ON HOW I LEARNED TO BE ALONE WITHOUT FEELING LONELY: IT'S BEGINNING

Recently, a close friend, who is in the middle of a break up with her beau, as well as recovering from the death of her father, asked me how I deal with loneliness.  I flippantly exclaimed, "I masturbate."

It was a school boy's toss-away  line to garner a laugh, while also giving me time to think about the truth.  I wrote to my friend the next day and explained not only how I deal with loneliness, but how I came to be alone.

I have discussed previously the daily physical abuse experienced in my twelve years' of Roman Catholic education. [CLICK HERE] What I have not described as yet is the physical and emotional abuse prevalent in my Irish Catholic home, abuse that was also a daily event.

My mother was a violent alcoholic who was once described by a psychoanalyst friend of mine as a "malignant personality."

Since then I have come to understand that she was perhaps the poster child for malignant narcissistic personality, or narcissistic personality disorder (for those following in their DSM-IV-TR Classification listing, you will find it under Diagnosis 301.81). Or, more to the point, she was a piece of work.

Even from my days as an infant and toddler I can still remember violent screaming in the house between my mother and father.  Both parents often came home drunk.  One night I found my father passed out in the hallway, the bedroom door locked in front of him.

I also remember numerous occasions when the Baltimore police came to our home in the wee hours, always taking the side of my mother as she manipulated them with tears and sobs.  I was too young and too scared to toddle down the stairs and point and scream, "You've got the wrong man, officers, cuff her!" 

She smoked too much, she drank too much, she cursed too much, and she cared no more for her four children than she gave a damn about the man in the moon.  And, she liked to use her hands.  She beat the hell out of both my father and, later, my stepfather.  Nails always at the ready and kicking feet not far behind.

Like Muhammad Ali I learned to float like a butterfly to avoid her long reach. I remember many moments where this instinct kept me away from her flailing hands and long fingernails.

Early one morning I was awakened by my 10-year-old sister running up the stairs screaming, "Eddie's on fire." My older brother and I jumped from bed and ran downstairs.

Standing on the sofa was my little brother. He was naked and screaming; tears were flowing freely down his cheeks. I will never forget his yellow, black, and brown body.  From his neck to his groin, the skin was dark and peeling. It was the very last time I saw him.

At just shy of four years of age my brother, playing with matches my mother left carelessly within reach of all her children, set himself on fire.

His clothing burned into his skin in the early morning as he ran from the far end of our yard to his home in search of mommy's help. Because she did not want to be disturbed, our mother had locked the basement door. Despite his frantic screams, he could not reach the safety of his family.

Fortunately, our neighbor was outside and he jumped the fence and tore my brother's clothes off his body to remove the flames.  He brought my brother to the house.  My mother called my father to come home from his job. Eddie had arisen early that morning in order to have breakfast with daddy.

Though he was my best friend, I was not allowed to visit him in the two hospitals that tried to save him, St. Agnes and, later, Kernan (the latter a children's orthopedic hospital).

I remember being taken to the hospital for one of my mother's visits. She forced me to sit in a large wooden chair all alone in the lobby of St. Agnes Hospital. My feet dangling above the floor, under the stare of a statue of Jesus, my mother told me to wait. "I won't be long," she said, "stay right in this chair."

She told me I was not old enough to see my best friend. The smells and the atmosphere of the hospital were frightening. The hour or so in that chair screamed loudly to me, "You are all alone!"

Edward Michael Daugherty passed from life one day. No one from my family took me aside and talked with me about this awful family tragedy. I was not dressed up to attend a funeral.

I learned he passed the moment my sister handed me a brown-paper grocery-store bag full of toys. She offered no explanation to me other than, "These were given to Eddie. He can't use them. They're for you." Ironically, and I am sure without a single thought, the bag was emblazoned with the name of our local Baltimore grocer, Eddie's.

The toys were expensive. They never would have been purchased for me. These were gifts given from guilt. Because they were now mine, I knew Eddie was not returning home. And, I rarely played with them. The name on the bag told me the real owner's name.

I internalized the fact that my family had made a decision to shun me, to treat me as not worthy of consideration of support or involvement in the family's pain. It told me to trust no one to come to my rescue.

I was almost six years old and very afraid. I knew my childhood was finished. From now on I would sleep with one eye open.

The die was now cast for me. In my mind being alone and alive was far better than trusting people to protect me who would not.