Dearest Miss,

Our trip to Florida is over, and I’m tan, relaxed, sad, and reflective. Suffice it to say that our week was inundated with laughs, festive beverages (“I like sweet drinks and I cannot lie”), realizations, appreciation, tears, and both the renewal and continuation of a lifelong
friendship. We figured out who the other is, and we were, pardon the cliché, the ying to each other’s yang.

Miss, from the time I was a little girl, I was always looking for approval. I didn’t mind working twice as hard to get people to love me halfway; I just wanted to be accepted. Did I need to compensate because I was chubby and not the prettiest, or was it that I was missing somebody to tell me I was valued unconditionally? I was smart, that’s for sure, but always being pushed ahead in school just put me so behind emotionally. My lack of confidence and my insecurity became, and in reality still are, paralyzing.

I wish I remembered more about the early years of growing up. Quite honestly, with my memory being as strong as it is, thank Goodness, it begs curiosity how those early years are such an impenetrable blur. Clarity begins to surface as I shudder at Zane Reisman literally
biting my ass when I was 8 years old, and then to Steven Wintner locking me in his basement when I was an early teenager. Truth be told, being locked in that basement was the defining moment of my life, and one from which I could never recover.

I’m not sure what led me to the Wintner house that afternoon; I guess I thought he might actually like me. Little did I know that, together with his friends, I was just the target of a cruel plan, a practical joke, a gangbang. By the time it was over and they released me, I walked the 2 blocks from Commerce Street to Oliver Place, more terrified of the wrath I would incur from my parents than the mental and sexual abuse I had just endured. I couldn’t tell my parents about my ordeal, as I was afraid that they would justifiably retaliate and go after Steven and his friends. I’d be a further outcast, and, maybe even worse, I would upset my parents.

Miss, I’ve been searching for love and for somebody to love me my entire life. I’ve made such poor choices in my quest for finding that man who could make me feel safe and satisfied. Sex is still so unfulfilling for me, and, as you know, I didn’t have my first orgasm until I was 31. I didn’t even know what one was, but how could I when my first experience was so violent and unsolicited? And, my mom, may she rest in peace, never had the “talk” with me, which, especially after my abortion, would have been warranted and appreciated. Instead, I was screamed at, ridiculed, and called names. Oh, wait, let’s not forget that I also had to switch high schools.

I often wonder, though seldom doubt, if Lisa told my kids about my abortion. For a while, I wonder if she even knew, as my parents always feared how she would treat me. Remember, Lisa was in charge. Whom am I kidding, Miss? We both know that, as soon as the moment presented itself, she swooped in with all of the news about my “indiscretions.” I have to laugh though, because when Lisa was a freshman at Cornell, she didn’t come home the first Thanksgiving because her suitemate, Colleen, a preacher’s daughter, was pregnant
and was going to have an abortion. Lisa wanted to stay with her. Go figure that Colleen’s abortion was acceptable to Lisa.

Miss, little by little, you will receive my stories from my past, and, maybe they’ll even be published one day. James Patterson had a book called, Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas, so maybe I should title mine, Curly Top’s Collection for Adorable One. These stories will surprise you, shock you, touch you, enrage you, and empower you. You will marvel at my resilience, and you’ll root for this warrior to attain the victory she so desires and deserves.

Miss, on our trip, I couldn’t help but feel like I should have had so many more stories for you. Sure, we talked non-stop and filled the time with nary a silence, but I should have had so much more to share. There were dozens of people about whom I should have been able to boast and chatter – my 3 kids, my 2 sons-in-law and their families, and, most importantly, my 2 granddaughters. It is so inhumane that I am incomplete, and I am sorry.

I try so hard not to bring stuff up that could dampen or darken the mood; you know I’m a pleaser and an entertainer. Thank you, however, for letting me vent when I needed to and also for subtly being able to point me towards tomorrow. I would sometimes feel the breath come back into my body when I looked over and saw you in the bed next to me.

Finally, Miss, my mom was everywhere in Florida, but I focused on the good times instead of the hurt. Pushing the positive memories straight to the front, I found myself missing her face and her voice terribly. I thought a lot about the last months of her life, and I hoped so
desperately that she didn’t suffer. I often wonder if she knew how much I suffered every day, and, if she did, did she care? Was she allowed to care? Who knows, perhaps she had demons, too? Perhaps there was a basement in which she was locked, or a man who bit her ass when she was just a young girl.

I love you more than you will ever know,

Marla