The Damage Is Done

Tags

abuse, domestic violence, fear and anxiety, parenting

The children’s chatter and laughter could be heard from the back doorstep. The early morning sun shone brightly, and I laughed to myself as I listened to them from outside. Apparently no one heard me pull up the long gravel driveway to the old farmhouse because they weren’t responding to my knocking. It occurred to me that their dad couldn’t hear me through their squeals and fast conversation, so I went around to the front door.

The little boy saw me approaching and began to unlock the door before I got to it.  He was already hollering, “Hi, L!”  His darling little sister stood close behind him and greeted me readily as well.  They quickly shared with me that their dad was in the shower, so I shouldn’t go in the downstairs bathroom.  Scarcely had those words left their lips, when the little girl excitedly told me that she’d done her own hair.  She looked at me with questioning eyes, waiting for the answer she already knew was coming, “Yes!  It is beautiful!”  She had done a good job for a five year old–all six clips were lined up evenly along the left side of her face.

By the time their father opened the bathroom door I was well on my way around the kitchen counters.  He was pleasant but hurried.  It was a typical morning rush to get two young children out the door for the day.

Right before they left, the dad sprayed the children with sunscreen.  As he did, he instructed them, “Hold your breath.  Mommy says this is bad for you to breathe.  Hold your breath.  Run through it!”

The children did exactly as their daddy instructed, as their mommy had warned all of them about it.

Typical nice little family scenario.  But, it struck me.  I mean, literally like a slap across the face.

If my ex did ever perform any hygiene or preventative measures on the children at my request, there would not have been a nod to doing it because mommy knows best about how to handle it.  There would have been condemnation.  Something like, “This is ridiculous.  I don’t think this stuff really works.  I don’t know why your mother wants this done.  That’s good enough.  Just don’t tell her we didn’t do it.  Otherwise, she’ll be mad at both of us.”

Or, conversely, he would have yelled at them like a drill sergeant, yanking on them, and telling them that mommy told him to do it.

Either way, every action, every word, was meant to create doubt in their little minds regarding mommy’s knowledge and mommy’s love for them.  It was designed to create questions as to who was the real “bad guy,” the one administering this rough application or the one who had “commanded” it.   His voice conveyed a sense of him and them against me, not of family unification and the instilling of a common value and never simply of parental care and concern.

That’s when it slapped me.

That is precisely why my children question every request, every instruction.  Every.  Single.  Word.  That comes out of my mouth is met with indignant questioning by all of them.  Suddenly it occurred to me that my children are not necessarily displaying blatantly disobedient and disrespectful behavior.  They are merely living out what they have always had to.

They are fearful and insecure, feeling that they must figure it out by their little selves.  Who can they trust?  Daddy beat them and ridiculed them and said that he doesn’t love them.  He even tried to kill them on several occasions.  He obviously can’t be trusted.  But, he had moments when he would display kindness and, in those moments, he said mommy should be doubted.  She’s crazy.  She’s hormonal. She’s a dumb woman.  She’s just mean.  She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

They saw one thing, heard another, and God only knows how they felt about it all.  But, the result is certain.  They are insecure, independent, fearful, without a solid family structure to gird them and strengthen them.

It seems like such a small thing, such a silly thing.  It was just a father applying sunscreen to his children before school on a sunny spring morning.  But, it was a scene and a conversation that stood in stark contrast to anything that ever occurred in our home.  And, it grieved me for the damage that is already done.

I’m Not Dying

Tags

abuse, health, parenting

My youngest two children sneaked into my room where I was sleeping.  They let out a collective sigh, and one exclaimed,  “Whew! We thought you were dead! “

I’m not  dead, nor am I dying. I’m just sick again.  Though I may feel “like I’m dying,” I know I’ll eventually recover. It’s been six weeks since we first became ill, which feels like an eternity, but it can’t really last forever.

The children, sick themselves, keep a close eye on me and become extremely clingy when Mama goes down.  References to my impending demise are frequent.

In January 2011, I became obviously very ill.  Several doctors, uncertain as to the cause for my suffering, all concurred it was potentially life threatening.  I looked like a dying person, and I could sense my life ebbing away.  The children, however were oblivious.  They’d yet to experience death up close and personal, so it never crossed their minds they could lose their mother.  They just thought mom was sick, but she’d get better.

Well, that’s what they thought until their dad could no longer contain his excitement.  He sat in the car with our children, ages 2, 4, 11, and 14, while I went in for another appointment.  While they waited for me, he bubbled over, “If Mom dies, we’ll sell everything and move to Alaska!  Auntie L can home school you, and we’ll live where there’s lots of snow!  Doesn’t that sound fun? “

They were horrified.  Traumatized.  The thought of losing their mother frightened them.  It didn’t sound fun to them.  They didn’t want Mama to die!  They didn’t want to leave their home, their toys,  their animals and go some place strange!

I know I’ve shared all of this before. And, it’s just another example of R’s cruelty.  But, it’s fresh again tonight as I struggle so hard to find a bit of rest and my youngest two won’t allow it.  They hover and watch and touch me.  They listen for my heartbeat. 

They can’t stand to see their mama sick because it brings up that fear that I might die.  That foreign fear that R instilled in them over two years ago.

I don’t want to tell them, but with God’s grace, I plan to live to be a happy 90 year old just to spite their father.

This too shall pass.  I’m not dying!

Welcome To Stockholm

Tags

abuse, domestic violence, fear and anxiety, psychology

http://www.cnn.com/2013/05/07/us/ohio-cleveland-ramsey/index.html

My oldest daughter was 17 years old when she enrolled at the local community college. One of the first classes she took was Intro to Psychology.

While R was at work, she brought me some of her homework and a photocopy of an article. She quietly and timidly told me that she thought it described me.

I read it and did, indeed, recognize myself in it.  But, I did nothing with that information or the realization that something was seriously wrong with my patterned behavior and my thinking.  That ambivalence, that protective hiding, only further proved her point.

I’ve thanked and praised God all week, along with the rest of the nation, for the preservation of the lives of the three young women held captive in Cleveland, Ohio, and for their rescue.  And, I’ve become a little infatuated with Charles Ramsey, the unlikely hero.  But, I also picked up on some things in his interview with Anderson Cooper that have haunted me and piqued my curiosity–not in an ambulance chasing sort of way, but because I’m intrigued by the dynamics of that household and the strong similarities between that particular hostage situation and the perpetrator’s domestic violence background.

At one point in the interview, Mr. Ramsey shares that the little girl was crying.  He admits his thoughts were that the little girl should shut up because her mama was trying to help her.  But, she was crying, saying that she wanted her daddy, the kidnapper.

A sketchy picture has been painted with little information verified, but it seems that beatings were regular and may have induced several miscarriages.  Mr. Ramsey had earlier stated that the door was “torture chambered” shut to keep the captives locked in.  Surely, this little girl witnessed some of these horrific acts.  Certainly, she saw the look of fear, sensed it, smelled it, in the house and in her mother’s eyes.  Didn’t she have a natural bond to her frightened mother held hostage by this rapist, this violent man?  How could this little girl witness all of that and yet throw a fit for her daddy when her mother was desperately attempting a brave escape?

I’ve seen it with my own children and the children of the women in my support group.  They had, have, a greater desire to please the abuser and long to draw close to them, rejecting and vilifying the victim parent.

I understand it because I’ve felt it.  I was in a similar place back when my daughter came home from school ten years ago and gingerly presented me with that paper.  I was scared to death of R, but I wanted to, at the same time, protect him.

Those seven photocopied pages were hidden in the school room all this time, and I’ve reread them frequently now that R is gone.  

The copied chapter is titled Survivors of Terror, Battered Women, Hostages, and the Stockholm Syndrome.   I believe it’s from the book Rethinking Clinical Approaches by Dee L.R. Graham et al.  On pages 217 and 218 the author states, “Although the experiences of hostages and battered women are seen as very different phenomena, in this chapter, we suggest that the psychological reactions of battered women can best be explained as a result of their experiences of being trapped in a situation that is very similar to that of hostages.  Traditional psychological theories have suggested that battered women love and remain with the men who batter them because of female masochism.  We suggest that their experiences can be better understood through the model of the Stockholm Syndrome, which has been developed to account for the paradoxical psychological responses of hostages to their captors (Dutton & Painter, 1981; Finkelhor & Yilo, 1985; Hilberman, 1980).  In particular, when threatened with death by a captor who is also kind in some ways, hostages develop a fondness for the captor and an antipathy toward authorities working for their release.  The captor may also develop a fondness for the hostages.

This model furthers a feminist analysis of battered women.  First, it is a situation-centered as opposed to a person-centered approach.  The model shows how the psychological characteristics observed in battered women resemble those of hostages, suggesting that these characteristics are the result of being in a life-threatening relationship rather than the cause of being in the relationship.  Second, the model uses a power analysis that shows how extreme power imbalances between an abusive husband and battered wife, as between captor and hostage, can lead to strong emotional bonding.”

I think it goes without saying that this likely also applies to an abused child or a child held hostage.

As for the kindness of the perpetrator in this case, that has yet to be discussed.  However, Mr. Ramsey does also tell Anderson Cooper that Amanda Berry was “wearing mascara, rings, was well groomed, didn’t look like she’d been kidnapped.”

In an interview with her cousins on another news program, one of them commented that she was still wearing her eyebrow rings and rings on her fingers that she’d worn before her kidnapping.

So, on some level, her kidnapper was “allowing” her a certain amount of expression of her individuality and expression of femininity by wearing make up and pulling her hair back.  Could this be misinterpreted as a kindness?  Or, could he have been using this as an example of his benevolence, a defense of himself against the protests of those he held captive?  A sort of, “Look at what I do for you!  Look what I let you do!” response to his victim’s pleas for freedom from his violence and torture?

Haven’t we all heard similar statements from our abusers?

I also think that the fact that the other two women were not tied up at the time but did not escape with Ms. Berry should be more than a footnote.  The law enforcement source described them as brainwashed and fearful.

If a battered wife remains inside her home turned prison, it is presumed that she “likes it,” and Child Protective Services will even turn their suspicious eyes toward her, questioning her ability or her desire to protect her children.  Social judgments are made.  And, all too often, churches promote that response.  But, seldom does anyone declare that she is simply brainwashed and fearful.

Though that is accepted as a normal response for a hostage, few seem to recognize the look of a wife who has taken that strange and lonely trip to Stockholm.

http://www.cnn.com/video/?/video/bestoftv/2013/05/09/ac-cleveland-police-report-details-abuse.cnn#/video/bestoftv/2013/05/09/ac-pkg-kaye-stockholm-syndrome.cnn

George and Me

Tags

abuse, family of origin, personal growth, religion, self worth, values

In my humble opinion, George Washington Carver was one of the greatest men to ever grace this continent. I admire his strength of character, his conviction to choose what he felt was right over what was of a greater financial or social benefit. I am in awe of his obvious love for and sense of obligation to other people.

I truly love how evident Providence was throughout his life.  But, most of all, I love that he was so aware of that, he was able to just go where it took him.

It’s easy now 150 years later to look back on this great man’s life and say how perfect it all worked out.  If he hadn’t had whooping cough as an infant and been a sickly child, he would have been out working the fields with his brother.  Instead, he stayed inside and learned to cook, clean, and read, learning principles he would need later on.  If he had been accepted to college fresh out of high school, he wouldn’t have staked a claim and farmed, again learning what he needed to know for what he was about to do.

That is a theme echoed throughout his life: apparent hardship and suffering were a setup or classroom for where God was leading him.  He was merely learning necessary information for the great places God was taking him.   In other words, he needed to be sick and he needed to suffer the horrors of racism in order to learn his required life lessons for the perfect path God had chosen for him in order to help so many.

It’s easy to think that because of his loving spirit he didn’t mourn the could have been’s and the should have been’s.  Not the way we average human beings do anyway.  He somehow seems above that.  But, I doubt it.  I think a closer study of the man’s life would reveal the private pain and disappointment common to us all.

Thinking about George, it strikes me.  Just like he needed to be sickly, I think I needed to marry R.  I think I needed to suffer at his hand.

The horrors of my childhood did more than torment me.  I was denied basic instruction in the ways of human interaction.  I didn’t understand what love was, how it acted.  I didn’t know what it meant to honor someone.  I had been taught, brainwashed, to believe that I was born inferior and evil without hope of redemption or change.

As we entered the book display yesterday, we passed a woman with an infant and four or five young children.  My precious four year old daughter joyfully exclaimed, “Wow!  She has a lot of children!”  I responded, “Yes, she is blessed, isn’t she?  How many children are you going to have?”  Thus began a lengthy dream sequence detailing her future children and her husband and the beautiful family life they’ll someday have.

As we walked and she talked, I wandered mentally back to my own preschool years.  I was told repeatedly that no man would ever want me.  Not a good one anyway.  (Can you see why I settled for R?)  No one would put up with me for long.   From the moment I was born, my mother could see that I was a little bitch, and she frequently told me so.

I listen intently to D and inspire her to keep dreaming.  My little girl dreams were met with ridicule and scorn.

And, beyond that, the harsh reality that my own mother hated me from birth and the constant repetitive mantra, “No man will ever want you!” drove me to self-loathing.  When, as a teenager, I suffered the heartaches so common to that age, I wasn’t able to recover.  I was devastated because they proved my mother right.

If my own mother hated me, and I couldn’t blame her because I hated me, too, then surely a righteous God couldn’t love me either.  If I was beyond hope, born rotten, I could not be redeemed by His holiness.  I could not stand before Him.

When R took his turn berating me and beating me it only further proved Mommy Dearest right.  Though I’d been “saved,” I knew that I was somehow getting in to Heaven only by the skin of my teeth.  Perhaps not.  Why else would God allow me and my poor, innocent children to suffer like this?  I was being punished for my innate rottenness, and my children were being punished for no other reason than being my offspring.

I didn’t doubt God’s goodness.  I just didn’t think it was for me.  I’d been told it wasn’t.  And, I hadn’t been able to see it and taste it and touch it in my life.  I’d certainly seen it in the lives of others, so I knew it was real.  Just not for me.

R took me to the same depths of pain and degradation my mother fed me on.  It was like spiraling down the same hole over and over again.  And, I had to admit those same questions remained.  I couldn’t stuff it and stand in church and pretend.  I couldn’t raise my hands in worship to a God I believed didn’t love me as much as he did the former drug addict in the front row or the perfect mother of ten in the row in front of me, all ten children lined up quietly in matching homemade outfits.

I needed to lose everything.  I needed to face the loss of my health and possibly my very life.  I needed to lose my parents and R all at the same time.  I needed to stand naked and destitute for all to see my shame.  Because it was only in that state of complete emptiness and need that God could swoop down with the arms of others, here in my hometown and strangers I’ve never met, and express His great love for me.

If I had been full and content, happily married to a wonderful man who loved me and treated me kindly, I would not have faced the demons of my past.  I would not have dealt with that corner of doubt.  I would have always worried that this imaginary man would come to know the real me and leave at any given time.  I would have never realized how much my Savior does indeed love even me.

Just like my hero, I needed certain experiences in order to learn my required life lessons for the perfect path God has chosen for me.  R was a cruel schoolmaster, but he taught a required course.

Metastasized Fear And A Warehouse

Tags

abuse, divorce, domestic violence, fear and anxiety, friendship, personal growth, religion

In a response to Still Scared, I mentioned that an old friend had nightmares about R all night long last Thursday night.

This is a woman I met about eight years ago. She was devout, very spiritual yet silly, very entrepreneurial minded, and trapped in a marriage to an adulterous, abusive man. We had much in common and became fast friends.

However, with the difficulties inherent in both our lives, we eventually lost touch. I haven’t seen her since D was a baby, but about a month ago she found me on Facebook and we casually reconnected.

I was surprised to get a frantic sounding message from her, telling me to text her my phone number.  She lives in a remote area without internet service, and she didn’t have my new phone number.  But, she NEEDED to know that I was okay.  She’d been so frightened and so desperate, that she took her laptop and drove into town, seeking free wireless, in order to send that message.

When I got off work and finally got a hold of her, she shared with me that she had dreamed only of me all night long.  R was stalking me and still beating me in every one of her dreams.  He pulled a gun on me and tried to kill me several different times.  Each time though someone helped me get away.  She said that toward morning the dreams were set in a different house than the one I’m living in, the one I’ve lived in for fourteen years.  But, R found the new house, broke in, and beat me badly.  My new neighbors helped me escape, but it didn’t slow him down.  He was angry and intent on killing me.

In the final dream, she and I were both working at a METAL WAREHOUSE.  It apparently was some sort of resource center for victims and survivors of domestic violence.  There were many women and children all around inside the warehouse when R came raging through the door, looking for me.

He confronted her, and she told him repeatedly that she would NEVER tell him where I was.  R pulled a gun on her and held it to her head.  He threatened to pull the trigger unless she told him where he could find me.  With one quick action she pulled a pistol from under the counter and emptied it on him.  She said that, in her dream, she stood over him, feeling absolutely nothing, but thinking, “I told you not to threaten me.”

She hasn’t even laid eyes on the man since J was a baby six years ago.  Yet, he can still torment her in her sleep and elicit a fearful reaction.

Yesterday, another friend, my closest friend, the maid of honor at my wedding all those years ago, texted me that she had something to tell me.  It was too long to text, so she was emailing me.  I was intrigued.

She knew nothing of my other friend’s nightmares last week.

However, she, too, had dreamed of R.  Again, it was set in a WAREHOUSE.  He was bullying the kids in front of a crowd of people.  She had thin sticks of wood, similar to molding, that she was breaking in her hands.  She knows the little wooden sticks were significant, but she has no idea why or what they stood for; they just seemed prominent in the dream.  She said that she verbally let him have it and “lost her religion” in the way she talked to him.  She broke the little sticks and told him that his days of manipulating these kids are over!

It seemed strange to me that two of my friends would dream similar dreams.  But, these are women who knew my suffering and understood the depths of my pain when I was in the midst of it.

Still, within days of each other?  Both set in a warehouse?

Last night I told the Lord that if I heard anymore of this warehouse talk from a third person, I would accept it as a confirmation that He is warning us of something and that this isn’t just metastasized fear.

Today I had to order J’s language books for next year.  The vendor sends a traveling rep, and you get free shipping when you order at the display.  So, I always try to order when he visits in order to save on that expense.

After I submitted my order, the rep asked if there was anything else he could do for me.  I leaned forward and, in a hushed tone, said, “Yes.  Last year I expressly told you that my ex-husband’s name was to be removed from our account.  Somewhere at headquarters though someone put his name back on, tracked down his new address that I didn’t even have, and mailed my books to him.”

He interrupted, “I remember that!  I remember!  Did anyone ever get that straightened out?”

I explained that UPS stopped it and rerouted them back to me.  I called the main office for his supplier at that time and hoped that it was now squared away, but I would appreciate it if he could keep an eye on it.  I shared with him the fiasco over the tuition reimbursement check that USPS rerouted to R, that he, of course, cashed.  If the books got routed to him, he would keep them and the kids wouldn’t have the school books they need.

This former pastor turned book salesman then openly shared his personal story with me.  A story involving adultery, domestic violence, child abuse, and public shame and judgment. (Women are not always the victims, and men are not always the perpetrators!)  He then leaned forward and in a hushed tone said, “I got the impression your situation was similar.”  How did he know that???

I won’t divulge the details of his personal life.  Those are his to share.  However, one incident when his children were placed in grave danger involved a METAL WAREHOUSE here in the county where I live!

Coincidence?  Perhaps.  Weird?  Certainly.  Chilling?  Um, not this time around.

The fear stops here.  R instilled a horrendous fear in me that I still carry.  It reared its ugly head today when a stranger nearly hit my 4 year old daughter and then yelled at me.  But, it will not control my life.  I will not allow these dreams and coincidences to fill my head with thoughts of what if?

The final statement the salesman said to me was, “The Lord will restore the years the locusts ate.  I assure you of that.  I have been happily remarried for 15 years, and my kids are all great.  But, more than that, read Philippians 1:6.  He says be confident of this, He which has begun a good work in you will perform it.  He will finish the good work He has begun in your life.  Be assured of that.  He will finish it.”

I am His, and I stand confident in His promises.  No weapon that is formed against me shall prosper (Isaiah 54:17).  The Lord did not bring me this far to let me go.  He will finish this for me.  

Instead, I am choosing to take those dreams as a warning to not get lazy or cocky.  The enemy is still sneaking about like a roaring lion, and I still need the protection of my friends (their prayer covering).   We just don’t need to live in fear of our enemy because we can enter boldly before the throne of Grace and trust in our Righteous Redeemer to restore the lost years, protect us from the enemy, and finish our stories with good endings.

Pulling the Trigger

Tags

abuse, divorce, fear and anxiety, lying, parenting

I awoke with a bang at 4 a.m. after only sleeping five hours.  ”Lord, help me,” I prayed repeatedly.

By 5 I was still awake, so I decided to quit fighting it and just get up.  I poured a cup of day old coffee from the carafe and heated it in the microwave before sitting down to do the books for my little business.

In spite of being thoroughly exhausted and totally overwhelmed, I can’t sleep.

I’ve been anticipating this for months.

R called E’s phone Friday morning trying to weasel out of visitation.  I knew what he was up to.  He wanted to go through the stuff his brother recently collected from my front yard and didn’t want the kids in his way.  His voice resounded with agitation.  That was familiar.  I knew I was in trouble.

When E called him back, R told him to put me on the phone.  I didn’t like hearing his voice, especially not that tone.  I was instantly nervous, dare I say panicked.  I was triggered.

Suddenly, I was even more overwhelmed than usual.  I began to fret about the wood situation and how are we ever going to get wood in for next winter.  I doubted my ability to clean six days straight while dealing with some very sick children.  I worried about everything and was overcome by a spirit of fear.  I wanted to sit down and scream, “I can’t do this!”

When we got there, it was all unloaded.  Everything.  All of the stuff from the cab of the truck, the bed of the truck, and the large cargo trailer.  And, it was all sitting in the middle of the driveway for me to see.  It was like a large sign, “Look what I took!  And, I see the terrible condition it’s in, and it’s all your fault, L!”

I waved goodbye to my children, scared to death he would retaliate against me by hurting them.  He views the children as property, and my greatest fear was that he would damage what he sees as my “property” since he would be blaming me for damaging his.

When I was nearly finished cleaning the rental job I texted E and asked if they were okay and did their dad want to keep them a half an hour longer.  He texted back that they were fine, but Dad said I needed to come NOW.  So, I hurriedly finished up, locked the house, and attempted to leave.  My car wouldn’t start.  Of all times!  I tried again.  And, again.  It sounded like it wanted to.  It was trying.  I pushed the pedal to the floor and after several seconds, which felt like minutes, she turned over.  Even with all of that though, my total time from texting to leaving was less than fifteen minutes.

Within five minutes I arrived at R’s mother’s.  He was playing guns with J.  In the driveway.  Amongst the stuff.  He knows I don’t like the kids playing guns.  It doesn’t teach them a healthy respect for them, nor does it teach them any safety skills.  It’s just stupid.  So, he did it anyway or to spite me.  And, they wove in and around what used to be my furniture as they did it.  All I could do was sit and watch.

As soon as I pulled in the drive, R turned and glanced my direction.  But, he kept playing.  I waited a good fifteen minutes before he stopped playing and went in to get the other kids–the other two, whom he had not engaged.  I was afraid to turn my car off for fear it wouldn’t start again.  God forbid it happen there!  So, I sat there in a panic, waiting for my empty tank to run out of gas.

He called again the next morning and again wanted to talk to me.  It was obvious that he didn’t want the kids, but I assured him that they wanted to visit and that we would be there on time.

It was unusual for him to ask to speak to me, so I felt pretty certain it was a flexing of his muscle.  He was making me listen to him, making me deal with his manipulation, instilling fear in my heart with his agitated tone.

The kids told me later that they had gone through the stuff with him.  He told them he’s just going to burn the furniture and that he thought we would be keeping it, that I would need it.  And, he drilled E about whether I’d replaced it; he wanted to know what we have.

He told E to look under the hood of the truck.  He told him there should be a “bell” under there for the horn, but it was now gone.  A bell?  Really?  [eye roll]  E felt that his dad was insinuating that I’d removed said bell in order to disable his horn.  The horn NEVER worked on that truck, but the kids wouldn’t remember that.

I had scheduled a small job for Saturday morning since he usually takes the kids from 9 to 1.  However, that morning he told me to pick them up by 12.  I didn’t tell him why; I just said that it would be 12:30.  I felt rushed and panicked, knowing that I didn’t have five minutes to spare after cleaning before I had to pick up the kids.

And, I felt controlled.  Instead of there being a set time that we can go by, he’ll tell me when to drop them off, when to pick them up, and he’ll decide it at the last minute.

I felt under the gun all weekend long.

He is probably back in his new hometown by now, but I’m still reeling from the experience of him pulling the “trigger” on me again.

Rockin’ The Turbie Towel

Tags

beauty, just for fun

I have a million excuses.  The kids have all been sick.  This week is the anniversary of my dad’s death.  My work schedule is a disaster.  I had planned on working out.  I am having a hard time juggling work, home school, the house, social obligations, etc, etc.  Whatever.  The fact is, though I got up at 6:30, I didn’t shower until noon.  

I was getting a lot of school done that morning with the kids.  And, I got a ton of catch up stuff done, too.  The checkbook was balanced.  The dishes were done.  Dinner was simmering on the back of the stove.  Laundry was going.  Heck, my bed was even made.  

So, I was fresh out of the shower when my decrepit old dog started going nuts around 1 o’clock.   I looked out the window.  A FedEx van.  Ooh, excitement on the hill!  The three younger kids sprang from their seats to plaster their faces against the front window, as though they’d never seen a stranger.  The dog’s dry hair bristled, standing straight on end.  Her entire body jolted forward when she barked, and then she would stand still and growl a deep, menacing sound.  

The poor driver jumped from his truck and then froze.  I went running outside like a mad woman, intent upon saving our intruder from the crazy old dog who appeared  intent on biting him.   He smiled a warm smile and seemed to be relieved that we weren’t just going to watch from the window as she ate him alive.

My dog smells really, really bad.  Like something dead pooped itself.  I love her to pieces, but she looks like the crypt keeper’s dog.   The kids joke that I’m running a nursing home for animals because the dog is old.  The cat is old.  The chickens are so old they don’t even lay eggs anymore.  The turtle is old.  We got them all when the first batch of kids were younger and now we just tend them and love on them, repaying them for their loyal years of service.  Even though they are blind, deaf, and a little crazy.  

So, the FedEx driver scratched her.  Ooohh, nasty!  I won’t even do that, and she’s my dog!  I explained to him that she’d been hit by a FedEx truck, so it was just the truck that set her off like that.  He soothingly reassured her that it wasn’t him and he wouldn’t do that as he rubbed her dirty, sap crusted hair.  I was simultaneously grossed out and impressed!

He then began to tell me animal stories from a time when he worked for his father. In a few short minutes I found out what kind of business his dad owned and his dad’s nickname and that this guy has a sense of humor and is nice.  His hands were all over my dog, so, of course, I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t have a wedding ring on.  

Hmmmmm………I hadn’t noticed until that moment that he was actually pretty cute, too.  So, I shared a story of my own and chatted him up a bit.  After a few more minutes we said our goodbyes, and I turned to walk back in the house, feeling a little light and maybe even a bit younger.  

My obnoxious 6 year old jumped up and down, trying to take the box out of my hands.  He couldn’t stand not knowing what was in it.  He hollered at the FedEx guy, intermittently telling him goodbye and asking him what he’d brought.  

The kind FedEx dude smiled a big smile and warmly waved goodbye to my son and me as he pulled down the driveway, away from Deliverance.  

I stepped back in the house and set the box on the dining table.  As I leaned over, something flopped forward a bit on top of my head.  I raised my right hand slowly to my hair.  It was my towel!  My green, high absorbency hair towel.  Oh no! I’d gone outside like that!  I ran to the bathroom to survey the damage.  

It got worse!  

I seldom take my make up off before bed or my shower.  Instead, I do it right before I reapply the new coating.  Bad habit, I know.  Well, I was still wearing yesterday’s mascara.  Except it hung in streaks down both cheeks.  

I couldn’t help but laugh!  

This unsuspecting delivery man drove up the driveway to the middle of nowhere to be greeted by a scraggly, mean old dog and a bunch of home schooled kids gawking at him.  He then stood and waited for the matron of the hillside shack to come out and chat him up with make up running down her face, thinking she was totally rockin’ the Turbie Towel!  

I wonder if he laughed as hard as I did once he was safely out of view.  Or, if his smile merely masked his fear!  LOL

 

 

The Concert

I know I just published this morning and my schedule is Monday, Wednesday, Friday, but this has to be shared.

Jeff Sylvester of Steady On just finished an online concert on Stageit.  It was a fundraiser for me. He gave his evening and his talent to help raise funds to “Give Me Wings” as the organizers put it. Jeff even paid for a ticket for me to attend.

I sat and bawled. It was incredibly beautiful, just awe inspiring. He is an incredibly talented musician, and the worship was out of this world. I sang along with his final song, It Is Well With My Soul, and I swear I could hear other women’s voices singing along with me.

My 6 year old son cried, too, and twice had to leave the room because he couldn’t handle the emotion.  I had called the children to the computer.  I said, “Look, he’s doing this for us.  They are doing this for us.”  The kids looked bewildered.  I explained to them what Give Her Wings and Jeff wanted to do for us.

J’s eyes well up as he asked, “Why is he doing this for us?  Does he know we’re poor?  How does he know we’re poor?”  Later, he said, “I can’t take this.  I can’t believe he’s doing this for us.”

I want to publicly thank everyone who organized this event and everyone who generously contributed.  And, I want you all to know that even if you had not raised one penny, your love for us and your friendship has touched us and blessed us tremendously.  To realize that there are people who care so much about our well being is absolutely, completely overwhelming and life changing.  It alters our perception of our place in the world.

Your love gives us wings.  Thank you.

The Anniversary

Tags

family of origin, grief, lying, parenting

My phone rang at 7:05 a.m. Caller ID identified my brother as the incoming call. My heart stopped.

I knew.

My brother and I had basically been estranged for nine months except for the brief time that we had to come together to sign for the disposal of our mother’s remains.  There was only one reason he would be calling me.

Perhaps I was just being my anxiety ridden self.  Perhaps he’s only ill.

Shaking, I picked it up, “Hello?”

“Sis, Dad’s gone,” he blurted out in a matter of fact tone.

I was working at the clinic at that time and was in the midst of getting ready to leave for the day.  I had make up on, but my hair was still wet.

I jumped in my truck and flew down my driveway, my face stinging.  I could hardly see to pull out onto the highway, my vision blurred from so many tears.

I’d only gone about 300 yards when I could feel the familiar burning on my lips.  By the time I’d driven the short mile to my brother’s house, my upper and lower lips were covered in cold sores.  The stress of those words, “Sis, Dad’s gone,” had initiated an immediate herpetic outbreak.

Mutual adoration

My brother stood in his driveway looking like he didn’t know what to do.  My 13 year old niece, who found my dad in his little trailer, was crying.  It was real.

The clinic didn’t turn its phone on until 8, the time I was supposed to be to work.  So, I reluctantly drove in to tell them I wouldn’t be coming in that day.  Young girls who typically gave me strange looks and seemed haughty, girls I knew didn’t like this older woman who couldn’t pick up on the job as quickly as they, were tender and sweet.  They hugged me and assured me that they would tell the boss, encouraging me to just hurry back to my family.

My brother also had to take his daughter back to her mother, so she could take her to school for the day.  He only has visitation every other weekend and overnight on Wednesdays, so I couldn’t believe the shocking odds that she would just happen to be there the evening my dad died.  And, find him the next morning.

At one point or another my brother and I left each other alone in the gravel driveway to wait for the sheriff.  I stood there quivering in the cold of the morning, knowing that my dad’s body was inside that 5th wheel just feet away from where I stood.

The once strong body that I was convinced could do anything now lay there lifeless, an empty shell, weak, unable to do anything.

Enjoying “a chew” with my dad while hunting….LOL

The sheriff finally arrived and did his inspection and paperwork.  He leaned against his large white truck in silence as we all waited for the funeral home people to arrive.  While we stood there in the thick fog, my brother tried to make small talk with the deputy, showing off his knowledge of engines and trucks.  The deputy looked slightly disgusted by my brother’s self-impressed prater.  I just cried quietly as I tried to warm myself against the big engine of my own truck.

At one point I remember telling my brother, in between sobs and gasping for air, “I.  Can’t.  Do.  This.”

He coldly remarked, “Well, you’re gonna have to cuz Dad’s dead!”

The sheriff, my brother, and then later the funeral home employees all asked if I wanted to go in and see my dad one last time.  I couldn’t.  I didn’t want to see him like that.  Pale, cold, dead.

I wanted to remember him as I’d seen him four days earlier.  He had been at my house for barbecued chicken and had paid his portion of the cell phone bill.  He initially handed me the money.  But, when my back was turned as I made up plates to send home with him, he’d hidden the money on my desk, teasing me.  He was jovial and spirited.  He had been sick for so long; the kids and I commented after he left that it felt like having Grandpa back.  He had been himself that afternoon.  My last visual memory of my daddy was as he turned to wave at me as he walked toward his truck.  He was smiling his big smile, laughing as he spoke.  I wanted to cling to that and absolutely did not want an image of what lie in that trailer to replace that sweet picture in my mind.

He smiled with his entire face

My brother went in and then watched as they removed his body.  I went around the side of the garage and hid and waited until I heard the van door shut.

Over the course of the next few weeks ensued a battle regarding what to do with my dad’s remains and whether or not to memorialize him.

My brother and I agreed we would include our half-brother though our dad had emphatically denied he was his son.   We didn’t want D to not have the opportunity to appropriately mourn not knowing his dad and the fact that was now impossible.

The two of them sat at that long conference table at the funeral home, going through Dad’s wallet and laughing, mocking our dad’s idiosyncrasies.   He clipped coupons and faithfully played the state lottery, so his wallet was full of tickets and coupons, along with pictures of his children and grandchildren.  Those things that were such sweet reminders to me of who that man was were sources of laughter for my brothers.

The gentleman assigned to us was a very tall man who carried himself well, an attractive man, in his three piece suit.  I think my brother underestimated who this “suit” was.

My brother pulled out the same demeanor he’d displayed with the sheriff the day before and answered all of the questions with an authoritativeness inappropriate for the situation.

Then, the big question came.  Were we planning burial or cremation?  My brother declared that we were going to cremate Daddy and scatter his ashes on my brother’s own locked and inaccessible mountain property on the other side of the county.  He looked directly at me and stated that was what Dad wanted.  He claimed they just recently discussed it, and Dad had changed his mind about being buried at the VA cemetery.  Supposedly, Dad was disgusted by the cost of my mother’s funeral and didn’t want that kind of money spent on him.

But, my mom wasn’t buried.  She didn’t have a casket.  She was cremated.  My daughter did everything herself.  She made the floral arrangements and the memorial cards, and she ordered the urn online where she’d found a good deal.  Besides, the VA was to bury our dad for free.  What was he talking about?

I managed to stop sobbing long enough to utter out, “Dad.  Wanted.  To.  Be.  Buried.  At.  The.  VA.  It’s supposed.  To be.  Free.”  I gasped as I spoke.  My brother argued sternly, again looking directly at me, “Dad isn’t eligible for that.  He and I just talked about this!  He changed his mind after mom died!  I knew this would be a problem with you!”

I turned to the stately gentleman in the suit, “Daddy was a veteran of the Korean War.”

R began to once again attempt to display his immense knowledge, “Dad was in after the Korean War.  He never actually saw any combat at all.  He flew P2Vs…….” He went on and on, rapid firing random numbers and letters that meant nothing to me, but I knew he was lying.

Apparently so did the man in the suit.  He look perturbed and turned his attention to me, “It’s easy enough to find out.  I’ll give the VA a quick call and be right back.”

I later found out this gentleman in the suit had spent most of his life in the uniform of an LA police officer.  He could smell a liar and a thief.

He returned shortly with a smile on his face and my dad’s military record in his hand.  He directed his comment at me, “As a combat veteran, your dad is eligible for burial at the VA cemetery.”

A VP6 Blue Shark

The war raged for a couple of weeks as my dad sat on refrigeration at the north end of town.  My brother even went to my pastor and tried to convince him to turn against me and talk me into letting him have his way.

In the end, my dad received his honors and his burial at the veterans’ cemetery, like HE HAD ALWAYS WANTED.  My dad was proud of his service and his military record.  He deserved that.  And, as my 82 year old uncle said, my children deserved a place where they could go mourn the man who stood as their father figure.  Young R’s counselor recently made an off hand comment about the kids’ father leaving them in July and then they lost “their real father figure” just a few months later.  This was important.  It had been important to my dad.  And, it was important to his siblings, to me, and to my children.

I wouldn’t have won that war without the help of that kind and wise police officer turned funeral planner.  Six weeks later he helped with my aunt’s service.  And, a few weeks after that he gave my children a book about grieving.  I will be eternally grateful for that man, and I pray that God blesses him richly for standing in the gap for those who cannot find their own voice and for those who no longer have one.

We read that book he gave us frequently.  Because, you see, we’re still grieving.

I’ve had a couple of very dear friends turn on me.  The friendships have been severed because, as one told me in January, my sadness and depression weren’t healthy.  She felt she had all of the solutions to fix my broken life, and I suppose she thought that my grief caused me to forfeit my right to make decisions for myself.  She angrily accused me of making my own decisions as though I was doing something unlawful or dangerous.

So, we read the book again.

That book with its large illustrations, that book written for children, declares to us that our sadness and depression are healthy.  It’s okay to grieve, to experience the depths of that dark place.  The funeral planner told me that we need to do that; it’s critical to embrace the dark night of the soul.  He said it is the healthiest thing to do.  He warned me that if we didn’t, it will fester and come out in some extremely unhealthy ways later.

So, we have mourned.  And, we continue to mourn.  We have mourned the life that we once knew.  We have mourned the dreams that my ex would change, and we would live the life we longed for.  We have mourned the possibility of my mother softening in her old age and being the grandmother to my children that her mother was to me.  We have mourned my precious daddy, my children’s “real father figure.”

We shouldn’t have had to fight for our right to bury my father where he wanted to be buried.  We shouldn’t have had to fight for our right to honor him.  We shouldn’t have had to fight for our right to be sad.

Throughout this long and twisted journey though, no matter what anyone else has said or done, one thing has remained constant…….

We still miss that funny, stern, quirky, intense, talented, intelligent, full of wonder man who died one year ago today.

A grandson’s final salute

Redefining Me

Tags

abuse, beauty, divorce, family of origin, personal growth, self worth

Just a few short months ago, when I first started blogging, I was in a rather rebellious stage of self-discovery. Suddenly I found my life absent of its familiar abusers, and I was trying to figure out who I was without them dictating it to me.

I let my natural curls go wild instead of blow drying them straight every day.  I refused to wear any of the flannel they had convinced me I loved.  I quit riding my bike and gained fifteen pounds.  I stayed up until the middle of the night and then tried to sleep later in the morning, instead of getting up before dawn.  I let things go that normally would have been alphabetized, labeled, and put away.

My patterns, my habits, and my tastes all became subject to experimentation.   I didn’t want to be me.  Not the me that I thought was only a by product of their manipulation and coercion.

I longed to move into town and felt penned in, imprisoned, here on this mountain, and I idealized city living.  I hated the dirt, the trees, the bugs.  I hated being so far away from everything.

But, this past week I’ve realized that I was throwing the baby out with the bath water.

Some of that other stuff was me.  The real me.  The me God intended me to be.

I LOVE Pinterest.  I mean, I think I’m addicted.  Like, I have a real problem.  I can waste hours on it.  My 4 year old daughter and I thoroughly enjoy sitting in front of the computer, looking at the pretty pictures, and dreaming of our someday home or the lavish garden we’ll one day grow.  She’ll excitedly say, “Pintest that, Mama!  Pintest that!”

I’ve really let myself go since R left.  He was always so critical of my appearance that I suppose it was a combination of apathy and rebellion.  I could eat ice cream for dinner, and no one was going to tell me I couldn’t.  He’d forbidden me to have dairy because he felt that I have too much of a problem with cellulite, and he argued that dairy makes that condition worse.  So, I loaded up on cheeses of all varieties and ice cream and yogurt.  He forced me to work out beyond my capabilities, including immediately following birth, to the point I tore ligaments, damaged my knee, and ended up with a small hernia.  So now I refused work out at all. :p

I’ve rarely worn make up and either pulled my unruly hair back in a pony tail or, if I wanted to get fancy, I would gently pull some strands back and clip them at the back of my head, allowing the rest to fall freely.

However, I recently saw some pictures on Pinterest that made me long to fix up.  I actually felt a stirring, a desire, to put a little effort into my appearance.   So, I texted my dear friend and then Facebooked her the pictures.  (She can’t figure out how to create a Pinterest account, and I couldn’t figure out how to text the pictures to her like she’d asked.  What a pair we are!)  She can work magic with a bowl of chemicals and a pair of scissors though, and I knew she’d be up for the challenge.  She’s wanted to cut this mess for quite some time, but I had adamantly refused.

I absolutely love it.  It feels good to not have all that hair hanging in my face.  My hair is lighter and brighter, and I feel lighter and brighter.

Many of my Pinterest boards also have something to do with decorating or gardening.  I have decided I do genuinely love the outdoors.  That wasn’t just something that my family convinced me I enjoyed.  Sure, it was expected.  It was assumed I’d wear flannel and love nothing more than sitting around a bon fire with a cheap beer, fascinated by the tall tales of the redneck men who thought they could out shoot each other.

Honestly, I do like sitting by a bon fire.  I don’t like the redneck guys and their lies.  I don’t like their misogynistic talk.  I don’t like beer at all.   But, I like the fire.

So, I came up with my own version.

And, I love it as much as I love my new hair.  I made it from my broken washing machine.  I sit there with a cup of coffee, doing my Bible study, listening to the wind blow through the trees.

I don’t really mind the dirt.  I think I do love the mountain.   My children can run and play outside with no worry of traffic.  There’s nothing like how the sun peaks through the trees in the early morning, casting bright streaks across the hillside.  It’s really pretty now that R’s stuff isn’t there to disrupt the view.

There was a darkness that my abusers’ illusions cast over my life.  But, I shadowed my own life with another kind of darkness.  In running from who they told me I was, I ran from myself, too.

I was trying too hard to be somebody else.  Anybody else.  Somebody who didn’t like the things they said I liked.  Somebody who didn’t have the weird quirks they mocked me for having.

But, I do.

So, I’m learning that the trick isn’t to run as quickly as I can away from the life I knew.  It is to sift through the devastation and destruction left behind in the wake of that storm and look for the treasures to salvage and use when I rebuild.