The following piece is from my journal of 1970, verbatim. I was twenty-years-old. Recently, someone said to me that my father was worth more to me and my sisters when he was dead than when he was alive, because we collected Social Security payments on his behalf. Cruel statement. I forgive because it is not my truth. When we forgive, we have to let go of our own feelings, our own ego, our own offended identity, and find our identity at a completely different level — the divine level. I don’t think it is possible to know God at all — outside of the mystery of forgiveness.

In some ways, Daddy’s death brought new problems, including this story with his Social Security money.

Note: Mom took the lock off the bathroom door so we could not lock ourselves in the bathroom to escape her rages. The following scene takes place in the kitchen on Noroton Avenue (subsidized housing), with Mom, Donna, and me.

MAY, 1970, JOURNAL ENTRY
If you only knew the misery of it all.
“I don’t know what you kids were doing yesterday, drinking or what – but you all came home whacked out,” she bitches.
“Mom, can I have my $50 Social Security check? I need it to pay for my doctor’s bill,” I ask.
“No. I have to pay bills. I have to pay your expenses,” she bitches.
“What expenses?” I hurt saying the word. I feel anger.
“Look at the phone bill,” she bitches.
I look at it lying on the radio, and find that the long-distance calls do not belong to me.
“None of these belong to me. That check is my money. And, if you want me to pay board, I will.”
“Donna, you have to give me that money back so I can pay bills,” she bitches to my sister. She had recently given her her check because Donna needed it to pay for her loan or something. And, of course, Mother gave it to her. Donna gets anything. Mother’s favorite. We all know that she says this to Donna just so I will be quiet. So I won’t bother anymore about a check.
I feel hurt. Tears flow down my cheeks, and I hide them from everyone by turning my back and washing dishes. I think of my mascara. I bang dishes. I finish and leave the room, and go into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. It doesn’t even lock. I look at myself in the mirror and laugh. My mascara has run down my cheeks, leaving tracks where my tears slid down. Rubbing it away with a wet washcloth, I feel relieved. Crying always makes me feel better. I have cried because of my mother, and I have cried because I am tired of living.