For as long as she could remember, Georgianne wanted to be a nun. Being brought up in an upstanding Italian-American family in upstate N.Y., and attending Parochial school, she was definitely being groomed towards that calling.
Even though it was hard growing up with a mother who was constantly criticizing and belittling her, after the death of her father, life became almost unbearable. Her mothers’ relationship with an atheist thrust the family into a life of abuse, alcoholism and dysfunction. The children, subjected to a life of turmoil, fear, uncertainty, and insanity.
The family is taken thousands of miles away from family and friends and forbidden to contact them. Georgianne being the oldest daughter and while being constantly pursued by the step-father becomes the strength and protector of her mother and younger siblings.
Georgianne knows this kind of life is not acceptable and plans with her mother despicable acts against the step-father, at times desperately trying to do away with him on her own.
After his death and as an adult she continues to care for her family but also makes many bad choices while looking for an escape, something better, different or just someone to love her.
At one of the lowest times in her life, Satan comes to her bedside. Because of her strong faith in God, her body is released and she realizes just how close she came to being a different kind of person.
Although she continues to make bad choices she is still a kind, loving caring person. Many trials continue for her and her family. She tries to pursue her second passion of writing and film producing which leads her to meeting a few celebrities.
After the death of her mother, who had such a hold on her, Georgianne finally feels free. Free of the obligation to her. Free of trying to get her to love her. Free from the abuse and criticism. She survived.
She learns from her mistakes, bad choices and feelings of unworthiness and begins a new life. A free new life which allows her to let someone love her unconditionally, pursue her dreams and live happily ever after.
Targeted Age Group:: teen to mature adults
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I was inspired to write this memoir because I knew that it could be interesting to some, inspirational to others and perhaps be the best therapy I could ever have, and it was.
I had hoped that my experiences would help others open up either to me or others and that has also happened.
After a lot of struggling, he got loose but fell. He scrambled to his feet, but fell over a little curb that was there. Again, got to his feet, all the time we were following him. He fell over a small shrub, got up only to run a few feet and fell into the picnic table, then fell over the bench. Finally he got enough footing to run without falling and ran down to the sale barn, away from us. Now maybe his falling had something to do with only having socks on his feet — no shoes, but I like to think he was terrified of me coming at him with a knife, perhaps knowing I was going to try to kill him, again!
“Oh my. I’m sure he was.”
This was the first time ever in all the years that he left the house — not us. Mother and all of us children walked that old highway many times to a motel for the night. He apparently had called the highway patrol, but they must have advised him to leave that night. I was sitting on the couch when he came back to the house with the police outside waiting for him to leave. He was putting some clothes into something like a backpack at the kitchen counter looking at me. “You think you’re a pretty big girl now, don’t you?” I remember him saying. I didn’t reply. I was watching something on TV that I wanted to watch earlier.
Again, I don’t remember seeing Mom or the kids. I just remember at that moment I was happy that he was leaving, and I was watching something that I really wanted to see.
That might sound selfish but my life was not my own. It was theirs — all of them. I didn’t have my own life. It was full of them, the ugliness, the responsibility, the work, the “Do as I say! Don’t think, don’t feel, work, take care of the kids, and let me abuse you, use you for my punching bag and whatever I do, you better back me up.” That’s what my mother expected of me. It was a life of lies and repairs, pain, abuse and dysfunction. But that night, I felt a little victory, and it felt good. And yes, I might have killed for that victory. I just might have killed for that victory, but fortunately I didn’t have to that night.
I imagine that some of the times that I don’t recall where the kids were could be because of the traumatic situations, but also they would climb out of the windows, run to the field and hide. I do remember having to go find them several times when the fighting was over. I remember a couple of times they even crossed the highway to get away. They weren’t babies but considerably young. They were eight, ten and thirteen years younger than me so you can do the math.
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