The Unfinished: A true account of childhood trauma and how I took my life back

By Tara Stasi

A true account of a childhood filled with emotional, psychological, and physical abuse, and dealing with parents who never wanted to be parents at all.

The book is written exactly how Tara remembers her childhood and early adulthood: in "snippets" of memories that come to abrupt ends. The unfo

• Language: English
• Publisher: TS Publishing
• Release date: Jun 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218448400

Book preview

1

Epilogue

I couldn’t decide if I should name this book The Unfinished or The Unresolved. Either way, the idea is twofold. The first is that my mother and father have never and will never take an ounce of responsibility for anything they did or said to me and my siblings from birth into adulthood. It was always our fault, someone else’s fault, they never did it, or the target deserved it if they did do it. It means many things. Verbal abuse. Ignoring. Emotional abuse. Absentee parent. Abandonment. Some physical abuse. Watching my mother verbally abuse strangers. All denied or given excuses by both. I’ve actually never experienced anyone else like these two. According to them, all the its just never happened. The second side of the title meaning is the fear I had stemming from never knowing what to expect, and decades of trauma starting at a very young age just left to hang out and dry unaddressed.

This book is not my truth. It is *the* truth. It all happened. It is not my interpretation of what happened. Every snippet of memory is fact only, the way it happened, and that is how I wrote it. It’s not perception. It’s not perspective. Sometimes there were witnesses. Sometimes not. The fear of confronting either my mother or father kept people from stepping in. My grandparents tried when they’d have me and my sister sleep over for days at a time. That was just a temporary reprieve. Todd was always treated a little differently, and although he got out as soon as he could, he found ways to stay busy and outside where Tori and I did not.

So we…meaning me, my brother, and my sister…were largely left to deal with the home situation on our own. However, we each experienced my parents differently. My experience is what it is, and continues at the age of 52, to be what it has always been: my mother simultaneously irritated or angry with me for only reasons she knows, but then suddenly happy, for only reasons she knows. This was the emotional up/down that was my childhood with her. My father is and always will be absent and then pretend he never knew and still does not know better. Before distancing myself, my mother blamed me for any negative. This mean that she created it, but in her mind it was my very valid reaction that was the problem. A response of get over it, without actually saying that, was typical. My father is simply not interested in being a father and never has been. So the volatility is not there, but the complete disinterest is.

My brother and sister continue to have varying levels of negative experiences as well. Some I have been witness to, but I cannot write from their perspective and do not wish to. My experiences are exhausting enough and I don’t have time to entertain the madness of all three of our lives.

My only recourse was and is to distance myself, which I have. At times, like an idiot I think, But this is my mother (or father), I should be able to get along with them/they should love me/I can keep it from happening, but it’s always the same. Although I decided not to cut them completely out of my life, it’s pretty darn close. It’s niceties and cordial but distant hello’s and see ya next time’s, and that’s all. It’s the only way for me to maintain my mental health without a lot of work.

There is a reason this book is written in the format you’ll see. It is how I remember my childhood: in vivid bits and pieces, large spans of gaps, and rough, sudden endings to most memories. There are life events I do not remember and time spent in elementary, middle, and high school are absent. I do not remember my senior prom, high school graduation, or college graduation. There are pictures. I know I was there because I can see it, but I do not remember it.

There was levity at times, but not enough to provide any kind of balance. I didn’t need more levity, I needed love. To that end, there were my younger days spent with my grandparents, my grandmother especially, after my grandfather died in early 1986. The other happy days were in my late 20’s after I had my children, and the vast amount of time I spent with them as a stay-at-home mother. Even when my kids started school and I went back to work, my memories are much more intact and I remember a lot, whether it was events, fun days at home, food shopping while they pushed the kiddy grocery cart…it was all happy. But my mother managed to insert her nasty verbal and emotional abuse into that as well. As I write this, I just realized that I don’t think she ever liked seeing me happy. Wow. What a realization.

So why am I writing this book now? It is not to out anyone…which is why I do not refer to my parents or grandparents by their names. It is not to get back at anyone; they deny it all so a book won’t change that. In fact, if they knew the book existed, they’d most likely double down and go on a smear and denial campaign. Half the reason I’m writing this is for catharsis. The other half is to help others who had similar Mommie Dearest childhoods (a 1981 movie about a horrifically abusive actress mother towards her adopted children) know they are not crazy, they did not imagine what happened, they are not to blame, denials by perpetrators mean nothing, and the fact that these abusers have friends who really like them is just a shield to help protect them from being found out. The reality is that they need for a few people to see them as kind and loving in order for them to get away with denying decades of abuse. I believe the continued denials are partly a result of the shame abusers hold. If an abuse is retold, man it sounds bad. So they continue to deny, and in my case my mother in particular claims I deserved what I got after I rejected her denials. You’ll read about these specific situations in the book.

My father? It was always an excuse. He never denied not being around. But he also never admitted to it. His excuse? Work. Work work work. Work turned out to be a pseudonym for 30+ years of affairs. But man he holds tight to the idea that he thought he was only there to provide financially. You know how I know that’s not something he actually believes? By the attention his second wife got (she’s now passed) and his now soon-to-be third wife gets. He is capable of loving someone. His kids just were not people he wanted to love and he refuses to admit that. Maybe it’s because he hated my mother so much. Who knows. Not my emotion to unravel. He now resorts to I know you’re busy so I don’t call. Nah. He has no desire to connect so he blames my busy life (that he knows nothing about because he doesn’t ask) for his continued lack of care. The fact that he refuses to admit this makes it clear he knows it sounds horrible. And if he knows it sounds horrible, it’s because he knows he sucks as a father in the first place and never cared to change it.

I am distant from both parents, however, confrontations with my mother continue at the writing of this book in 2024.  Even during a simple, benign conversation, my mother will interject with nasty, unnecessary remarks.  I have confronted her and told her I don't like what she said, and she denies she said it.  She will then turn it around and say I am attacking her in an attempt to avoid responsibility. The insanity never ceases to amaze me.

So, off we go, starting in 1971, situated on Long Island, New York, one year before I was born. It is an event that happened to my brother, as it was told by my mother many years ago. It sets readers up for what we grew up with. Buckle up.

2

A Near Drowning

Fall, 1971

My brother Todd was 2 ½ years old. I was not born yet. My mother and father were both 25. The three of them drove to my father’s mother’s home to cut down hanging and dead tree limbs. My father’s teenaged half-brother Randy was there as well. There was an in-ground pool still uncovered as mid-fall approached.

Todd ran around the yard playing while my mother watched my father cut down the branches. She was watching my father for a while and then felt someone tap her right shoulder a few times from behind her. She turned around and said what thinking it was Randy, but saw no one. What caught her eye was a wavy