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.