Vienna Pharaon - The Origins of You

I was just five years old when a rupture in my family left me with a wound that would dictate the course of my relationships for years to come.

For a long time I refused to acknowledge the effect my past had had on, well, everything else in my life. In fact, I might never have fully understood the importance of these early events without an education in psychology, a working knowledge of the lingering effects of trauma, and a deep curiosity around relationships. It has taken me years of hard work to see the impact of what happened long ago and to actively take control of who I want to be in relationships, valuable lessons Ive learned that I will share with you in this book. But Im getting ahead of myself. Lets start at the beginning.

Lets start with my origins.

It was a beautiful sunny day in the summer of 1991. I was trying to make a flimsy gold bangle into a trendy hoop earringfive going on fifteen, as they saywhen I heard my fathers raised voice from behind the closed bedroom door. My fathers anger was always scary to me. He was the kind of man who often dominated situations he was in, and the power and control he exuded felt threatening and manipulative. My joy in my cool jewelry project immediately vanished.

If you leave, dont come back, he shouted at my mother.

The words pierced me. Id never heard such rage targeted at someone I loved, at someone he was supposed to love: If you leave, dont come back.

Within minutes my mom was barreling upstairs, urging me to pack a bag. There wasnt much time for my system to process what was happening. All I knew was that we were leaving.

We picked up my maternal grandmother and went to the Jersey Shore, where I am sure I played in the waves, built castles in the sand, and probably convinced my mom to stop for ice cream on the way home. It hadnt yet struck me that home this time might mean somewhere else. Dropping off my grandmother wouldnt be just another stop. It was the destination.

When we got to my grandmas house, we settled in, unwinding after a day in the sun. It wasnt long before the phone started to ring. Although there was no caller ID at the time, it was obvious who was on the other end of the line. My father immediately demanded to speak to my mom, but my grandma knew better than to pass her the phone. Within minutes, we were all running over to the neighbors house. No time to process. Just time to run.

About ten minutes later my father and his brother, my uncle, pulled into my grandmas driveway. We watched from afar as they banged on the front door, circled the house, and tried to catch a glimpse of any movement inside. My moms parked car was a clear giveaway that we couldnt be far. I remember ever so carefully peeking my head above the windowsill to see what was going on just a house away. My dad and uncle were just small figures in the distance, but I could still see their rage.

I wanted to call out to my dad, but I was also frightened. I was hiding with my mom, feeling terrified and unsafe, while simultaneously thinking to myself, Im right here, Dad.

Minutes later, the police pulled into my grandmothers driveway. I could hear the fear in my moms voice as she demanded I hide in the closet with her. This is really happening. I was instructed to not make a peep. Then came the knock, which pierced in a familiar way. The neighbor opened the door to two angry men and a couple of police officers. The questions came from the officers while accusations came from my father and uncle. They knew we were inside, but there was no invitation to enter.

I could hear the rage escalating. There must be something I can do to fix this, I prayed. How do I make this stop? I just want them both to be okay.

Yet there was no way to make both of my parents happy. There was no way to choose them both. There was no way to honor one without hurting or disappointing the other, or so I believed. There was no way to stop the fight.