I'm finishing dinner dishes while starting a load of laundry, taking out trash, setting up a lunch date with a friend on phone, and baking super-chunk chocolate chip cookies. (We can't forget importance of chocolate in our daily lives!) End result: bits of tissue from an unchecked pocket all over "clean" clothes, a spilled glass of milk, a lunch date mis-entered on calendar, a sticky, stinky mess on floor from dropping (and spilling) trash, and two broken dishes. Oh, and I burn cookies, too, and hurt my friend's feelings by not paying attention to her. All in all, apologizing, cleaning up mess, straightening out confusion, and redoing jobs I was trying to do all at once take more than twice as long (and create about twenty times stress) as if I'd done things one at a time.

Or I'll be putting laundry away while tidying house, having a yelled conversation with my daughter, and thinking about an article to write. End result: My daughter thinks I'm angry because I'm yelling, I can't ever find stuff I've put away (and two months later end up buying replacements, only to have original turn up next day), and half my clothes fall off hangers and have to be picked up and rehung. Or even ironed, if I don't catch them for a couple of days. Then I forget to write article.

I've been known to (accidentally) leave my sunglasses in refrigerator and my car keys in bathroom sink because I was thinking of what I had to do next instead of paying attention to what I was doing at time.

I have forgiven him but I have not forgotten turmoil, terror and abuse that I went through.

My father was working away most of time when I was growing up. But when he was home, he was violent.

I remembered crying in middle of night listening to him beating up my mother. I could hear her sobs. And I wept because I could not do anything about it.

I was terrified of him. We were not supposed to do any thing wrong according to his terms. When I was six years old he pushed my head so hard onto floor. I still have scar on my forehead.

When my mother was diagnosed with depression, four of us siblings had to move and we lived with him. He hired someone to take care of us while he was away at work.

There was so much fear in us when he was back. My father was so angry with one of my brother’s one day that he turned him upside down and wanted to throw him off. I watched that episode with horror.

From then on, I tried not to make any mistake. I wept inside because he did not want to hear any whimper. And I continued watching him vent his anger on rest of my siblings.

When my father divorced my mother, I did not know how to feel or react. My mother was back with us but her depression kept relapsing. We were neglected.

I found solace from friends at school. I enjoyed reading stories and literature. I spent my time in school library. There was no home sweet home.

My mother could not take care of me. My father took me away to live with his new family. It did not work out. I was sent to a welfare home.

I did not deserve to be abandoned but I was helpless. I was mad with my father. I was not angry with my mother but I just did not understand why she had to be sick.