Stolen Halo

By Trish Dinsmoor

STOLEN HALO is a moving and engrossing memoirabout childhood physical, sexual and emotional abuse; about rejection and abandonmentthat provides a perspective that only a person who was that child can know.
STOLEN HALO is a true testament to the importance and the process of facing ones past head-on, resurrecting that past, owning and respecting it, putting it into written wordsand then sharing ones own story with the universe in the hope that those words will somehow help others make sense of their own lives just as writing them made sense to the author.
For Trish Dinsmoor, in STOLEN HALO, it isnt just a matter of honestyit is a matter of responsibilityto get her message of hope out to all the victims of abuse. STOLEN HALOand its poignant message of hope and survivalis Trish Dinsmoors attempt to set herself and other victims free.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468550320

Trish Dinsmoor

TRISH DINSMOOR has turned her own personal struggles—her history of abuse, abandonment and survival—into a profoundly engrossing and moving memoir. Her wish is that her message of hope will inspire victims of abuse to believe that a beautiful life really is possible. Trish lives in Uncasville, Connecticut with her husband Nick and their poodle Princeton. SUSAN L. McELANEY is married, the mother of three adult children and the grandmother of five. A retired Registered Nurse, she worked both in oncology for years and then in the Mental Health Department at a women’s prison. Both areas have provided her with compassion and a vast experience dealing with victimization. Susan lives in Norwichtown, Connecticut with her husband Jim their cat Royboy.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

MY FIRST CHILDHOOD MEMORY IS very vivid. It was winter. I was five years old and I was sitting curled up on the couch in the living room. My mother had been in the hospital for several days. I knew only that she had had another baby. I tried to make myself feel happy inside by trying to picture what my new baby sister might look like, how she would smell all nice and baby-powdery fresh. But even at only five years old, I already knew what all this meant for me. It meant I would be working harder than ever helping Mom take care of things: of my older brother Fred, my two younger brothers, Jake and Larry and now my new little baby sister Nina. It was always, Trish, go get me a diaper, Trish, bring me the baby’s bottle, Trish, go put the little ones in for their naps, Trish, watch the kids for me while I run down to the store, Trish, give the boys their baths and get them dressed, or Trish, go fill the tub up and get started on the dirty laundry. I dreaded having more work to do and one more baby to take care of.

Mom looked really tired and mad when she walked into the parlor that day. She barely looked at me as she handed-off the pink blanketed bundle to me for the first time.

"Here, Trish. Hold her," she demanded. She quickly turned and walked back out to the kitchen.

For the first time, I looked down at my new baby sister. I was amazed at how beautiful Nina was. I carefully touched her cheek with my finger. It felt like cotton. Her little wisps of hair felt like silk. Her eyes were closed and I thought she was the most precious baby doll I had ever seen. Only I knew she was real. I knew I’d be changing lots of her diapers, giving her lots of baths and bottles. Even at five years old, I feared that life as I knew it was about to change drastically. Mom had trained me well. I was really good at taking care of all of her children. I felt like I was the Mom and even though I had not asked for one or wanted one, a new baby had just been delivered into my life. I was really mad at Mom and even a little mad at my new baby sister. As I stared down at her beautiful face, my young heart began to melt. It didn’t take me long to fall in love with Nina. She was my beautiful little baby girl.

In our home, my father enforced his golden rule: Kids were to be seen and not heard. To violate that law would be grounds for a beating. I don’t remember ever hearing I love you—not from my mother, not from my father. I don’t remember ever being kissed or hugged. There was never any show of affection. What I do remember is that I grew up feeling unloved. I didn’t question that feeling because I knew no other way, nor did I have the vocabulary to put that feeling into words. That was just the way it was in the Castelli household.

I won’t say my mother started out being a bad mother. I think that, in the beginning, she cared for us in a decent manner. But, even as a young child, I began to see things that I knew, on some level, were wrong. I knew it was wrong that every single evening, my mother allotted us kids only one peanut-butter and jelly sandwich or a bowl of Campbell’s Soup for dinner—every single evening, evening after evening—and then, after she cleared us and our mess away, she’d prepare a wonderful home-cooked meal of steak or pork chops or meatloaf; gravy, mashed potatoes, rolls, vegetables… . and then she and my father would sit down together to eat, while we kids were banished to the living room. We kids never once had a meal like that at home. Not once. Not ever.

I knew it was wrong that my mother never smiled when my father was home—and only rarely smiled when he wasn’t. One of the few memories I have of her smiling was in the kitchen. My mother was baking and as I walked by her, she laughed and put a smudge of white flour on my nose. I also have vague recollections of my mother smiling when she was at my grandparents’ home. There might have been other smiles, but sadly, I don’t remember any.

I knew it was wrong that when my father was home, my mother acted like a robot. She just glumly went about the household chores, making sure everything was done according to my father’s wishes so that there would be peace in the house. You kids just stay out of your father’s way. I don’t need you starting any trouble. I got enough to worry about.

I knew it was wrong that my father went out all the time and never took my mother with him. I saw the same sad expression appear on my mother’s face almost every evening. She’d be in the kitchen washing dishes and cleaning up after their dinner. The smell of Old Spice would precede my father’s entrance into the kitchen. He’d look handsome, all dressed up in his navy blue suit, white shirt and tie, and shiny black shoes. His black wavy hair would be neatly trimmed; his face would be all shiny and clean shaven.

"Where’re you going? Mom would ask him, knowing she’d get the same response every evening. Out, he’d say. I have a meeting." He’d flash his cunning smile which revealed his perfect white teeth and then he’d strut out the door and I wouldn’t see him until the following evening.

I knew it was wrong that while Mom and we kids never got anything new to wear, my father wore his fancy suits. And I knew that it was wrong that whenever Mom had to take us kids anywhere, we had to walk, while my father drove off alone in his big shiny black luxury car.

Indeed, my first childhood memory was vivid. Something within my five year old mind suggested that some things were wrong in the Castelli home. I clearly didn’t know just how wrong things would get to be.

CHAPTER TWO

I HAVE NO RECOLLECTION OF my mother or my life prior to age five. From ages five through eight, I have only a limited recall of her, but vivid memories of the brief, but tumultuous relationship we shared.

Today I am a fifty-six year old woman, so picturing Mom through those young eyes is very difficult and uncomfortable for me to do. I remember that she was a small woman (I am told that she only stood about four feet and eleven inches tall). My mind’s eye sees a rounded woman—not obese—just a little chubby with the belly apron most women are left with after having endured several pregnancies. She had short curly hair that was sometimes brown and sometimes auburn after she had dyed it. She never wore lipstick unless it was a special occasion or a holiday, and, although I can’t seem to picture the color of her lipstick, it is the pleasant fragrance I can, to this day, remember very well. I can’t recall if I thought she was pretty or not. I don’t think that this consideration ever entered my mind. She mostly dressed in slacks or shorts, checked pedal pushers and pretty pink, green or blue sleeveless sweaters. When she left the house, she usually wore brown loafers, sandals or flip-flops. Around the house, no matter the season, she loved to go barefoot. It is odd to me and a little disturbing that I can vividly see my mother’s pretty colored sleeveless sweaters, but I can’t see the color of her eyes.

My mother was born Tonya Hilman, the second oldest of eleven children. I recall a brief span in my life when I spent a great deal of time with my mother and both my grandparents. A few times a week, my mother and I and my six siblings would walk clear across town from our Pond Hill Road home to Union Street where my mother’s parents lived. I was about seven years old at that time. My brother Fred was one year older than me. Two years younger than me, was Jake, age six, and then Larry, aged four. The three youngest of our brood, were Nina, age three, Tammy, age two and Baby Brett, only six months old. We must have been quite a sight as the eight of us trudged across town to my grandparents’ home. The younger ones were in strollers that my mother and I pushed. We stuffed diaper bags and baby paraphernalia into any available space in the strollers. My three brothers pulled squeaky red wagons that were loaded down with trash bags full of dirty laundry. The walk would take at least an hour each way. It was drudgery, but I knew that at the end of the journey, my grandmother would have a pot of tomato bisque soup and Saltine Crackers ready for us for lunch. The anticipation of that soup made the long trek bearable. To this day, I can almost taste it and see the little tomato bits floating around in the milky tomato broth. Over the years, try as I might, I have never been able to make that tomato bisque taste exactly like my grandmother’s tasted. Yes, my grandmother made sure our lunch was wonderful. And at the end of the day, she made sure she fed us a good hearty dinner before we packed up and headed out for our one-hour walk home.

The days we spent at my grandparents’ home permitted me some happy times. Perhaps I didn’t know how to describe happy back then, but, looking back now, I recognize that I felt a sense of belonging. For me, it was my safe haven. It didn’t matter that I spent the day helping my mother wash clothes in that bulky wringer washing machine or that I was busy helping her take care of my three youngest siblings—feeding them, giving them their bottles, changing their diapers or getting them down for their naps. What mattered and what felt good was, that for a few hours, my mother seemed less sad and less angry than normal and she seemed to like me better than she did when we were at home. Looking back now, I recognize that perhaps she too had a sense of belonging while she spent time with her parents. Maybe my Mom knew that once she returned home, my father’s golden rule applied to her too: Wives should be seen and not heard.

My father’s need to control his wife and his family was fierce. More and more, he limited our contact with family members and the outside world. He seemed quite pleased and smug when my mother’s parents moved from our hometown of Norwich to a farm in Lebanon, Connecticut. What had been an hour’s walk to the home of my grandparents suddenly became a thirty minute drive. Because of the distance and because my father no longer would drive us there, our visits to see my grandparents soon became far and few between and I pretty much lost almost all contact with them. My life would be spent in the confines of our home. There would be no intruders allowed. The next year-and-a-half of my life would become a hellish existence of abuse and abandonment. The horrific events of that year are etched deeply into my memory and even more deeply into my heart.

CHAPTER THREE

I LIVED IN THE HOUSE on Pond Hill Road from about the age of three till age seven, however, I only have sporadic memories of the last two years there. The small ranch house sat on a small wooded lot at the crest of a hill. It was light green and had a small carport attached to the side of the house that led to the kitchen door. I knew that my father owned the house only because I had overheard loud arguments he and my mother had had that centered on his having lost the house. My mother accused my father of squandering the money and owing the bank. I wondered how that could be possible. I frequently saw big thick wads of money that my father left lying around the house so I naturally always thought that he was rich. I remember an occasion when I was at my grandparents’ home and I saw my aunts’ eyes roll when they whispered to each other about my father’s tainted money. I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but I knew it wasn’t good and I knew I was never to speak of it to anyone.

It was around that time that my father started spending long periods of time away from my mother, myself, my siblings and the little green house on Pond Hill Road.

My mother did not allow me, at the age of five, to go to kindergarten. I was kept home so that I could help her with the household chores and the care of my four brothers and two sisters: feeding them, giving the little ones their bottles, diapering them, bathing them, helping my mother each day hand wash the dirty laundry with a washboard and a big bar of brown soap in the bathtub.

It was a glorious day for me when, at the age of six, I started first grade at Buckingham School. I loved my time away from home. I loved being with my new friends. I loved my teacher. I loved that I was learning to read.

There happened to be a chickenpox epidemic at the school. I woke up early one school day and discovered that I had red itchy spots all over me. When I showed my mother she confirmed it, You have chickenpox. I didn’t feel too well and my mom didn’t look too happy. You better go back to bed, Trish. You’re not going to school today, that’s for sure.

I later woke up from a restless sleep and began crying. The itch was unbearable, my eyes burned, I was hot all over and I felt pretty awful. I got out of bed and searched the house for my mother. I couldn’t find her. I heard sounds coming from her bedroom so I pushed open the door and stepped in. Before they saw me, I saw that my mother was in bed with a man that I recognized to be the boyfriend of my mother’s sister. I began crying to my mother and before I had the chance to tell her how sick I felt, the man jumped up out of bed, and yelled, Get the fuck outta here, you little rug rat! He turned me around by my shoulders and gruffly pushed me out of the room, down the hall, shoved me into the living room closet, slammed and locked the door. I sat, cramped on the floor, shivering, itching, aching and feeling poorly for what seemed like three hours. Finally all the noises from my mother’s room stopped and I heard their voices as they said their good-byes at the kitchen door. Suddenly and thankfully, the closet door swung open. I squinted through burning eyes and looked up at my mother.

"Did ya learn anything, Trish?" she sneered at me, with her arms folded across her chest. She motioned to me to get out of the closet. Her disgusted expression glared at me and made my blood run cold. I was sure I must have done something very bad.

It was shortly after that when my mother brought all of us kids to my grandparents’ home to spend the weekend. I was not aware that my grandfather and some of my uncles were going to spend the weekend moving us from the house on Pond Hill Road, across town, to a house on Church Hill Road. On Sunday, my grandparents instructed us, Come on, kids, get in the car. As we drove away, my grandmother said, quite matter-of-factly, We’re taking you to your new house now.

CHAPTER FOUR

DURING THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS, we lived in the first floor apartment of the three-family house on Church Hill Road. My father continued to live home with us only intermittently. I was about five or six years old and, more than almost anything, I wished for a baby-doll that I could call my own.

The few times that I found the courage to request this of my father, his loathsome expression made it clear to me that I wasn’t going to get a doll. You don’t deserve to have a doll, Trish. You’re a whore just like your mother and whores don’t get no dolls.

I didn’t know what that meant or what I had done, but I knew I must be bad and I knew that my father didn’t much like me. There was no doubt in my mind that he would ever get me a doll.

One Sunday while my Dad was out, I remember going upstairs to the third floor apartment in my building where my aunt and uncle lived. My Aunt Deena walked by me as I sat on the floor watching TV. Here, Trish, why don’t you take this home with you? she said as she tossed a doll to me. It had been my cousin’s doll, but Aunt Deena said she never played with it so I might as well have it.

I was elated! I loved my new baby-doll immediately. She was a beanbag doll with a pretty face made of soft plastic. She had red curly nylon hair that was fashioned into baloney curls just like Shirley Temple. Her tiny lips were bright red and shaped like a delicate heart. Her pink dress was a little soiled and worn thin in a few areas. Under her dress she wore a white cloth diaper. Her hands and feet were plastic and she wore no shoes or socks. As I hugged her close to me, I wondered what I would name her.

Back in my own apartment later that day, I sat on the corner of the couch in the living room. My