Rewritten by Fire (eBook)

Joanne Rizzo (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2026 | 1. Auflage
156 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3178-2789-2 (ISBN)

Infos

On paper, she had it all: A thriving career, a relentless work ethic, and a reputation for getting things done. But behind these wins was a woman unraveling- haunted by a childhood she never talked about and a mind she couldn't outrun.

Joanne Rizzo, a trained pharmacist and medical affairs specialist, spent over two decades navigating direct patient care, transitioning to a fast-paced corporate atmosphere. In her debut memoir, she sheds the polished surface to explore the inner chaos that accompanied her outward success. Part confession, part reckoning, her writing reflects a voice that is raw, reflective, and unflinchingly honest. With vulnerability and insight, she invites readers to consider how our pasts haunt our ambition - and how healing can reshape what and how we define success. Joanne lives in a suburb of Chicago, Illinois, with her two adopted dogs, who live the ultimate life. When not writing or working, she can be found traveling, dedicated to a wellness and fitness lifestyle, and exploring her passions in animal care. This is her first book.

Textauszug

Chapter 1
The Inner Voice Ages

People raised on love see things differently
from those raised on survival.
—Joy Marino

When I was growing up in the ’80s, my home did not exude warmth, love, or affection. Instead, my house served simply as a dwelling with an address to indicate that I lived somewhere.

The overall color inside and out was a shade of shit brown. On the outside, my traditional, unremarkable single-family home blended in with the rest of the homes on the block. When you drove past it, you would not look twice. Nowhere would I think, Oh, what a cute home, or Those owners have great style. Inside, the walls, furniture, and even the kitchen were a shade of brown. Pinterest would have been a much-welcomed option to spice things up. My house did not feel welcoming. When you walk into someone’s home, you immediately take stock of what you see, feel, and smell. Is the house clean and organized, or is everything in disarray? Do you stop to admire photos or artwork that tell an interesting story about what this family represents or cherishes?

Instead of being welcoming, my house was just there. One of the first rooms you walked into was the living area. Custom plastic seat covers were the main attraction. The moment you sat, you first heard the crinkling sound echo—a constant reminder of the distance between comfort and reality. In the winter, the plastic would freeze to your skin, its cold grip unbearable. It trapped the heat in the summer, making you sweat in sticky discomfort. It was a constant reminder to me of how uncomfortable my house was. Any slight movement, whether trying to adjust or get up, was met with the unmistakable, mortifying sound of plastic crinkling—like a loud fart that seemed to reverberate through the room. I’m sure you’re thinking, Boy, do I wish I had the opportunity to visit. Hardly. Our black leather recliner (no plastic required) was my favorite spot on the rare occasion I sat in the living room. I enjoyed looking out onto the street, looking at the passing cars or people walking by. This area, bathed in afternoon sunlight, became a warm, cozy spot. Sometimes, I sat there to finish my homework or cuddle with my dog, reliving my day as she slept in my lap. Distant memories of family vacations, baby photos, and school photos were displayed randomly throughout the space. I do not remember admiring my parents’ wedding album. No pictures of my parents together as a couple were on display. Even the images on display now feel like they were put up as an obligation. Few to no happy memories or admiration were associated with them.

You would think that having one of my parents at home would have all the makings to create a safe and wonderful home. But it didn’t work out that way. One parent was home to help with schoolwork, meals, or bath time. In reality, it didn’t matter; I still felt alone. On a usual day, coming home from school or other activities, I would go straight to my room and close the door. I felt safe in my room and treated it as my sanctuary. Sitting on my bed or at my desk, playing music, reading a book, or watching TV, was my most comfortable activity. Yes, I was one of those kids with a TV in my room. It served as the perfect escape. Most of the time, I would relax in bed or nap before dinner. The ambient noise from the TV distracted me from the quietness and uneasiness that filled the house. To this day, I find myself doing this to kill the silence.

These early memories enlightened me to how my family members interacted with each other or, more accurately, how we lived separate lives under the same roof. Kindness, empathy, and adoration were rare. Hugs and kisses from my parents were not a usual occurrence; when I did receive one, I was genuinely surprised or wary, as it felt more like a trap. I rarely saw my parents show affection toward each other. I never saw them hold hands, hug one another, or even enjoy a light joke or giggle between themselves.

Daily interactions felt like to-do items. Our mornings were hurried and chaotic. I abruptly woke up, ate breakfast, dressed for school, and jumped in the car. My mom drove my brother and me to school. As we exited for the day, I was met with a quick goodbye. My brother and I were embarrassed by our family car. Picture an old, rusted, beat-up ’70s station wagon. And, of course, it was brown! (I shit you not, pun intended.) We begged our mom to drop us off a block away from the entrance. When we were returning home from school, my parents would tell me to start my homework or go to my room to play with my brother. Running to my room was my usual practice. My room has been my sanctuary since I was young.

I also followed a routine during the summer. My parents kept my brother and me busy. We went to day camp for eight weeks from July to August, Monday through Friday. I would be picked up by the bus at 8:00 a.m. and dropped off at 5:00 p.m. Summer camp was full of joyful memories. I loved visiting the zoo, the beach, and the amusement park. My parents never took me on these excursions. These trips seemed like chores for them and were rarely offered as a family option. They’d say, “Well, you did it at camp; no need to go again.” When I reflect on these summers, with many joyful memories to hold on to, I know my parents preferred to get us out of the house for the day.

Weekends, in general, were more relaxed. As a family, we didn’t plan any future activities. It’s not like today, when children are booked weeks in advance with family parties, sports, or playdates. I recall more than once being in my room on a warm, sunny day, bored with nothing to do. As I stared out my window, admiring the blue sky and birds, that little inner voice would pop up to say, You should be out doing something. Why are you wasting this beautiful day? My parents rarely engaged my brother and me in playing a game of catch or taking an impromptu trip to the park. We would occasionally go to the movies. That was a special event, and we were reminded of it more than once. I began to wonder why we weren’t interested in spending time together. When we did, it was met with an undertone of being forced or not genuine. I never could quite put my finger on it exactly, but inside, this feeling gnawed at me like a restless animal trying to escape from its cage.

My parents rarely came to my room at bedtime to kiss me good night or read me a book. I would get into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and go to bed. Around the age of three, I shared my room with my baby brother. He cried all night; he was a horrible sleeper, and it drove me crazy! I was not that toddler you see on the baby cam videos climbing into a sibling’s crib to help them calm down. Instead, I stomped down the hallway to my parents’ room. “I know you hear him crying; why are you ignoring him? I want him out of my room, and if he is not moved, I will sleep with you.” My parents did not argue with my young threatening stance and would do anything they could to keep me from sleeping with them. By the end of the week, I had my own room!

My mom and I had our “mommy and me time.” This was special, and I still cherish these memories. On days I might not have felt well, or on cold, rainy days, it was our routine to bury ourselves under the covers in her bed. We shared snacks, or she made me chicken noodle soup if I was sick. We watched All My Children together. (Don’t worry. I did not understand anything I was watching; I buried myself in her chest and enjoyed the cuddling.) Her voice seemed to soften along with her general demeanor. She became attentive to my needs, and I recall her smiling much more during our alone time. I felt loved and special during these moments.

Other activities included my favorite pastime, shopping! Those day trips, possibly once a month, excited me, as I enjoyed walking and perusing through the stores with her, admiring dresses or helping her decide on a new pair of shoes. We usually took a trip to the toy store, but more often than not, I came home with a special treat.

My father grew up in a home environment similar to the one I have described. He had two older brothers along with his twin sister. My father and my aunt were the babies of the family. Learning how family members interact, behave, and treat one another came from observing my parents with their own parents. Coming from large families, my parents did not have many of the modern-day comforts that I took for granted. Sharing your bedroom with your siblings was the norm, with one bathroom for the entire family. There was no space to enjoy some alone time. When I was told these stories as a child, I was thankful for what I had. It was hard to imagine sharing a room with my brother. (I already told you how that worked out.) How could you live with a single TV to be shared with the entire family? I thought about the fights that must have ensued when everyone wanted to watch their favorite shows. These stories were shared with humor and laughter. At times, there was an undertone of how I didn’t appreciate what my brother and I had, but I never truly felt that way. My father, in particular,e would say we had it too good. It fed an internal false belief that I had no right to complain or question why things were the way they were.

Come to think of it, as much as I felt my house was cold and unwelcoming, I was thankful and appreciative for what I had. I lived in a nice neighborhood with a yard, a basketball hoop, and a small aboveground pool my dad installed every summer when I was young. Our family dog, Sparky, whom I adored, was a constant presence in our...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 9.1.2026
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3178-2789-2 / 9798317827892