The Naked Truth: The Real Story Behind the Real Housewife of New Jersey--In Her Own Words (6 page)

Now, just because the abuse physically stopped, it didn’t mean that what had taken place hadn’t scarred me. Wonderful innocence had been completely stolen from me, as had the beautiful discovery of what intimacy could be. I’ve had to redefine intimacy over the past forty-seven years without truly being able to discover it for the first time through love.

By the age of eight, I had already been severely sexually abused. I had gone through far too much for any eight-year-old to endure. I was too young to know wrong or right in the moral sense, but I did know that it didn’t feel good. In those days, nobody spoke about sexual abuse openly the way they
do now. I was made to believe that if I told anybody, I was disposable—that I would no longer be of use. I thought that I would be considered damaged and my parents would give me up for adoption again. So I just kept my mouth shut about the abuse and held it inside, which became my own personal battle.

It turns out that my mother didn’t know until I told her when I was in my late twenties. Mind you, I wasn’t telling my mother about the abuse in an accusing fashion. I was telling her about it because I finally got to the point where I
could
tell her and felt compelled to share. I had gone through rehab, counseling, and therapy. The sexual abuse from my childhood was one of the issues that I needed to confront and try to put to rest. Telling my mom about it was an important first step in that process.

Immediately after I told my mother, she sat in a state of shock. For a few moments, she stared blankly and her skin became very pale. It seemed as though she wasn’t even exhaling. It wasn’t as if she didn’t believe me—she was in a state of total confusion.
How could I have not known about this? How could you have gone all of these years without telling me?
she must have thought. When she tried to stand, she actually fell to her knees on the kitchen floor. She was wiped out emotionally— exhausted from processing all of this in her head.

BILLY THE KID

When I was thirteen years old, I began to notice boys. One that stood out from the rest was Peter, who was a few years older than me. I admired him from afar, gazing at him through a fence at our local playground. He was really cute—built well, with dark hair, big brown eyes, a great smile with perfect teeth, and dimples. All the girls in my school had a crush on Peter, and he always seemed to have a girlfriend. One after another wore his class ring, which was unique because it was pink amethyst (his birthstone).

His array of female fans included popular cheerleaders who were rich, pretty, and came from perfect families—they were all the things I wasn’t. However, Peter and I eventually connected when he came to work for my father one summer doing
odd jobs. We saw each other every day and became extremely close, and by summer’s end we were in love. My crush from afar became my boyfriend. The class ring that was once worn by so many girls I envied was now on
my
finger. It felt like a fairy tale. Peter was the first guy I had true feelings for. He was the first guy I experienced love with. He was my first willing sexual experience. He was my first everything.

We got engaged when I was fifteen years old. After six months together, right before his senior prom, Peter gave me a diamond ring and asked me to marry him. I said yes, of course, and after our amazing summer together, Peter went off to a college that was four hours away. We wrote to each other often and I talked to him on the phone every night. I baked him chocolate chip cookies every Tuesday and mailed them to him on Wednesday. We were so much in love that it was sickening.

Then, all of a sudden, I wasn’t in love anymore.

Soon after Peter went away to college, I felt as if something was missing. I wanted to get out of the relationship with him, but didn’t know how. After all, he was my fiancé. I didn’t know how to end a relationship, so I did the only thing that I was taught up to that point. . . . I cheated on him by hooking up with my girlfriend’s brother. My father had cheated on my mother throughout my entire childhood, and cheating was my only reality. Children do learn what they live.

When my father found out that I had cheated on Peter, he yelled at me. I was completely shocked that he had a problem
with it. “You didn’t teach me how to love,” I yelled at him. “You didn’t teach me what a normal relationship was supposed to feel like. You cheated on Mom while I babysat the children of your mistress! Now
you
have a problem with me cheating on Peter?”

I eventually told Peter that I wasn’t interested in being with him anymore. He was devastated. Peter was still as in love with me as I had been with him in the sixth and seventh grade, when I’d gazed at him from afar and dreamed of what it would be like to call him mine. I broke up with Peter in the kitchen of my house and literally stepped over him as I walked out the front door. I will never forget the look on his face. I deeply hurt him. He was a good guy and didn’t deserve it. However, I didn’t see it that way back then. The more Peter cried about our breakup, the angrier I got. As tears rolled down Peter’s cheeks, his anguish fed the rage I felt toward my abusers and what they’d done to me as a child. I was emotionally abusing Peter for what they did to me. By breaking Peter’s heart, it somehow made me feel vindicated for the pain of my childhood. Little did I know I’d go on to do this to other men throughout my life.

After my breakup with Peter, I discovered that a lot of guys really wanted to be with me. This realization fed the feminine beast inside me even more. I was sixteen years old and finally coming into my own. I guess I was a late bloomer; prior to that time I was tall and lanky and had no breasts. “Hey, Olive Oyl, where’s your Popeye?” the boys and girls would mock me. But
suddenly there was no more Olive Oyl, and the boys definitely started to take notice.

My long legs suddenly took shape. My breasts, albeit small, were developing and my skinny waistline began to give proportion to my body. I began to walk differently—sexier, and with a lot more confidence. I had beautiful, long, brown curly hair that complemented my bone structure.

Because I was extremely poor and not very outgoing, I’d had trouble fitting in. Now things began to change for me for the better. I started to make some money from cleaning houses and babysitting, which allowed me to buy some new clothes and wear outfits that were in style. I bought a pair of tight designer jeans that fit me well, and people started to look at me differently. I used a hair conditioner that was top of the line that made my hair full and silky, and I got noticed. I learned a lot about accentuating my outer beauty as I matured, and how to take advantage of it. Without a doubt, going into my early teens was a difficult transitional time for me. However, I successfully came out the other side with many male suitors in tow, one of whom was extremely important: Billy.

I met Billy at a bar in upstate New York when I was seventeen years old. A lot of bands played at this big, two-story club—
the
local place for loud rock music and a rowdy crowd fueled on beers and shots. When I think of that place, I’m immediately reminded of the movie
Road House
starring Patrick Swayze.

I had a job, and the first thing I wanted to do was move out of my house. My friend Tammy was not happy at home either.
We had met in high school and decided to become roommates. We would go out often to dance. It was a way for both of us to relieve the stresses in our lives. She was a pretty brunette with a really nice physique, but a bit depressed. She was a fun girl with guy problems, something that plagued Tammy and me and most other girls in their teens.

Tammy was eighteen, which was the legal drinking age at the time. I usually got into bars because I was almost the legal age, though having a fake ID and fluttering my long lashes at the bouncer helped my cause as well. There wasn’t as much of a hassle back then as there is today about underage drinking. It was a fun time to be a young girl emerging out of her teens.

The bartender, Craig, had been serving me a lot of kamikaze shots on the night Billy and I met. I was only seventeen but could pound shots back. Not long after I arrived at the club, I spotted Billy from across the bar. We made eye contact and there was an immediate connection. We mouthed a hello to each other and he came over and bought me a drink. He was attractive—half-Italian and half-Irish, with
GQ
looks and a body like a brick shithouse. But even though our eyes met like two magnets, I didn’t approach him. I never approached guys—I still don’t to this day. I have never found it necessary to approach men . . . though maybe that’s been my problem: throughout my life the wrong ones have always approached me.

Billy asked me if I would like to dance. When we hit the
dance floor, Craig’s eyes were on us like lasers burning holes into our backs. He had a massive crush on me and was protective. Craig would always make sure to walk me safely to my car from the club at the end of the night, and he would even follow me and my friends home. However, despite Craig’s attention, Billy and I danced all night. It was pretty much love at first sight.

From that night on, Billy and I were inseparable. We were young and in love, the type of love that was as pure as the driven snow. I wanted to be with him all the time, and Billy was so proud of me that he introduced me to everybody he had ever known. He also loved to take photographs of me. He took beautiful shots of me in Central Park surrounded by colorful foliage in bright Indian-summer sunshine.

Billy and I dated during an era of free love. There was no AIDS scare, and unprotected sex just meant that you could get pregnant. However, I still practiced safe sex. I was an adopted child and my mother was young when she got pregnant, so to me, safe sex was a choice I made for myself. Besides, guys always carried condoms back in those days, even in the midst of the free love movement. I don’t know if that’s still the case today. I don’t mean to disappoint anyone, but I am not out there banging everything that walks. Even back then I wasn’t having sex with multiple partners. I enjoyed being in a relationship. And Billy and I were in a committed relationship.

When I met him, Billy was a police officer who was also studying law in New York City. When Billy would go to the
city to attend classes, Craig would consistently come around and try to keep me company. He would show up at my house and profess his love. Even though I’d never even so much as kissed Craig, he was determined to spend the rest of his life with me. One night he said to me, “If I asked you to marry me, what would you say?”

I replied, “I would have to say no.” I was always up front about how I felt about him.

Craig was genuine about his feelings, too. He had plenty of opportunities to take advantage of me when I was drunk, but he never did. While he wasn’t
GQ
material the way Billy was, he definitely had a swagger about him and a nice build. A lot of pretty girls were chasing after him. I suppose I misled Craig, but I did it innocently. I was too young to realize what was really going on. Looking back now, I know it wasn’t a good idea to string Craig along. However, I wasn’t doing it intentionally. I just selfishly needed the kind of attention he gave me. Craig made me feel safe when Billy wasn’t around. He also made Billy jealous, and I needed that as well.

Billy was fully aware that Craig was actively pursuing me, and one night things almost got out of hand. Unexpectedly, Billy came back from New York City early to surprise me and arrived at my house the same time as Craig. Billy walked up to Craig as he approached my front door and grabbed his arm from behind. From the window I saw they were having a verbal altercation that looked to be moments away from getting physical.

I heard Billy say, “I appreciate you watching out for her when I’m not around, but this is getting out of hand. Take my advice and walk away with dignity.”

Well, Craig didn’t want to walk away. He was willing to fight for me. However, Billy decided that he had already won and refused to take the bait. Eager to defuse the situation, I went outside and immediately asked Craig to leave. He was obviously hurt, and that was the last time I ever saw him.

Over the next couple of months, Billy and I drove back and forth to Florida, trying to decide whether we wanted to move down there permanently or not. Billy wanted to quit the police because he was sick of arresting people for laws that he didn’t believe in. For example, he felt smoking pot should be legal, and he didn’t like arresting people, confiscating their drugs, then watching the goods being distributed among his fellow officers. He felt the whole thing was hypocritical and didn’t believe in his line of work anymore. He dreamed of being a musician and wanted to pursue it, and Florida seemed at the time like the place to do that.

Billy was quite a good musician. He played acoustic guitar and sang James Taylor—Jimmy Buffet-style. The lyrics in the songs were about love, struggle, family, and heartache. I believed Billy could have been the next James Taylor.

Once Billy quit his job, we didn’t really keep a regular schedule. We’d stay up till all hours talking to each other, sharing stories and private details about our lives. Billy’s experience in law enforcement and his training in how to investigate
people led him to believe that something was going on beneath the surface with me, and it was clear to him that I was hiding something important about my life. Well, that something was my sordid past of sexual abuse during my childhood. One night while we were visiting upstate New York, Billy got me to open up and I told him everything about that dark part of my life.