So. About tools. There are several I am going to share. And I need to start with maybe the most important one, at least for me. If I had this one, I could hang in long enough to use all the other tools that would come.
Attitude
“The girl in the navy sweatshirt…softly asked, ‘How did you not give up?’”
“By realizing that giving up would mean giving in to the narrative that was written for me by my circumstances, by other people’s choices and mistakes.”
Daria Burke, Of My Own Making
If I were forced to pick just one quality in me that helped save me in that house, and continues to fuel my healing now, I think I would choose “Attitude.”
The true and full answer for how I survived is a whole lot more complex. In reality, it was a swirling mix of so many individual happenings over my life that came together in just the right way, at just the right moment. And without that, I wouldn’t be here. I consider it just as miraculous as how the dense, hot, swirling chaos of dust and rock from the Big Bang gave us a nurturing, life-sustaining Earth. A long shot.
But that one quality, “attitude,” is the closest word I can think of, because in the end, that is what often gets someone through — how they view something, what drives them, what gives them a lifeline to hang on to.
The word salad of survival
For sure, my attitude is built from so many more words, each one contributing to my long-shot survival and eventual thriving.
There were people – from my husband, therapists, my wonderful high school teacher, family friends, and even strangers who, in a momentary crossing of paths, gave me the sustenance I needed to keep going.
There was God, even during the times I hated Him or Her. All during those daily Masses, that young me was deeply listening to the Gospel stories of how God takes care of everyone, even the lilies of the field and birds of the sky. I absorbed those words and held on for dear life.
There was even just plain blind ignorance. And I don’t mean that as a put-down. It’s just the reality of childhood.
When you’re a kid, you don’t know what you don’t know. You have no clue that your life isn’t the norm. You assume what you are living in is how everyone lives — some nice things, some not so nice things that you just have to survive. So you don’t even think to question it. Daria Burke said as much in her book about her own life:
“…we are hardwired to seek out and trust the familiar, even when the familiar isn’t safe or good for us…When you grow up surrounded by poverty, abuse, and violence…it’s not uncommon to accept your circumstances as commonplace, even expected…stressful forces that become so ordinary, they fail to register as traumatic events.”
In one way, then, blind ignorance was a blessing, at least at the time for me. By not knowing the reality of how abusive it was, I could retain an attitude that anything was possible if you worked hard enough and waited long enough, even in the midst of chaos.
I had hope and optimism that one magical day, I would be an adult and things would all “just work out.”
Hope and tenacity – your name is “resilience”
Actor Jane Fonda, in a Fresh Air interview, spoke of her life, her own sorrows at losing her mother to suicide at a young age. Of her wound of growing up without that love. And of the deep sorrow of learning years later that her mother’s suicide was rooted in being sexually abused and raised in an abusive household.
When asked why she kept striving in life despite her personal pain, Fonda talked about resilience, which to me incorporates the attitudes of hope and tenacity:
“Resilience is such an interesting thing…I think people are born with it…resilience is when a young child who is not getting love at home, kind of — there’s a radar that’s scanning the horizon. If there’s a warm body that maybe could love her or teach her something, you go there. You find love where you can. You find support where you can. That’s a resilient child. That was me.”
And that was me, too. I might not have always chosen wisely, but I really tried to find and take in love as best as I could in any moment.
One of my therapists along the way pointed out how amazing it was that, despite what I lived through, I stayed open to the hope of love. And that I did take it in whenever I could find it, from whoever offered it along the way. Yes, I made mistakes, but still, I kept the hope of love.
Now, for sure, I was hugely naive as to both my reality at home and what that life would cost me. And of course, that way of thinking would eventually implode when I realized the truth. But maybe it was best, then, that I could assume my life was “normal,” even if it was the opposite.
The other thing that ignorance gave me in childhood was what Viktor Frankl talked about in his book, Man’s Search for Meaning. He spoke of people surviving concentration camps because they found a “why” to keep going.
My “why” might have been totally wrong, warped by my father’s brainwashing, but still, I thought I had a why to go on. He drilled in that I was helping him and keeping the family together. And he kept demanding I not grow up to “be a stupid woman.”
So when you are told those things a million times from early childhood on, in your young mind, you think you have both a reason for your existence that gives you worth, and a goal for your future. And so you have hope. Of all the qualities I possessed that made up my attitude, I would say hope was the largest element. I will write more later about “hope” through life.
Of course, there’s the reality that those rules slowly poison you and prevent you from becoming your own person. And there is also devastation that comes when you get older and feel that you were played for a fool, so you hate yourself.
The mixed bag that was me
Aside from all of the above things, there was that mix of who I was at my core. I was a dreamer. So in any given moment, I was Nancy Drew, Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, a World War II Australian coastwatcher spying for the Allies in the South Pacific, and so many other personas all wrapped up in one. From those stories and biographies, I learned that true heroes were brave, unrelenting, and determined to stand up for what was right, no matter the risk.
I loved to learn and was creative enough to use that for Moments of Respite to feed my soul, especially during the bad times. I trusted the people I loved, was loyal to a fault, and had a good heart. And I was a highly competitive kid who never wanted to let anyone, especially the boys, beat me out at anything. If a boy could do it, so could I…and better!
That might have been foolish at times, like when I dared to out-race my neighborhood friend on my bike while he tried to nail the football in front of my bike tire. I was just a split-second too slow, flipped up in the air, and tore up my shoulder as I skidded across the pavement while just missing the curb with my head. This was, of course, the era before bike helmets. Yes, foolish. But NO ONE could say I didn’t try.
Also, there were the influences and examples of the old Slovaks in my life. They lived through poverty, loss, war, and the Depression. Their rules were to work hard, get an education, stick by family, tough your way through anything life throws at you, and don’t whine, be weak, or give up.
So I was the mixed bag of tough, loving, loyal, determined, stubborn, gentle, trusting…and hopeful. I thought I was living in a house that, while not perfect, was truly loving, and would someday, somehow, be better. I had hope. I will write more about the nature of this quality in my life later.
When I escaped that house, I did finally realize the extent of all the lies I had been living with. And that destabilized me for some time. But once I started to pick myself up, I was angry. And anger fueled a level of rebellious determination that, for a while, bordered on spiteful. I was going to survive and come back and fully reclaim my life, fast, just to spite him.
While that works for the short-term to get one started from despair, eventually, I would come to realize it wasn’t going to be fast, or ever completely healed. And I would eventually release the spite and instead, tap into self-determination — reclaiming what I deserved for my own good, for the love of my family, and for the goal of breaking that intergenerational cycle of abuse handed down by my family of origin.
So, now? Throw the damned football
So now, decades later, who am I?
No matter what, I am still that dreamer. That person who uses Moments of Respite to feed me. I still hold all those values I read about or saw in others.
I am also that determined, feisty person who refuses to give up or be held back by anyone. Tell me I can’t do something, and I will do my best to prove you wrong. I may be more judicious in picking my battles now, but still, I yield my power to no one.
So, somehow, despite all my father’s bludgeoning, I managed to keep that spark alive. I got just enough nurturance along the way that he could never completely snuff out my spirit.
For sure, I almost didn’t make it…several times. For sure, I have almost given up many times. And so often, I have crashed in despair.
Even now as I write these entries, I feel weary, sad, and angry. But somehow, I still have inside me that kid on the bike daring life to throw the football.
She has an attitude that screams – “I WILL take back as much of my life as I can…and I REFUSE to let him rob me of my future! He took my past. He will NOT get my future!”
Child-like
I have learned that it’s good to keep my “young inner child” alive and close by. I don’t mean to be childish, but “child-like.” That is the part that always had hope. And while no longer naive, I am still “hopeful.” I BELIEVE I can make my life a gift to me and to others.
And again, I can follow the example in Fonda, who is older than me, but who also refuses to give up on healing her life:
“…you’re never too old. You know, I’ve gone back into therapy now at 87 because I want to figure out why I’m not a better person and why I wasn’t a better parent. And I’m figuring it out…At 60, I thought a lot about, ‘OK, this is my last act.’ This is it…My last 30 years…What do I wanna get out of it? I wanna end with no regrets, or at least as few regrets as possible.”
No regrets. So, my first tool for sustaining in this work: Attitude.
And maybe the biggest ingredient in attitude for me is hope.
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and return home for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
Please like, comment, and share this post to help spread the word. The link for my fundraiser is on GoFundMe. Thank you for your support.
Soul Mosaic 
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