Cinderella is Still Dancing

AuthorHouse

Contents

Foreword..................................................................xiiiA Special Note............................................................xvPrologue..................................................................xviiChoice #1: Being Beautiful is a Choice....................................1All Kinds of Prisons......................................................2Early Choices.............................................................6Cinderella Story..........................................................8Take-Aways from This Chapter:.............................................10Choice #2: Embrace Change.................................................13A Glimpse of 'Normal'.....................................................14Gotta Get Out!............................................................17California, Here I Come...................................................20I Can Decide for Myself...................................................22Take-Aways from This Chapter:.............................................4Choice #3: No Guilt.......................................................7Replace Your Thoughts.....................................................9Stop Guilt Before it Starts...............................................0Share the Burden..........................................................1Just Forgive..............................................................6Take-Aways from This Chapter:.............................................38Choice #4: Enabling No More...............................................41Accepting Others' Responsibilities as Your Own............................45Enabling to Keep the Peace................................................47Keeping Someone from Moving Forward.......................................50Managing Expectations vs. Enabling False Expectations.....................52Enabling Your Own Frustrations............................................53Influencing Instead of Enabling...........................................57Take-Aways from This Chapter:.............................................59Choice #5: Outside Influences Can Be Good.................................63Lifelong Friends..........................................................64Mentors...................................................................68Adverse Situations........................................................73Mentees...................................................................77Personal Relationships....................................................82Outside Influences: A Two-Way Street......................................83Take-Aways from This Chapter..............................................84Choice #6: Relationships Matter...........................................87Nonprofit Work............................................................89Networking................................................................98Relationships as Resources................................................103Take-Aways from This Chapter:.............................................106Choice # 7: Let Passion Be Your Guide.....................................109Empowering Others.........................................................112Influenced by the Passions of Others......................................114Growing Through Sharing...................................................118The Passion of Family Love................................................120Take-Aways from This Chapter:.............................................123Choice #8: It's Your Turn to Be Happy.....................................127The Results of Life's Lessons.............................................129God's Place in This Book..................................................131Where Are They Now?.......................................................133Baby Steps................................................................135Be Kind to Yourself.......................................................137Take-Aways from This Chapter:.............................................137Epilogue..................................................................139Resources.................................................................141About the Author..........................................................143

Chapter One

Being Beautiful is a Choice

I've been asked by many people over the years to tell my story so I can help others. Well, here I am at last. I was born in New York. At age 3, I had two brothers. Mickey was two years older, and Pat was my twin. Although Mickey and I looked more similar with our light Irish coloring, Pat and the other siblings born after us had dark hair and dark eyes.

When Mickey was 5, he was tragically killed in a fire. He and some friends were playing with rags and kerosene, which were used in those days to fuel the incinerators in the basement of the high-rise apartment where we lived. One boy lit a match and Mickey became a running torch. Pat and I would never be the same because of the resulting conditions at home from this tragedy.

For who knows how many reasons, my father became a Jekyll-and-Hyde alcoholic. Although he was a genius, his mood swings could be catastrophic. He had been born on the way over from Ireland. His dad died on the trip, and his mom passed away within three years. My father was raised by a maiden aunt. As a young man, he joined the U.S. Marine Corps, served in World War II, and came home injured. He met my mother and they married and settled in Astoria, N.Y., where they started a family.

The abuse started early for me. When I was 5, my father began fondling me, and this turned into rape. I felt something was odd but didn't know enough to question what was happening. This went on for some time. As the family grew, eventually to a total of seven children, with four girls and three boys, it became my mission in life to protect my sisters from my dad. This was a heavy burden for a young girl to carry, but I did so with a full heart.

I might also mention that he abused my mom, too, in horrible ways. Besides enduring mental abuse, she was frequently beaten and even cut up, and she never had a day when she didn't shrink away from the world. She therefore could do nothing to help my circumstances. My mom was truly more of a victim than I was because God gave me the strength to handle whatever came along. My mother was more vulnerable and continued to live the life of a victim for the rest of her days.

All Kinds of Prisons

After Mickey's death, my mom, my brother Pat and I were already living in fear, and we didn't dare question anything my father said or did. All the abuses seemed to blend together, and we didn't know what the day would hold.

Many years later, in my current home state of Arizona, I talked with U.S. Senator John McCain about how he had survived being a war prisoner. I'd just heard him speak at a gathering of Eagle Scouts, and I watched the young men's faces as they listened to his story about his confinement in a prison camp. He really made an impact on them.

When I spoke with him privately, I told Senator McCain my situation had been similar, although the walls of my prison had been invisible. We agreed there are all kinds of prisons, and I saw the look of true understanding and compassion in his eyes. He was really listening to me.

I asked how he had held on for so long. He said he'd stayed focused on the small things, like the next conversation with one of his fellow prisoners or looking forward to the day when he would again share a meal with his wife. I told him that was just what I had done to survive. I would look forward to any small thing. For instance, I loved school and anticipated the next book report or class discussion. These were safe environments for me.

My twin brother lived such a tormented, short life. Pat died in a car crash at just 25 years old. While we were growing up, after Mickey's death, my father said to Pat over and over, "I've lost my only son." How do you live with that? As I write this, tears stream down my face while I remember all the abuses he took. Pat used to run away from home all the time. Can you blame him? He was more like my mom, not as strong as me.

The last straw was when he was about 16. It began with my parents going out drinking, as they so often did after I got home from work. Even though I worked full time, I was not allowed to go to sleep until they got home, very often when the bar closed at 2 a.m. Then before I knew it, it was time to get up and go to work.

We really never knew what to expect when our parents got home. Being of higher-than-average intelligence, my dad could be prolific and engaging, and he could talk for hours. Or he could come home and throw you across the room, as he did to me "just because you are your mother's daughter."

On this day, my dad came home in a very black mood. His "target" that night was Pat. We never knew who his "victim" would be on any given night. There really wasn't even a reason for his anger. He had me sit in a chair on one side of the kitchen and Pat was across on the other side. He told me to sit still and not move. He beat my brother until Pat's eye bulged from its socket. My dad then went to bed and told me I could not get up and Pat just had to sit there.

I waited until I could hear him snoring and called my boyfriend, Ken. He came right over, and we did what we could for Pat and took him to the hospital. There were no laws or protections then for abuse to children, so no questions were asked about how this had happened. They fixed him up and I took him to his friend's house. I told him never to come home again. He loved us and that was difficult.

He roamed the country for the next so many years. There were good times and bad times, but when he died he had finally found peace, and for that I was glad.

I remember the day he died. I was in a church in Oklahoma and he was in Washington state, where he lived and worked. A car ran a red light and broadsided his convertible. As is common with twins, I knew the minute he died. I left the service and went to the lobby, where I sat on the steps. Shortly afterward, the call came.

Pat's body was shipped back to Massachusetts, where my parents and siblings lived. His injuries were so severe that the funeral home normally would have recommended a closed casket. However, we all wanted him to be made presentable. I, for one, had to see him to say goodbye. Pat was now free from his prison and at peace.

My mom's prison, on the other hand, was one from which she never really recovered. In order to get through the days, she would often drink vodka in her coffee. I was always so concerned for her. She was a delicate creature. She was a beautiful woman who wanted so little and could find pleasure in simple things such as feeding birds, reading, or playing bingo, all of which she did until the end.

She could not face confrontation of any type. She was like a scared rabbit. It was difficult for her to accept being touched. You've probably experienced this when you've gone to hug someone and that person has shrunk back. That was how my mom was. I wanted so much for her to be happy, and later I believe I was able to help her accomplish some of that, given her inner fears.

Early Choices

Since my dad spent so much of the money he made either drinking or gambling or a combination thereof, it caused us to be considered "poor kids" at school. Pat and I were in different classes because it was customary for schools to separate twins at the time, and yet we experienced many of the same things. One of them was that as poor kids who were given free cookies and milk and often free lunches, we had to go in a special line to get ours and hand in the slip of paper they gave us. This meant everyone in the class knew we were poor and they would call us awful names.

At the same time, what a treat the cookies were, and so we endured the taunting to enjoy every morsel. The cookies were shaped liked windmills and had almonds in them, and they came with a container of milk. I would make this snack last for minutes as I took small nibbles and relished the taste. Wow, what a conflict of emotions for a little girl and boy to have to abide.

Most of my adult life, people have said to me, "Ellen you always look so nice." How did this come about? Living in New York City in the 1950s and '60s was no picnic for a young girl. The kids could be so mean. This would include teasing us about our clothes, our name, and even when I had to wear an awful flesh colored-patch over the left side of my face to treat lazy eye.

One day, when I was about 13, I was walking to school in a skirt at least two sizes too big for me. I held it up with a big safety pin. I didn't have a second pin for my slip. As I walked along, my slip fell to the ground. Everyone around me laughed. I was so humiliated. I made up my mind that day that whatever it took, I'd never let something like that happen to me again. So I make it a personal choice always to look my best, dressed up or dressed down.

Even 40 to 50 years ago, there were gangs and rough kids in New York City. Amazingly, the female gangs were in some ways more violent and dangerous than those made up of boys. A girl in one of my classes was even convicted of murder.

Female gangs would single out someone to attack - it could be for no reason at all, or a wrong look, it didn't matter. The girl would be caught alone and beaten. Then they would strip her and she would have to find her way home. That was often more damaging than the beating itself. I saw this happen once, and wow did it scare me!

One day when I was around 12 years old, I was coming home from school and decided to take a shortcut through the park. At least half a dozen girls, some of them my classmates, congregated around the wading pool. It was warm outside and I was just minding my own business. They called me over. I was reluctant to go but afraid not to obey them.

To put this into some perspective, at that time it was the sweater era. Girls would wear sweater sets along with bras that made their breasts look fuller and pointy. In order to accomplish this, some girls would stuff their bras with tissues, handkerchiefs, whatever worked and looked as natural as possible. You may be thinking, how can pointy breasts look natural? It was just the fad of the day.

I had always been well-endowed. At that young age, I was already at least a 32C or D. Well, the girls said to me, "You'll have to stop wearing those falsies!" I didn't know quite what to say and just answered the truth: "I'm not wearing any falsies." This made them mad, so a few of them picked me up and tossed me into the wading pool.

Well, of course, no falsies floated to the surface as they expected; I was deeply humiliated because I was wearing white and it was that time of month. All of a sudden, the water in the wading pool turned red as the blood seeped through. Not only did I have to face that moment, but I had to walk the rest of the way home with a stained skirt and socks. It really shocked me that girls could be so mean. Was there anywhere safe?

Cinderella Story

One day when I was about 7 years old, I was walking home from school by myself. The street where I lived had large gravel embedded in the concrete. A boy stopped me. I only remember he was bigger than me. He said to me, "Boy, are you ugly!" Then he pushed me down, held my head to the street and ran my face back and forth across the pavement. It took off layers and layers of skin, and I had to wear bandages for weeks. This happened during winter, and it hurt like crazy when the harsh Northeastern wind hit my chafed face.

Having read what you have to this point, you realize there was no support to be had at home. As a matter of fact, my father said the attack was probably my fault.

As you can imagine, for the next several years, I truly believed I was ugly. As a preteen, I had the responsibility of making sure all the younger kids were in bed asleep before I could go outside with my friends in the evening. Many nights, that meant not going out at all. I did, however, manage to sneak away a few Wednesday evenings to the Presbyterian Church a block away for meetings with the Pioneer Girls, which were like Girl Scouts. We were Catholic, not that my folks ever attended services, and that meant we were not supposed to set foot in a church of another faith. So I was already treading on dangerous ground.

One day, a young woman named Lois, the leader of the Pioneer Girls group, came up to me and said, "Would you be in a play?" Of course, being the extrovert I am, I said I would love to but ... there were two problems. One, my dad would kill me if he knew. Lois could not know how serious and real a threat this was. And two, I had no clothes to wear on stage. Because my dad gambled and drank away his earnings, we had no new clothes, just donated hand-me-downs.

Lois said, "If I get past those two things, will you?" and I said, "Yes."

I never did know what she told my dad - I didn't get involved in asking his permission because I didn't want to be guilty of lying, and I knew he'd never let me participate if I asked him - but she said I had permission to go ahead.

On the Saturday of the play, Lois came and picked me up. We went shopping and she bought me - I'll never, ever forget - new underwear. The thrill of feeling new clothes next to my skin has never changed. She also bought me a white slip, a white blouse, a black jumper, white socks and black Mary Jane shoes. Wow! Since then, I've never washed new clothes before wearing them.

Then we went to her apartment. You can't believe what a fairyland I thought I was in. We didn't have our own rooms at my house. Sometimes during my childhood, we had to sleep on lawn chairs. Here was Lois with her own four rooms. She washed my hair and then I took a bath. I loved being in the bathtub. Growing up, that was the only sanctuary I had against my dad because it was the one room in our house with a door that locked.

Then we had lunch and got dressed. Lois combed my hair and put a little makeup on my face, and lo and behold, I looked in the mirror and didn't recognize myself. I felt just like Cinderella. That day changed my life. Participating in the play and looking like I did gave me the confidence to see I was pretty, that people could like me for myself, and that I was smart and could be anyone I wanted to be. So you see, I learned that being beautiful is a choice - and, most importantly, that the beauty from within radiates to become beauty on the outside.

Take-Aways from This Chapter:

* It is your choice what you feel, what you want to accomplish, and who you want to meet. Set one or two goals, write them down, keep track, and then reward yourself as you complete each one.

* Stick to one or two goals. If you try more than two at a time, you're less likely to succeed because life tends to get in the way. When you've accomplished those goals, start a couple new ones. This will keep you growing and thriving.

* Whatever your start in life, those lessons can become a driving force. Let your past propel you into your future rather than hold you captive. Rick Warren, noted pastor and author of The Purpose Driven Life, said, "We are products of our past, but we don't have to be prisoners of it."

* For others to find you beautiful, you must first feel beautiful. Ask yourself, "What do I most admire about me?" And smile! Build from there.

Remember, it's choice not chance that determines your destiny. - Jean Nidetch, Founder of Weight Watchers

Choice #2:

Embrace Change

You may be wondering, "How did she escape?" I had protected my mother and my siblings for years, but I had my own fears - and my own dreams. As my brothers and sisters started to mature, although they were not out of the woods yet, I could look toward my own future. What a novel idea!

I started planning my departure after my father so badly beat up my twin brother. Pat had no choice but to leave right away. It seemed my brother had been preparing for this all his life. He had run away many times, sometimes for hours, sometimes for days, sometimes longer. He once found his way from New York City, where we lived, to upstate New York.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Cinderella is Still Dancingby Ellen Kirton Copyright © 2009 by Ellen Kirton . Excerpted by permission.
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