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"My Journey Through Life: Adolescence" Part 4

Published: March 22nd 2025, 4:00:14 pm

Today I was planning to continue my usual story, but I suddenly felt a deep desire to write about my parents. I had intended to share this part later, but my heart wants to talk about them today.

You’ve read a lot already about my difficult relationship with my parents—especially with my mom—but I want to tell you more so that you can better understand why they acted the way they did. I think it makes sense to start with my grandmother.

My grandma grew up in constant, terrifying stress. Her mother had survived several concentration camps during the war, and her father was a soldier—so you can imagine the trauma they carried. Grandma had a younger sister (who sadly passed away as an adult), and the two of them lived through that horror together, being each other’s only source of support.

My great-grandmother was a kind, open-hearted woman with a gift for baking. My grandma used to tell me how the entire village would come for her mother’s pies and Easter cakes, and she would bake huge amounts to share with everyone. Her father wasn’t a bad person either, but the war broke him. He started drinking heavily and began to beat my grandma, her sister, and their mother—almost daily. They often had to flee their home and hide in a neighbor’s attic until he sobered up. He would threaten them with a knife, saying he would kill them all. My grandma told me how her little sister would sometimes wet herself in fear while standing frozen in front of their drunk father holding a knife.

One of the most vivid memories my grandma shared was the time her father beat her with a stick so badly that neighbors rushed over after hearing her screams. They couldn’t pull him off of her. She was lying on the floor, her body completely covered in blood—there was no unbruised spot left on her back.

That’s the environment my grandma grew up in. She had so many talents—she wrote poetry, sang beautifully, danced gracefully, and even excelled in math (unlike me 🤣). But she never got to pursue any of it. All she dreamed about was getting married as soon as possible and escaping her home. Back then, the only socially acceptable way for a girl to leave home was through marriage. So she married the first man she met when she turned 18.

From that marriage, she had my uncle Lenya. Sadly, her first husband passed away, and later she met my grandfather, married again, and had my mom. But unfortunately, life with my grandfather wasn’t peaceful either. They constantly argued, fought, and my grandfather repeatedly cheated on my grandma. (By the way, thanks to a DNA test in Italy, I recently discovered a new aunt—my mom’s half-sister. Turns out my grandfather had quite a few other children back then too.) Eventually, my grandparents divorced.

My grandma was left alone with two kids and had to work two jobs to support them—one of them being night shifts at a factory. She gave almost all her food to my mom and uncle. My grandfather hardly helped at all during that time. (He wasn’t an easy man, and as I mentioned before, I truly believe his behavior eventually led to his cancer—which he himself acknowledges now.) And yes… my grandma beat her kids. She deeply regrets it today. She says it was nothing compared to what her own father did to her—but that, of course, doesn’t absolve her of responsibility.

My mom is still hurt by it, and that’s why they’ve always had a strained relationship. My mom would speak with so much pain in her voice about how my grandma would beat her, drag her by her hair, humiliate her. And even though I love my grandma deeply, and I see how much she has changed and grown since then—I still feel so much compassion for my mom. I understand why she did the things she did to me when I was a child. Because inside her lives a small, terrified little girl—one who was yelled at and hit by her mother—and she’s still too afraid to look inward and comfort that little girl. Until she’s able to do that, she won’t be able to release the pain she carries. Her psyche has created layers upon layers of fears—defense mechanisms to avoid ever reliving the emotional and physical pain of her childhood.

That’s why, all my life, my mom has always blamed me for everything. Even when she was clearly wrong. But I understand now—her own mother also blamed her for everything, filling her childhood with shame and guilt. Her emotional cup was already overflowing, so she couldn’t hold any more responsibility.

As for my dad—no one ever told me that he was physically abused, but his childhood wasn’t happy either. My father was a child starved of love. All the affection in his household went to his sister, while he got nothing. Or maybe his parents simply didn’t want a boy—I don’t know. But they treated me the same way. My cousin (his sister’s daughter) is their favorite grandchild, while I haven’t seen them in over 10 years. My grandfather—my dad’s dad—was a police officer, so it’s no surprise my dad followed in his footsteps. My dad was always an athlete. He won medals in boxing and swimming, always woke up early, and did his morning exercises. He has two university degrees and a great sense of humor. But even if he had flown to the moon and become the first man to walk on it, I don’t think it would’ve earned him his parents’ love.

That thought still hurts me deeply.

I think that pain triggered his uncontrollable anger—just like his father’s—and his career in law enforcement only made it worse. My dad could punch a stranger in a store for stepping on his foot or scream at someone out of nowhere. I hated being alone with him or going anywhere together because you never knew how it would end.

Thankfully, today my dad has changed. He goes to church, which has genuinely helped him. Leaving the police force also made a big difference. He no longer has those bursts of rage.

My parents met in a clothing store, where my dad worked as a security guard. My mom was 18 at the time, and she gave birth to me at 19—it was totally unplanned. She had to drop out of university because of it and never went back.

My mom got pregnant again later but had an abortion. It was right after I had a twisted intestine and nearly died. After that trauma, she became extremely attached to me and said she couldn’t bear the thought of having another child. (She’s truly the most anxious person I’ve ever met.)

And of course—they raised me the best way they knew how. They just didn’t know better way.

That’s why I’ve never, not for a single second, blamed them for the struggles I grew up with. I always understood that their childhoods were far from easy—especially my mom’s. My dad often jokes that it’s a miracle I didn’t grow up to be an alcoholic or drug addict. He admits they did awful things—sometimes even cruel things—to me.

But I always tell him: I’ve never blamed you, and I never will.

As a child, I thought I hated them. Now, of course, I realize that I love them more than anything in the world. I would do anything for them. I’d give them everything I have just to make their lives even a little bit happier. I want to give them what their parents never gave them. And I want to give my grandma what she never received from her parents.

That’s why I work like crazy—to earn the resources (money) I need to make my family happy and to show them how much I love them. I try to say it with every package I send them—stuffed with their favorite treats and little gifts.

When I finally realized as an adult that my parents weren’t evil monsters trying to make my life miserable—but simply broken, wounded souls carrying immense pain they’d long stopped noticing— all my childhood resentment disappeared. What replaced it was endless compassion.

I realized that my parents are actually some of the kindest and most generous people I’ve ever known. They taught me how to give to the poor, how to help strangers on the street, how to love animals and support animal shelters—long before Instagram even existed. They taught me to value what I have and to give more to the world than I take. My family is hilarious. My dad and I tease my mom and grandma, then we tease each other—no one ever takes offense 😄 All our neighbors are friends with my parents. They know they can always turn to them for help. My parents never hesitated to spend money on my education—especially when it came to photography. If I needed a new phone because my old one had been stolen, my mom would take out a loan and buy me a new one. When I turned 21, my parents gave me my first car for my work! Whenever we traveled, my mom always bought something for me, and that’s why I now do the same for them—and for the people I love. And I know my parents love me.

I know they’ve always wanted the very best for me and tried to give me that in every way they could. That’s why one of my biggest dreams is to buy my parents a little house by the sea or ocean—just like my mom has always dreamed of. 🌊❤️

They sincerely regret the things they did, and I’m so happy to witness their personal growth. But… my parents aren’t the kind of people who would go to therapy—not even at gunpoint. So I don’t know if they’ll ever find the strength to fully process their pain or forgive their parents. But I believe that only love and forgiveness can break the cycle of generational trauma and pain. If I could somehow take their pain away so they could see themselves—and the world—with new eyes, I would. But for now, all I can do is try to gently guide them…They don’t make it easy 😅 But still—when I look at who they were even 10 years ago and who they are now, the difference is night and day. And I’m so, so proud of the journey they’ve already taken toward healing.

Let me know if you’re still here and still reading my giant walls of text—and if this is all still interesting for you 😅