Friday, November 20, 2009

~~Endless nonsense~~

Someone commented on my blog, asking to connect.  "Lucy"....please send your email address to so I can respond.  

And THANK YOU for reaching out!


Thursday, November 19, 2009

~~The more I look~~

The more I look the more I know.  He killed her. No facts. No information. No records. No body. "No crime."

He did this. 

The fucking monster murdered my mother before she had a chance to really love...

Friday, November 13, 2009

~~Gimme a Break~~

I really wanted to take a mental health day today.  I wanted a break from the heaviness of recent events.

Several people "needed" me today; and that is okay.  That gives me energy. 

But at the end of the day, the day that was supposed to leave me feeling rested, I am feeling absolutely exhausted.  

I did find and this inspiring story,  Enjoy.


Thursday, November 12, 2009

~~Certificate of Live Birth~~

Okay, if this document is real, and I assume it is, I was born, Martha Mary Parisotto, to Frances L. Parisotto at 4:06pm on July 16, 1964. She is white and lives on a farm in the County of Christian, in Cooper Township, RR 1, Rochester, IL.

The next line lists my father as John Wayne Parisotto, a white laborer (miner), 21 years old and working at Clay Products Company.

The following lines are about mother. Her maiden name is listed as Frances Louise Wells, a 17-year-old white woman. Her birthplace was also Springfield, IL. But what is interesting is that there are no marriage records proving that my mother and father ever married.

The attending physician was John M. Holland, 700 N. 7th Street, Springfield.
There are two "John M. Hollands" still living in Springfield. I am sure he wouldn't remember me.

The only other “odd” piece of information is the signature of a clerk and the date, May 3rd, 1968.

I know I was put into a foster home between the ages of 11 months and four or five years. Was this the date my father and “new” mother retrieved me? What is this about?

I looked up Cooper Township, and Rochester is a tiny, farming community, or at least it was at the time. It seems quite non-descript; nothing notable here. I couldn’t even find a Clay Products Company.

I am clearly from nowhere.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


No Help In Sight

The FBI told me that there is no evidence of a federal crime. “No duh, Sherlock. If someone were dumped in a mineshaft over 40 years ago, that would make sense. Makes one feel safe that you are an agent, Asshole.”

I contacted the state and local police. No one responded. I am in this alone. No one will or can help me. It is exhausting to think about.

But I cannot let this go. I cannot let him get away with murder. I cannot let him be buried in Jefferson Barracks Military Cemetery, while my mother rotted in a mineshaft. He always bragged about his worthiness to be buried in such an honorable place. Hardly. I cannot let that happen.

As I try to find out what happened to my mother, I find nothing. I subscribed to numerous database searchers. Nothing. NOTHING. I am even starting to wonder if my birth certificate is authentic.

My next step is to research every single digit and every single word on this age-yellowed document in front of me, “Certificate of Live Birth.”

Next Chapter: “Certificate of Live Birth.”

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

~~A "Novel"~~

Secrets on Milton Street, Mid America
~~A Novel~~

My father murdered my mother.

He then abandoned me in a local park when I was 11 months old and deformed from the waist down. After several years in a foster home, he and his new wife, my “new mother,” started their years of brainwashing me.

For years, they would sit me down at the kitchen table and tell stories of how horrible my first mother was. They told me that she never loved me and that she abused me. They told me that she abandoned me. They told me that all I have was them. I believed.

How do I know that my father murdered my mother? I know it like I saw it. Of course, I didn’t, but I know it like I saw it.

All I have is my birth certificate and my memories, none of which made sense…until now. And now, it all makes so much sense.

Per my birth record, my mother, Frances Louise Wells Parisotto, was 17 when I was born at St. John’s Hospital in Springfield, Illinois. At 16, she had my brother. My father, John Wayne Parisotto, was 21 when I was born; 20 when my brother was born.

What follows is my theory, and I am setting out to prove it.

If my mother was 16 years old when she had my brother, Americo Fideli Parisotto (more about the names later), she would have become pregnant at 15 years old. I am not certain, but I suspect that in that time in the rural Midwest, becoming pregnant while unwed was shameful. Perhaps her family did what many did at that time. Perhaps they disowned her.

Perhaps my mother had nowhere to turn but to the people on Milton Street, the Parisottos. What if my father’s extended family took them in? I know that my Aunt Jesse lived on Milton Street. My mother stayed there until she had my brother. Less than 11 months later, I was born. Do the math.

I think that in a fit of rage, (and I know he is capable of torture and rage…again, more later), he killed her. He dumped her body in a mine shaft, as he was a coal miner at the time. So, at 17 years old, my mother, perhaps disowned and certainly unaccounted for, was murdered. She was dumped like garbage without regard for her life. And no-one knew. For all we know, no-one cared…until now. I care. I care more than anything in my life. I care, Mom.

How Did This All Start?

Anne, my great and wonderful friend, Anne, encouraged me to find my mother. She said, “There isn’t a mother alive that doesn’t think of her children every day. You need to find her for her, not for you.”

For my entire life people have asked, “Why don’t you look for your mother?” Great question. I always wanted to, but was too afraid. My mantra had always been the truth. “She did the best she could. My father is a beast. I am sure that she has gone on with her life.” I did believe that she had a new life with a new family, but I also knew that her leaving me was not her fault. My father was so abusive that she HAD to abandon me to survive.

The only motivation that I ever felt to find her was to look in her eyes and tell her, “I don’t blame you. I understand. I do understand.” All I ever wanted to do in finding her is to relieve her of any guilt she may have been carrying all these years. I wanted her to know that, no matter what she did to survive, I understood and forgave her.

Further, I thought, “What if I found her and she rejected me again? Could I handle that? No.” So I didn’t look. I knew I couldn’t handle yet another rejection. After all, I have been a throw-away person all my life. As far as I was told, my mother threw me away in a park. My father threw me away in fits of abuse. As I matured in the foster care system, I was thrown away.

In addition, I thought, “Life is not an Oprah Show.” Most reunions are not the happy, tear-stained, jumping hysterically events that we see on Oprah. Life is NOT and Oprah Show.

I thought that if I looked and found my mother…and her new family…I may be opening cans of worms that I could never contain.
But Anne came at me from a different direction. She knows that I am so empathic as a person, and especially as a mother. She poo poo’d all my “heady” thoughts, and told me that my mother must be suffering, not knowing where her baby girl is or how she turned out.

She got to me. That is how this started.

The Next Day

The next day, I joined a genealogy web site. For 10 hours, I researched my roots. I found out, for the first time, that I am the great grand-daughter of Giuseppe Parisotto of Asolo, Italy. Asolo is a tiny, beautiful village in far north east Italy. Who knew? I know now.

I learned that there are still people living in Springfield, IL, on Milton Street.
“Frances Louise Wells Parisotto” was nowhere to be found. Nowhere. According to my birth certificate, she resided on a farm, Rural Route 1, Rochester, Illinois, prior to my birth. I found nothing about my mother.

I did find out, however, that there were no marriage records for John Parisotto and Frances Wells. My parents weren’t married at the time of my birth. (By the way, I will mention my brother very little, as he turned into a clone of my father. I work so hard in life to make up for their existences.)

After exhaustive searches, I found nothing. How could there be no records of a human being? How could that be? I could not believe this.

I was processing all of my findings and non-findings that evening. BAM!!! It hit me. And it hit me harder than any fist ever landed on me!


Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus! I don’t’ really mean this, as I am not Catholic, nor am I even religious (Oh…that is another later story.)

I may as well as been hit by a truck. Immediately, I was destroyed…yet again. I have spent my whole life being kicked down, only to get back up. And truly, this felt like the final blow. In frankness, it really may be. I think that once this is over, so am I. I am okay with it.

I felt that I was drowning. How ironic. I fear drowning.
The flood of emotions overwhelmed me. He KILLED her. He BLAMED her for my painful life. He ABUSED me all during my time with him; use your imagination. He allowed me to be ABANDONED and TORTURED for all these years. He RUINED my life in a LIE.

I have felt abandoned and have SUFFERED immensely the effects of abandonment, never to have a moment of relief from it. Abandonment is truly the worst form of child abuse. When a child is abandoned before the age of 5, they live with fear and are negatively affected for their entire lives…and so is everyone around them. Panic bursts my soul within 30 seconds of any incident, still at 45 years of age. I can’t even go to Home Depot with my husband without fear of abandonment. How fucked up is that?

Trust builds when a parent comes back. Mine did not.

Monday, November 9, 2009

~~So, What is Worse?~~

I asked the Universe to send me guidance for purpose. When I was quiet, the answer appeared, "Find missing people...and start with your mother." I responded by starting the search for my mother.  

After I got the realization that my father may have murdered her and lied about it my entire life, I fell into a very lonely place. I need help through the pain, the maze of confusion, and the rage.  

I searched the internet for "people like me" that have been through this.  No luck.  There is all kinds of help out there for people that have lost a spouse or a child to murder.  But I sure couldn't find a support group for grown children who realize that one of their parents killed the other parent and lied about it for decades.

So...again...I put a request out again to the Universe.  "Is there anyone out there like me and going through this?"  Once again, the Universe responded.

I came in after a long, wonderful outing at in the majestic Catalina mountains in southern Arizona.  I wasn't ready to go to bed, so I started channel surfing.  Because of my new "vocation," I rested on "48 Hours." The story was about a woman whose father murdered her mother when she was 11 years old.  He then raised his daughter to believe that her mother abandoned her.  Here is the link to the story,

The investigator in the case asked,

"What is worse?
Being abandoned by your mother or your father murdering your mother?"

I found the woman this morning and reached out to her via email.  I wonder if she will reach back.


Wednesday, November 4, 2009

~~Mack Truck~~

So...All the family drama and trauma has settled down...thankfully.  All the kids are grown and are successful, productive people.  The puppy is settling in as a 4-year-old dog.  The kittens are being trained.  (Yes, kittens can be trained.)

I have been padding around an empty house, with no career (a move across country and a tanked one can afford "success coaching")...thinking that the best is in the past.  I was quite busy being incredibly sad.

I recently was encouraged to find my birth mother.  So, for the first time in my life, I made a concerted effort.  The findings came with mixed blessings: some good/some horrifying.  If you read this blog, you get it.

As I am recovering from the fog of disbelief, I have to be honest with myself.  I am treading life...not living up to my full potential and making excuses for that fact.  I was needed...usually in crisis only.  Seemingly forgotten otherwise.

This morning, I asked the Universe...yet hit me like a Mack Truck for inspiration for what I needed to be doing.  I asked for a purpose that will be easily sustainable and will provide me the intellectual and creative stimulation I need to grow.  I am currently in mental atrophy.

The Mack Truck came rolling in this morning as I listed my attributes:  

1. I am an internationally recognized communicator.
2. I am an award-winning writer.
3. I am the best facilitator I've ever known or known about.
4. People believe in me...for good reason.
5. I am effective and trustworthy.
6. I love research.
7. I love being at home and having a flexible schedule (or out to lunch with my computer).
8. I am a master critical thinker.

I have figured out what will sustain, intrigue and inspire me, and I am going to pursue becoming an INTERNET INVESTIGATOR.  Started with realization that my mother was murdered.


Tuesday, November 3, 2009

~~One Big Lie~~

So if my theory is correct about my father murdering my mother, so much of my life isn't what I thought it was.  Sounds so cliche, but my life has been based on ONE BIG LIE.

Father kills mother when baby was 11 months old.  Father leaves baby in foster home for a few years.  Father comes back to retrieve baby, but he brings a new mother with him.

Father tells baby as she is growing up that her first mother didn't love her.  He tells baby that her mother abused and abandoned her own baby.

All this time, I grew up thinking and believing that I was unlovable.  After all, as a mother myself, I know that no mother could abandon her baby.  Was it because I was deformed?  How was it that I so unlovable that my mother could leave me in a park all by myself at 11 months old?

Abandonment is a gift that keeps on giving your entire life.  You are always afraid that you will be "left." And because of this, you cling.  And because of this, you are left.  Then you learn not to cling, but you have this constant fear that keeps you from living fully and freely.  You are never free.  Not ever.

So, if my mother was murdered, she didn't abandon me.  She couldn't have.  But I'm still left with the effects of separation anxiety and fear of future abandonment.

I have a headache.




I am usually pretty good with words, but not today. In fact, I don't know if the English language contains words that could describe how I feel.  It really doesn't matter anyway.  Words wouldn't help.  And if I did have the words, I have no one to hear them...really hear them and the internal experience that the words are trying to convey.

I know I will need help with this mess, but I don't know who could help me when the time comes.  I do know that I am, per usual, profoundly alone.  Heck, maybe we all are profoundly alone.  

My internal rage is so fierce that I have become silent.  I best not tap into the rage.  Not now.

Here is what I wrote yesterday....

What really pisses me off is that he not only murdered my MOTHER, he maligned her to try to make it seem like she abused and abandoned me.  I have been feeling abandoned and have been "gifted" with subsequent abandonment issues my entire life.  Fucker.

He robbed me of a mother's love.  He abused me, robbing me of a father's love and worse...robbing me of the innocence of childhood.  Bastard.

He broke me in so many ways.  He stole my ability to trust...anyone.  He took everything from me...including my ability to have good and healthy relationships.  Fucking bastard.

I want to take everything from him now.