When you suspect something may be going on it is hard to confront the situation. Do you make accusations and chance being wrong? Do second guess yourself, turn your back and figure you are wrong? Do you ask the child possibly adding to their confusion and shame? In Mom's case it would have been a especially difficult situation considering his violence and threats toward all of us. When your hands are tied suspicions can quickly turn to paralyzing fear.
Mom and I have had many conversations over the years about the situation we were in when I was a kid. Why she didn't devise some plan to escape? Maybe a shelters in those later years. I found out that when Mom suspected he was molesting my sister she freaked out. She knew in her heart she would need help to leave but didn't know what to do or where to start. She went to a church counselor for help. I am not sure how forthcoming she was with this guy. My mom has a tendency to worry about what others might think and may have held back. One of the reasons for the bug eye glasses was her fear of what people might think. In essence the counselor blamed her. Telling her she wasn't taking care of his needs. That she needed to try harder to please him. The counselor told her not to let him be alone with my sister and to tough it out. He said the most important thing was to keep the family together and do her duty as a wife and mother! I could not disagree more. The idea of being intimate with a man who has been intimate with my child sickens me. He would have lost an appendage if it had been me. Thank the good Lord times have changed since then.
If I had known what Mom was going through maybe I could have told her. If I had come clean would things have been different? I don't think I would have been brave enough to tell her. Could we have been a support for each other? I'm not sure I could have been a support for anyone at the time. Did my sister know Mom was protecting her? I have my doubts because my sister has a great deal of animosity toward Mom. Is it because she has no idea or is it because she thinks Mom could or should have done more? Did my sister know Mom was told to keep the family together? I wish I had known the whole story. Would it have made things different for me. I wish I had been braver. I wish fear wasn't so paralyzing!
Monday, June 29, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
My writing became an obsession
I should have had someone I could tell but with all the fear I felt, I'm not sure I would have told anyone. The fear would paralyze me. I sat in my closet and cried for hours after he'd leave my room. I hid under my bed, laying still and quiet hoping he wouldn't find me. I needed to talk about it.
I became obsessed with writing everything down and drawing the truth of my life. The entries got more and more disturbing until I had a hard time opening the book. Every time I accidentally opened the pages to an earlier writing I'd quickly look away to avoid the fear I felt at seeing them. My stomach would knot, my heart would race and my head would ache. I'd begin the shake and cry. I feared for my life as if the event was happening again and again and as if the acts I dreamed of doing were real. I didn't know what a panic attack was then but I recognized the feeling now.
My sister and I shared a room. Going outside was one of the only places I could be alone. Sometimes I'd sit outside and write and think. There were times I hid my book in the yard for easy access for me and less accessibility for others.
I started putting paperclips on the pages so they wouldn't flip open. In time my book was heavy with several paperclips. I ran out of paper and taped a second book to the first. I was afraid if I tried to hide them both separately I would forget where I put one and someone would be able to find it. I didn't want anyone to see something so personal. If it were found and read I would have to explain why I wrote what I wrote and why I drew what I drew. I slit a small hole in my mattress on the side against the wall and slid it in the hole under the mattress. I feared I'd get in trouble for having a hole in my mattress.
As time went on the writing became a daily thing. My obsession to write was taking over my life. I'd wake up in the night and write, write before I went to bed, I'd often wish I had my book at school and then be grateful I didn't when I thought of actually having it where someone might be able to see it. It was like if I could get things right on paper they would be right in my world as well. I needed healing, my world needed healing and I didn't know how to make that happen. I became so crazed with the idea that I could make things change by writing them down. Then the realization hit that I couldn't change anything by writing it down. I eventually put the book away. Hid it is a place everyone would see and nobody would notice. I began to visualize changes I wanted in my mind instead of writing.For a while I was able to stop writing all together. Eventually I'd pull it out to document the really bad things just to help me keep my sanity. The visualizations were working for me. My obsession with writing faded to a manageable level.
I became obsessed with writing everything down and drawing the truth of my life. The entries got more and more disturbing until I had a hard time opening the book. Every time I accidentally opened the pages to an earlier writing I'd quickly look away to avoid the fear I felt at seeing them. My stomach would knot, my heart would race and my head would ache. I'd begin the shake and cry. I feared for my life as if the event was happening again and again and as if the acts I dreamed of doing were real. I didn't know what a panic attack was then but I recognized the feeling now.
My sister and I shared a room. Going outside was one of the only places I could be alone. Sometimes I'd sit outside and write and think. There were times I hid my book in the yard for easy access for me and less accessibility for others.
I started putting paperclips on the pages so they wouldn't flip open. In time my book was heavy with several paperclips. I ran out of paper and taped a second book to the first. I was afraid if I tried to hide them both separately I would forget where I put one and someone would be able to find it. I didn't want anyone to see something so personal. If it were found and read I would have to explain why I wrote what I wrote and why I drew what I drew. I slit a small hole in my mattress on the side against the wall and slid it in the hole under the mattress. I feared I'd get in trouble for having a hole in my mattress.
As time went on the writing became a daily thing. My obsession to write was taking over my life. I'd wake up in the night and write, write before I went to bed, I'd often wish I had my book at school and then be grateful I didn't when I thought of actually having it where someone might be able to see it. It was like if I could get things right on paper they would be right in my world as well. I needed healing, my world needed healing and I didn't know how to make that happen. I became so crazed with the idea that I could make things change by writing them down. Then the realization hit that I couldn't change anything by writing it down. I eventually put the book away. Hid it is a place everyone would see and nobody would notice. I began to visualize changes I wanted in my mind instead of writing.For a while I was able to stop writing all together. Eventually I'd pull it out to document the really bad things just to help me keep my sanity. The visualizations were working for me. My obsession with writing faded to a manageable level.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Before I understood
Before I understood what molestation was things began to change again. I didn't know why at the time but my mom was always leaving us with family instead of leaving us home alone with him. I'm sure she would never have told these people what he was doing. Would the people who were supposed to be watching us have done more if they knew they were protecting us from our father?
One of those families that watched us was my father's cousins family. His cousin told me how beautiful I was. I was about 9 then. Before long was he began touching me too. He was just the beginning. It was like I had some sort of target that said "molest her, she has nobody to protect her" on my forehead or something. It seemed there were predators everywhere. I wondered if they were after my sister too or if my brother was safe.
Most were distant family members who came to visit. They seemed to always find a way to get me alone and know I had no protection. All of them were on my father's side of the family. Was it genetic or had he told them we were available for the taking?
I began to believe there was something wrong with me. Something that drew these men to me. They all told me I was beautiful. They all told me I was special. I didn't believe any of it. I thought I was ugly and defective. I felt dirty and pathetic. I wrote about every encounter and planned the demise of every predator. I wondered if maybe they were the defective ones. Looking back now I know it wasn't me but at the time I was one step away from ending my own life. The one thing that saved me was the power I felt in writing in my book.
One of those families that watched us was my father's cousins family. His cousin told me how beautiful I was. I was about 9 then. Before long was he began touching me too. He was just the beginning. It was like I had some sort of target that said "molest her, she has nobody to protect her" on my forehead or something. It seemed there were predators everywhere. I wondered if they were after my sister too or if my brother was safe.
Most were distant family members who came to visit. They seemed to always find a way to get me alone and know I had no protection. All of them were on my father's side of the family. Was it genetic or had he told them we were available for the taking?
I began to believe there was something wrong with me. Something that drew these men to me. They all told me I was beautiful. They all told me I was special. I didn't believe any of it. I thought I was ugly and defective. I felt dirty and pathetic. I wrote about every encounter and planned the demise of every predator. I wondered if maybe they were the defective ones. Looking back now I know it wasn't me but at the time I was one step away from ending my own life. The one thing that saved me was the power I felt in writing in my book.
Nobody to tell
I had nobody to tell.
They tell kids today if anyone hurts you or touches you in a private place to tell a teacher or someone in authority like a policeman. They didn't tell us anything like that when I was a kid. I'm not sure I would have been brave enough to do it if they had. I was not close to any of my teachers and I didn't trust any of them enough to tell them what was happening. I knew the police would do nothing, because of what they had told my mom when they came the first time. I thought they still couldn't anything. I was too young to know the laws had changed.
When he started touching me I was too young to know what really was going on. All I knew was he humiliated me, embarrassed me and made me think it was my fault. I felt dirty and unworthy of love. I wanted him to stop. My friends would never have understood. How could ever I tell them when I didn't entirely understand what was happening myself? The only thing left to do was write everything down and try to keep away from him.
Until a few years ago I never told Mom what was happening. I was afraid to tell her for many reasons. What if she didn't believe me? What if she confronted him and he hurt or killed her? Who would take care of us? What if she confronted him and he took it out on me? Mom already agonized over not being able to protect us enough. I felt like it would have crushed her to know he had stooped to a new lower level! I had to protect her from that information. I kept writing but I hid my book even better. Always afraid it would be read by someone and I would be judged.
Some time passed and Mom got weird about us being home alone with him. I wondered if she had suspected anything or if she had read my book. She would stay at home with us when he was home or she would drop us off with friends or family. One day I overheard her crying in her room. I didn't know why so I quietly listened as she was talking on the phone. I thought she was talking about me but I was wrong. She was talking about my sister. I don't know who she was talking to that she could confide in. I cried that night wishing I had someone to talk to a more worried than ever that my sister was also being touched.
Eventually I figured out what was happening to me. I felt worse than dirty. I wondered how I could make him stop. He was so big how could I ever overpower him or get the better of him. I decided if I told anyone they would think it was my fault for letting it go on for so long. I wanted to die. I knew nobody who would understand. Nobody who could make him stop.
Although there was nobody to tell I could still vent. There was a place where I wouldn't be judged as long as nobody saw my book so I wrote.
They tell kids today if anyone hurts you or touches you in a private place to tell a teacher or someone in authority like a policeman. They didn't tell us anything like that when I was a kid. I'm not sure I would have been brave enough to do it if they had. I was not close to any of my teachers and I didn't trust any of them enough to tell them what was happening. I knew the police would do nothing, because of what they had told my mom when they came the first time. I thought they still couldn't anything. I was too young to know the laws had changed.
When he started touching me I was too young to know what really was going on. All I knew was he humiliated me, embarrassed me and made me think it was my fault. I felt dirty and unworthy of love. I wanted him to stop. My friends would never have understood. How could ever I tell them when I didn't entirely understand what was happening myself? The only thing left to do was write everything down and try to keep away from him.
Until a few years ago I never told Mom what was happening. I was afraid to tell her for many reasons. What if she didn't believe me? What if she confronted him and he hurt or killed her? Who would take care of us? What if she confronted him and he took it out on me? Mom already agonized over not being able to protect us enough. I felt like it would have crushed her to know he had stooped to a new lower level! I had to protect her from that information. I kept writing but I hid my book even better. Always afraid it would be read by someone and I would be judged.
Some time passed and Mom got weird about us being home alone with him. I wondered if she had suspected anything or if she had read my book. She would stay at home with us when he was home or she would drop us off with friends or family. One day I overheard her crying in her room. I didn't know why so I quietly listened as she was talking on the phone. I thought she was talking about me but I was wrong. She was talking about my sister. I don't know who she was talking to that she could confide in. I cried that night wishing I had someone to talk to a more worried than ever that my sister was also being touched.
Eventually I figured out what was happening to me. I felt worse than dirty. I wondered how I could make him stop. He was so big how could I ever overpower him or get the better of him. I decided if I told anyone they would think it was my fault for letting it go on for so long. I wanted to die. I knew nobody who would understand. Nobody who could make him stop.
Although there was nobody to tell I could still vent. There was a place where I wouldn't be judged as long as nobody saw my book so I wrote.
New kinds of trouble
The new house took some getting used to. The only plus side of that house was that in time the scales of good and bad balanced out a little. My father was working nights. He would sleep most of the day and then take off most of the night. It worked out well for us since we didn't see him as much. When we did see him he seemed to be having his own good days. Days that for us meant he wasn't as moody or mean.
The problem started in the summer. We had no place to go and had to stay quiet enough so he could sleep. Having to stay quiet was bad for us. No matter where we played he would be disturbed. I remember spending a lot more time at parks, beaches, the zoo, travel town and museums that summer than any other summer. We spent more time being on his bad side as well. We tried to never be on his bad side. In that house I wrote mostly in the summer.
Things changed at that house, my writings became frequent and darker. Eventually there were new kinds of trouble. I was about 8 when he started looking at me differently. It was like he wasn't seeing me at all but he would stare and ask uncomfortable questions. He would walk into my room when I was changing clothes. He would tell me to go ahead and finishing changing clothes while he watched. He went from being his normal critical, rough and mean self to wanting me to dance for him. He'd ask me to lay on the bed or the couch next to him and take a nap. I was too old for naps so he'd wait till it was close to bed time and try to get me to watch TV with him. I'd go to sleep or wake up with him stroking my arms, back, or legs often with lotion. He made me feel dirty...
The problem started in the summer. We had no place to go and had to stay quiet enough so he could sleep. Having to stay quiet was bad for us. No matter where we played he would be disturbed. I remember spending a lot more time at parks, beaches, the zoo, travel town and museums that summer than any other summer. We spent more time being on his bad side as well. We tried to never be on his bad side. In that house I wrote mostly in the summer.
Things changed at that house, my writings became frequent and darker. Eventually there were new kinds of trouble. I was about 8 when he started looking at me differently. It was like he wasn't seeing me at all but he would stare and ask uncomfortable questions. He would walk into my room when I was changing clothes. He would tell me to go ahead and finishing changing clothes while he watched. He went from being his normal critical, rough and mean self to wanting me to dance for him. He'd ask me to lay on the bed or the couch next to him and take a nap. I was too old for naps so he'd wait till it was close to bed time and try to get me to watch TV with him. I'd go to sleep or wake up with him stroking my arms, back, or legs often with lotion. He made me feel dirty...
Sometimes things don't turn out like you think they will
Every few months I would catalog my feelings in my little book. Over time my entries became more evolved. I could see the drawings getting more detailed. One word here and there became simple sentences, then paragraphs and then pages. Each event appeared more painful and with greater detail than the last. Every plan for the future more detailed.
In 1969 my father's mother passed away. Everything changed that year. My grandfather put my uncle in a home because he didn't think at nearly seventy he could care for him on his own the way my grandmother had. My grandmother had something to prove with my uncle and would never have approved of him going into a home. When he was born she was told he would not make it through the night but he did. They told her to put him in a home (because that is the way they did it back then) or take him home to die. What they didn't know was how strong and determined my grandmother was that he would live and have a quality life too. My grandmother was a woman filled with guilt. She was driving when her father was killed in an accident. When my uncle was born doctors often blamed women for their children having a disability. With her gone though the burden was too great and my grandfather made a plan to move in with us.
We were moving too. We were getting a bigger house that we could all fit in. The big house had three levels and the bottom level had a full bathroom, kitchenette, living area and bedroom. My grandfather was going to live right down stairs!
I remember thinking our father would quit hurting us when my grandfather lived with us. He had never hit us in front of his parents before. They would never have approved. It would be harder for him to get away with the things he did. The plan backfired though.
My grandfather took a fishing trip but came back with a wife. He came back long enough to pack his things. I was so disappointed. I wrote some mean things about this new grandmother who in my eyes was even worse than my father for taking the security of my grandfather away.
I liked our new house but I missed my friends and our yard filled with things to do. Our new house had snakes in the tiny backyard. So we played on the deck, in the front yard and inside more. TV was evolving so there were more things to watch. We eventually made friends with the new neighbors and played kickball or hide and go seek throughout the street. I'd never played hide and go seek outside before. At the old house we always had things to do. At the new house we had to be more creative and had way fewer options.
I think my father was disappointed when my grandfather got married. I'm not sure why. He never gave me the impression he liked his mom and yet it seemed to upset him that his father was doing something to make himself happy. My father took his disappointment in his father out on us. He seemed to get angry at everything. In the end no matter what incident started him off his anger was directed at us. This was a new turn of events that I would loved to have lived without.
The house was bigger. There were more places for him to isolate and torture us. But there were more places to hide from him as well. Sometimes things don't work out like you think they will but you make the best of what you're dealt.
In 1969 my father's mother passed away. Everything changed that year. My grandfather put my uncle in a home because he didn't think at nearly seventy he could care for him on his own the way my grandmother had. My grandmother had something to prove with my uncle and would never have approved of him going into a home. When he was born she was told he would not make it through the night but he did. They told her to put him in a home (because that is the way they did it back then) or take him home to die. What they didn't know was how strong and determined my grandmother was that he would live and have a quality life too. My grandmother was a woman filled with guilt. She was driving when her father was killed in an accident. When my uncle was born doctors often blamed women for their children having a disability. With her gone though the burden was too great and my grandfather made a plan to move in with us.
We were moving too. We were getting a bigger house that we could all fit in. The big house had three levels and the bottom level had a full bathroom, kitchenette, living area and bedroom. My grandfather was going to live right down stairs!
I remember thinking our father would quit hurting us when my grandfather lived with us. He had never hit us in front of his parents before. They would never have approved. It would be harder for him to get away with the things he did. The plan backfired though.
My grandfather took a fishing trip but came back with a wife. He came back long enough to pack his things. I was so disappointed. I wrote some mean things about this new grandmother who in my eyes was even worse than my father for taking the security of my grandfather away.
I liked our new house but I missed my friends and our yard filled with things to do. Our new house had snakes in the tiny backyard. So we played on the deck, in the front yard and inside more. TV was evolving so there were more things to watch. We eventually made friends with the new neighbors and played kickball or hide and go seek throughout the street. I'd never played hide and go seek outside before. At the old house we always had things to do. At the new house we had to be more creative and had way fewer options.
I think my father was disappointed when my grandfather got married. I'm not sure why. He never gave me the impression he liked his mom and yet it seemed to upset him that his father was doing something to make himself happy. My father took his disappointment in his father out on us. He seemed to get angry at everything. In the end no matter what incident started him off his anger was directed at us. This was a new turn of events that I would loved to have lived without.
The house was bigger. There were more places for him to isolate and torture us. But there were more places to hide from him as well. Sometimes things don't work out like you think they will but you make the best of what you're dealt.
She always had bug eyes
In my drawings we were always depicted with tears and frowns. When I drew my mom she was recognizable in a very different way. Mom was always drawn with big bug eyes in my book. It wasn't that her eyes were big. They were normal looking and normal sized but Mom always covered them up. She didn't want people to see. So she would wear the over sized sunglasses to cover the bruises until they healed and the black eyes were gone as well. She wore the over sized glasses to cover the puffiness from all the tears she shed but never realized we saw.
We knew she wore them so nobody could see what he was doing. In a way she hid like us only from the world and not from him.
Mom still has a giant pair from the past. She claims it is because They were expensive ground glass lenses. I've wondered if she still wore them because they were the only ones she had. Or did she think people would notice if she wore the big ones part of the time and normal ones the rest of the time? Or was it that she was afraid someone would see the truth hidden in her eyes? The eyes, those famous windows to the soul. Was she hiding her soul?
Mom still wears her a big pair of sunglasses from the old days. She says she wears them now because of her cataracts. They keep out more of the sun. She claims she likes them but I wonder how much of that might be habit. Thinking about it makes me sad.
We knew she wore them so nobody could see what he was doing. In a way she hid like us only from the world and not from him.
Mom still has a giant pair from the past. She claims it is because They were expensive ground glass lenses. I've wondered if she still wore them because they were the only ones she had. Or did she think people would notice if she wore the big ones part of the time and normal ones the rest of the time? Or was it that she was afraid someone would see the truth hidden in her eyes? The eyes, those famous windows to the soul. Was she hiding her soul?
Mom still wears her a big pair of sunglasses from the old days. She says she wears them now because of her cataracts. They keep out more of the sun. She claims she likes them but I wonder how much of that might be habit. Thinking about it makes me sad.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
In my childhood writings
In my little book I drew pictures of my life. I drew the things I saw and felt. The first few years there were only pictures with a word here and there. I didn't know how to write much yet so I communicated how I could. Eventually I wrote and I drew the events in my life. But I did more. I wrote and drew about what I wanted to do to change the events of my life.
My little book was usually hidden for long periods of time. I was afraid someone would find it. In my mind I thought if someone saw it they might think I was as bad as he was. Maybe they would take me away and lock me up the way I thought things should have been. If they took me away I wouldn't be able to protect my siblings and my mom.
I always dreamed I'd be able to help them get away from him. I thought maybe I could figure out a way to maybe to stop him. At that time I knew the only way to make him stop would be if he died. He said he wasn't going to leave. He threatened to steal us if Mom tried to take us away.
I felt trapped. I felt scared. I had felt hope. My only escape was to write my feelings in my book. Secret feelings that while I wrote them allowed me feel so much better. When i was writing I had the power to formulate a plan to save us. i could be brave for those few moments.
My little book was usually hidden for long periods of time. I was afraid someone would find it. In my mind I thought if someone saw it they might think I was as bad as he was. Maybe they would take me away and lock me up the way I thought things should have been. If they took me away I wouldn't be able to protect my siblings and my mom.
I always dreamed I'd be able to help them get away from him. I thought maybe I could figure out a way to maybe to stop him. At that time I knew the only way to make him stop would be if he died. He said he wasn't going to leave. He threatened to steal us if Mom tried to take us away.
I felt trapped. I felt scared. I had felt hope. My only escape was to write my feelings in my book. Secret feelings that while I wrote them allowed me feel so much better. When i was writing I had the power to formulate a plan to save us. i could be brave for those few moments.
My Brother the Other Hero
I mentioned that my mom was our hero when she would stand between our father and us and take his blows. My brother was the other hero.
My father still hated my sister. Probably even more after she started school than when she first disrupted his world. She came down with mono and missed a bunch of school. She was so sickly and in his eyes she was defective. Every time he could he would take out his wrath on her. I saw it and I'm pretty sure my mother and brother did too.
He was still in the habit of punishing all of us if he didn't know who had done the infraction that set hm off. There were times when I knew who had caused us to be punished but I couldn't say anything. If the culprit were to lie (which happened) the punishment would backfire to the "tattle tale". If one of us "tattled" on the other sibling and they didn't come clean we'd not only get it from him but we would get the cold shoulder or worse from the one culprit. My mom seemed unhappy if we told on each other so after once or twice nobody ever did it again.
If the punishment was shared between us it was not as severe. Sometimes we didn't confess if we couldn't take the punishment alone. I confess I did it too. My brother like me seemed to know that our father was harder on my sister than he was on us. My brother may have even noticed as I had that our father was easier on his young son than he had been on me even.
There were a few times when I knew my sister had been the culprit but my brother would confess and take his the whacks in her stead. He did it for me once too. I'm not sure if he even knew it was me. For all of the times he shared punishment to make it easier on us and for all the times he took those whacks for us he was and is my hero. I'm sure he probably doesn't even remember but I do.
My father still hated my sister. Probably even more after she started school than when she first disrupted his world. She came down with mono and missed a bunch of school. She was so sickly and in his eyes she was defective. Every time he could he would take out his wrath on her. I saw it and I'm pretty sure my mother and brother did too.
He was still in the habit of punishing all of us if he didn't know who had done the infraction that set hm off. There were times when I knew who had caused us to be punished but I couldn't say anything. If the culprit were to lie (which happened) the punishment would backfire to the "tattle tale". If one of us "tattled" on the other sibling and they didn't come clean we'd not only get it from him but we would get the cold shoulder or worse from the one culprit. My mom seemed unhappy if we told on each other so after once or twice nobody ever did it again.
If the punishment was shared between us it was not as severe. Sometimes we didn't confess if we couldn't take the punishment alone. I confess I did it too. My brother like me seemed to know that our father was harder on my sister than he was on us. My brother may have even noticed as I had that our father was easier on his young son than he had been on me even.
There were a few times when I knew my sister had been the culprit but my brother would confess and take his the whacks in her stead. He did it for me once too. I'm not sure if he even knew it was me. For all of the times he shared punishment to make it easier on us and for all the times he took those whacks for us he was and is my hero. I'm sure he probably doesn't even remember but I do.
Every night
Every night was a new nightmare. Even when things seemed to be going very well during the day and into the evening, he always found new things to fight about. He blamed her and us for everything he perceived as bad in his life. Sometimes it was about her not wanting to have sex every night. Sometimes it was about her not being adventurous enough in bed. Sometimes about her not having enough energy to please him after a full day of taking care of the house and three small kids in a world that had to be perfect. Sometimes the fights were about imperfection in childcare, cleaning or even what we had for dinner. There were plenty of other subjects for their arguments but mostly they were about sex, her "flaws", and about us.
No child should hear their parents having those kinds of arguments.
She would say if he was so unhappy he could leave but he said it was his house and he wasn't leaving. She would tell him she was leaving and he would make threats that scared me. He often told her she would never see us again. He said he'd take us to Mexico where little blond girls sold as sex slaves at a premium. I didn't know what a sex was but I knew a slave was made to do what the owner wanted and often beaten if they didn't. I had enough of that at home, the idea that some stranger could own me, force me to do what they wanted and beat me at will wasn't a good alternative to the life I lived at the time.
Not long after he threatened to take us to Mexico my mom showed us how to take off the window screens and climb out to the neighbor's house to call for help. She stowed a dime in our shoes and how to use a pay phone. She made us memorize our Gramie's phone number in case he ever came for us we were told to hide and find a way to contact our Gramie.
I'd lay in my bed afraid to move or make a noise. I cry silently. I'd pray for help and wonder if God could hear me over Mom's screams. I worried if the door opened that it would be him coming to take us away to Mexico where we would be sold and beaten by strangers. I would hide under my bed and curl into myself. I would try to be invisible. Every night was a new set of nightmares.
No child should hear their parents having those kinds of arguments.
She would say if he was so unhappy he could leave but he said it was his house and he wasn't leaving. She would tell him she was leaving and he would make threats that scared me. He often told her she would never see us again. He said he'd take us to Mexico where little blond girls sold as sex slaves at a premium. I didn't know what a sex was but I knew a slave was made to do what the owner wanted and often beaten if they didn't. I had enough of that at home, the idea that some stranger could own me, force me to do what they wanted and beat me at will wasn't a good alternative to the life I lived at the time.
Not long after he threatened to take us to Mexico my mom showed us how to take off the window screens and climb out to the neighbor's house to call for help. She stowed a dime in our shoes and how to use a pay phone. She made us memorize our Gramie's phone number in case he ever came for us we were told to hide and find a way to contact our Gramie.
I'd lay in my bed afraid to move or make a noise. I cry silently. I'd pray for help and wonder if God could hear me over Mom's screams. I worried if the door opened that it would be him coming to take us away to Mexico where we would be sold and beaten by strangers. I would hide under my bed and curl into myself. I would try to be invisible. Every night was a new set of nightmares.
Sorry ma'am...
It was one of those things I'll never forget. An event so vivid I'm not sure if it is possible to forget.
My parents were going at it as usual. By going at it, I mean they had some kind of disagreement and my father took it to a physical level. I don't know if anyone really knew how these things started or how quickly they could escalate but I know how this one ended.
This particular fight was louder than most. I think it was more menacing when he kept a low growl to his voice but that day he didn't. This argument was more vicious than most. Mom was bleeding, a crimson flow coming from her nose and smeared on her clothes. Her eyes were bruised black and purple with a tinge of blue and green. A knock sounded at the front door. Mom wiped at her face as she answered the door. Standing there were two uniformed policemen. They said, "Ma'am are you okay?" She started to cry with relief and shook her head no. They asked if she would like a ride to safety. She asked them to wait and gathered us together as my father hid in the bathroom from the authorities who stood waiting at the door. She emerged with us in tow and the policeman said, "Sorry Ma'am this is a domestic dispute. We can't take the children from the home." I thought for a second I had heard wrong but they turned and walked to their patrol car alone. Only seconds before I thought we were all safe. I thought something magical would happen once the policemen saved us. I was wrong.
That was the day I lost hope. I believe that was the day I started to draw in my book. That was the day I understood I had nobody to turn to.
My parents were going at it as usual. By going at it, I mean they had some kind of disagreement and my father took it to a physical level. I don't know if anyone really knew how these things started or how quickly they could escalate but I know how this one ended.
This particular fight was louder than most. I think it was more menacing when he kept a low growl to his voice but that day he didn't. This argument was more vicious than most. Mom was bleeding, a crimson flow coming from her nose and smeared on her clothes. Her eyes were bruised black and purple with a tinge of blue and green. A knock sounded at the front door. Mom wiped at her face as she answered the door. Standing there were two uniformed policemen. They said, "Ma'am are you okay?" She started to cry with relief and shook her head no. They asked if she would like a ride to safety. She asked them to wait and gathered us together as my father hid in the bathroom from the authorities who stood waiting at the door. She emerged with us in tow and the policeman said, "Sorry Ma'am this is a domestic dispute. We can't take the children from the home." I thought for a second I had heard wrong but they turned and walked to their patrol car alone. Only seconds before I thought we were all safe. I thought something magical would happen once the policemen saved us. I was wrong.
That was the day I lost hope. I believe that was the day I started to draw in my book. That was the day I understood I had nobody to turn to.
Mom did her best...
Mom did her best to protect us. She helped keep us from some of the immediate dangers but in the long run couldn't protect us from everything. I know it was hard for her and in some ways keeping us protected probably made things worse on all of us in the long run. What we needed more than protection was to learn to recognize and protect ourselves from not just the immediate dangers but the more subtle dangers that came as time went on.
Mom made our house a cool place for the neighbor kids to be. Our house had all the bells and whistles we could have. I don't believe it could be compared to any house today because most kids would be more impressed with computers and game systems. What we had was probably better both then and now though. We had a tether ball, four square and hop scotch in our driveway. In the backyard we had a playhouse. Not the plastic kind you see now but one more like a miniature house with a real foundation, dutch doors, a shingled roof and windows. We also had a Japanese style bridge over a fake stream made of blue black river stones. There were huge hollow logs that we pretended were our own horses like the ones that lived behind our house. Sometimes the logs were a foxhole for pretend soldiers or just a shady place to hang out. We also had swings, a teeter totter and a metal merry-go-round type ride with four seats that went in a circle. You could make it go as fast as you could by pushing and pulling the handlebars real hard.
All of the neighbor kids came over to play. That may have been why I don't remember going to any one's house until after I was about 8 or so. We had unspoken rules. We never had kids over when our father was home. Mom made sure we knew when he'd be home. We never let people come through the house. We always came in the side gate or the garage. We never wanted to subject our friends to what he might say or do.
Mom said she did it because she wanted us at home so she knew we were safe. She said she'd rather watch us play than wonder what we were up to. I wonder if we had seen the dynamics of other families we may have been better able to see that not ever father was like ours. If we had known maybe we could have done something to escape his wrath or maybe protect ourselves better.
Mom nearly always stepped between him and us. She took blows to save us from his potentially fatal attacks. At the time she was our hero whether we knew it or not at the time.
Mom made our house a cool place for the neighbor kids to be. Our house had all the bells and whistles we could have. I don't believe it could be compared to any house today because most kids would be more impressed with computers and game systems. What we had was probably better both then and now though. We had a tether ball, four square and hop scotch in our driveway. In the backyard we had a playhouse. Not the plastic kind you see now but one more like a miniature house with a real foundation, dutch doors, a shingled roof and windows. We also had a Japanese style bridge over a fake stream made of blue black river stones. There were huge hollow logs that we pretended were our own horses like the ones that lived behind our house. Sometimes the logs were a foxhole for pretend soldiers or just a shady place to hang out. We also had swings, a teeter totter and a metal merry-go-round type ride with four seats that went in a circle. You could make it go as fast as you could by pushing and pulling the handlebars real hard.
All of the neighbor kids came over to play. That may have been why I don't remember going to any one's house until after I was about 8 or so. We had unspoken rules. We never had kids over when our father was home. Mom made sure we knew when he'd be home. We never let people come through the house. We always came in the side gate or the garage. We never wanted to subject our friends to what he might say or do.
Mom said she did it because she wanted us at home so she knew we were safe. She said she'd rather watch us play than wonder what we were up to. I wonder if we had seen the dynamics of other families we may have been better able to see that not ever father was like ours. If we had known maybe we could have done something to escape his wrath or maybe protect ourselves better.
Mom nearly always stepped between him and us. She took blows to save us from his potentially fatal attacks. At the time she was our hero whether we knew it or not at the time.
When he was around we had to be perfect.
When it was time for our father to get home we had to be perfect. We would make sure our toys were in our room and our rooms straightened. Everything in the house had to be picked up and in it's place by the time he came in the house or we would all get it. We had to be quiet. We couldn't argue or disagree.
We often hid in the sanctuary of our rooms where there was a little safety. There seemed to be a bit of out of sight out of mind when it came to our father. But also included not being heard as well. Any hint or sign of a child might bring one of us to his mind and his mind could be a pretty dark place.
There were times I think he really wanted us around. During those times he would bribe us with a spoonful of ice cream or some other sweet to stay in the room with him.We were at times on demanded as his playthings. He used to entertain himself and others. It was a good thing we were cute. (We were cute, I have pictures to prove it.) He liked us to appear as his perfect happy family. On demand we were expected to be exactly what he wanted us to be.
We were often bored when he wanted us around because we were not allowed to be kids. It is hard to be perfect on demand. He never wanted us to speak while we were on display. Sometimes he want us to dance or sing but never to speak unless spoken to. It is impossible for little kids to entertain grownups without an occasional embarrassing moment or two. However, when he was around we were expected to be perfect.
We often hid in the sanctuary of our rooms where there was a little safety. There seemed to be a bit of out of sight out of mind when it came to our father. But also included not being heard as well. Any hint or sign of a child might bring one of us to his mind and his mind could be a pretty dark place.
There were times I think he really wanted us around. During those times he would bribe us with a spoonful of ice cream or some other sweet to stay in the room with him.We were at times on demanded as his playthings. He used to entertain himself and others. It was a good thing we were cute. (We were cute, I have pictures to prove it.) He liked us to appear as his perfect happy family. On demand we were expected to be exactly what he wanted us to be.
We were often bored when he wanted us around because we were not allowed to be kids. It is hard to be perfect on demand. He never wanted us to speak while we were on display. Sometimes he want us to dance or sing but never to speak unless spoken to. It is impossible for little kids to entertain grownups without an occasional embarrassing moment or two. However, when he was around we were expected to be perfect.
We never knew any other way
I lived in my house and no place else. We visited family. My grandparents and other relatives but other than that we never went to anyone's house. Not when we were little anyway. How could a little kid know what normal was for anyone else?
My mothers parents were sweet and kind and made us feel important to them. My mom's siblings were also kind but they lived so far away. When we visited we had our cousins to entertain us. We were close in age and had a blast together. Because we were so far away we didn't see Mom's family more than once or twice a year. They had rules we had to follow when we were there but their rules were easy to follow. We were always on our best behavior when we visited anyway.
My fathers family was a little different. His parents were kind too. My grandmother tended to be serious, a little strict and a lot quirky but my grandfather made up for that... he made us laugh. My uncle lived with my grandparents and he was the one to watch out for. He had Down Syndrome (but they didn't call it that back then.) My uncle was unpredictable in some ways and very predictable in others. He never liked us to touch or move anything, not even a throw pillow. It was like visiting a museum. We had rules there too and if we strayed my uncle would get very mean very quickly.
There was the family friend that my mom stayed with when she was pregnant with me. We would go there from time to time. They had special toys just for us. They watched us play, gave us sandwiches, cookies and juice. At their house we were allowed to be kids, laugh and get loud. We built towers of wooden blocks, played with the wooden train set, dressed up the doll and played make believe. We could be a whale or a alligator or a gorilla or a bat if we wanted to. The setting was relaxed and when we were having that much fun there was never any time to be bad.
When we came home life was more unpredictable than it was with my uncle who had Down Syndrome. We had rules but the rules changed. Until we did something new that upset our father we didn't know there was a rule about that behavior. He would fly off into one of his rages and if we we caught on quick we could hide.
When he was at work we knew we were safe. As safe as we could be. We could get a little loud and laugh when we played. We could play dress up, pretend to be cowboys or pirates (I was a tomboy) and build forts out of blankets & furniture. We loved those times when it was just us. We helped make lunch and dinner. Sometimes when we did we sang and danced around the dining room table. Our favorite was the baby elephant walk. We'd drop our bodies forward and make our arms hang in front of our faces to imitate a trunk. We would swing our "trunks" back and forth to the music that is forever in my heard.
When he came home everything changed. Everyone would be on the edge. We could each feel the tension in the house. Everyone was afraid someone would mess up and get us all in trouble. We usually went to our rooms where we played very quietly until we were summoned to his presence. We never knew what was in store for us when that happened. Was it dinner, did he want us to entertain him, rub his back or feet, put something away or suffer some humiliation or other kind of torture.
This was our normal. We never knew any other way.
My mothers parents were sweet and kind and made us feel important to them. My mom's siblings were also kind but they lived so far away. When we visited we had our cousins to entertain us. We were close in age and had a blast together. Because we were so far away we didn't see Mom's family more than once or twice a year. They had rules we had to follow when we were there but their rules were easy to follow. We were always on our best behavior when we visited anyway.
My fathers family was a little different. His parents were kind too. My grandmother tended to be serious, a little strict and a lot quirky but my grandfather made up for that... he made us laugh. My uncle lived with my grandparents and he was the one to watch out for. He had Down Syndrome (but they didn't call it that back then.) My uncle was unpredictable in some ways and very predictable in others. He never liked us to touch or move anything, not even a throw pillow. It was like visiting a museum. We had rules there too and if we strayed my uncle would get very mean very quickly.
There was the family friend that my mom stayed with when she was pregnant with me. We would go there from time to time. They had special toys just for us. They watched us play, gave us sandwiches, cookies and juice. At their house we were allowed to be kids, laugh and get loud. We built towers of wooden blocks, played with the wooden train set, dressed up the doll and played make believe. We could be a whale or a alligator or a gorilla or a bat if we wanted to. The setting was relaxed and when we were having that much fun there was never any time to be bad.
When we came home life was more unpredictable than it was with my uncle who had Down Syndrome. We had rules but the rules changed. Until we did something new that upset our father we didn't know there was a rule about that behavior. He would fly off into one of his rages and if we we caught on quick we could hide.
When he was at work we knew we were safe. As safe as we could be. We could get a little loud and laugh when we played. We could play dress up, pretend to be cowboys or pirates (I was a tomboy) and build forts out of blankets & furniture. We loved those times when it was just us. We helped make lunch and dinner. Sometimes when we did we sang and danced around the dining room table. Our favorite was the baby elephant walk. We'd drop our bodies forward and make our arms hang in front of our faces to imitate a trunk. We would swing our "trunks" back and forth to the music that is forever in my heard.
When he came home everything changed. Everyone would be on the edge. We could each feel the tension in the house. Everyone was afraid someone would mess up and get us all in trouble. We usually went to our rooms where we played very quietly until we were summoned to his presence. We never knew what was in store for us when that happened. Was it dinner, did he want us to entertain him, rub his back or feet, put something away or suffer some humiliation or other kind of torture.
This was our normal. We never knew any other way.
Friday, June 12, 2009
In the beginning...
The best place to start any story is in the beginning. When I was born I was the second child of a young family that was already in trouble. My father claimed he wanted children. I think maybe he did but I'm pretty sure he wanted to wait till he was older so he could be a carefree young married man. When my sister came it was kind of a surprise to him. Its not like family planning was practiced much in the late 50's.
He didn't like his first daughter from the start. She wasn't what he expected. He didn't like the lifestyle changes a baby brings. After the first child arrives everything changes. Sleep is interrupted. The wife is now busier and more tired. A romantic get away meant extensive planning and schedules that couldn't be changed on a whim. There were things that must be done before leaving. Like finding a sitter and packing a diaper bag (this was before disposable diapers too.) There were the bottles, changes of clothes, blankets, a hat (no sunscreen yet), stroller, and the car seat at least. Dinner and a movie became difficult unless it was take out and a drive in where the baby could be put to sleep in the back seat, easily changed and fed without disturbing others.
In very little time he hated my sister. Hated probably isn't a strong enough of a term for it. Loathed maybe, nope still not strong enough. Maybe I'll figure it out later. He wanted a boy. She was not a boy. He wanted to keep his ability to be a young spontaneous couple and she put a distinct crimp in his style. She wasn't perfect. She didn't stick to a perfect schedule. She wasn't something you played with and put away at your convenience. She required feedings both day and night. She woke up at awkward like times like when he was in the middle of having sex. She required attention he felt was being taken away from him. In short she was a normal baby.
By the time I came along he had gotten used to the idea that his life had forever changed. He was looking forward to having a son but alas didn't get his way again. He tolerated me much better than he had my sister. He still blamed my sister for the disruptions in his life. He blamed my mom for not having a son.
My grandmother claimed the first bad beating of my life occurred even before I was born. I don't know the whole story because my mom's version is different than the one my grandmother told. Gramie's story was that she took in my sister while my mom was in the hospital recovering from a severe beating that almost caused Mom to lose me. Mom's version is that the doctor put her on bed rest after some complications. With my father having to work my sister went to live with our grandparents and after being released from the hospital Mom stayed with family friends who could give her the care she needed until I arrived. I think a beating could cause those complications and I never knew my Gramie to lie but again I wasn't there yet and there is always two sides to every story.
In the early sixties you could beat your wife and as long as you didn't kill her you would get away with it. For that matter you could beat your kids and nobody would do anything about that either.
Three years after I was born my father got his son. It was about that time or maybe just before he was born that I remember my first real beatings. He was brutal. He used whatever was handy and seemed to hit until his anger subsided or my mother intervened. She intervened a lot. He pushed us off the sofa or bed or chair, slammed us into walls, yanked our arms, slapped our faces, pulled our hair, stood us in corner for hours and was just all around mean.
The first time I remember my brother being included in the beatings was this one time someone scribbled on the sofa with a black marker. I never knew who did it but that never mattered anyway. If one of us did something wrong and he wasn't positive who did it, we all got punished for it. This particular time we were taking our bath. Back then we were all plunked into the tub at the same time. (probably easier that way. He had us stand in a line in the tub and used a stick (the kind they used to tie balloons back then, kind of like a very thin dowel) to hit us with. It caused these angry looking thin welts to spring up with darker red lines through the middle, all over our upper legs, buttocks and lower backs. You could see little dots of blood in the thin dark red lines. My sisters bled, he hated her most.
That was the first time we all got it together.
He didn't like his first daughter from the start. She wasn't what he expected. He didn't like the lifestyle changes a baby brings. After the first child arrives everything changes. Sleep is interrupted. The wife is now busier and more tired. A romantic get away meant extensive planning and schedules that couldn't be changed on a whim. There were things that must be done before leaving. Like finding a sitter and packing a diaper bag (this was before disposable diapers too.) There were the bottles, changes of clothes, blankets, a hat (no sunscreen yet), stroller, and the car seat at least. Dinner and a movie became difficult unless it was take out and a drive in where the baby could be put to sleep in the back seat, easily changed and fed without disturbing others.
In very little time he hated my sister. Hated probably isn't a strong enough of a term for it. Loathed maybe, nope still not strong enough. Maybe I'll figure it out later. He wanted a boy. She was not a boy. He wanted to keep his ability to be a young spontaneous couple and she put a distinct crimp in his style. She wasn't perfect. She didn't stick to a perfect schedule. She wasn't something you played with and put away at your convenience. She required feedings both day and night. She woke up at awkward like times like when he was in the middle of having sex. She required attention he felt was being taken away from him. In short she was a normal baby.
By the time I came along he had gotten used to the idea that his life had forever changed. He was looking forward to having a son but alas didn't get his way again. He tolerated me much better than he had my sister. He still blamed my sister for the disruptions in his life. He blamed my mom for not having a son.
My grandmother claimed the first bad beating of my life occurred even before I was born. I don't know the whole story because my mom's version is different than the one my grandmother told. Gramie's story was that she took in my sister while my mom was in the hospital recovering from a severe beating that almost caused Mom to lose me. Mom's version is that the doctor put her on bed rest after some complications. With my father having to work my sister went to live with our grandparents and after being released from the hospital Mom stayed with family friends who could give her the care she needed until I arrived. I think a beating could cause those complications and I never knew my Gramie to lie but again I wasn't there yet and there is always two sides to every story.
In the early sixties you could beat your wife and as long as you didn't kill her you would get away with it. For that matter you could beat your kids and nobody would do anything about that either.
Three years after I was born my father got his son. It was about that time or maybe just before he was born that I remember my first real beatings. He was brutal. He used whatever was handy and seemed to hit until his anger subsided or my mother intervened. She intervened a lot. He pushed us off the sofa or bed or chair, slammed us into walls, yanked our arms, slapped our faces, pulled our hair, stood us in corner for hours and was just all around mean.
The first time I remember my brother being included in the beatings was this one time someone scribbled on the sofa with a black marker. I never knew who did it but that never mattered anyway. If one of us did something wrong and he wasn't positive who did it, we all got punished for it. This particular time we were taking our bath. Back then we were all plunked into the tub at the same time. (probably easier that way. He had us stand in a line in the tub and used a stick (the kind they used to tie balloons back then, kind of like a very thin dowel) to hit us with. It caused these angry looking thin welts to spring up with darker red lines through the middle, all over our upper legs, buttocks and lower backs. You could see little dots of blood in the thin dark red lines. My sisters bled, he hated her most.
That was the first time we all got it together.
Why Damaged?
Why would I name this blog damaged? It stems from conversations I have had with other damaged people. People who took exception to the damaged label. We can't change the circumstances in which we are born. We can only learn from those circumstances and grow. Everything we are subjected to as a baby, child, youth, young adult and onward shape who we become. It is impossible to not be affected by those things both good and bad.
Sometimes the lives we started with damage us. Sometimes we don't recognize it in ourselves. We can't see what others see in us or what is sometimes starring us in the face. We can't see how the damage that was done to us effects the person we become, the decisions we make and the life we lead. Sometimes we are unwilling to admit the power some influences had on us. Sometimes we just accept who we are and sometimes we find the strength to be better.
There is one other catalyst for this blog. One I find hard to think about, one I kept hidden my whole life but one so profound it became impossible for me to forget. My first journal. Maybe it didn't start as a journal so much as a wish book. Wish book isn't right either but I have no other word for it. It was the writings of a child, a damaged child, one who could not see anything beyond the tiny world in which she existed. It wasn't dated but I was about 5 or 6 when I started making stick figure entries and later simple writings and eventually detailed plans, there were no more entries after I was about 13 or so.
The first time I remember coming across the book after my early teen self was in my late twenties. I recall seeing it through the years prior to that but not opening it. Maybe I'd forgotten what it was, maybe it was timing, or maybe I feared the memories I had pushed away so far deep down I wanted them to stay down, to be forget. Why I didn't look at it back then and why I hadn't thrown it away in those brief glances I am not sure. Certainly I had seen it dozens of times between the time I quit writing and the time I finally opened it for a glance in my late twenties but I had never opened it before.
That first time I gave the book any attention I only thumbed through the pages then looked at the first page or two. I was so taken aback I couldn't bring myself to look further than a quick perusing of those first couple of pages. The memories came flooding in and crushed me. In a huge wave of fear and grief I nearly drown. Like an elephant on my chest I couldn't breathe. I shoved the book back the box it had been stored in tried to forget again.
I was in my mid thirties when I found the book again. For a moment I chose to forget those first few pages. I worked up the courage to look at every page and I read the whole book cover to cover. Then I put it down and cried for about a week before I could pick it up again. I read it over and over again. Memorizing the beginning stick figure pictures I had drawn and the passages I had scratched out. Then the more detailed pictures and plans. Finally I decided it would have been better if I had never seen it again. It was if I was obsessed with it's yellowed pages. I finally burned it. My obsession was quieted and I was able to let the images fade some.
More years have gone by and the images are still in my mind. They have faded but they won't ever leave. In this blog I'll write about what I wrote. I tell anyone who reads this about the little book I wrote and and the life I had chronicled. I'll write about conclusions I have drawn and the hope I have discovered in myself and others. But like every story first I'll have to begin at the beginning.
Sometimes the lives we started with damage us. Sometimes we don't recognize it in ourselves. We can't see what others see in us or what is sometimes starring us in the face. We can't see how the damage that was done to us effects the person we become, the decisions we make and the life we lead. Sometimes we are unwilling to admit the power some influences had on us. Sometimes we just accept who we are and sometimes we find the strength to be better.
There is one other catalyst for this blog. One I find hard to think about, one I kept hidden my whole life but one so profound it became impossible for me to forget. My first journal. Maybe it didn't start as a journal so much as a wish book. Wish book isn't right either but I have no other word for it. It was the writings of a child, a damaged child, one who could not see anything beyond the tiny world in which she existed. It wasn't dated but I was about 5 or 6 when I started making stick figure entries and later simple writings and eventually detailed plans, there were no more entries after I was about 13 or so.
The first time I remember coming across the book after my early teen self was in my late twenties. I recall seeing it through the years prior to that but not opening it. Maybe I'd forgotten what it was, maybe it was timing, or maybe I feared the memories I had pushed away so far deep down I wanted them to stay down, to be forget. Why I didn't look at it back then and why I hadn't thrown it away in those brief glances I am not sure. Certainly I had seen it dozens of times between the time I quit writing and the time I finally opened it for a glance in my late twenties but I had never opened it before.
That first time I gave the book any attention I only thumbed through the pages then looked at the first page or two. I was so taken aback I couldn't bring myself to look further than a quick perusing of those first couple of pages. The memories came flooding in and crushed me. In a huge wave of fear and grief I nearly drown. Like an elephant on my chest I couldn't breathe. I shoved the book back the box it had been stored in tried to forget again.
I was in my mid thirties when I found the book again. For a moment I chose to forget those first few pages. I worked up the courage to look at every page and I read the whole book cover to cover. Then I put it down and cried for about a week before I could pick it up again. I read it over and over again. Memorizing the beginning stick figure pictures I had drawn and the passages I had scratched out. Then the more detailed pictures and plans. Finally I decided it would have been better if I had never seen it again. It was if I was obsessed with it's yellowed pages. I finally burned it. My obsession was quieted and I was able to let the images fade some.
More years have gone by and the images are still in my mind. They have faded but they won't ever leave. In this blog I'll write about what I wrote. I tell anyone who reads this about the little book I wrote and and the life I had chronicled. I'll write about conclusions I have drawn and the hope I have discovered in myself and others. But like every story first I'll have to begin at the beginning.
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