I was born at six months gestation to parents caught in the bondage of alcohol.

I spent the first month in the NICU. My under-developed lungs at birth caused health problems that affect me even today.

Even though the doctors told my mom to quit smoking for my health, she wouldn't. She continued smoking two packs a day, every day.

I spent most of my early school years bouncing back from this weird place called school, home, and what I was beginning to consider my real home: the hospital ER and my allergist's office.

Back then, it was fashionable to smoke and to drink. There were hardly any health warnings. I remember seeing cigarette ads everywhere: magazines, bus stops, even on TV.

My parents' drinking problems were worse than the smoking.

Dad was a quiet drunk. He would get tired and want to go to bed.

Mom was another story. She was an angry drunk.

They'd fight every single night. Verbally and emotionally mostly, but sometimes physically.

They would get home from work and have two Old Fashioneds (bourbon, bitters, soda water on the rocks).

Then it was a beer or two before dinner.

At dinner, it was wine or another beer—and never just one.

After dinner, it was the aperitifs: Grand Marnier, B&B, or brandy.

So by the time the clock struck nine, they were raring to go. I can't even go into it, it hurts so much.

They would bring up things that happened before I was born and fight all night. They'd throw whiskey bottles at each other. They'd blame my sister for their marriage, because dad got mom pregnant out of wedlock and they did the "honorable" thing.

Honorable—not! Ruining your two children's lives with this disaster you called a marriage is not honorable. Blaming your eldest because she was born for your poor choices in life is not honorable. Locking your children out of the house, beating them until a hairbrush breaks, and calling them horrible names that no one should ever be called is not honorable.

I have a few very early memories. My earliest one relates to my illnesses and is in the short story I wrote called Oxygen. My next earliest memory was when I was two and my sister was three. Mom and Dad were fighting—of course. They were screaming and yelling at each other. I remember my mom was standing outside our front door and my dad was inside. I was behind my dad. They had my sister stretched out between them, pulling her from one side to the other.

That was just one of many nights.

We hated the holidays. Vacation from school was terror at home. Mom was usually off from work, and the drinking started as soon as the coffee was drained in the morning. Bloody Marys, beers, Old Fashioneds, Whiskey, Wine, Brandy. And with the alcohol came the fights.

My sister and I grew up afraid to make a single mistake, afraid to talk to strangers (including kids in our own classes) in case they found out how messed up our lives really were, afraid to tell anyone what was really going on, afraid to look anyone in the eye.

Why? Because we were the untouchables at all three schools we attended from nursery to high school. People knew there was something wrong with us. We knew it was our own fault.

On top of it all, with my multiple illnesses, I struggled socially. Finding friends was hard to do. My first and second sets I found bullied me. I didn't realize until later that I was only in the group so they could mock me behind my back, laugh at me when I tried to run, lock me in a closet at slumber parties, and call me mean names. But deep down I wanted to belong to something, even if it were those horrible people I called friends.

I hated my life. I didn't think anyone had happy lives except the Brady Bunch on TV. If I hadn't been told what I'm about to share with you in the next chapter, I wouldn't be here today. If my parents hadn't done me in, I would have done it myself.

But God was merciful and loving.

He saved me.    

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