Surviving a Revolving Door of Trauma

Who doesn’t want to wear a pretty dress to her first day at school? I decided that I would, and that choice, from that moment on, seemed to set the tone for my life; a life full of trauma and abuse.

Before the pretty dress, my life as the daughter of Greek migrants had been relatively normal. My mother was a seamstress, and she spent long hours at her sewing machine or in the kitchen. My sister and I would sit at the kitchen table and read or write. Sometimes Mum would help, her hands leaving our pages dripping or smudged. She was always busy, and never smiling; ever serious.