Thirty Five Years Ago Today…

My father passed away from chronic heart disease. He had congestive heart failure due to a heart weakened from rheumatic fever as a baby, genetic weaknesses, caused by familial inherited (very) high blood pressure.  He had coronary artery disease and had his first heart attack at 32 years of age.  It killed 1/3 of his heart. I was ten years old, and incredibly impressionable.  He soon had a triple bypass which gave him ten more years of life.  Some time during the process he decided to leave the wife and kids, and did.  I never really missed him. Until he was 100% gone, and then it took quite a bit of time.  I finally cried about five years later, when I realized that I did actually have fun things to share with him, and that it really was too late.

My ACE (Adverse Childhood Experiences) score is very high.  My father contributed to that in a big big way. So, to say that he’s this great guy well, there were great things about him. He was not on a day to day course, a great guy.  For the record, he did offer an apology before he died.  I believe today that the apology, which was not very specific, has helped me to at least put his actions ‘away’ somewhere.  I try to leave that particular drawer closed.  I don’t want to see anymore.  That is until I want to see.

He once ran over a dog, to get even with my mother while they argued.  I am pretty sure he killed it.  We had a little dog given to us (the family) and he, named Pepper, peed on the brand new carpet.  Said dog was new to the household and family.  My father chased that little dog around the house like a mad man.  He was more than visibly angry, he was enraged.  When he finally got that little dog cornered, he took the belt that he had in his hands, and struck that dog and laid the little dogs head wide open.  It was a heavy, brass belt buckle. How Pepper lived through that, I will never know.  Mom did take him to the vet.  I sure that the vet and mom’s nursing skills helped at least some.   Somewhere on this blog, I mention that I remember hanging on my fathers knee, (that is all the taller I was).  I begged him to stop hitting, “mommy”.   Another time, I remember him flinging dishes across the length of the kitchen.  Mommy and we (self and sister) were going somewhere.  Dishes broke over the top of my head.  My sister was still young enough to be in a stroller,  and I was holding my mother’s hand.

And this is the shit I remember! There is so much more I could add.

This week has been hard emotionally and physically for me.  I learned that I have congestive heart disease.  The doctor who diagnosed it is not a cardiologist.  He is flummoxed, there is no physical reason for it.  I have clean arteries, my valves are good.  I just don’t pump the blood I need.  Go figure.  I am only 56 years old.   And I do want to live.  But, in my way, I’ve spent years trying to kill myself too.  If you were to really look, and if I let you really see, you’d see that I am scarred up from the top of my head all the way to my toes.

I learned to deal with the violence I saw from a young and tender age by using self harming behaviors.  The first time I remember the self mutilation was when I was still young enough to have a cuddle blanket, and sit on the floor in front of the television, sucking my thumb, and watching cartoons.  I made myself bleed.  Dad came out of the bedroom, stomped through the living room and out through the front door.  He scared me to death, I hid my bloody calf under the cuddle blanket, a baby quilt made especially for me.  I got away with it over and over again.  Probably hundreds of thousands of times.  The behavior is sand blasted into my brain.  It never really stops.  One behavior simply substitutes for another, and it all comes back around.  I bite the insides of my lips, pull out my eye lashes, and eye brows, I eat and eat and eat – and I make myself bleed over and over and over again.

A nurse at the hospital this week, (remember, I am 56 years of age) was trying to find a suitable place to draw blood, made comments about how scarred up I am.  I informed him that I grew up with some pretty bad, dysfunctional assumptions, that it was self-abuse.  Some people do meth or cocaine, I made myself self bleed or deformed.  It is a form of self-medication, as twisted and weird as it seems.  I think in all honesty, that if the small child had been looked at and truly seen, then told that none of it was her fault, that maybe she’d stop. (the old, ‘if, then’ programming)   But, for now, she carries on and screams out, creating scarring everywhere – a symbol of the fight to be, a symbol of the fight back then.  The fight when those big people did nothing more than pin her down – it becomes a symbol of the wanting of peace and love, and for those around her to learn to be gentle.   It really is just a scream.

I find it interesting that this news came so close to my dad’s death anniversary. I’ve always known that he and I had some invisible tie.  But, I do not know what it was or is. I never understood it.  Whatever it was, it was strong enough that the day he died, when I was 3000 miles from the man, I knew someone somewhere was having a problem. It bothered me so much that I was pretty frantic.  At the time, my husband (now ex) was working on a roof.  So, I thought maybe he fell off.  But, I also know that I never really felt it was him.  What it was, was my father dying.  So, yeah, some kind of tie that bound us together and will for the rest of forever…

He and I were not particularly close as I grew up.  There were fun things that he did for us girls, and with us girls.  But the terror, that I felt when around him, pretty much left me
in a very tempered stance.  I was always bracing for a backhand, or something else. There was a ton of mental space between he and I.  I accepted his praise when it came and I dodged the bullet when he was not happy with me, or someone else – anyone, really.

My maternal grandparents, are the people who kept sanity alive and well in life.  They let me know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was loved.  There was affection and encouragement.  They considered my father’s side of the family uncivilized, and I am sure that probably is an understatement.

Education is the key to this whole mess.

I wonder how many of us will die fairly young and younger, before our society realizes what real damages have been done by bullies who perpetuate and pass on the damage that has been done to them from the generation before that!  What it takes is education.  Education is the key to this whole mess.  This is not about political correctness.  This is about the emotional, and physical harm that comes to children of both sexes. It is the harm that makes children sick, and kills young women and men, regardless if the death certificate says ‘suicide’ or by ‘disease’. I think my certificate will read that death is by “broken heart” and I think that would be very accurate in every imaginable way.

This is not death by disease — this is a broken heart.  A heart killed by hurt, threats, violence, dismay, isolation, insanity, rejection, being used, piled on, hit, twisted, tortured, raped in every way, insulted, put down, demeaned, made to feel small, neglect, shoved down,  rejection… rejection…

I realize that he was probably abused.  I’ve heard some God awful stories about my grandfather.  At least two of the eight siblings at one point or another accused him of
being a molester.  In his defense, grandpa was dead by that point and could not have argued back.  But it all started somewhere.  Dad had some pretty ugly stories about being taken behind the woodshed and beaten.  He felt that he was the black sheep of the family.  And as sad as that seemed to make him feel, he never realized that he made one of his daughters feel pretty  much the same way.  Probably a case, of him, not being able to climb out of his past, and entering into a more healthy future.

What I have learned through my quest of genealogical insights is that this cycle is
very generational.  The elder mistreats the younger.  The younger fights to live through it, and then becomes the elder.  The cycle is perpetuated this way.  To make matters worse, there is generations of history where parents approved of young (as in teenagers) women marrying men 20 and 30 years their senior because the man was settled, had built a life for himself, and could provide well for his woman-child, and children.  This culture  has left a trail of victims of physical, emotional, and verbal abuse.  The women believing their vows meant forever, left them feeling stuck and so they stayed there.  Rape was condoned, probably even encouraged.  After all, every good man deserved an heir and farm hand.  Women have been taught to submit for literally generations upon generations.

I was the oldest, so I was pretty safe in terms of my father wanting an heir.  One mistake was OK, I guess.  But, when my little sister was born he stated to the doctor that she was the wrong sex.  The conversation ended with the doctor telling him to put her back himself.   What my father said spoke volumes about the value of a little girl child, even in ‘modern times,’  after all we are talking about 1965.  Gloria Stienem was alive.

Thankfully, my sister was a large baby (over 10 lbs if my memory serves me right), and
dad was not afraid to handle her.  We have a photo of him holding my sister.  Apparently he was afraid to hold me.  I was over 8 lbs, I think.  So, on top of all else, he and I probably never got that bonding that parents seem naturally drawn to with their children.  The bonding that the child’s very life depends on.

So, this week, I found out that I have congestive heart failure.  I have not even seen a
cardiologist yet.  I have no clue what the answers are to my conundrum.  I am putting a lot of thought into my situation.  I have known for sometime that I’d eventually reach this point.  I’ve always known, or at least had an instinctual feeling that I would not live to see a truly old age. I have taken care of myself the best I could.  My arteries are clean.  I have no valvular issues.  There is no physical or structural reason that my heart is not pumping 2/3 of the blood that I need to function.

Because, physical damage is not what is wrong here, I’d have to say that the origins of this are what I already knew and expected.  Number 1: I have a birth defect.  My natural pacer stopped working properly when I was a teenager, when I started passing out, at least once a month, and often more than that.  At age 42, it was discovered that not only do I pass out, but I go code blue.  My heart stops, restarts eventually, and I then come back in Afib. So, I got a pacemaker.

Being abused as a child sets you up for multiple experiences of stresses.  I believe that stress took a birth defect and twisted it every which way anyone can imagine it.  Growing up abused, landed me  into an abusive marriage, then to taking up with an abusive boyfriend,  living with unavoidable and unloving flak from members of the family who think that what I say is a lie, and that I’d stop  or should stop talking about what I think about (all the time),  has all taken its toll.  And the toll is the ultimate price: health, a good life is a destroyed life.

As you become educated you realize that most of your relationships, with nearly every one, even with your ‘girlfriends’ are dysfunctional.  I can only speak for me here, but I started cleaning house years ago.  Of course, it took my step father molesting one of my children (over and over, and over) before I could wake up (become conscious) enough to realize what was going on.  By then it’s too late because the next generation has been abused, and has built up an unhealthy defense system, and then you have the stress of that child trying to grow up in a very confusing world made more confusing by most family members ignoring, or denying the abuse and in the case of said child’s father, heaping on yet more.  (Said step-father went to jail.  The judge said it was the most under charged case he’d ever seen.  Mom {me}  worked with the DA who said the case was undercharged to so that the case could be won, and said perpetrator could be made to go to jail, and later on, file as a sexual predator once he was released.)

The beginning of my adulthood was being married to a young man who had to have grown up in some horrible circumstances.  I got beat almost every night.  Of course, he was playing with me, and had no clue why I felt so abused.  That was the exact same stance that dad took.  Both of them were just wrestling, and meant for it to be fun and playful.
But, when that little girl, or young woman is reduced to tears, and has visible bruising on her body (along with broken teeth), then something is wrong.  Behaviors need to stop, be reviewed, and people need to realize that the behavior(s)  needs to stop for the emotional well being of the little children and/or vulnerable young woman.  Before I left that man, I had been so beaten down that I could not enter a bank with out profuse tears.  I could not hold a job at all.  I still have trouble with that one, and I am 56 years old.  Once I decided to leave him, emotionally, I still was at the point where I did not make a move until I had checked in with a HEALTHY friend to make sure my choice was rational, and a good one.
I did NOTHING unless I’d bounced off of someone else first.  I had been told I was an “empty headed play thing” way too many times, and had come to believe that I was insufficient as I was told I was.  To justify that sentence, just know that I had been told many times by my ex, that I could not make decisions for myself because I never thought of the consequences first.  He literally told me to let him make all the decisions in MY life.

My thoughts now, are that he probably got that lecture from his father, and he was just passing on the helplessness to someone he could control.

Let me just say with the ex husband and boyfriend I did try to fight back.
But, I soon learned that even a physically strong woman is no match for a strong young man, especially when she has had no self defense training.  Believing in my marriage vows,  and believing  that the relationship is forever, especially with the first husband – eventually the girl has to demure, give up, retract, give in.

Before I was married, I had this little girlfriend who was just a year or so older than me.
She wanted to play big girl games.  I did say no at first.  But, the harm that had come previously set me up to become even more a young girl who could not and would not fight back. Eventually this ‘molest’ became enjoyable, and I had to learn to live with that.  What made this a ‘molest’ was not the age difference.  What made this very wrong, was the power imbalance that was there.  Her personality was powerful compared to mine, she had questions, and actions that she wanted to explore.  She refused to take NO for an answer.  Looking back at it, there were no healthy moments when that happened.  I grew up with a great deal of shame around that situation.  At ten years of age, I thought I was to blame.  At age 20, the first person I ever told about this situation was my ex husband.  I cried and cried because I thought I was “crazy” and it was all my fault. I begged him not to take any future children away from me.

His answer was to ask me to sleep with his sister. He wanted to watch.  

Let me say that one more time.  His answer was to ask me to sleep with his sister.  He wanted to watch.

I was terrified by life.  I was terrified by people. I was completely TERRORIZED.
That situation started on my tenth birthday.  I have no idea how long it lasted.
Later in life, I never slept with his sister. But, the shame of being asked fell on me, and I had no one to share it with.  So, I carried that along with all the rest of my childhood scars.

It just got piled on.

I think my heart might be tired.  It has had enough.  My elders, 98% of them simply asked too much from the little girl.  There was no perfect behavior.  She was incapable of that.  Early on, both parents made it quite clear where I stood in life.  Twice my mother informed me as a little girl, that she could never trust me again. Those were HUGE words, to this little girl.   My parents, were people capable of doing good things, but, I believed they had a daughter that they did not want.   I grew up sure that I was adopted, and wishing I were if I had not been.

Can it be any wonder that I have PTSD?  How could my heart, my mind, and my body not be exhausted.  How do I continue to fight, and keep my head above water?  My only answer is to say, that you surround yourself with beautiful and supportive people and you move one step at a time, until you over come what you can.  One baby step at a time.

I have worked very, VERY hard at recovery.

I will fight.  I will do what the heart doctor tells me to do.  I want to live.  I want to go on.

But, for those who study this phenomenon, let my voice be heard and counted.  The consequences of a dysfunction in a family, the trauma endured by the child – the damage is great and lifelong.  It is LIFE ENDING.  EVEN DECADES AFTER THE FACT.  I can’t say that I will EVER get over it.

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Dear Bleeping Computer

Dear Bleeping Computer:

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Hi,
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73 Years ago, Today…

73 yrs ago today, Americans dropped the bomb @ Hiroshima. When I was a kid learning this, it was ancient history. 73 years ago, is less than 20 years from my birth date. Have we as a species learned anything at all? We all (&Trump) should be thinking about this. #DoNotForget

Posted in Culture, General News, History, Memorials & Dedications, Political Crap, Uncategorized, Womens Rights | Leave a comment

Walking Down Memory Lane

Quite some years ago I wrote an essay about Domestic Violence.  It was for a college class. As I researched the paper, I came to a lot of conclusions.

One conclusion I came to is that verbal abuse, another word for it, emotional abuse can sting the heart and hurt the body & soul as bad as any sucker punch in the stomach.

Today, what blows me away is that I became aware of this stuff, tried to teach my kids to act above it, and to not participate in it.   I wanted so badly to break the cycle.  I recently learned in therapy, that it can take up to six generations before researchers might see that cycle broken.  6 Generations.  I’ll be long gone before that comes to fruition.

One person says that I have called her a “monster” when I never used the word and never even intended  it to be taken that way.  I sent a message to a member of a little girls family to not let her be alone with a certain adult.  Said certain person has a very brash, harsh, ruthless, & cunning personality who when she feels she’s correct there is no correcting her.  She’ll say what ever it is that comes to mind, regardless of who it hurts.

Said person told me that the little girl was giving her a hard time one day.  She told the little girl she could treat her mother like that, but the little girl was not to treat her like that.   In my mind, I saw a hint of driving a wedge between that little girl and her mother.
Not exactly violent, but for certain manipulative.  A working of relationships where the woman will never have to fear reprisal of her actions.  Putting ideas into a little girls mind, encouraging her to treat her mother poorly, and setting a poor example.

Said person also stated that the little girls mother is bi polar, and off meds, and causing trouble.  Really, REALLY, reliable sources say the mother is not bi polar, if anyone should be on meds, it’s the father.  Having seen mother’s home, I told my other half, there was no way that (the mother) woman was bi polar.

The consequences at this point, is the loss of support from family members.  Family members are not going to emotionally support anyone who is actively trying to tear down someone’s family (Including herself) in order to get what they want.

Anytime, a person feels they need to lie and manipulate relationships in order to get what they need, then something is wrong with the picture.  It is time for a reboot. It is time to think deeply and and question thy self’s motivations.  Get to the root of the problem and fix it.

Another family member, in a 100% different situation.  Recently called me a c***.
I told my other half, years ago, if he ever called me that name, that would end everything right at that very moment.  There would be no looking back.  Same thing can be said to any person in my sphere. Relationship over, there is no more.  Said son-in-law(ish) is no longer ever allowed in this home, he is no longer considered a member of this family.
Not that I think that he cares.

Son in law has indeed, got what he was probably after. He has separated daughter from her family. And that IS a form of Domestic Abuse.  Even if all he did was use words, it’s still abuse and it’s wrong. I tried to tell said daughter that the whole situation was heart breaking.  He accused me of trying to play the victim.  What he did was squash a perfectly valid communication from mother to daughter.  Again, abusive.  He can’t take away the way I feel, and the way I feel is not wrong, trying to con vie it was not wrong.  But, she shut me down quite efficiently.

When will these young people who think they are right, based on their own dysfunctional thinking pattern realize how manipulating they are, how hurtful they are.

This mother, has been mourning the ‘death’ of several relationships for the past couple of years.  And anyone can step up into my face and tell me I’m the one who screwed up.  But, with weekly therapy,  bouncing off of friends and family who know how healthy I want to be, and how I have fought and educated myself to become healthy, open, respectful, fair, supportive, & loving.  Considering how much I think about each thing that I say and do because I don’t want to hurt anyone or anything.  I could be wrong.  But, chances are, that I am not.

My other half and I have spent the past two years mourning and trying to figure out what we did wrong.  Whatever it was the “punishment” was more severe than the “wrong doing”
In the recent very short conversation where I was called the “c***” – it was made clear that it was the other half who did the no good, very bad, horrible thing.

Whence I told the other half about the conversation and the name I was called. HE declared that son-in-law was not part of the family, and that he will never be welcome in this home again.  He says that is far as he is concerned, son-in-laws true thoughts and feelings about us as a family has finally surfaced, and he is acting upon them.  There is no need in us subjecting ourselves to him again.  Let me just say right here, that I agree. I am truly sorry that he turned out to be such a snake in the grass.

Daughter #1 – needs to get over herself. She’s been caught in a bunch of lies, and mom is not going to have it in her life.  You can lie to everyone else if you so choose.  There will never been any trolling for emotional reactions in my house.  It is inappropriate behavior.
Your mother does not lie, you father does… think about that.

Daughter #2 – while loved and still welcome, she won’t like the message being sent across the airwaves.  I dare say she’ll stay married to him for several years.  Message for son-in-law.  She is way smarter than you give her credit for.  She’ll figure it all out.  In the end, it will be you who gets left out in the cold.  Women stick together.  Wicked men, in general, don’t have the smarts to pull the wool over someone’s eyes for forever.  It took a few years, but you finally said just enough to tell us what you really are, and what your motivations are.  Good luck with that, you have been divorced by us in the meantime.

So, ladies and germs of Universe of Wharton World, have a great life. I’m going to continue making memories, and walking down memory lane.

It looks to me like I have two kids..of the four.

One 27, and one 19.

Posted in Children's Rights, Health, History, Just Jabber, Lifestyle | Leave a comment

A Million Years Ago….

A million years ago, I signed a paper promising that I would never talk about the details of a situation.  These papers were filed in a court of law.  Somewhere is the signature of an emotionally exhausted young woman who did not and could not understand the totality of the situation that had happened around her.

I was a 29 year old married mother of one.  This situation started for me, 27 years ago.
I signed the papers about 25 years ago.  I have probably broken the agreement many times over, but never so blatantly.  Never directly aimed at a family member.  But, as I told a therapist recently, I can never ‘shut up’.   There are still too many people out there willing to defend perpetrators of violence, to protect their living.

In this particular case, I was, in very recent past, reminded that I “broke the trust.”
My mother refuses to talk to me because I “broke the trust.”
Before, I go on, if violence against children bothers you in anyway- then close the page, or click away.  This can not be pretty.

I was also reminded recently just how capable I am of  “Just walking away..” as if the process is not thought about and that there were no consequences for me at all.  I am sad that I have reached 55 years of age, and really been a good and kind person most of my life, and someone could know me so little as to remind me of that — and believe it!

Really?  I don’t want to hear about those opinions anymore. Not at all.  In fact, the promise is, if this comes up again, it will be me who walks away again.  Because I can only feel so much pain before I break emotionally, and it happens all too often.

The person who told me that I “broke the trust.”  Reminded me recently, that
I am somehow emotionally able to “walk away” from others and I guess, not feel a thing.
I must at least not look back.  Damn the torpedo’s and full speed ahead?

I have NEVER EVER just walked away.  Just because I have not shared my pain with you,
does not mean that I have been pain free, there is no such thing for me.
Because I did what I was taught, to keep marching on.  That is all I have done.
But let me tell you, there have been many tears.  After 27 years I am about cried out.
The one thing I still find after 27 years, is anger.  Anger about the betrayal that an older, trusted person did in the face of what was happening to her very own grand daughter.

NO one respond to this essay and tell me that parents make mistakes. I am a parent, my oldest is 34, and do not want to hear about it.  I am fully aware of the mistakes parents can make.  But, at a certain point, one must come to a conclusion, and the only thing that really decides how that decision comes out, is how emotionally sick you are or are not.  How much Denial is in YOUR family, and more importantly in you, yourself.  In this case, I slept walked through the first 30 years of my life, that is just how I survived it.

(Dear Mom, have you yet realized, that you are as sick as your secrets?)

In January 1991, my mother threw some hints at me.  She informed me that my then seven year old child would not be going on a summer trip with her and her husband.  I really had no issue with it.   They were married December 31, 1983.  My daughter was then 10 days old.  My mother let me know there were issues, but I could do nothing more than respect her lack of “detail”. I do not remember now what she said, but rest assured, I still own all the notes that I made when I realized what had hit the fan.  The notes are all organized in binders, I can pretty much turn to THE page.  Toward the end of the conversation, I turned to my mother, and I said, “You are making me think that Jack (my deceased step father) is molesting ****** ?”   My mother had been walking away from me up stairs.  She turned around, said nothing, and threw her arms up in the air.

Later in the day, she called me, and she whispered over the phone that I should have my seven year old watch an after school special that was on that very day. I asked her why she was whispering.  She gave me an answer. That I do not remember now.  But the bottom line, was to have the child watch the show.

The daughter and I picked up her father from work, drove to McDonald’s for our special treat out, went through the drive through, and returned home with dinner.  I told my husband about the conversation with my mother. I told him about the request to have my daughter watch this special.  We, three, turned on the show, and proceed to watch.

As the show progressed, and as details (such as they were in 1991, it was after all a child’s show) came forward from the television, I watched my seven year old literally try to climb up the wall to get away from the subject raised.  After the show, she turned to me and said, “Mommy, I need to tell you something.”   She told me (and her father) a very small tip of detail to a mighty HUGE iceberg of information.  The bottom line is that my step father had inappropriately touched my daughter not once or twice, but for 3 to 4 years.

I called the police immediately.  They took some detail, hung up, and called sometime later. It was a Friday, on a three day, holiday weekend.  There would be a detective to come around after the weekend sometime.  Could I just hang tight?!  I also called CPS, who assured me that I was doing EVERYTHING right, and told me how to help my daughter through the process.

But I had already responded appropriately to her.  I had already told her she was a good girl, and that nothing having to do with this was her fault.  She did absolutely NOTHING wrong.

Most of the memories are in jumbles now.  I really don’t want to retrieve my notes. Sometime, that evening I went to see my mother at her place of her employment.  I verified what was basically my mother’s suspicion and asked her to keep quiet about it until the police had time to work through the mess.   The first words from my mother’s mouth was, “why call the police?”  I did not yet have the language for what was going on, and yet my answer was surely obvious – a person had committed a horrendous crime against my child.  Why NOT call the police.

Keep in mind that at this time, my mother was working for a school district and was by law a mandatory reporter in the state of California.  She was a truant officer in every way, except by title and pay grade.  Many of the children she happily ‘harassed’ back into school remember her today.  Often with a great amount of fondness.

Though I did not realize it at the time.  My mother had already failed her grand daughter.
But at that time, had I been asked, I probably could not have told you that my mother failed at anything, let alone the dirty task of turning her own husband into the law for molesting her own grandchild.  But, the conclusion after all these years, is the same as it was some months after it happened — my mother is who tipped me off.  She knew what was going on.

After the holiday was over, a set of detectives in unmarked cars finally made it to the house.  They interviewed my daughter, and me.  They sent us to Kaiser in Fremont.  At seven years old, my daughter went through a physical examination for rape.  I held her through the process that must have been pure torment for her. She wreathed, she screamed, she begged.   There were tears, and fighting.  At seven years old she made it
abundantly clear that she had no interest in her body being violated yet again.
One of the detectives waited outside the exam room.  He heard it ALL.

The detectives asked that we keep this hushed up while they did their work.
At the time, I was pretty sure that it meant the detectives needed to be left alone so they could successfully detect.  We all kept to our places.  So far as I know, to this day, I believe my mother kept silence, let the police do their job.  She might have hinted at him, but we will never know, there is only circumstantial evidence for that.

That first Wednesday after filing the official report with the police.  My step father called me at home and asked for permission to pick my daughter up from school.  She attended school around the corner from him.  My step father had NEVER made such a request.  Not that I thought much about it at the time.  At the time, my concern was to let the detectives detect and to keep my daughter safe. I have never been a great liar.  But, was able somehow to hold my own, give the man permission to pick up my daughter without ripping him a new one (so to speak).  We hung up.  I picked up the phone immediately, called the main detective on the case, and let him know what was going on.  Let me tell you, I have nothing bad to say about the Newark Police Department in the San Francisco Bay Area.  Last I heard that detective was the chief of police.  He deserved that and more.

I hung up from that conversation and drove to my childs school, and immediately took her out. We drove straight home, I locked the doors, and I shook.  My daughter was no more aware of what was transpiring than any other little school girl might be if their mother had picked them up from school an hour early, with no explanation.  She was playing in her room.  I waited and I waited.

The detectives drove to the school in their unmarked police car.  These men dressed in street clothes met my step father there.  In the words of the detective, they played, “good cop, bad cop” with my step father.  At the time,  really had  no idea what that meant.  I had absolutely no experience with it.  And unlike my mother, I did not watch every cop and robbers show on TV. In fact, I rarely watched TV, and most of my adulthood had not owned a TV.

The detectives let my step father leave the campus unaware of who they were and what they were doing.  They followed him 1/2 way across town, before they finally pulled him over.  They searched the car and him. They discovered that my step father was all packed up and ready for a trip to somewhere.  That evening a search warrant was issued that allowed the officers to search his and my mothers home.  They found video that he had taped of my daughters dance recitals. The detective told me that he used those tapes to, “get off.”  He was taken to the police station and was interrogated.  He admitted what he did, but he blamed my husband and I.  Somewhere along the line, we had given permission.  I can tell you that I never in my wildest dreams gave any kind of knowledgeable permission.  What my husband did, would be between himself and his maker.  At this point in life, it would not surprise me in the least had he traded our daughter for anything, including, but not limited to an Epson XT.  Our first computer.

There had most definitely been hints.  I had missed them all for various reasons.  My body matured very young, I thought hers was doing the same.  My grandparents spent a LOT of time with us two girls. We spent long summers with them, traveling literally all over the United States.  In the world I grew up in, grandparents were an important part of a child’s life, there was nothing wrong with a ‘grandparent’ taking interest in their grandchild.

The point is, there were hints, that very soon came into my conscious.  I became FULLY aware of what this or that meant.  My daughter had literally screamed in the only way she knew how for us to stop the lunacy, and save her from the monster.  Even her health had suffered.  She was a seven year old with bad asthma, and terrible ‘migraine’ headaches.  It was amazing to watch these maladies fall away and disappear once the stress and pressure were lifted off her tiny shoulders.

The night that Jack was apprehended, I invited my mother to spend the night at our place.
I had a pretty tormented childhood myself, though to this day, I can not tell you what the torment was, other than, probably my father.  In my mind, my mother would have been afraid to go home, probably not want to be alone.  At the time, I probably could have given you a dozen reasons to not make that woman go back to that house ever again, let alone that night.  While he was being transported to the local county jail at Dublin, California.
She and I were having a conversation.

She’d had her shower.  She was dressed in her night clothes. Her long blue velveteen robe zippered up completely, which was normal.  She sat on our couch as she put her hair up the customary way.  She slept in ‘pin curls’ many nights of the week.  She twisted small clumps of hair around her finger, laid them flat, and used bobby pins to secure them in place.  It is a technique that I never mastered. It is a technique I really never had the patience to master.

We had a whole conversation.  Through the conversation, I watched out our front window.
The January day, quickly turned into a January night.  The good news is, that in the San Francisco Bay Area, January was often as warm as a night in mid-June.  It was a gorgeous evening.  The very last thing my mother said, before I had to step out the front door to catch my breath was a statement that I will never forget for the rest of my life.  My guess is that if I do have early onset dementia, I’ll be able to quote you the line until my dying day.
My mother told me, with no apparent feeling one way or the other, that she had to protect herself from that seven year old girl.  That she was afraid that my step father would divorce her and marry my seven year old baby.  What I can’t believe now,  is that in her tormented mind she actually thought I’d let it happen!!  Now, the reader might understand why I needed to catch my breath.  This is where denial becomes a person’s best friend.

My husband stepped outside on the front porch with me.  I asked him if he heard what I did.  He affirmed it, and repeated what he heard.  Denial, a strong and suffocating protector, is what allowed me to trudge on through the process of what became a huge mess, a broken family, a child who was never the same again, a young mother often aghast at the signs she missed, and tormented by her perceived failures.  It was a LONG, LONG time before I realized that I was not the betrayer.  I was one of the betrayed.

I had to survive these truths.  I had a daughter to protect.  Denial set in, and I stayed, at least for a while, pointedly aimed at my stepfather, because he was going to pay for what he did.

As time went on, my daughter disclosed more.  What I stressed to my child was to tell the truth, and no matter what it wasn’t her fault.  It took time, but she was pretty forthcoming considering her age.  Soon, I learned that there was a vibrator used on my child.  I went to my mother the next day and asked for the vibrator.  My mother’s first words were, “how did you find out about it?”  I was 29 years old and on my first detective case.  She was around 55 years old. What would a question like that from her mouth, tell you??

I took the vibrator to the detective who told me that I’d make a great detective.  He humored me with a stuffed bunny.  I named the bunny Bartholomew, and I have him to this day.

On into the future, I learned of incidences that happened in public: at the beach, at the carnival and on rides, at the circus, in fast food joints.  Along with these molests came threats.  I’ll kill your mom and dad. If I pull the hair on my arms, your mom and dad will die, watch me.  Can you imagine being a little girl watching to see if your “grandpa” was going to pull the arm on his hair because I refused to comply with his “request”.  Grandpa will use his gun on your parents.

I went to my mother and said nothing more than, “Mom, where is the gun. I want the gun.”  “What are you going to do with the gun,” she asks.  I answer that I’m going to take it to the police.  Her next question was, “How did you find out about the gun?”  Even today, I can feel the HUGE, “DUH, MOM” rise out of my gut.  I never spoke to my mother like that.  I answered that I found out from my daughter.

Over time, my mother made it known that she was angry.  That she felt her husband had purposely parked at a part of the beach where she could not tag along.  She was/is physically disabled from horrible automobile accident.  Obviously, she was angry because she was left out.  But, she never said it was because she wanted to protect her grand daughter.  After every conversation, there was left a bad taste in my system, my mother was making it pretty clear that she was jealous and my child was the “other woman.”

I wish I were making this up.  I wish I had never seen or heard any of this. More than anything else, I wish I had known how dysfunctional my family truly was. I’d never took my child into that home.  I would have never left my child in their care. It was a sick and depraved situation when any child is considered the competition that is coming between a married man and woman.

Over time, my mother told me how, before Jack was arrested that she and he would fight over my daughters framed school picture.  He would sit and stare at it while he ate his breakfast in the morning.  She would get angry or hurt enough to hide the picture. In her mind, she said she was basically, trying to change the subject.  Direct his attentions other ways.  He supposedly found the photo more than once or twice.  He took it from its hiding place, and placed it back at the dinner table and proceeded to use it to his satisfaction (whatever that was).  My mother told me that this went on for WEEKS and months before he was arrested.  What is it that she did not know?

The three had gone to the renaissance fair near Vallejo, California.  The seating for one little show there was made of bales of hay.  My mother was angry that she was forced to sit two rows behind my step father and my daughter.  This was the summer or two before my daughter ‘told’.

My mother tipped me off.

How is it that she can claim she really did not know?  Denial became her best friend, and it was to the detriment of her relationships with herself, her mother, her daughter, and three of her four grandchildren.  My children have never spent any time with their grandmother after May of 1991 (or so).

My step father was woefully undercharged. This was pointed out by the judge on the case. He made a plea bargin.  He was found guilty of three mistameaners.  He was given one year in county jail, given one day off for emergencies so that the judge could keep control of the situation.  The judge listened to me carefully while I read a 10 page statement.  My step father was literally tearing my family apart without even being present anymore.  My mother sat quietly in the court room. AT this time, I still had not realized how badly she had betrayed her own grand daughter.  At this time, I can only pretend she was there to support her daughter, the truth is, she was just watching it all play out and taking care of her own problems.

It was around this time that I learned that my mother knew that she was the man’s fourth wife, and that she had almost filed for an annulment.  She decided not to. I do not know her reasoning, although, I believe I know her well enough to give a theory.  I won’t do it here or now.

It was around this time, that my mother verbalized the fact that she considered herself THE victim of the case.  Her grand daughter was not entitled to the claim.  She was the one who was hurt the most by the whole situation.  In a note she later wrote to me, she stated that her grand daughter would, “get over it, just like I did.”  One really, really obvious clue today is that my mother was hurt in the same way by someone in her childhood, or perhaps after she was grown – but either way this has been a cycle probably for generations!

I also found out that the man who claimed to be a volunteer on the Alameda Sherrif’s department was a 100% fraud. He faked it all down to the fake uniform.  The top sheriff in Alameda County had returned my correspondence and let me know that they had absolutely NO interaction with the man as it pertained to his ‘voluntary service.’  From my point of view, his whole life was a sham.

As I learned more, I decided to write the mother of his two children, and question her about any history that might apply and help us through the court cases.  This mother had no idea that Mr. Jack Allen Doyal was capable of hurting anyone let alone her own children.  After reading my letter, she approached her girls and was told that he had indeed harmed them.  That they had,  a few years before,  approached the Dublin police about it, and were pretty much walked to the door.   The mother was devastated if I read her tone of voice correctly.  She told her daughters were both willing to go to court in my daughters defense, and tell what happened to them.  That was a bright spot for me personally, for I felt vindicated.  That particular phone call was made from my mother’s home office.  She was a party to the conversation.  She knew what was said.  She was fully aware of the ugliness that had and would round the bend.

My step father had found a few ways, that was not obvious to anyone but me, to let me know that I was the crazy one.  It was I who had the problem.  He had not done a damn thing wrong.  Yet if you can imagine the things that a grown man can do to a seven year old, he was probably guilty of nearly every thought you can imagine.

I found an attorney. His name will come to me eventually.  His office was on Paseo Padre in Fremont, California.   We filed a civil case.  My daughter won a judgement of something close to 1.2 million dollars.  This judgement was by virtue of the fact that my step father did not answer the complaint.  He was served in jail, and said he had no glasses in which to read the paperwork with.  Supposedly, he was in complete ignorance.  The civil complaint basically said what he did, what he was found guilty off, and asked that the judge and/or jury find favor in requiring him to pay for damages done.  Once that step was done, then came the right to try and collect from the homeowners insurance.

This is where my mother finally drew her line in the sand.  My attorney had explained to me that my mother had to be included in the complaint because she was one of the homeowners.  Some of it would read very poorly in her favor.  But, non of it was personal and she would not have to leave her home.

My husband (at that time): had a very good fantasy life.  In his mind, we would take ownership of her home.  We’d gift her a bedroom and bathroom rights, etc.  I was so smart about it all at the time, that I actually told my mother about his “dream.”  Now, if I were willing to back him up in that little fantasy do you honestly believe I would have told her?  Either way, suddenly, I had betrayed her and she acted like her back was against the wall.

To prove my solidarity, I wrote a letter to my attorney (my husband’s name was NO where on any of the paper work, save the police report), her attorney, with a copy going to her.  I asked my attorney to file it with all the rest of the paperwork.  I was in NO way interested in taking her home.  My goal was to seek damages from the homeowners insurance only.  I was in no way shape or form going after my mother for anything.

My mother’s answer to this whole mess, was to hire a specialty attorney.  (Probably because she knew what was coming down the pike)  She filed for a restraining order against me using lies about how I supposedly abused my then infant son.  The paper works specifically said I was a bad mother to my daughter, but not to my son, and that I was putting ideas in my child’s mind, she prayed for 100% custody of my daughter, and ONLY my daughter.

At the same time, she filed with my step father a piece of legal paper asking that the judgement be thrown out on a technicality- he couldn’t see the paper work.  A judge complied and tossed the judgement.

During this time, the cloud of denial lifted somewhat, and through my hurt I began to see really what my mother had been implying the whole time.  My seven year old as the other woman, the jealousy, the anger – toward the wrong person.  Yes, she filed for divorce.  But, I can tell you that I know her well enough that the reason she filed was because of what it all looked like.  Her social propriety was severely shaken.  In her mind, she did no wrong.

In my mind, I most certainly failed to protect my daughter, and yet, as soon as I became conscious of what was going on, there was no hesitation on my part to go above and beyond what was expected to protect and nurture my precious little girl.   And I can tell you with all my heart, I did not want to see my mother as a criminal co-dependent enabler that she was.  But, my frame of mind did eventually come to settle in that place.  She’d totally missed the boat as a mandatory reporter.  She had no business working with kids that by law she was required to protect.  There was no way in hell she was the main victim in this big theater promotion.  I did go to her employer and told them what she had done, and I did seek for her to be fired.  The superintend at the time told me when an arrest was made then she’d be terminated.  I did go to the detective, who in turn did go to the D.A. seeking charges.  The D.A.’s answer was simple and to the point:  He was not paid tax payer money to loose.  He said my mother would hire a top attorney, portray herself as a helpless little old lady and fight, and would cry herself free from any jury.  She had a chance to hire the best “molester protector” in the San Francisco Bay Area, and probably in Northern California at least. I’ve always found it curious that she hired that sort of attorney, that is one that fought for molesters, rapists, perpetrators.   It was he who filed paper work, after paper work for her.  She did portray herself as the victim and as fairly helpless to everyone around her.  She was helplessly ignorant — that is the best way to surmise the defense.  And she absolutely went on attack when she said I was an abusive mother, and tried to get custody of only one of my children.  When she lied about what I did to “hurt” my son.  When she accused me of putting ideas in my daughters head, and tried very hard to turn family against me.  Which of course, she had warned me, or threatened me with ahead of time.  She wrote me a letter that let me know that if I continued on the present course, that I’d loose all family support.
Upon reading that letter, I assumed that I had lost all family support, and I quit talking to EVERYONE in my family.  My entire being was devoted to that little girl who actually lived through the nightmare, not to the woman who viewed her as ‘the other woman.”

So, as I said earlier, after all these years a family member has let me know it was ME who broke the trust, and it was ME who caused my mother not to speak to me.  I’ll say the same thing now, as I said then.  My job, my allegiance, my love, my protection, my world revolved around that little girl.  I gave her my everything, and I will NEVER be sorry for doing what I thought best for her and her future.  And NOW, I will add, that I could have never have broken the trust.  The trust the moment my mother started to view my daughter as “the other woman.”.   My daughter was betrayed the moment, my mother turned her head and looked the other way, which my daughter later told me she saw.  And no, the truth was bad enough, I could not have made any of this up if I tried. My mind simply does not work that way.  I betrayed no one.  I broke NO ones trust.  In fact, I did EVERYTHING RIGHT.  I stood by the only person who could matter to me.

It was hard.  It was painful.  There have been many tears.  When the subject comes up, I simply tell the person on the other side, that mom does not talk to me, “because she knows, that I know.”  It really is that simple.

I know. I knew.  I’ll never forget.  As long as I am living, I’ll be reminder of where and how she failed.  Her denial will never change any of this.  And in the long run, it was not myself who lost the family support. It was she who lost the love of a daughter, and three grandchildren.  I won’t be there for her in the long run.  Why would I?  I won’t attend a funeral.  I won’t visit a grave.  In fact, I’d probably be pretty interested in desecrating it for I still have plenty of rage left over, not only for what she failed to do as a grandmother, but for what she failed to do as a mother.

Because once upon a time, there was a little girl, who had something terrible done to her by her father, and the only person that little girl could depend on in the whole world, was a mother who saw herself as wholly perfect and invincible, who in fact, was helpless and useless in the job of protecting her own.  She tried then to convince her children of what a perfect and righteous person she was.  She failed, and continues to fail, in every day, that she fails to see and speak the truth about what happened, and about her perverted views.  She has sought no treatment.  She sees nothing wrong.

She needs to look in the mirror, and hold herself into account, the same way, she held her daughter in judgement. She needs to look at the ruthless mind games she was willing to play in order to protect her fantasies.  If she used the very same standards on herself, she’d find herself a petty little woman, who utterly failed as a mother and grandmother.  A person who tore at the very fabric of her own blood.  Her grand daughter was blood money, so she could have a home to call her own…

And that… is a whole other story. Sort of.

 

P.S.  My mother never lost the house.  He was stupid enough to let her handle money.  He wrote checks for the mortgage.  Apparently to her.   She wrote  a check to the bank.  In theory it looked like she paid for it all.  Therefore she got the whole thing.

So, the truth is, that she is willing to lie to get what she wants if the stakes are high enough.
Apparently they were, for the house was her great fight. Over time I came to the conclusion that my daughter was blood money traded for the house payment.  It was a very poor decision considering what was lost in terms of family ties, and the help she might have received later in life from a rejected daughter.

Posted in Children's Rights, Coop, Culture, General News, Health, History, Lifestyle, Mental Illnesses, Sexual Assault, Womens Rights | Leave a comment

Childhood memories…

August L. Schilling Elementary School, Newark, California

August L. Schilling Elementary School, Newark, California

Clyde and I were watching tv tonight. Kids on TV got sent to detention. Which got me thinking, and I asked him, is that how detention is, I never went. LOL! He had a little bit of trouble believing I was never sent to detention. My mother got a couple of phone calls. I was warned a couple of times in that manner. Some girl was picking on me in fourth grade. Dad said to hit her back, and I did not want to. I already knew I was not that kind of person. But he said he’d spank me if I did not hit the girl back. Then my mother told me to not dare to hit the kid back. She said I’d get into trouble. LOL!! I was way more afraid of dad then of mom, so I hit the kid back. That was the first phone call. Mom jumped my case, and seemed surprised that I took dad seriously….really, when did anyone in his life not take him seriously?? Especially if you are smaller than he? 😆 The second phone call was from the high school principle. I had enough credits to graduate high school in my junior year. I had taken college prep the whole three years. I wrote an editorial to the local paper after the school denied my early graduation. School officials really would have rather that I had talked to them. But, I had filled out proper paperwork and was turned down. Principle suggested I study journalism and politics in college. 😉 then called my mother. I was threatened a couple of times at home verbal warning that Mr. Costa (elementary principle) would spank me with his paddle. Yup, in those days, they still had real paddles. Suddenly, I feel old. 😯 — That was back in the days of ditto machines, the PTA, carbon paper, and a little girl, Peggy who hated the rule that girls still had to wear dresses to school. Those dresses really cramped my style. :mrgreen: I was in 2nd grade when girls were finally allowed to wear pants to school. Yes, one TV show triggered all this. 😉 !!!

HA!! The days of Joe Rudie (A’s Outfielder) came to a PTA meeting. I am pretty sure I remember who’s mom made the cake for him, showing him catching that ball out on the wall, during the world series? Or play offs. Wonder what year that was!! LOL

I looked it up, the year was 1972, I was 10 years old: “Rudi batted a career-high .309 in 1970 and had a career-best 181 hits in 1972. That year, he helped the Athletics win the World Series and made a great game-saving catch in Game 2 that went on to become part of the highlight reel for many Major League Baseball films. With Tony Pérez on first and Oakland leading 2-0 in the ninth inning, Rudi raced to the left-field fence and made a leaping, backhanded catch of Denis Menke‘s smash to save a run. Earlier in the game, Rudi hit a solo home run. He also caught Pete Rose‘s fly ball for the final out of the Series.”   ~Wikipedia

My schoolmates and I at Memorial High (now Newark-Memorial High) Newark, CA.

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1-12-2017 Homework done for the Women’s Group

Some of my FamilyMy family in the living room during Christmas, in Newark, CA:
L to R- Alvin C. Rowe, my little sister, Pam, my mother, Pat, myself.  In the very front, my Uncle Tom Coop.  In the back L to R: My grandfather, Earl Coop, Peggy Coop (Uncle Tom’s then wife), Lorine Coop (my grandmother).  I was about 14 or so when this pic was taken.  I’m not supposed to post pics of my mom.  But, I’ve kind of reached the point, where I just don’t care what she wants.
She really was never THERE anyway….

(Group is for Women with PTSD-{Post Traumatic Stress Disorder})

DO NOT read this if you are squeamish or have emotional problems that you can not deal with. IF you read this and it hits home, I suggest you call your therapist, or at least a very, very good, supportive friend.

What to do:
Make a list of things you’ve never told anyone, but want to be able to talk about.  

  • I want to know what dad and uncle Tom were fighting about when I was so very little.  What was so important that Uncle Tom thought he had to fight for me.  What did dad do to me?  When I asked Uncle Tom what is was, he could not answer me.  He had told me about his bar brawls, and other things.  But could not tell me what dad did to me.   I have the tendency to think the worst.  I have no one to talk to about this.  My uncle Tom is deceased.  He was on his last legs when he told me this.  I did not insist on him telling me the rest of the story because he was sick, and I am a respectful person.  He was obviously not comfortable going any farther than he did.  My grandparents probably knew about it, and they are gone.  My mother won’t speak to me because I am the child from hell.  I’ll tell ya, she didn’t know what a REAL child from hell is… I was a really good kid!!  I’m not tooting my horn to be full of myself, I was just a good kid.  The only person in the family to talk to is my sister.  I don’t consider this an option. She’s almost 3 years younger than I am.  My reality was not her reality.  We were treated differently.  She was favored.  I’d like to say that I remember that part all wrong, but my uncle also told me that he and my grandparents would sit around the dinner table and talk about it.  They were very concerned about me.  I asked him why they didn’t do something.  He said they were afraid they’d be cut off from us kids.  OF course, they could never help then.  Believe me—they made the all the difference for me.  They made the difference between life and death, they were the light in my very dark world.  
  • I like to tell someone how when Scott asked me to sleep with his sister that it felt like a huge fist going into my gut.  It broke my heart. I really did not know why at the time that it broke my heart.  I just really knew how bad it made me feel. I was really hurt. Deep down hurt, even a betrayed kind of feeling. Today, I know that he was not really hearing me.  What was a ‘confession’ made in complete and utter despair, where I honestly thought I was a ‘crazy’ person—TODAY, I know there was no empathy there.  The only thing he got out of the situation was probably ‘turned on’.  Just writing this makes me sick to my stomach still.  Thirty years after this conversation with him, and another 40 years after the incident actually happened.  While trying to talk to him, I was ‘admitting’ to something that I had no words for yet.  I did not really know what I had done wrong, I just knew that something had happened, and it made me feel really, really horrible.  I know NOW that I was molested by a slightly older girl. The fact that I was 10 years old and had the thought to say no, and then to give in, I think that is what made me feel like I was the one to blame.  I was a passive child who never thought to tell her parents about what happened. Truth be told, I probably figured I’d get a really good spanking. But, I do not remember thinking it through in anyway.  I don’t know if I did or not.  At some point or points, I took 100% blame for it even though I was younger, and not even the aggressor. I still have not begun to even realize all the damage this did to my childhood, or to me as a young & middle aged adult.  When the person came to visit me in Ohio, I still was feeling horrible about it.  I admitted to my then mother in law what had happened.  She really reacted poorly.  She said that whole situation was SICK, SICK, SICK.  Between the reactions from mother and son, I went back underground with it.  It was obviously nothing that was safe to talk to anyone about ever.  I did not try to talk about to anyone again until after my child was ‘molested’.  It was still nothing that anyone wanted to hear.  So, I have kept mostly all thoughts to myself in regards to this situation.  So it takes me such a long time to realize things like, I’ve struggled my whole life with my sexuality.  As I learned a new word it became a new struggle.  Am I lesbian? Am I bi?  Was I in anyway in the wrong? Why is it so hard for people to talk about?  Of course, I realize now (at 55) the crux of my problem with Scott.  He had no empathy.  Of course, I felt so safe in the home I grew up in that I could not face my parents.  That part is easy to see now that I look back.

probably not done with this homework yet….

Posted in Culture, Health, Lifestyle, Mental Illnesses, Political Crap, Sexual Assault, Uncategorized, Womens Rights | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

ACEs Study — Old News is New to Me!

January 4, 2017

Reading a book about the ACEs study from the late 90’s. I’m sure it made headlines. I guess I was too busy to notice. I’ve read the first two chapters. I am sure that I am, along with many others, living proof of the damage that ‘Adverse Childhood Experiences’ can affect an adults life. Took the ACEs test, and got a score of 6. Recognized the test as one my newest therapist gave me two weeks ago. I wonder now if she gave me the same score as I gave myself. I can tell you, it won’t be any lower on her scale. Amazing what science knows these days about how life experiences can affect your health. If I were not so tired, I’d read two more chapters tonight!

January 5, 2017

Read more in that book about the ACEs study today. Took the test with Clyde…he got a 7. 0 is considered ‘normal’. My two older girls got a 4 and my boy is a 7, and my youngest is at least a 2 or 3. Of course, my taking the test for the kids, gives me a ball park idea..which I already had, and it depended on me being 100% honest about choices I’ve made in the past….where I put myself and my kids. Not necessarily in the best places. Like most parents I did the best I could at the time, and can look back and just want to kick my own self in the butt. But, had the thought while reading through this stuff on how one or two people in a child’s life can make so much difference in how the children are affected. I just knew I was adopted, and yet I look so much like my father, that he could have never disowned me if he wanted to. That was how disconnected I felt as a child from my parents. The place that I felt 100% wanted and loved was when I was with my grandparents (Earl & Lorine Coop). In my mind, they saved my life. Clyde has special people in his life that he feels the same way about. My kids will probably have some special attachments like that, though I am sad to say none of them had grandparents that they could count on. That is the saddest part of their lives for me. That they did not know the love of a grandparent. There are millions of such people out there. Clyde’s special people was a boy scout leader, and a parent of a friend. Good people make so much difference in a child’s life. If ever you wonder what is the point– then remember that is one of the points. Anyone can be good to a child, and that good can make all the difference. It takes only a smile, a hug, a kind word, empathy, understanding.

 

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You are special to me

You are special to me

You are special to me

Graphic, “I AM…” ©2016, Peggy Ann Rowe, All Rights Reserved.
DO NOT Copy without the author’s written permission. 
Thank you very much for the respect. Peg

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The Nightmare: “When Trump Stole the Election”

I’m in a group for Women w/ PTSD. Our assignment (aka commitment) this week was to say something about a gift that our trauma caused us to have.  This past week has been mostly about waking up from a nightmare called, “The nightmare: The Day Trump Stole the Election.”   Maybe it’s an unending movie, think, “Groundhog Day.”

I’ve been ranting, and raving… writing half hearted poetry, unending essays,
integrating the trauma that caused the trigger (I hate that word) that Trump
managed to set off.  I’ve been posting like some posting robosomething to this
blog and my Facebook page…  Down with Trump, who by chance will NEVER,
EVER be my President.

For my homework the 1/2 done poem:

To those of you who say I am sick, I say…

I am sweet, I am honest,
I am up front
and in your face.
I can be brutal,
I am brave.
I have courage,
to talk about things
you consider stupid.

What you see as sickness in me,
I see as a social malady
After all consider this,
It is America
that created me (1962-??)

All you see
in the reflection of me
is YOUR truth
& you’d rather deny that be.

I am strong,
I shine brightly,
I do not choose my battles lightly.

I would not count myself
As holier than thou
I challenge your thought,
Do you think of circumstance
that cannot be bought?

I’d like to think
that you are closer
to feeling the tear
that fell down your cheek.

I will scream
I will shout
I will do what it takes
to get the message out.

That people need to think again,
If they think “The Don” is going to win.
I have grit
I’m willing to fight
Any man willing to grope
and grin.

It’s not funny
Please do not laugh
I’ve got gifts a plenty
they’ve helped me down my path.

 

Gifts my abuse gave to me

  • Strength
  • A particularly big mouth
  • The gift of the poet?
  • A love of reading & writing
  • A lot of empathy
    Imagination
    Sometimes, Patience

11/09/2016 © Peggy  Ann Rowe, All Rights Reserved

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