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While Real Housewives of New York star Ramona Singer hasn't always been an open book, she has become increasingly more candid over the course of her time on the show. And now fans will get to learn even more about the Housewife in her new memoir, Life on the Ramona Coaster, which hits retailers (like Amazon) on July 28. The book is a highly-personal account of Ramona's life, from her troubled childhood — which she has touched on in RHONY — to her marriage to Mario to joining RHONY. If you can't wait until the 28th, the Daily Dish is sharing excerpts from the book leading up to its release.
In this first passage, Ramona opens up about her relationship with her abusive father, describing a harrowing moment from her teens which will change your perception of the typically bubbly blonde. Check it out below.
One night he pushes me so far that I snap. I am fifteen. My mother and I are cooking dinner in our large, yellow, eat-in kitchen. I am standing next to the antique stove, preparing the salad, while my mother stands at the opposite counter near the sink. My father walks into the room and demands to know when dinner will be served. My mother tries to placate him, but the more submissive she is the more he bullies her. He’s confrontational and belligerent and, as he gains power from his rage, he begins to widen his attack. Suddenly, the abuse isn’t only directed toward my mother; it’s also directed at me. My father growls that I am useless and I will never amount to anything. He calls me cruel and demeaning names, some of which I don’t fully understand. I try to tune out his voice; the hateful words he utters. But, no matter how hard I try, his badgering is getting to me. He gets in my face. I can smell the rancid alcohol on his breath and see the rancor in his eyes. Then he gets in my mother’s face, alternating scathing insults between us. Something he says, I can’t recall what, hits a nerve. I snap. My life flashes before my eyes.
As if I am rewinding a horror movie, I see images of my mother’s battered face begging me to call the police, my father throwing plates, my mother being pulled by her hair, my mother grabbing me so that we can run away from my father, and finally her defeated face as she welcomes him back into our home. I feel so cheated; cheated out of a normal childhood and a loving father. I resent him for exposing me to all this violence and emotional abuse. At that moment, I promise myself that I am not going to be a victim. I am not going to take his abuse. I realize I have to stop him. I have to put him in his place or he will continue to bully me for the rest of my life. I am going to give it right back to him and not back down. I look over at my mother. She continues to prepare dinner as if there isn’t a malicious man berating her in front of her own daughter. I see red. My anger grows like a restless brushfire. Why is she just standing there? Why isn’t she fighting back or standing up for herself? I don’t get it. How can she stay married to this abusive man? Maybe she’s given up, but I haven’t. I have to protect her. Sooner or later my father is going to cross that line again and I never want him to hurt her the way he did that night in the kitchen. In that instant, I resolve to stop my father before he takes it too far. I am aware he is still yelling, but the sound of his voice is just background noise now. Slowly, I open the narrow drawer where my mother keeps the cutlery. I know exactly what I am looking for, the biggest knife with the longest and thickest blade. I pull the largest butcher knife out of the drawer and focus on the sharp blade as it slices through the head of lettuce in front of me. I remind myself, I am not going to take his s**t. I am not going to be a victim anymore. Then, without hesitation, I lunge toward him, point the sharp blade directly at his face and scream, “Stop it. Stop it right now!” My eyes grow wild. “Stop it right now or I swear I will take this knife and shove it into your neck.”
If you want more Ramona, check out the most ramotional rides on the Ramona Coaster, below.
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