Trish E-Book

Patricia Byrnes

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 123

Beschreibung

Patricia Byrnes's life began with being reared by deaf parents during an era when the deaf community was shunned rather than supported. Poverty, alcoholism, incest and poor parenting were the underpinnings of Patricia's life, leading to her own issues with alcohol. Eventually, with a 12-step recovery program, her life became a powerful, positive example to others. Her story is also a roadmap for change, and that was no easy task: the transition from self-loathing – the nemesis of the human experience – to self-love was painful but one that had to be taken in order to not only survive, but to also, finally, appreciate the gift she is and was created to share with others. Change is always possible… change is necessary.
"The author is a powerful example, demonstrating that a person can suffer from poverty, abuse, addiction, divorce and so much more and not only survive, but use adversity as a vehicle for growth, compassion and wisdom."
-- MIGNON LAWLESS, Ph.D.
"What a brave and strong woman you are! You have spoken your truth, pure and unadulterated. I am truly humbled by your straightforward portrayal of such an incredible and painfully difficult life's journey. You have reached the place of forgiveness and understanding against all odds. May God continue to hold you close to His loving and merciful heart!"
-- JEANNEMARIE BAKER, R.N.
"Read TRISH not to look into Byrnes's struggles at a distance, but to take personally what the human spirit can do with whatever it is given. That is a blessed assurance that whatever challenges we face in our lives, we too can survive and overcome."
-- SAMUEL DEIBLER, B.A., B.D.
"TRISH is a story of love, loss and longing told through the eyes of a girl who was forced into womanhood too early and a woman who somehow managed to retain the innocence of a girl. The impact of this beautiful book will linger long after you've turned the last page. Prepare to be changed."
-- DARALYSE LYONS, author, speaker, coach
From the Reflections of America series

Leseprobe

Praise for T R I S H

“This is truly an inspiring book! The author, by her honest sharing, gives hope to people from all walks of life. She is a power of example, demonstrating that a person can suffer from poverty, abuse, addiction, divorce and so much more, and not only survive, but use adversity as a vehicle for growth, compassion and wisdom. By overcoming addiction, the author gives others hope that they can do the same. I recommend Trish without reservation.”

MIGNON LAWLESS, Ph.D.

“A hearing child with two deaf parents, an incest survivor, a parentified child and a young mother, Patricia has lived a unique life. Peer behind her inner curtain and discover a rich inner world and an enduring spirit. TRISH is a story of love, loss and longing told through the eyes of a girl who was forced into womanhood too early and a woman who somehow managed to retain the innocence of a girl. The author presents her experiences with such candor and strength that you immediately fall in love with her. From there, you can't help but hope she will come to love herself as unapologetically as she loves others. The impact of this beautiful book will linger long after you've turned the last page. Prepare to be changed.”

DARALYSE LYONS, author, speaker, coach

“What a brave and strong woman you are! You have spoken your truth, pure and unadulterated. I am truly humbled by your straight-forward portrayal of such an incredible and painfully difficult life’s journey. You have reached the place of forgiveness and understanding against all odds. Your tenacious courage is palpable! This is a powerful and touching story of your journey through life, told in a most beautiful, simple way. I could hear your voice in every word. Congratulations, Trish! May God continue to hold you close to His loving and merciful heart!”

JEANNEMARIE BAKER, R.N.

“Character is not like a hothouse flower, sprung from a perfect beginning under ideal conditions. It’s more like a diamond that begins as a swamp plant, is crushed into peat and coal and, after millennia of pressure and heat, emerges as a grey lump, still in need of the cutting and polishing that yields the sparkling gem.

Trish sparkles, and it’s a hard-won victory in a life that has had more than its normal share of crises, challenges, struggles and losses. Byrnes squarely faces the family from which many of her challenges came. Far from the source of security and support that families must be to nurture growth and resiliency, her family of origin placed more burdens and withheld more support than any child should have to endure.

But Trish’s story does not end there. The real story is how she moved through those challenges, built a sparkling character and became a supportive mother, a caring confidant to imprisoned women, a 12-step program member and a business success with a religious faith that even angry nuns couldn’t ultimately shake.

Read the story of Trish’s life, not to look into her struggles at a distance, but to take personally what the human spirit can do with whatever it is given. That is a blessed assurance that whatever challenges we face in our lives, we too can survive and overcome.”

SAMUEL DEIBLER, B.A., B.D.

T R I S H

T R I S H

A Story of Survival and Recovery

Patricia Byrnes

Modern History Press

Ann Arbor, MI

Trish: A Story of Survival and Recovery

Copyright © 2020 by Patricia Byrnes. All Rights Reserved.

Paperback ISBN 978-1-61599-514-1

Hardcover ISBN 978-1-61599-515-8

eBook ISBN 978-1-61599-516-5

Modern History Press

5145 Pontiac Trail

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

[email protected]

www.ModernHistoryPress.com

Tollfree (USA/CAN) 888-761-6268

Fax [phone]

Distributed by Ingram (USA/CAN), Bertram’s books (UK/EU)

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my sons Zachary and Edward, each of whom has taught me more than he will ever know.

Contents

Chapter 1 – The Eary Language of Love

Chapter 2 – Moving on Up, to the West Side

Chapter 3 – Sunday Segregation

Chapter 4 – My Mother, My Champion

Chapter 5 – Cousin Claire

Chapter 6 – My Other Grandmother

Chapter 7 – The Guilt of Being Gorgeous

Chapter 8 – Secretarial Aspirations

Chapter 9 – Motherhood

Chapter 10 – Dennis

Chapter 11 – Goodbye, Dennis

Chapter 12 – Neil

Chapter 13 – Loss

Chapter 14 – Goodbye, Barbara

Chapter 15 – Recovery

Chapter 16 – Revisiting Old Memories

Chapter 17 – Service

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

1

The Early Language of Love

I could sign before I could speak. My parents were both deaf and, as the eldest, it fell to me to be their translator. As a matter of fact, after my baby sister Barbara was born, even though I was only thirteen months old, I was in charge of signaling to my mother whenever she was crying.

Evidently, I relished this role.

You were always so responsible, Mom told me, her fingers recounting a story I had long-since memorized.

I loved hearing about the early days and how, ever since her birth, I’d protected Barbara.

I never thought to ask Mom what she’d done before I learned to sign. It never occurred to me to wonder how Mom had known if I was crying.

I was conceived in May of 1936. That August, my parents were married at the parish of St. Rose of Lima in Manhattan’s Washington Heights. They were either twenty-one or twenty-two. Too young to be responsible for raising a child, too sheltered and segregated to equip me for a life lived among the hearing. Yet, it wasn’t like they had a choice about becoming tied to one another. They were Catholics and I was an insurmountable obstacle. As in the case of all couples who had to get married, Mom and Dad’s ceremony was performed by a priest in the rectory, as opposed to in the church. But, unlike so many other couples who got themselves in the family way when they were in no way prepared to be, my parents were overjoyed by my unexpected existence.

My mother, Christine Durso, had been attending New York School for the Deaf (NYSD) in New York City. My father, Joseph Byrnes, met her when he transferred there during his senior year in high school. Prior to that, he’d been at St. Joseph’s School for the Deaf in the Bronx. My parents were not born deaf. Dad had spinal meningitis and Mom had some childhood illness, such as measles, which resulted in her loss of hearing.

It is not difficult to track the direction of my parents’ marriage. Mom was a fiery Italian American woman and Dad was a then-typical Irish Catholic male. Filled with opinions and attitudes created during the 1920s and 30s, he had a penchant for drinking which ultimately grew into full-blown alcoholism.

As Dad’s drinking accelerated, Mom grew more and more depressed. In today’s world, I’m certain she’d be treated for clinical depression, but in the 1930s, 40s, and 50s, we simply thought of her as “moody.”

Dad and me walking, in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, NY (mid 1940s)

I was born on February 19th, 1937 at Lutheran Hospital in New York City’s Harlem. My mother’s Italian immigrant parents lived in Washington Heights, which was not far from the hospital. Dad’s mother, a widow since 1929, lived in Brooklyn and Long Island, alternating between the houses of Dad’s two sisters, Marie McKenna and Anna Barry. It wasn’t until I got older that I started to wonder why she never came to live with us. Then, I didn’t wonder.

Thirteen months after I was born, my sister Barbara came along. When I was nine, Margot arrived. Bernard was born when I was twelve. My father finally had the boy he always wanted. Dad’s initial intention had been to have a son and name him Patrick, but he got me instead, which explains why I was named Patricia.

In my early years, I was always trying to prove to Dad that I was as good as any boy. I wore his old shirts, played ball, and looked out for my siblings. I saw myself as their protector and even got into a playground scuffle or two on their behalves.

Whenever we went anywhere, if we were forced to split up, I’d designate someone to act as my surrogate. Barbara and I went to summer camp for underprivileged children one year and because of our thirteen-month age difference, we were assigned to different groups.

As soon as she was given her group designation, I marched right up to another of her campmates, stared her straight in the eyes, and said, “I’m trusting you to look after my sister today.”

And I meant it.

I grew up feeling shame, a silent, inward entity that governed my life. I had no friends except Barbara. We were inseparable. Sure, I had classmates at school and some age-appropriate neighbors who lived on the street where I grew up. But Barbara was the only one I thought of as a friend.

My father was brought up by an uptight, Irish Catholic mother straight from the “old country.” He lived by antiquated mores and attitudes of a culture who thought girls were weaker, not as smart and just all around worth less than the male sex.

I found out many years later that my father adored his girls, but growing up I couldn’t have guessed I was anything other than a disappointment.

As far as I could tell, I only ever made Dad proud in one way. I excelled at the language of sign. In this way, and in no other, I was considered exceptional. I signed so skillfully that other deaf parents used to say I wish my kid spoke as well as Pat.

In spite of our closeness, we were competitive. Or, rather, Barbara was competitive with me.

“I’ll race you to the curb,” she’d say just before taking off in a sprint.”

She always won. I let her. I’d learned early on that my job was to support the ones I cared about, and I cared about Barbara so much that, even as an adult, if we were apart for longer than a few days, I felt as if a chunk of me was missing.

I can’t recall how old I was when I first heard the expression “Irish twins,” but I knew the feeling since the moment my sister joined me in this world. And, over seven decades later, as I began, tentatively to embark upon this memoir project, I thought about the Taiye Selasi quote:

“Being a twin, and being my sister's twin, is such a defining part of my life that I wouldn't know how to be who I am, including a writer, without that being somehow at the centre.”

That’s not to say Barbra and I never fought. We’d get into meaningless spats about inconsequential things. Although Mom couldn’t hear us arguing, she’d sense that we were what she referred to as rumbling and immediately come to our shared room to intervene.

As soon as she appeared in the doorway and asked if we were fighting, we would vehemently deny it. Mom believed sisters should not fight with each other, which, I later came to realize made her a pushover where her own sisters were concerned. She actually cheated us kids of the invaluable experience of learning how to fight with and forgive each other. Even as we grew into adulthood, Barbara and I could never really get mad at one another without feeling as if we were losing some essential aspect of ourselves.

I let Barbara “win” rather than teaching her that it isn’t possible to triumph all the time. Maybe, that’s why she maintained her innocence and naiveté all throughout her life, whereas, even as a child, I was an adult.

When she was five or six and I was six or seven, Barbara would line up all the dolls in front of herself and I’d scoff because I was too old for dolls.

“Will you play school with me, Pat?” she’d ask.

I’d say no; she’d beg; I’d give in.

“Alright, but only if I can be Principal Sister Mathilda.”

I’d retreat into the kitchen and emerge with a towel draped around my neck and a ruler clutched in my hand.

“You be Sister Barbara.”

She’d eye me suspiciously. “I don’t want to play that, Pat.”

But I’d raise the ruler and drop it down, punishing the dolls because it was the only power I had. No matter how many times I rapped the dolls with my merciless ruler, Barbara never seemed to foresee this eventuality. She kept asking, and I kept disappointing. It was one of the few ways I allowed myself to let her down, and I only did it because I couldn’t see myself as a child. I was her big sister, our parents’ good girl, the eldest, the translator…

In addition to being a “spokesperson” for my parents, I was also a parentified child. In other words, I was my parents’ parent…primarily my mother’s.

Dad hated depending upon me, but Mom seemed perfectly comfortable using me as her voice. As she sunk deeper into depression, and Dad descended deeper into drinking, my responsibilities increased. I cared for my siblings, cooked and cleaned. I could make a bed when I was only six or seven. I started cooking when I was ten – simple things at first, boiling potatoes and spaghetti and making oatmeal and toast, which was sometimes all we had to eat. As I matured, so did my recipes. By the time I was twelve, I’d taught myself to make spaghetti sauce from scratch.

I like to think I inherited my work-ethic from Dad. I know I got my alcoholism from him.

Despite his battle with the bottle, Dad was a great worker. Deaf people don’t have the usual distractions hearing people do and, therefore, his production level was very high. He worked for a printing company and, because he couldn’t hear the noisy presses, so he wasn’t distracted to carry out the work of lifting very heavy bales of paper onto their feeding panel. Dad was as motivated as a machine. He’d lift and lift, which was real backbreaking work. I know because pressmen were routinely getting injured on the job, and, as he got older, he had three hernia operations. But he loved his work and always felt as if it gave him a sense of purpose to conduct an honest day’s labor.

In order to be productive though, Dad had to make it in to work.

I’d learned to use a payphone around the same time I learned to make a bed, and, since there was a payphone at the drugstore down the street from our apartment, Dad, hungover on a Monday morning, would give me a nickel to call his boss, Mr. Kennelly, and tell him his Uncle Joe had died and he needed to take the day off.

Unfortunately, Mr. Kennelly had a better memory than Dad gave him credit for. The second time I called to deliver the same excuse, Dad’s boss replied “Uncle Joe died again, did he?”

Speechless, I hung up.

At home, I delivered the bad news. I’m sorry, Dad. He knew I was lying. This also fed into my feeling of shame.