being pregnant really didn’t matter. But this bit of their history helped explain why they maybe weren’t the perfect match for each other because they barely knew each other when they got married. They argued a lot.

One might wonder if she made up a lie about being pregnant to entrap him. Yet my mother being so young and naïve at seventeen probably didn’t know if she was or wasn’t ‘with child.’ What it did tell me is that she gave up her virginity before marriage, which was considered a serious sin in her Catholic religion. Therefore, this was a detail she would never share with me. She attended church faithfully and wanted everyone to see her as a devout Catholic, and in that religion, sex before marriage is expressly forbidden.

Later, when I was about five years old, my mother told me she had been eager to be a mother. She told me she had been a Novitiate Nun but left the convent on the day of her final vows because she wanted to have children and get married.

Hearing this, I was puzzled how she could tell me that she always wanted children, then act like she didn’t want me. That same day, she admitted she hated being in the convent and was desperate to get away from that life. I wondered if escaping her strict religious order as a nun was her greater motivation.

Being exceptionally observant and bright for my age, I noticed a contradiction between her words and actions, but I just listened and stored it away in my thoughts.

In November 1954, I was two-and-a-half years old, staying home with my mother. My father was also home, as he was temporarily laid off from construction during the winter. A blizzard kept us cooped up inside for the day. By then my parents had bought a car but weren’t going to drive it in the snow. They stayed home and lazed around all afternoon drinking alcohol. They loved drinking their ‘seven and sevens,’ a drink made of whiskey with 7Up soda or ginger ale. Everything appeared to be lovey-dovey between them when they put me to bed about 9:00 p.m. I slept. Then, in the middle of the night, I was awoken from a sound slumber by my parents' yelling.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I pushed back the covers, climbed out over the railings of my crib, and lowered myself onto the floor. I had become adept at this at two. I tiptoed into the living room to see what the commotion was all about.

Standing there as a silent observer, I saw my mother grab at the whiskey bottle my father held tightly in his right hand. He used his other hand to grab hold of the back of her hair and yanked her head backwards to stop her from stealing the bottle of booze that he felt he was entitled to.

Like a machine gun going off, their nasty argument rang through the air. I watched as my mother screamed and reached upward to pry his fingers from her hair while he kept pulling her head backward.

“Randy! Stop!”

“Fuck you!”

“Give me that bottle!”

“Fuckin’ bitch!”

“Shut up! I’ve had enough of your drinking!”

“You cunt! Leave me alone!”

“Don’t talk to me like that! Give me that bottle now!”

“Like hell, I will!”

This wasn’t the first time their fighting erupted into yelling and physical violence. As usual, it woke me up. I stood there in the doorway unnoticed.

I listened and observed. Then, being the sensitive empathic child that I was, I felt their anguish pour into me like there was a funnel taking their energy into the top of my head, then into my body.

My hair roots hurt, and my neck felt strained as if my head had been jerked back. I knew they must both be hurting because I was in such pain with them. I was like a sponge—as empaths are—and I absorbed all their emotions without wanting to.

Feeling helpless, I stood there crying while being engulfed with their emotions of rage. Every part of my body ached because I couldn’t help but take it all into me. Their yelling also produced painful ringing in my ears and nausea in the pit of my stomach.

A tug-of-war ensued between the two of them over who would hold onto the bottle of whiskey. They both had been drinking, and she, as usual, was the instigator who started the battle. She tugged at the bottle. And he, in a battle of wills, held on tighter. He then lost his balance, and, taking her with him, they both fell over onto the hardwood floor. He was too drunk to stand up.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey splashed all over them like they were getting baptized in it. Their battle of wills continued. She was the one that got soaked through her nightgown down to her skin.

They locked arms and wrestled on the floor like two barroom brawlers. Neither would give up the fight to relinquish control of the booze even though the bottle was now empty. Watching them entwined like two wild raging dogs, my father held on to what he deemed was his. They rolled back and forth on the hard wooden floor while they pushed and pawed at each other. Wrestling on the ground, I watched my mother scratch and bite her way out of my father’s arms as the violence got uglier. He had pulled out clumps of her hair in his effort to get her to stop.

My father, who was now on all fours, crawled and grunted incoherently, “Grrr. Grrr.”

He then crawled to the corner where he passed out from being too drunk. My mother stood up. Her eyes were glassy from having drunk too much alcohol. Neither was aware I was there. Her clothes, drenched by whiskey, clung to her protruding pregnant belly. She was eight months pregnant and smelled like she had just bathed in booze and sweat.

That night, my mother won the battle. She’d won by getting her hands on the bottle of booze and smashing it on the floor, where it shattered into a million pieces of broken glass. In their state of madness, they were oblivious to everything around them! For anyone who has grown up in domestic violence, this might be all too familiar.

She picked up a couple pieces of the shattered glass bottle and walked by me as if I was invisible. She deposited the glass in the kitchen trash.

“How disgusting!” she exclaimed, looking down at her whiskey-soaked nightgown.

Ignoring my father, who was sprawled on the floor sleeping it off, she left him there. Then looking up, she noticed me standing there.

“Go to bed,” was all she said.

She knew I could climb back over the crib railing to get back to bed and made no effort to assist or comfort me. Now that the violence had stopped, I climbed up to go back to my crib. I cried myself to sleep. I was a witness to this more times than I care to count. It felt like we were all in a bad dream.

It wasn’t obvious to me at first, but eventually, I noticed my mother was the one who started the fights. She’d nag my father—finding fault with everything he did—until he couldn’t take it anymore. Her criticism led him to drink more heavily. And, if he dared drink without first asking for her permission, that got her yelling at him for sure. Their back-and-forth arguments turned vicious and erupted into violence. She knew how to ruin a perfectly nice day we could have been enjoying together.

As the little girl witnessing their disagreements, I felt like I was caught in the middle. I heard every word and every curse while they attempted to throttle each other. I was so sensitive; their emotions made my heart pound hard as painful emotions bounced inside of my head like ping-pong balls hitting the inside of my forehead temples, which caused me to have a throbbing headache. I didn’t know what to do to cope with being an empath who absorbed too much of their intensity.

Every Saturday night, I felt on edge as I waited for the next bad burst of fighting to begin. While nodding off to sleep, I’d receive a premonition in a half- awake state that something bad was about to happen.

The fights usually started after midnight. Sometimes in the living room, other times in their bedroom. I was in my own bedroom next to theirs. I was pulled into the situation whether I wanted to be there or not because I felt the tension as emotions escalated. I’d jump out of bed to see what I could do.

My sixth sense worked—whether awake or asleep. It accurately warned me when their fighting was about to break out or when something else was about to happen. When I was afraid that my father’s punches might permanently wound my mother, I’d courageously jump in between them to stop him from swinging at her. He’d stop to avoid hitting me. I knew my father didn’t want to hurt me, and so I became my mother’s protector, even though I knew it was all her fault.

I screamed, “Mom! Dad! Stop! You’re hurting each other!” Crying, I’d plead, “Stop! Stop! Please don’t fight!”

For years, I was forced to handle this situation on my own. No police were ever called.

I’d stand there, appalled to see such craziness in my parents. I wept for my mother as I watched her stand up, battered and bruised. I wept for my father, too, who had been scratched and bitten and was now passed out. And I wept for myself, but that came last.

I was an emotional mess and would cry heavily. All their emotions drained into me as if I were their holding tank.

Thankfully, things were quieter the next morning after that horrible November night. First thing, she came into my room and dressed me before lowering me onto the floor to explore on my own. Then she went into the kitchen. A short while later, I followed her there and stood next to her while she was at the stove cooking bacon and eggs. I wrapped my arms around her legs and clung to her. We all wanted to get back to normalcy. I hadn’t slept well and was still upset about what I had witnessed the night before.

She attempted to ignore me as she stood at the stove cooking breakfast. She had showered and was still in a clean nightgown, pink bathrobe, and fuzzy slippers.

The smell of bacon, eggs, and toast wafted through the air. Next, I watched her remove the toast she had placed in the oven and put it on a plate. She looked tired and frazzled. Dark circles under her eyes showed she wasn’t looking well.

“Mommy, hold me,” I whined.

But she was certainly in no mood for my whining. I wanted her to comfort me and tell me everything would be alright.

“Go bug your dad. I’m busy cooking,” she insisted while she pried my little fingers off her.

“Mommy! Mommy!” I cried even harder, desperate for attention.

Meanwhile, my father sat in his chair at the kitchen table looking very hungover. He ignored her comment that directed me to him and sat there drinking coffee my mother had poured for him. He smelled bad, like he had peed on himself. I didn’t want to go near him. He avoided eye contact with me. The feeling I had of wanting to avoid him was mutual.

Feeling unwanted, I left the kitchen to quietly find comfort lying on the living room floor with my box of crayons to color in my coloring book. All was peaceful for the moment while the delicious smell of bacon, eggs, and toast continued to waft through the air.

Out of the blue, my mother then shouted at my father, “Randy, go shower. Go change your clothes. Then take her away like I told you to do last week. I’ve had enough of her crying!”

My father nodded, then did as she commanded. First, he went into the bathroom to shower. Upon returning, he swooped me up into his arms, then put me back down on my feet by the coat rack. Hurriedly, he pulled on my coat, then knit cap. He left the ties under the chin undone, even though they were there to prevent my hat from blowing off in the wind.

Picking me up, he then headed with me toward the front door like we were rushing out of a house on fire. It became obvious my father was compelled to take me somewhere.

“Save breakfast for me. Will ya? I’ll be back soon,” my father said as he rushed out the door with me. Everything was so hurried that none of us had eaten the breakfast that had been cooked.

“I’ll call and let them know you are coming,” my mother called back at him.

Evidently, it had all been prearranged by my mother. I had no idea what lay ahead.

Then my father, holding me tightly in his arms, opened the front door and ran down the two flights of stairs to the car parked out front in the driveway. He plopped me down in the front seat of his car as if I was a sack of potatoes. This was only the third time I’d ridden in the car, so I thought we must be heading to something important since we were going out on this blizzardy day.

The landlord had already shoveled the sidewalk, and the city had plowed the street, so the roads were clear enough to drive. My father got behind the wheel, drove over the bumpy railroad tracks, and away we went. I squirmed around in the front seat as I was not wearing a seatbelt.

“Sit still,” my father commanded.

I did. He had never been that stern with me before. Now I was filled with fear and began crying again. A bad feeling came over me, and I became afraid of where he was taking me.

“Stop your crying!” he commanded next with a sharp anxious tone.

He was speaking so coldly toward me. I froze. Still, my sobbing continued as the tears rolled down my cheeks, and I had a runny nose. We drove cross-town up West Main Street past buildings I’d never seen before. I had an acute visual memory of places we’d been.

About twenty minutes later, we drove up the winding switchbacks of a steep road, and I started wailing because I was afraid about our unknown destination. I couldn’t stop crying despite being fearfully aware that I was disobeying my father’s orders.

Sitting in the front seat, I wiped my runny nose on my coat sleeve and wished we could just turn around and go home. The radio continued to blare out the latest news, including a weather forecast of more snow on the way. My father then brought the car to a screeching halt on the top of the hill. He parked in front of a big grey building with tall cement columns on both sides of the steps that led up to the entrance.

Dad abruptly turned off the radio to inform me, “I’m taking you to the orphanage. Your mother is sick of your crying. Sick of it! Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“And, if you don’t stop, this is where you’ll be living. You’ll never see your mother and me again! You understand?"

“Yes, Daddy.”

“You better be on your best behavior! Here’s my hanky. Wipe your nose. Then we’ll go in.”

What alarmed me most was the icy delivery of his threat. It was so unlike him. It resembled the tone my mother used with me. I could tell he was upset. But for what? Was he upset about me or her?

I was reduced to whimpering like a puppy about to be abandoned at a dog pound. Yes, I cried. It was true I cried every time they fought. So did my mother.

What little girl doesn’t cry when she is unhappy about something? Mommy cries. She doesn’t get sent away for it, I thought in my little kid mind.

Tears flowed down my cheeks, and my hungry tummy growled uncomfortably from having missed breakfast. And perhaps it was reacting to all the emotions of fear I pushed down into my stomach. My eyes were wide as golf balls as I watched to see what he would do next.

I was heartbroken by his being so unkind as to threaten that they’d abandon me. I cried that he would not protect me. Floodgates of fear-inducing adrenaline filled my body. I felt like running away but had nowhere to run to. All the surroundings were unfamiliar and scary. And at two-and-half years old, I also knew I could not run far.

With an intense apprehension of the future, my gut feeling turned into a stomachache that caused me to gulp back vomit. I kept sobbing, and this turned into hiccupping with sobbing.

I looked around at the snowy, cold landscape outside. I wished again that I had my soft pink kitty blanket with me to hold onto for security. But I didn’t. My young mind couldn’t wrap itself around the possibility of never seeing them again. I wiped my nose on his handkerchief that he had handed me and left the snot-filled cloth on the seat. I was afraid to say anything.

My father looked very somber; his mouth was downturned into a pout. I kept my eyes glued on him as I watched him walk over to my passenger door. Opening it, he leaned over and lifted me out of my seat into his arms. Strong winds grabbed at us both and almost swept off my hat that had been left untied. My father quickly caught it one-handed before it sailed away and stuffed it into his pocket. The cold wind rang in my ears.

Up in his arms, I held onto him and noticed we were parked on a high cliff that was way above buildings and a winding road far below. I felt chilled to the bone, not so much from being out in the cold, snowy winter weather, but out of fear of what was coming next. We approached a gray, granite, ominous-looking building. I felt petrified.

Without saying a word, he carried me up the short flight of stairs as I stared all around me. My father then rang the doorbell. We waited five minutes, only it seemed like an eternity. No one answered.

He rang it again, even pressing the button twice. We waited another five minutes. Still, no one came as the wind picked up pace. He then knocked loudly on the tall wooden door in a third attempt to be admitted. Our patience was rewarded.

A tall stern woman answered my father’s knock on the door. She let us in.

“You must be Mr. Martin,” she said.

“Yes,” was all he said.

“And this is the little one you’re bringing to us?” she inquired.

“Yes. This is my daughter, Mariel. My wife told you we were coming?”

“Yes. She did. I was just on the phone with her. Come on in. We don’t always see people this quickly,” she said to explain her delay in answering the door.

Once inside, he quickly put me back down on the marble floors. I craned my neck, looking up at the tall ceilings and the expansiveness of the hallway. I had been so startled by him quickly setting me on the floor that I started hiccupping again, which both adults ignored.

“I’ll give you a tour," she offered. “I’m Mrs. Warren, headmistress of the orphanage.”

Reaching up, I tugged on my father’s coat sleeve. “Daddy, I have to pee.”

“The girls' room is right there.” Mrs. Warren pointed. “You can take her in there. The kids are all at school right now. No one is around.”

There were two doors with frosted glass and writing on them. I was too young to read, but noticed the writing was different on each door. Dad took me in to through the first door that said, “Girls' Room.” Then we went inside to the first stall, and I marveled at how there were multiple toilets and sinks in one room.

“Go ahead in the first one,” he said. “I will wait by the sinks.”

At first, it felt like I had to pee badly. I was able to pull down my tights and ‘big girl’ panties, then use both my tiny hands and arms to pull me up onto the toilet. No one thought of what a struggle it was for a tiny girl like me to reach the toilet seat. It was also my first time in a stall with metal walls which felt slightly claustrophobic, and the disturbing feeling made it hard for me to pee at all. Only a trickle came out.

I finished and managed to pull my panties and tights back up and walked out of the stall. By that time, my hiccups had stopped. I also had stopped crying but was still sniffling.

“Here. Wipe your nose on this,” my father offered, handing me a paper towel. Then my father picked me up to wash my hands. I was too little to reach.

We went back into the hall, and that’s when I noticed that the building smelled of ammonia and rubbing alcohol. I wrinkled my nose. I didn’t like how this place smelled at all. I felt uncomfortable. The place looked barren and felt creepy to me.

Next, we entered the first long room, on the right. It had a line of twin beds on each wall. All of them had grey wool blankets covering the neatly made beds in this bland white room. Only one black-and-white framed picture of an old man wearing wire-rimmed glasses dressed in a black suit hung on the wall. There were no other decorations and no toys. No chairs or bookshelves either.

“This is the boys' room,” Mrs. Warren informed us as she continued. “The next room you’ll see is the girls’ room. It also houses twenty children. And, yes, there is a vacancy for another child, just like I told your wife on the phone.”

My father nodded back at her during each key point she made but was more interested in looking all around and kept eyeing the exit door.

Next, we walked into the girls' room, which was equally barren as the boys’ sleeping quarters but had pink wool blankets instead of grey. Both quarters were neatly made up, but sparsely furnished. And there were no toys, no books. A closet was at one end of the room to hold clothes.

Mrs. Warren continued as we walked in, “The children here are between the ages of three and sixteen. You say your daughter is three?” she asked for confirmation. I was two-and-half years old, but my father nodded his head.

“She looks pretty tiny for her age if you ask me,” she replied with a wee bit of suspicion about my age. “We would feed her well. She would grow.”

It was true that I was tiny for my age, weighing only thirty-five pounds, despite having a hearty appetite and plenty to eat at home.

“She’s three,” my father lied, then responded, “That’s good you feed kids well.” “There is a little waiting area with benches by the window. Sometimes the parents visit their children here. The fourth room is where the two staff members sleep who watch over the children. We are strict with them, so they all behave while living here. Most of them are wardens of the state, but we do have a few from families like you that aren’t able to raise them,” Mrs. Warren let us know.

Closed windows were above the first row of beds on the farthest wall. I looked around curiously and couldn’t understand why there were so many beds in each room. I listened to every word she said as if my life depended on it. I hoped to gain a clue about what we were doing there. I hoped we would leave soon.

Then Mrs. Warren continued the tour taking us to the music room which had hardwood floors, an upright piano, and wooden chairs against the wall. “Some of the children take music lessons. And we teach them to sing,” she added.

Next, she took us to the end of the hall where there was a huge dining hall with long tables and benches and a big kitchen behind it. We did not go to the upper floor or basement.

“Well, that is how we are set up,” Mrs. Warren informed my father as we all walked back to the hall.

“Any questions? I can give you a paper on our financial requirements,” she offered.

“We can do that later,” my father responded.

“You are leaving her with us this afternoon?” she asked, attempting to close in on the deal.

“Yes. And I think you answered my questions for now,” my father replied.

He took my hand and put it in Mrs. Warren's, which greatly surprised me. Her hand felt clammy and cold and not at all welcoming. Then, grinning ear to ear, my father smiled at me like a clever cat who swallowed the canary. He darted out the door and was gone in a flash.

The cold winter breeze filled the hallway, slamming the door behind him. No warning! No goodbye. No nothing!

With cruel intent, he left me with the stranger. Feeling abandoned and fearing he would never return for me, I stood there sobbing and hiccupping. Choked with emotion, I struggled to stop the hiccups. I still remember the pain filling my body, from stomach to throat. It hurts to even think about it now.

“You can sit on the chair by the window,” Mrs. Warren offered. She took me by the hand to the small bench next to the girls' dormitory-style sleeping quarters. I started crying again.

“Here. Take this,” she offered. “This will help your hiccups if you gulp it all at once.”

She handed me a glass of milk and set a small plate of sugar cookies next to me on a small table where I sat. Then, out of her left pocket, she grabbed a handful of tissues that she brought for my snotty dripping nose. My tiny fingers took them from her hand, as she towered over me. I used them to replace my coat sleeve that I had been wiping my nose on.

The stern woman smiled at me briefly, then walked away, leaving me to my own solitude for a couple hours. I felt like a lost puppy with no home and nowhere to roam. Yet I did not whimper or whine like a puppy because there was nobody who would hear me. I silently munched the cookies and wondered what would become of me next.

I wondered, Are the cookies served as kind of a last supper for me? Will I be locked up?

The old radiators hissed steam as if they were answering me. I felt so unloved being left at the orphanage. I tried to figure out why my mother and father did not want me.