Getting It Through My Thick Skull (3 page)

After years of grief and worry, not to mention a bullet to the head, I finally did get it through my thick skull. I’m quite clear about what was really going on with my ex-husband and former marriage. But I might have been saved all those years of doubting myself and hoping against all hope that things would change if I’d just been in possession of the knowledge and information I have now!

This knowledge was so life-changing for me that I decided to write this book to try to help educate others about sociopathic behavior, using my own painful past as a prime illustration of a long marriage to one specific type. The list of sociopathic traits given above is an accurate description of what I lived with for years, and through my recounting of the Amy Fisher circus, plus other, more private moments between Joey and me, I will show you just how insidiously they were put into practice and how well they can be masked—especially when there’s a willing victim. This is a key element in the life of any sociopath: a willing partner. Whether that partnership is a long-term relationship or only the passing illusion of partnership projected by the sociopath to further his or her goals, a sociopath is never completely alone. Like the first part of the word (socio, from the Latin
socius
, or companion) says, the sociopath only comes to power out in society, and their greatest skill in life, beyond any other talent they may have, is the skill to manipulate. For much of my life, I possessed neither the insight nor the strength to break that spell.

Apparently, I’m far from alone. I was amazed to learn just how widespread this condition is. Just as there was very little public awareness about autism thirty years ago, or understanding of what attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) meant twenty years ago, the general public doesn’t realize how common this untreatable condition really is. Millions of women and men find themselves stuck in relationships they can’t fix; heartbroken parents struggle with adult children who suck them dry emotionally and financially; long-suffering friends and coworkers are continually exploited by those who put them into no-win situations and abuse their kindness. I want everyone to understand what sociopathic behavior is and to bring it to the forefront of America’s conscience.

In doing the research for this book, I have had to go back, dig deep, and relive many episodes of my life that, quite honestly, I would much prefer to bury forever. As the months passed and I worked on this project—recalling many painful and humiliating incidents, some buried so deeply that only old headlines jolted them back into my consciousness—my family and friends grew concerned. “Why now?” they asked. “Why rehash all of this seventeen years later?” The answer is simple: by sharing my story, I hope that my experiences will save others from similar heartache. I wouldn’t wish marriage or an intimate relationship to a sociopath of any kind onto anyone; my hope is that this book will inspire others to “get it” and get out far sooner than I did. I promise, there is a great new life on the other side!

CHAPTER 1
APRIL SHOWERS
BRING MAY
PROWLERS

A
bright, white light shone directly on my face, hurting my eyes as I opened them and struggled to focus. I could barely see; the light was blinding. Suddenly, a female figure dressed all in white appeared over me. She put her face near mine and immediately started calling my name: “Mary Jo, Mary Jo!”

Who is this, and how does she know my name?
I wondered groggily.

“You are at the Nassau County Medical Center, Mary Jo. You’ve been shot. But you’re going to be okay. You’re in the hospital; we’re taking good care of you,” the woman said, enunciating very loudly and clearly.

Shot? I’d been
shot
? How very strange. I pondered this for a couple of seconds, and then the lights went out again.

I awoke sometime later gasping for air, panicking because I couldn’t breathe and didn’t know why. I vaguely recalled being told I’d gotten shot, though it seemed like a dream. I cast my mind back to the last thing I remembered: the girl I’d just seen. That girl who’d been at my house, some teenager, just a kid.

“Mary Jo! Mary Jo! Do you know who did this to you?” the nurse asked. I nodded my head “yes.” It was that girl. I tried desperately to speak, but I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t talk; it felt like a hundred-pound weight lay squarely on my chest, sucking all the air out of me.
I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!
I made a motion of scribbling in the air, and a yellow legal pad and pen were produced and put into my hands.

I’m suffocating
, I wrote. The word trailed off at the end, all over the paper, but the nurse was elated. Not only was I going to live, but clearly I wasn’t paralyzed—I was still able to write. And I couldn’t have much brain damage, since I’d spelled suffocating correctly. The machine that had been steadily breathing for me for the past few days was too slow now that I had awakened with anxiety flooding my system. The nurse took the breathing apparatus out of me and off of my chest. The relief was immediate; I could breathe again. I wrote,
Was I shot?

“Yes,” the nurse replied simply.

“Why?” I wrote. She had no answer. I drifted off again, waking to see my husband, Joey, at my bedside examining the words on the pad. He handed it to me.

“Mary Jo, do you know who did this to you?” he asked.

“Nineteen-year-old girl,” I scribbled.

A girl? The police had been operating on the assumption that I had been attacked by a man in my backyard. This really threw Joey and the nurse. In fact, now they worried that I really
did
have brain damage, because what kind of girl would do this?

“Anne Marie,” I wrote down. “T-shirt.” Little flashes were coming back to me. “She said she . . . ” I was trying to explain to them what she told me—that her little sister was having an affair with Joey. But the effort exhausted me, and out I went again.

When I woke up again, my whole head was pounding, and there was a maddening ringing in my ears. I raised my hand to gingerly examine where the excruciating pain was centered, on the right side of my head, just in front of my ear. My fingers traced over a thick bandage, but I couldn’t feel anything as I carefully examined my head. The entire right side of my head was completely numb, as if it had been shot full of Novocain. It felt like my face was hanging off of my skull. A couple of inches behind the bandage, I felt my hair—or what was left of it. The tracheotomy tube had been removed, and I could finally speak. My voice emerged for the first time in days.

“What happened to my hair?” I croaked. The right side of my head had been completely shaved for surgery; I had been given a radical buzz cut. Two uniformed police officers were in the room, along with Joe, his brother Bobby, and my parents. They all raced to my bedside, and even in my condition I was alarmed at how tired and haggard their familiar faces were. It hit me then. This is really bad. What a commotion I’ve caused! I tried my best to reassure my family that I was all right by making light of the situation, like I always did. I grabbed my mother’s hand. “You see, Ma? This thick skull really came in handy!”

“Do you remember what happened? Who did this to you?” That was all they wanted to know. Amazingly enough, I remembered everything.

I was outside on our backyard deck, painting the built-in wooden bench white to match my wicker furniture, which I’d recently removed from the garage, shaken off, hosed down, and covered in bright flowered cushions. It was a sunny morning in May, my favorite time of year. Prior to that, we muddled through the snow, ice, and endless gray days, knowing that with each passing day of gloom, spring and summer would be one day closer.

I felt lucky and grateful to be a stay-at-home mother in the most wonderful community I could imagine. Paul was in sixth grade, and Jessica was in third. My days were full with homework, after-school activities, volunteering at their grammar school, and serving on the board of the Biltmore Shores Beach Club. There was a constant round of birthday parties, bar and bat mitzvahs, holidays, communions, confirmations, and christenings throughout the year, but the social calendar really kicked in to high gear in the summertime—living as we did just a stone’s throw from the water.

It was truly my dream house, and I lavished it with care and attention. Nothing too big or fancy, but perfect for our family of four. The front door opened into a small foyer, with stairs leading up to the second-floor bedrooms. To the left was the living room, which was light and airy. I had decorated in blues and whites. The walls were painted and wallpapered in pastels, and I had hand-stenciled the doorways. Large area rugs were scattered on top of light hardwood floors. Dried flowers and framed family pictures softened the room. The house was warm and cozy—a real home; it was a place I envisioned growing old in and someday having our grandkids visit. My fifteenth wedding anniversary was just around the corner. The plane tickets for our getaway celebration to Jamaica were upstairs on my dresser. I had a long list of projects I wanted to accomplish before we left.

I left the front door to the house wide open to let the fresh air circulate through the house while I painted. This also made it easy to see which friend was dropping by today. Massapequa was a small, close-knit community. I’d gone to high school and even grade school with many of my neighbors. We routinely ran over to one another’s houses to borrow ingredients, have a quick cup of coffee, or plan upcoming club events.

I had only been working for about twenty minutes when I heard the doorbell chime. I shaded my eyes and looked through the glass French double doors that led from the dining room to the deck. A young girl was standing at the front door. I set the paintbrush on top of the open paint can and walked through the house, removing my painting gloves one finger at a time. “What can I do for you?” I asked when I reached the front door.

“Are you Mrs. Buttafuoco?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” the girl asked.

“Sure, no problem,” I replied, as I opened the screen door and walked out onto the stoop.

The reassuring sounds of suburbia surrounded us: a car going down the street, lawnmowers and leaf blowers whining as neighbors tidied their lawns for summer. Noise from hammers and drills, along with faint laughter and teasing voices, drifted over from the beach club as my neighbors made repairs before the club officially opened for the season in four days.

I glanced at the unfamiliar car parked across the street and saw a young man sprawled in the driver’s seat. My first thought was that these were teenagers looking for an estimate on a car repair. Over the years, people occasionally stopped by the house to ask my husband, Joey, an auto body specialist, to do a preliminary assessment. He and his brother Bobby worked in the family business his father, Cass, had founded: Complete Auto Body and Fender, Inc., located just a few miles away in the neighboring town of Baldwin. I stood outside now, gloves in hand.

“I need to talk to you about your husband, Joey,” the girl began. I leaned against the wooden railing on the right side of the front stoop. The girl faced me, leaning against the left side. There were about five feet between us. She took a deep breath. “I came here to tell you that Joey is having an affair with my little sister,” she blurted out. This kid standing in front of me appeared to be about fourteen years old. My first reaction to this was simple disbelief. I didn’t feel upset or threatened. I just looked at her skeptically. “Your little sister?! How old are you?” “I’m nineteen.” She started to get nervous.

“And how old is your little sister?”

“She’s sixteen . . . didn’t you hear what I just told you?”

“I heard you, but I’m having a little trouble believing you. What’s your name?” She hesitated.

“Anne Marie.”

“And where do you live, Anne Marie?”

“In Bar Harbor . . .” the girl pointed directly behind me.

I had lived in the area all my life. I knew where Bar Harbor was, and she had pointed in the wrong direction. Something was wrong here, but I couldn’t figure out what she was doing. Why was she so nervous? What was she lying about?

“Aren’t you upset by what I’m telling you?”

“What are you so nervous about, Anne Marie?” I asked. Apparently, I wasn’t reacting the way she’d expected. To be completely honest, though I acted nonchalantly, I was a little caught off guard by what she said, but I knew she was lying about something. I had a twelve-year-old son and a nine-year-old daughter, and this encounter reminded me of the times I had caught them both in lies. This is exactly what I was dealing with now. Only this wasn’t my kid.

The whole incident was starting to annoy me. I was busy. I had painting to do, and I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but I was tired of it already. She was becoming quite indignant; she could see that she wasn’t getting through to me. “Don’t you think it’s disgusting that a forty-year-old man is having sex with a sixteen-year-old?”