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.


Donna said...

Anne sent me your link; I'll be following you to see what happens next.

Jimmy's Journal said...

I am visiting your site via the link on my good friend, Anne's journal.

Follow your instincts, they're usually right.