My grandmother was an immigrant from Budapest, Hungary. Her mother brought her, and her 5 brothers and sisters over to America. Dumped all of them
in an orphanage and walked away. Everyone was adopted, including my grandmother's twin, Great Aunt Tessie. Only my grandmother stayed in the
orphanage. No one wanted her.
At the age of 16, she was kicked out of the orphanage and told to make her way in life. she got a job, doing what, I don't know. She met my
grandfather, who was an immigrant himself, from England, as a young boy. I'm not sure how they met, whether it was in passing, or at the same job.
Either way, they met and married.
My Pop was apparently a violent drunk. He would get completely hammered and beat the living daylights out of my Nana. She would go to the hospital,
get cleaned up, go home to repeat the process, over and over and over and over and over again. One day, my Pop fell off a ladder and broke his hip
and was bed bound and became a cripple. He couldn't beat her anymore. But boy could she verbally beat him! And she could physically beat the kids.
It became a very toxic household.
Believe it or not, almost everyone in the family has a deathly fear of heights because of my Pop falling off the roof, myself included, though my fear
is more shaky heights that are not secure. Some of my family fears are all heights, regardless. They will not get on a ladder to save their life!
No lie. Especially my brother. He was helping out around the house, he got up on the ladder, and some jerk decided to make fun of his fear by
shaking the ladder. Needless to say, no ladders for him.
Many in my family are alcoholics, used to be alcoholics, or have died of alcoholism. When my Pop went into the hospital with cirrhosis of the liver,
we were told he would be coming home in two week and he was fine. I began crying to my father and told he wasn't fine because he was going to die in
the hospital, I saw it in a dream. Sure enough, he died in the hospital a short time later. It was the only time I ever saw my father cry.
My father became a violent alcoholic too. But I'm very proud of him because he cleaned himself up. Yes, I had a very troubled childhood because of
it, but I've forgiven him. He was in the grips of a disease that he let take over. He came to terms with it and he overcame it. Now he only drinks
at dinner. He's not violent. I do wish he didn't drink at all, but I'll take what I can get. I'd hate to see him die of the same thing that
killed his father. Especially since he's nearing that age. But my dad is a "Man's Man" and like's to put out the image that everything's fine,
even when it's not because he doesn't want people to worry. I think it's also because he happens to know "Worry" is my middle name.
I have quite the family history as well, Lord knows how far back it goes. I only learned of the physical abuse between my Nana and my Pop when I was
19, and needless to say I was completely shocked. I knew there was animosity, just how deep it was, or the why. You could physically feel the anger
in the home, even after they both passed away. It's still in the family. There's always been a very weird vibe in the house itself. It's right
next door to a church. Even all that good next door couldn't erase all that evil that happened in that house.