In the 1960's, no one locked their doors. You could leave windows rolled down in your car in front of your house, and even leave belongings on the seat and they would be there upon your return. I would come home, having walked the miles alone after completing a grueling day at school (where I had been rejected, publicly ridiculed and tormented---I was very overweight and "different"), only to discover that no one was home. Initially, I'd feel great relief because my father was so abusive that his very presence in our home terrified me. But slowly, as the sun would dip down into the horizon, fear would work its claws into me. I dreaded the shadowy death of daylight and anxiously kept my eyes on the darkness falling outside our large picture window.

I would watch TV, sitting beside the ominous window--unable to close the curtains because "they" might kill me and my neighbors wouldn't be able to see my body surrounded by blood on the floor beneath the window. But leaving it open only caused me to feel horribly exposed and vulnerable to "them" who watched my every movement, plotting my death or rape. I couldn't change the channel on the TV because I was afraid a hand would reach out from the picture tube and grab me. Much mental energy was expended just telling myself I was safe, yet struggling with that enormous fear. I knew that someone was going to get me . . . I was consumed by this fear--it tore at my flesh with hideous glee. I would pray for my parents to return before dark--and then would pray that they would return in time --in time to save me from the nameless monsters and wicked people who laid in wait for me. In my head, I'd repeat the mantra "Come home. Come home. Comehome. comehomecomehomecomehome."

Trauma births fears, which get larger and larger until they finally take over your whole world. Everything frightened me--false teeth in a cup on the back of the toilet, dogs, shadows, noises . . . the list was never ending. I was crippled by that fear as I sat in the chair in front of the television. Imagined dangers were all around.

I survived the best I could, using magical thinking to get me through each episode of terror. I made up a wonderful way of salvation! My mother kept in her baking cupboard a large container of chocolate chips. They were, of course, off limits to me. My father was compulsive about everything--he hoarded sweets and other things. For example, after his death, we discovered he had hoarded nearly one hundred unopened packs of men's deodorant. In our tiny bathroom, we had not one, not two, but three hot shaving cream dispensers! And there were only my mother, my father, and me in our home! (I have siblings but all were many years older and not living at home while I was growing up). In my father's stashe, there was box after box of donuts, cookies and dozens of pastries in a chest freezer . . . but I was not allowed to partake of any. He was so compulsive that he would mark each container so he would know if any had been removed, including any soda pop in the refrigerator. No one was allowed anything "good" to eat in our house but him.