Brief Update

George Bush for another four years. God help us.

Just a brief update. My stepson and his wife are still having problems. He just got out of the hospital after having an emergency operation. My husband spoke with his wife during the extended period of time they were trying to find out what was wrong with my stepson. She seemed to be open to continuing the relationship, but now my stepson tells him that she seems very distant. I think she's very concerned about expenses; her health insurance may not pay for much of the surgery. I'm just hoping for the best for both of them. I don't pretend to know what that might be.

It's my birthday today. I had lunch with my mom and then we came back to my office and hung out with the boys (my beloved kitties). I felt a little guilty about letting my mom take me out to lunch because I know she doesn't have much cash. As i said yesterday, sometimes it's a gift to allow someone to give something to you. I'm trying to remember that.

Gratitude

"At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us." ~Albert Schweitzer quotes (German medical missionary, theologian, musician and philosopher. 1952 Nobel Peace Prize, 1875-1965)

A fair number of people know about parts of my early life. Other than my therapist, no one knows everything. actually, I probably don't know everything myself at this point. I provide information based on my intuitive judgment of how much people are capable of dealing with. Some people cry. When people start to cry, I know I've gone too far. I've also had a number of people give me that train wreck look, like it's too horrible to continue to listen, but they can't bring themselves to stop. when I see that look, I stop it for them. It's a little akin to disgust. I take this very personally. Once someone has reacted that way, all of my protective barriers go up immediately and they never come back down. I'm sure at least some people don't believe me. I start to worry that they think i'm crazy. There's not much I can do about it if they do. Many of the people who've been able to tolerate hearing about my life believe that I've made choices which have kept me from becoming the person I probably should be--an alcoholic, drug-addicted prostitute who gets beaten up regularly. I tend to get impatient with those people who give me far too much credit.

I believe that I came here endowed with innate abilities which have allowed me to thrive under such destructive and barren conditions. Several weeks ago, I wrote about the seven qualities of people who are phoenixes. They are: Independence, initiative, humor, morality, the ability to develop relationships, insight and creativity. In my opinion, these are not qualities one can choose to develop. I suppose that people do have a choice betwen seeing the humor in difficult situations and being negative. I think people can develop some creativity if they don't come equipped with it, but I don't think it can be conjured from thin air. Just as an aside, I read recently that people with high iq's generally tend to have a sense of humor. I'm not sure I believe that's always true.

As for independence, I was raised as an only child, though I have a half brother and half sister. I've never met my half brother and I have absolutely no desire to. I knew my half sister until she was about five years old, but I haven't seen her in over 30 years. Not much interested in renewing the relationship. She was born when I was 15. My parents were always distracted by their own bullshit, so I really didn't have much choice in the matter. Independence was thrust upon me. I became very, very good at it...some people would say that I'm too independent. It certainly makes me less tolerant of people who don't think for themselves or are emotionally clingy.

I have a number of cousins on my father's side, none of which have fared well. it leads me back to the nature/nurture debate, but I'm guessing it's a little of both. I think most of them have never questioned whether their families created a lot of their own difficulties. For as long as I can remember, I've been noting the consequences of my parents' emotional issues and the choices they've made in their lives. It seemed pretty clear to me that allowing your life to be guided by emotion isn't going to result in a very happy life. Sleeping with people you're not married to, for instance. After the age of about 20, doesn't it become abundantly clear that that behavior will consistently result in heart break. so why do it? It just ends up making your life more difficult. Insight and a sense of morality did help me understand that lesson. I don't understand why I was able to see it and the rest of my dad's family wasn't. I'm infinitely grateful for all of the qualities that have helped me to survive and I refuse to accept the idea that I've somehow developed those qualities on my own. It feels like a great gift I've been given and I try to be worthy of it Every day. Some days I'm more worthy than others, of course. I remember people who've helped me along the way and I try to pass that help along whenever I can. Assisting other people (to whatever extent I'm capable) is a way to pay back those gifts in the name of the people who helped me survive.

Dark Days For A Birthday

"Sooner or later we all discover that the important moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave. Our lives are measured by these" ~Susan B. Anthony

When I saw my therapist on friday, she suggested to me that I might want to take a break from my excursions into the past. It's been a really dark couple of weeks and this one doesn't seem to be starting out much better. Too many anniversaries.

My birthday is this week. My co-workers are pretty excited about it; they never miss an opportunity to have cake. I hate birthdays. It has nothing to do with getting older; I've hated them most of my life. I would offer explanations, but that would mean talking about the past. I know birthday celebrations are important to other people, though. I've come to believe that allowing others to give you gifts is actually a gift to them. since I've come to that realization, I try to be as celebratory as possible. I find myself too down really to write about anything. I may be able to muster some interest in something tomorrow.

Torture

"Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime."~ Herbert Ward

I feel the need to backtrack a bit. It occurred to me yesterday that I hadn't mentioned the physical abuse my father meted out to me. There were a lot of instances, but I won't bore you with all of them. To be honest, I'm not sure i could stand to detail the ones I remember.

One of the clearest early memories of abuse happened when I was six (I think that's correct). As I think I mentioned before, I was a very precocious child. My father told me shortly before he died that he was amazed at my intellectual abilities. He said that, by the time I was two, if anyone asked me a question, I answered like an adult. My therapist thinks it's because I knew even then what I had to do to survive.

My dad was really into developing my intelligence, so he got me a series of workbooks for math, reading and vocabulary. I was great with reading and vocabulary--far above grade level. Math was more difficult and I was only a little above the first grade level.

One weekend, he was making me work in the third grade math workbook. I tried and tried, but I just wasn't intellectually up to the challenge. That's when the unpleasantness began. He began to scream at me and, when that didn't make me perform any better, he began to hit me. As I think I mentioned before, my dad was never satisfied with terrifying you once; he would stretch the terror out over as long a period of time as possible. He left the room and told me I'd better have it completed before he came back. Of course, if there was ever any hope that I'd be able to complete the work, that was completely out of the question then.

It went on for a while, possibly all day...he'd scream and hit me, leave the room, scream and hit me. It always infuriated him when I cried (unless I was crying out of pity for him). That meant that every time he came back and caught me crying, he had an excuse to escalate the level of violence. Sometime during the day, I looked beseechingly at my mom. My father said to me, "Don't look at her. She can't help you." As usual, I'm uncertain exactly how it all ended, but it did at some point. There was definitely a down side to being intelligent.

The other times he always liked to hit me was just before he would take photographs of me. Isn't that weird? He'd point the camera and decide that I wasn't smiling enough, wasn't posing properly. I don't know. It was always something. so he'd come over and hit me however many times it took for him to get the photo he wanted. I hate all of the photos from my childhood. If you look closely, you can see tears in my eyes in every one of them. To this day, I hate being photographed.

I remember an oatmeal incident that occurred around the age of five. I hated oatmeal. I still hate oatmeal; it's gummy. I would start to gag everytime I tried to eat it. My dad became enraged; he said it was because he was so poor when he was my age that he'd have been thrilled to get oatmeal. So it began. Screaming, hitting, leaving. Coming back, screaming, hitting, leaving. By that time, I had discovered that, if I had control over nothing else, I absolutely had control over what I put in my body. I have to admit that I settled in for the long haul. I was by god not going to eat the damn oatmeal...no matter the consequences. I remember that the struggle went on all day. Finally, at the end of the day, he relented. I did not eat the fucking oatmeal.

Lots of other incidents come to mind, but what would be the point of telling them? The important salient facts are that he loved to torture people and he didn't care how small they were. My dad was over six feet tall. My mom was a little over five feet. I certainly wasn't anywhere near that big. At some point, it became very clear to me that he was allowed to hit me because he was bigger than I. There was no real reason for it. Maybe I got on his nerves. maybe I looked at him the wrong way. All of those were just excuses for my father to have a little fun.

Pariah

I'm better now than yesterday. I'll try to continue.

The fifth grade. while I was staying away from school and attempting to elicit some comfort from television, I was also acting out sexually (in a peculiar way). I had two close friends at the time and I sent them a series of letters. I told them I was pregnant with a child by a boy in one of our classes. I have no idea what prompted that. I suppose it was another fantasy that someone somewhere loved me and wished to be part of my family. They never replied to those letters, as I recall. when I finally made my way back to school, those friends were gone. They wouldn't even look at me. Somehow i was not suprised. I was profoundly alone with my depression.

One of my teachers that I'd had when i was 9 was then teaching 5th grade. She called me in to her classroom after everyone else had gone and asked me what was going on. I believed that she was judging me, just like everyone else. I told her that nothing was going on. That's the first time that I remember being angry about the way i was being treated. In retrospect, I think it's possible she was really just trying to be helpful. I was unable to accept help then. There was too much danger associated with telling the truth. My parents were bound to find out if I did and, who knew, maybe the threat of institutionalization might become a reality this time.

There was another little girl who shared the same birthday with me. We had been in school together since the first grade, but we weren't really friends. We had had joint birthday parties before, so her mom called my mom and suggested that we do it again. My mom said okay. She told me that I needed to get a list of people I wanted to invite to the party. I didn't have anyone to invite, having become a social paraiah. But I didn't want to have to tell my mom.

As the time for the party grew closer, I desperately tried to think of a way to get out of going. I may have even floated some trial baloons to see if I could persuade my mom to not make me go. If i did, they didn't work. On the day of the party, my mom drove me over to the girl's house. She had probably five or six friends there. Her mom was surprised that no one was coming to celebrate my birthday. I was miserable. I ate the cake, watched my birthday twin open her presents and got through it all.

I think my mom was puzzled when she found out I hadn't invited anyone, but I doubt that I offered any explanation. I was a precocious and creative child, but I was so emotionally dead at that point that I'm sure I couldn't have come up with an explanation if i'd tried. Besides, what would I have said? "You and dad have screwed up my life so much that I started creating fantasies to help me continue living?" I don't think so.

The year trudged on. I sat by myself in the lunchroom, I stood outside by myself when I got to school early. At some point, I guess I couldn't stand the isolation anymore. I struck up a relationship of sorts with another outcast. She was a very large girl, both in height and weight. That may have been why she was rejected, but I'm not certain. I started hanging out with her during those awful times when I wasn't in a classroom. I somehow felt that I was doing her a favor. I believed that even though I was a pariah, I was less of a pariah than she. Yeah, I know. Creepy. Or maybe just delusional.

I doubt that she liked me any better than I liked her. I invited her over to my house at some point that year. I can't imagine what possessed me to do such a thing. We had moved to another house than the one I lived in when I started fifth grade. (We moved around a lot, but as my mom likes to point out, it was usually just a block away from the last house we lived in.) For some reason, when we moved, we didn't really bring any furniture with us. I recall that there was a television (one of those console types that also had a record player/radio) and a mattress in the living room. We did have a dining room table. I shared my bedroom with my mom, since my dad was sleeping with his (then) wife. (But that's another story for another time.)

The next week, several people came up and asked me why we didn't have any furniture. I don't know what I said, but I didn't invite anyone else over until I was 17. I gave up the pretense of liking the child who was spreading the info around the school. I don't think I ever spoke to her again. It was back to hanging out by myself and hopelessly enduring.

In Which I Take A Step Back From The Abyss

Yesterday's exploration of my father's suicide and my own attempt probably wasn't the best idea I've had lately. Today I'm feeling so down. I've been trying to think of something I can do for myself today. I haven't called my therapist, but if I did, I know she'd ask me what I'm going to do to take care of myself today. Right now, the answer is: Not talk about my father or my past. Beyond that, I have no idea.

I've been hiding in my office this week. I'm reluctant to venture out when I'm feeling fragile. There's that guy who likes to walk up behind me so he can make me gasp. The more I think about that, the more pissed off it makes me. I'm waiting for the next time he does it (and oh yes, there will be another time) to have a come to jesus meeting with him. Unlike others in my office, if I'm feeling down or testy, I just don't venture out. I hate spreading my bad mood around the office. Did that sound snotty? I really don't care today...I am snotty.

We finally got some anti-viral software installed here at work. The computer guy has no idea what he's doing. I was actually hopeful when I walked in on monday and turned on my computer. Definitive proof that I'm either losing my mind or just losing iq points. I started having problems immediately. It took me about 30 minutes to figure out what he'd done to fuck it up. Then other people started calling me to ask me how to fix their problems. Everybody (well, mostly everybody) wants to get someone who actually knows something about computers, but the owner of the company wants the guy to stay because he's almost dead. At a certain point, apparently one gets so old that no one wants to fire you, even though you can't find your ass with two hands and a compass. Oh dear. I guess my depression is manifesting as irritation today.

I took another office kitty to be neutered today. I'm going to try to get the nutty mom kitty and her ailing baby in to the vet tomorrow morning. I'm just going to have to bring nutty mom home after she's spayed because she belongs to someone in the neighborhood. I wouldn't normally even consider getting a cat spayed without the owner's permission, but having a rapid succession of pregnancies is going to kill the poor thing if I don't do something. My boss just takes them to the vet and never brings them back. I know for a fact that at least one of the cats he did that with actually had a family. If I take the cats in, I'll at least bring them back so they can be with their people again.

I did the voting thing today. I voted for Kerry/Edwards and a spate of Democrats running for other state offices. If there was no Democrat to vote for, I voted for the Libertarian candidate. I know they tend to be far, far right wing. My general position on government is that I want them to butt out of my personal life. Just the fact that I'm required by law to wear a seat belt pisses me off. I think it's a violation of my constitutional rights. We have a city ordinance requiring helmets for bicycle riders. That makes me crazy. You know, if I want to run the risk of dying, that is my absolute, god-given existential right that no government should be wasting its time trying to stop me. Feel good laws. They don't really do anything particularly constructive, but it allows out lawmakers to avoid the serious, but highly controversial and complex, issues they should be focused on. I was going to get around to complaining about a new public transportation initiative on the ballot, but it appears I've run out of time. I'll get around to that and to the issue of toll roads at another time.

My Own Good Reasons For A Suicide

"No one ever lacks good reasons for suicide." ~ Cesare Pavese

"It would be hard to define chaos better than as a world where children decide they don’t want to live. "~Edward Hoagland, “Heaven and Nature”

Today is the anniversary of my father's suicide. I was considering starting this entry with a Sylvia Plath quote, but I couldn't bear to read any of her poems. Too bad. She's the perfect source for quotes of self-destruction.

On this day, my father left his house while my mother was on the phone, got his gun, went to a neighbor's house and asked for a bullet (my mom had hidden them all) "to kill a snake," stepped outside on the neighbor's lawn and shot himself to death.

I used to think killing oneself was the existential right of every being. I still believe that, but the cost of checking out is unbearably high for those of us left behind. I tried to commit suicide once and I've had suicidal thoughts for months on end, at times. After my father's death, I decided that, no matter how much I needed to escape, there would be no escape as long as there were people who would suffer from that destruction. It is, without question, the worst injury one can inflict on people who love you.

In honor of my father's death, I will share my own attempt. I was 11 years old. Life had become unbearable in so many ways. My father had taken up with the neighborhood girl and the violence in my house was escalating to a level that left me in a continuous state of terror, nothing I tried could fix any of it. I so needed comfort and respite from the agony of getting up and going to school every day and pretending that everything was just fine. My mom was working, so I came home every day to a cold and empty house. We had space heaters and I wasn't allowed to turn them on by myself, so I spent a couple of hours every day being miserably cold. As a matter of fact, every day had begun to seem dark and cold.

I decided one day that I just couldn't show up at school that day. I stayed home, lay on the living room floor, covered with blankets and watched "I Love Lucy" and "The Dick Van Dyke show." It wasn't much in the way of comfort, but it was all I had. I don't really recall how long I stayed away from school, but it was long enough for the school to notice. They called my mom at work one day. When she came home, she was furious with me.

When my father came home, she told him. He called me into the bathroom where he was taking a dump and had me stand there while he raged at me. My father loved to have people come stand in the bathroom while he was taking pooping, but he especially loved it when he was angry. It was a profoundly demeaning act. I don't recall how long I stood there, petrified, or what he said to me. I think there was some reference once again to committing me to a mental institution...always one of my dad's favorites.

There was nothing to be done about it; I was going to have to go to school the next day. after my mother left that morning, I searched around for some method of dying. Part of my problem was that, if I wasn't successful, I shuddered to think of what might happen. There would be plenty of punishment meted out for attempting to kill myself. I lit upon the idea of sleeping pills. My dad always had over the counter sleeping pills around. I didn't know how many it would take to kill myself, since I was just a novice 11 year old. I took as many as I dared; I didn't want anyone to know I had done that if it didn't work. For good measure, I took off my shoes and didn't wear a coat as I walked the four blocks or so to school. It was January and a cold, raw wind blew through my clothes. The sky was dark. I remember there was a robin in the schoolyard as I walked up to the door.

By the time I made it to math class, the pills were making their way into my bloodstream. Unfortunately, being an amateur, I was unaware that it's best to eat something before you take the pills. Otherwise you'll throw up and waste the opportunity. I was standing at the blackboard, trying to do a math problem when I started to gag. I knew no one was going to send me home or have any sympathy for me whatsoever. Best just to try to keep anyone from knowing what was going on. I threw up and a bit of it got on my blue pleated skirt. I managed to swallow the rest. I spent the rest of the day walking around with vomit on myself. I think I was pretty spaced out, but I just kept swallowing whatever arose and putting one foot in front of the other.

Several of my teachers felt justified in making snide remarks in front of everyone in the class. I did not respond. I hated them. I hated myself. I just wanted to die and get out of everyone's way. No such luck.

A Small Bright Spot

"It requires more courage to suffer than to die." ~ Napoleon Bonaparte (1769-1821)French statesman and soldier (Emperor: 1804-1815)

It is with great trepidation that I begin to recount the period of my life extending from the time I was ten till I was eighteen and moved out of my parents' house. As I look back on it, I'm amazed I managed to survive and/or managed not to murder someone. I was actually able to talk at some length about this time to my therapist last week. It appears that there is, indeed, some value to this retrospective.

I don't feel quite up to just wading in today. I've decided to recount the only positive thing that happened during the year I turned twelve. Just how pathetic that is will soon become apparent.

Once again, my uncle reappeared on the scene, without wife or twin boys he fathered. He seems to have just abandoned them. They were probably fortunate that he did. He stayed at my parents house while my dad helped him find a job and lent him money until he had some of his own. my grandmother didn't accompany him for some reason. One of the things I recall about this visit is his comment to me that I would be pregnant before I graduated high school. You cannot imagine how much this still raises my blood pressure. I wonder if he anticipated taking care of that job himself. He did buy a ring for me during that visit. I suspect it was a form of bribery, but it did him absolutely no good.

There came a day when he and I were at my house alone. I was very wary and trying to keep my distance. At some point, he grabbed me and started tickling me. I could see where this was headed. As soon as I was able, I escaped, ran out to an old truck parked in our backyard, got in and locked the doors. I was terrified, but I was also committed to not letting him abuse me ever again. He could no longer pick me up and force me to allow the abuse. He came out of the house and banged on the windows of the truck for a while and then went away. I stayed in the truck for quite some time, in fear that I would get out and just encounter him again. Finally, I came out of the truck and he was gone. I can't remember if the pregnant remark came before or after that incident. It was the last time he ever touched me. I recognize what a victory that was and what courage it took.

Sometime after that, he moved out and started to live with an aunt of mine who had moved to the city in which I lived. She had a little girl herself at that time. What a coincidence. My aunt told my mom that she thought he'd raped some woman while he was living with her. There was some news about a woman being raped and then, according to her, he refused to go out of the house for a couple of weeks. Incidentally, this aunt told my mother a couple of days after my dad's suicide that my dad had raped her when she was a teenager. Great timing. I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if that was the case. I've always thought my dad was sexually abused by his father. I know for a fact that one of his sisters was; my grandmother and the rest of the children hated her because of it. That was the aunt who was institutionalized several times. I've also wondered if my grandmother wasn't committing a little abuse herself. I'll never know the answers to those questions. Anyone who could tell me (other than the abusive uncle) is now dead and, even if they weren't, I could never trust information I got from anyone in that family.

I saw my uncle again briefly when my grandmother became ill for the last time. I worked at a political fundraising company at the time and it was difficult for me to get away to see her, but I caught a plane and arrived at the hospital at about 10 in the evening. I saw the family members camped out in one of the waiting rooms, but I just kept walking and found my grandmother's room. I sat with her for a while and then my dad wanted me to go out to the waiting room and greet everyone. Yes, he knew at that point that I'd been repeatedly sexually abused by this uncle. I refused to honor his demands. Needless to say, he was angry with me and pointed out to me that my intractability was really making this terrible situation worse for him.

The last time I saw my uncle was at my grandmother's funeral. He stood directly behind her casket at the mortuary, holding his daugher's hand. It literally turned my stomach. I had no doubt he was using her sexually. I never exchanged a word with him, nor did I even look in his direction until I saw flash bulbs going off. He was photographing my grandmother in her casket.

When my father killed himself, my mother never heard anything from him. One of my cousins called him and my uncle said that he didn't want to call because he'd just end up paying for the funeral expenses. He didn't call because he knew I might well be confrontational. I had dreaded my father's death for so long because I was afraid I'd have to bar him from coming to the funeral. at least I didn't have to do that. By the way, I paid for the funeral. Asshole. I hope he lives a very long life and suffers every single day of it. No, I haven't forgiven and I don't think I ever will.

Alcoholism, Revisited

Tuesday and Wednesday I went with my husband to the coast. I was able to escape my sadness for a couple of days. It was so wonderful to be near the ocean again; it's one of the only things I miss about leaving the town where i grew up.

My husband talked with my stepson last night and found out he's having marital difficulties. I'd been concerned for several years about the amount of alcohol my stepson (I'll call him norman) consumes. However, I recognize that i have a thing about alcohol, because it was always one of the things that provoked my father to violence when I was a child.

As it turns out, I had good reason to be concerned, though. Norman told my husband that he's had a couple of bed-wetting incidents when he was drunk. This past weekend, he was supposed to be playing somewhere, but when he got onstage, he was so loaded that he threw up on himself and then passed out. It wasn't the first time this has happened, either. This weekend, his wife went on stage to check his pulse and couldn't find one so she called 911. When the emt's arrived, they told her he was just wasted. His wife has been unhappy with him over this issue for some time and I guess this weekend pushed her over the edge. She's going to go somewhere this weekend (Saturday is their wedding anniversary) and mull this over. I find all of this very alarming. It really indicates that there is a serious alcohol problem here.

Norman told my husband he's thinking of "getting some help." Unfortunately, thinking about it isn't going to solve anything. His wife told him that she's tired of hearing him say he's going to address the problem and then not doing anything about it. My husband is optimistic that this may help Norman get it together and stop drinking. I hope so, too. He's a musician and plays in bars, so I anticipate some problems right off the bat. Furthermore, it generally takes a few tries to really get to the point that someone is able to do the difficult, ongoing work of learning to live without the addiction. As a former smoker, I know how hard battling an addiction can be. I'm so sorry that I was right about his problems with alcohol. It's one of those times when you really wish you could be overreacting.

Monday is the anniversary of my dad's suicide. since I've been trying to get my history down on paper, I vaccilate between guilt over not having been there to stop him and anger over the many, many ways he fucked up my life. Suicide was just the final fuck over. As I write this, I can feel the anger rising up inside of me. Emotions can be so inconvenient. I'm at work; I can't have a meltdown right now. I have to calm down now, maybe I'll have more to say later.

Deeper Into Darkness

"I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; And if I die no soul will pity me: And wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself." ~ William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), Richard III, V.iii

The summer I was ten, things were unravelling quickly in my life. I had become fearful of leaving my house because I thought I might be able to intervene if my father became violent. Sometimes I seemed to be able to stop things, but I'm no longer certain whether that was just a delusion. I know that I came to a great realization that year which forever altered my relationship with my father.

Ever since I could remember, my father would, from time to time, start talking to me about "my poor old daddy" who was going to die alone. It always broke my heart; I could never tolerate other people's suffering. He made me cry for him every time. The summer I was then, I finally realized that he actually liked making me cry. I think, in addition to being a sadist, seeing me cry for him made him feel loved. Once i understood the dynamic, I never cried for him again. I started to harden my heart.

I spent a lot of time outside in the summer, trying to escape from the threat of violence against me or my mom. There was a girl, India, who rode her bicycle around the block where we lived. She was a couple of years older than I. My father started to hound me about getting to know this girl. I didn't see much point in it. She was too old to be of interest to me and I didn't really like the idea of my dad choosing my friends. Finally, I gave in to his badgering. I don't recall how much time I spent with her until she became my father's friend. He started out by telling me I should feel sorry for this girl because she had a bad homelife. (Even now that strikes me as hysterically funny.)

Slowly but surely, he groomed her until at some point they had intercourse. My mother saw it all happening and didn't like it, but she was powerless to do much about it. Complaints were bound to result in terror. I remember I started to hate this girl really quickly. That didn't matter, though, because she had long since ceased to hang out with me. It's interesting how angry this still makes me. I can barely tolerate writing about it.

As summer ground to a close, she was practically living at my house. I felt abandoned and angry. not being really clear about the sexual aspect of the relationship, all if felt was that my dad was choosing someone else over me. Not all that unusual, really; he frequently made unfavorable comparisons between me and other kids I should "feel sorry" for.

I got ready to start the fifth grade, sinking into despair. One of my favorite songs was "Don't Let the Sun Catch You Crying." Even today when I hear it, it makes me want to cry for the little girl who was so abandoned. I had a diary at the time and I wrote a lot about my sadness. I don't know who read the diary, but my father was the person who confronted me about it. He was angry. He called me in to the bathroom where he was taking a dump and asked me if I was crazy. What can one say to that when one is 10? I said no. He told me he thought he might have to have me locked up because it sounded to him like I was crazy.

Like so many of the stories in my life, I no longer remember exactly how the evening ended. I never kept a diary or journal again until now.

Just the Dreary Facts...Even More

"The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother."~ Theodore Hesburgh

I remember very little of the fourth grade. I recall being at school still when the news arrived that John Kennedy had been shot. I was cleaning the blackboard for my teacher; I always tried to develop caring relationships with all of my teachers. I suppose I recognized the need for more nurturing in my life. My mom's attention was becoming more and more consumed by my father's insanity.

My teacher sent me home and I think I was a little dazed. Later, I grieved for the family he left behind. I also had some firm belief that I was somehow responsible for it. My birthday is in November, but there was no particular reason to take resonsibility for the tragedy, other than that it seemed I was behind all of the tragedies happening around me constantly. When it became clear that I would have to be home for some time, I was really miserable. At that point, any escape from my home was a blessing...even if it only meant going to school.

When i spoke earlier of my father's insanity, I was referring to an actual psychiatric illness, although I couldn't have known that at the time. I could identify crazy behavior, but my only real knowledge of mental illness was related to my father's sister who had been institutionalized more than once. My father seemed to like to believe that my aunt was just faking it or maybe that she just refused to pull herself together and get on with things. Whenever I did something he didn't like, he always threatened to institutionalize me. I wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound good.

much later in my life, I found out that my father was actively psychotic for most of my childhood. I used to believe he suffered from schizophrenia, but it's more likely that he had some schizo-affective disorder. Psychosis explains his firm belief at some point around this time that my mother was trying to kill him by putting glass in his food. She wasn't, of course, but no one could have blamed her if she had.

My mom had a job at that time and my father believed she was having an affair. My mother would never have had an affair. After being with my dad, no one would wish to embark on another relationship with a man. So he got to torture her for that. I remember one weekend things got really scary. He was making my mom drink alcohol. My mom didn't drink; she was also a tiny person at the time, around 5'3" tall and 103 pounds. A little aochol went a long way with her. He made her drink, beat her, made her drink, beat her. It went on all weekend. He reassured me there was no reason to be afraid. Right. Then there was the glass in the food incident. That may have lasted an entire weekend, too, but all of this tends to run together after a while. More later. I've just reached my emotional limit.

He Loves Me Anyway

"If [man] is not to stifle his human feelings, he must practice kindness towards animals, for he who is cruel to animals becomes hard also in his dealings with men. We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals." ~ Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) German metaphysician & transcendental philosopher

It's been a really hard day. I spent most of it dealing with the (previously) feral kitties at my office. I got one of them back this afternoon (Cary) and, though I was fearful he'd reject me because I betrayed his trust, he loves me anyway. Jonathan is spending the night at my vet's office after being neutered. Owner and I managed to grab five of the six baby kitties and I delivered them to his vet to be vaccinated, treated (if need be) and given away (we hope). It's all been so stressful and traumatizing--as much for them as for me. I have a few kitty-inflicted wounds, but none too serious.

Tonight's the final debate, so i guess I'll need to work out while watching. Luckily, this is a weight night, which is much easier to do when I'm listening to the television.

I don't really have the time or energy to write more, but I wanted to make a note of how the day went.

Just the Facts, Part 2

"Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it."~Michel de Montaigne (1533 - 1592)

In the third grade, violence in my home escalated. My paternal grandmother was staying with us for a while...I think primarily to act as a babysitter for me. My mom must have had a job then. One of the very worst things that ever happened to me occurred then. I was out driving somewhere with my mom and we got into a traffic accident. It wasn't my mom's fault...not that that mattered much. The front of the car was kind of crunched in, as far as I can remember, and we were able to drive it home. My mom let me play in the car, since it was clearly going nowhere. I remember turning on the turn signals.

My dad came home and things went rapidly downhill. He liked to beat up people over a period of time. It could go on for hours. I think this was one of those times. My clearest memory is when the violence went outside. My father had a butcher knife and was straddled on top of my mother, who was on the ground. I was absolutely hysterical. I tried to get my grandmother to intervene, but she just sad there in the living room. It was left up to me to try to stop my father from killing my mom. I was nine. I managed to get my courage up and went outside and stood there, begging my dad to stop. He kept yelling at me to go inside. I think I did go inside for a few minutes, once again trying to enlist my grandmother's help. Nothing. I know I went out again and my dad threatened me.

Just another ptsd memory snippet. I don't remember how it all ended, but it did end. Maybe someone called the police. I know that, as I stood in the yard, I was frantically looking around at the houses surrounding us and wishing someone would call the police or come over or do something.

I spent the next 20 years of my life believing that I had been the cause. At some point in my history, I forgot about the accident and began to think that I broke the turn signals when I was playing in the car. I thought that was what had incited the violence. When I was about 30, my mom mentioned the wreck. I'm sure she would have told me sooner had I asked. It's probably a fairly common thing for family members to maintain silence with each other about violence.

My uncle came for a visit at some point...in the summer, I think. Oh, actually I think he and his wife stayed with us for a little while. I specifically remember someone going to the little convenience store about a block away and getting ice cream to make floats. While everyone was having a good old time, I somehow got the assignment (from my dad, I'm sure) to go sweep out the garage. I dutifully went out and started the work, only to be interrupted by my uncle. He sexually assaulted me in the garage. While everyone else was just a few steps away. I know I must have looked traumatized after the many sexual assaults, if anyone had really looked at me. No one ever did. My father was constantly occupied with looking at himself, like any narcissist. My mother was constantly occupied with my dad. That was more of a life or death kind of situation. I just tried to maintain the peace, whenever some small peace existed.

I remember reading "Charlotte's Web" sometime that year and, when the spider died, I began crying in school. In retrospect, I suspect the crying had less to do with the poor dead spider than the great sadness in my own life. If anyone saw me crying, no one ever mentioned it.

For right now, that's the extent of my memories of being nine. I know that I was doing well in school and I came to see it as a refuge from the madness at home. Enough dredging up the past for one day.

Why I Hate October

I started off the morning by thinking of my dad. It's exactly a week until the anniversary of his suicide. For some reason, I was reminded of an incident that took place when I was around six. I'm thinking six because I started school when I was seven and I know it happened before I was in school.

I was quite precocious, I guess. Before he died, my father told me that he was so amazed that, even when I was two or three, I would answer questions like an adult. I suspect a lot of that was related to survival instinct. My parents used to get these workbooks that purported to teach various subjects. I had already completed all of the first grade work and had progressed to the second or third grade. Unfortunately, I had reached my limit. Maybe under different circumstances I could have been successful at higher grade levels, but I don't think so. My memories of childhood tend to focus on one aspect of an event; this is a ptsd symptom. My recollection was of sitting at the dining room table with one of those workbooks (math, i think) and being completely unable to complete the work. That made my dad very angry with me. I just remember that he yelled and hit me, left the room while I attempted to complete the work. As I said before, I was unable to complete it, so he kept coming in and hitting me and yelling at me. I can't say how long all of that went on, but in my child's sense of time, it went on for a very long time.

It's incidents like this that make the anniversary of his death so difficult. Despite his paranoia and sadism, he was the only father I will ever have and I did love him. I get bombarded by all of these bad memories, followed by memories of how I felt I failed him as a daughter. I wish I could have saved him from himself, but if I had been there at the time, I fear there would have been two others dead--my mother and me. The idea that I could save my father from his mental illness is absurd, but he was kind enough to instill in me a sense of responsibility for him. I was also responsible for my mother, too, and just as unable to really help her. Days like today are filled with self-recrimination. I'm very sad today. I still have a week to get through. It's going to be a long week.

Qualities of Resilience

Just to cheer myself up, here are the qualities psychologists have found which enable children to survive serious, long-term abuse with some measure of wholeness.

independence
insight
creativity
humor
the ability to develop relationships
initiative
morality

I'm profoundly grateful to have received these gifts.

Just the Facts: A Timeline

"You white people are so strange. We think it is very primitive for a child to have only two parents." ~Australian aboriginal elder

"One who gains strength by overcoming obstacles possesses the only strength which can overcome adversity." ~ Albert Schweitzer (1875-1965) French philosopher & physician-missionary to Africa

I've decided to try once again to set down an autobiographical timeline. I've tried to do this before, but I haven't been able to withstand the pain. I'm always afraid people think I'm crazy or just making it all up when they learn of my childhood experiences. I suffer from post traumatic stress disorder and major depression, but I've never been delusional. You can't make this shit up; it's too bizarre.

The timeline.
I was born in 1953 in a city in the deep south. In 1956, we moved to a different state. The
first episode of violence I can remember was my dad's attempt to set my mom on fire. I can't recall the timeline for all subsequent violence against my mom.

In 1961, I began elementary school. My father was having an affair with a woman and he took me along when he went to her house so that he could lie to my mom about where he was. I was expected to go along with the lie. Eventually, he stopped lying and started fucking her at our house. He beat her up pretty regularly, too. I think that went on for a couple of years, maybe. Then I think she got pregnant and my family drove her to some place in another city. Probably a home for unwed mothers. I never saw her again.

In the second grade, we moved to a different house. At some point my dad's ex-wife came to live there and my mom moved into a little apartment located on the same property. I had to continue to live with my father. It broke my heart.

His ex-wife used to try to get me to do things, like let her give me a bath. That pissed me off. I spent as much time as possible with my mom. My father had some real issues with jealousy; I was keenly aware of that. I think maybe he asked me (or maybe I just volunteered) that some guy had been over. He beat her up really badly in front of me. She left rather abruptly and my mom moved back in. I never saw her again, either.

This is about all of the timeline I can manage today. It's very emotionally difficult, because when I remember, I relive. It's hard to really identify when one's personal history begins. Obviously, there was a specific time and place when I was born, but I'm not certain if one can just start there and expect to make sense of personal history. My parents lived through things that created deep and irreparable damage. Some of that damage no doubt was inflicted because of the woundedness of their parents.

Maybe the events that define our lives will always be a mystery, because of the impossibility of gaining reliable information about their roots. In addition to that problem, there's also the nature/nurture question. I know for a fact that my father's family has some serious mental illnesses which are generally considered to be genetically-linked. On the other hand, to say they received inadequate nurturing would be a profound understatement. I don't know of any mental illnesses present at an early age in my mother's family. She did have some traumatic events early in her life, though she would not define them as such.

I suppose I will speak to some of those issues as I explore my life. For some reason, I believe if I can just create this timeline, it will be healing for me. That remains to be seen.

Perfectionism and Diligence

"Thank God every morning when you get up that you have something to do which must be done, whether you like it or not. Being forced to work, and forced to do your best, will breed in you temperance, self-control, diligence, strength of will, content, and a hundred other virtues which the idle never know."~ Charles Kingsley (1819-1875) English clergyman & writer (let me just add, hell yes!)

I've been feeling like I have cotton stuffed inside my head. Taking care of hubby when he's sick is a major undertaking in itself, leaving me fatigued and more than a little impatient. I hadn't slept well the night before (that would be Sunday) becauseIi was having my little flashback/panic attack.

I started out the day yesterday feeling worn out, but god forbid that I should miss my regularly scheduled work out day. I argued with myself about it for a while--should it be a demanding, high-energy workout or could I just make do with my new bellydance tape? I finally went with the bellydance tape and tried not to give myself a hard time about slacking. Unfortunately, the workout didn't energize me. Other than that, I can't really say why I'm feeling sluggish and stupid today. I guess that's just the way it goes sometimes.

My therapist, psychiatrist, family and co-workers would take great exception to the word "slacking." They tell me I never give myself a break; I've been trying to come to terms with that thought, but I have to admit it's not easy. My therapist says that sometimes people who have been left to raise themselves demand far too much from themselves. Sounds right to me, but I'm just not sure I believe it fits for me.

I also get accused of being a perfectionist, to which I generally respond, "No one can ever do anything perfectly, certainly not I." I'm told that being a perfectionist just means that I try to do my very best at every thing I do. What's wrong with that? Isn't that what we should all do? It's my firm belief that self-esteem grows from that desire. Effort is the key, not execution. I may fuck things up, in big ways or small, but as long as I've done my best, I can feel good about myself. I forgive myself for fucking up, sometimes I'm even amused by it, but that doesn't mean I didn't try to do better.

Trying to mediate between what I see as two extremes (me: slacker; everyone else: too demanding) makes me crazy. I end up spending way too much time trying to find ways to lighten up without actually have to lighten up. Finally, I pick one or the other and spend the rest of the day quieting my inner voice telling me I should have done more/less. I've got way too many problems to devote that much time to every task. I have tried to change my ways by cutting off the critical voices in my head when I need rest--emotional, physical or intellectual. If I'm having a particularly difficult time figuring out what to do, I try to step outside myself and respond as I would for someone other than me. If a friend told me she was too tired to do laundry in the evening, I would most definitely tell her that rest is important and laundry can be done tomorrow. So far, this works better than any other tactic.

Now, since my head feels like it's stuffed with cotton and the day is getting late, I would tell my friend that she should stop looking for an organic way to end this entry and just stop typing, for god's sake. that's what I'm going to do.

Haunted

It occurred to me last week that the seven year anniversary of my father's suicide is coming up in October. I wasn't really sure if it was the seventh or eighth, but I checked with my mother. She advised me it was 1997. I guess that's why I've had some flashbacks over the past several days.

Last night, my husband was late returning home from a recording session. I kept telling myself that he was definitely okay; he had my cell phone to call for help if needed. I tried breathing techniques to calm down, but they didn't work, either. Then, out of the blue, I remembered that feeling I was having. When I was a little girl, my father was both actively psychotic and was self-medicating with alcohol. Not a good combination. He always became very violent when he drank. He was supposed to be home around 5:00 p.m. every day, but when he wasn't, you could pretty much count on the fact he was out drinking. I remember, as every hour passed by and he still wasn't home, I got more and more afraid. There are many old movies and television programs that I still can't watch because they trigger flashbacks.

I remember sitting on the living room floor once when i was maybe 9 or 10 and i was watching the Twilight Zone. It was a television program that came on around nine-ish, I think. I kept watching and trying not to seem afraid, but I had my eye on the time constantly. I was not only afraid of the bodily harm that would most assuredly come to me and/or my mom, I was also afraid that someone might have killed him. Even now I can remember with startling physical clarity the icy feeling in my stomach and the almost unbearable anxiety. I don't specifically recall just what horrors were visited upon us that particular night. After a while, incidents of horrific violence and sadism are difficult to place in time. They happened so often it was sort of routine--if one can call torture routine. There's also the problem of dissociation. When things became too unbearable, I would lose all feeling and numb out. There are huge chunks of my life that are inaccessible to me. I'm just as happy not knowing, though.

Anyway, it was this flashback that I endured last night while I was waiting for my husband to get home. I hate it that these emotions and memories superimpose themselves over a life I've taken so much care to make safe. No one hits me anymore. No one yells at me anymore. Nor does anyone hit or yell at anyone I love. And yet...the past is alive, in a way. Those images of violence and the overwhelming emotions that accompanied them still haunt me. They always will.

Middle Ground

"The modern sympathy with invalids is morbid. Illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others."~ Oscar Wilde (1854-1900) Irish writer, & playwright

I was supposed to take the rest of the week off, but now I'm not sure if that's going to happen. Hubby came home last night from the recording session with a stomach upset. Here's the deal. My husband (like many men, I think) completely collapses anytime he isn't feeling well. He hangs around in bed, watching television and groaning periodically (no, I'm not kidding).

On the other hand, I am very stoic. I never thought of myself that way until my psychiatrist and my therapist pointed it out to me. I had a serious bout of IBS that raged on for three solid years. I got up and went to work virtually every day. I continued to function no matter how sick I was. I empathize with my husband, but I also just want him to get up off the sofa and stop moaning. I really have no desire to spend my vacation time listening to him moan, so I'm reluctant to take the week off, even though I really need a break.

You know, it seems to me that we (meaning both of us) should be able to find that middle ground between taking to bed for a couple of weeks when you feel bad and acting as if everything is absolutely fine even though you've been sick for three fucking years. Ah, the middle ground...astoundingly difficult to find and even harder to stay there.

I'm resuming my rigorous workout schedule this week, after my standard one-week hiatus. I'm always a little ambivalent about it. I'm really tired today, so I'm not all that enthusiastic. On the other hand, if i don't resume my workout I'll feel worse in the long run. I've been trying to figure out which video tapes to use for this six-week stint. Last cycle i focused on Pilates and bellydance. Unfortunately, bellydance, though great for abs and hips, doesn't really get my heart rate up to the required level. I have a new Pilates tape that's very fast-paced, so I may try that out this evening. As for strength training, I'm tempted to stick with the Pilates mat work exercises. My only hesitation is that one's body stops working when you do the same things over and over. I know this is just fascinating, but it's very important to me. By the way, have I mentioned lately that my butt is in fantastic condition? (Do note that i'm laughing at myself as I type this.)

I watched Holes this weekend with my mother. One thing you can count on with Disney is they're not going to put in any explicit sexual scenes that are going to embarrass me to watch it with my mom. I made the huge mistake of going to see Bad Santa with her this past Christmas. I knew it wasn't a children's movie, but I had no idea there would be blow jobs and other sexual activities. Holes started out slowly and it was difficult to sustain my interest, but it got better as the movie progressed. Enough trivia.

Fuzzy Blankets and PTSD

This weekend, appropos of nothing really, I remembered that the person who assaulted me had one of those vellux blankets (those soft, fuzzy, lightweight blankets). Suddenly I remembered that I've only recently been able to sleep with one because of the memories of that night. It's amazing that I could have forgotten that.

when I told Gabrielle that she was the first person I've ever told about the experience, she told me to expect some emotional fall-out. She said it's a little like opening Pandora's box. The funny thing is, aside from the blanket memory, most of my ptsd difficulties this weekend were actually related to my father. But more of that later....

What's Rape Got To Do With It?

"Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of the overcoming of it."~ Helen Keller (1880-1968)

Okay, back to the examination of sexual history in light of my new-found admission that I was raped in college. So russ and I were together and he broke it off and I went absolutely crazy. Then I got strep throat and was quarantined in the school infirmary. Russ' friend, David, decided that, since I was available again, he might like to get some kind of relationship going. Big mistake.David and i never actually had sex. I don't think I liked him very much and I'm pretty sure he didn't like me, either. Just a sexual thing for him, you know. We went out together a couple of times and it became abundantly clear that I needed to make him go away. Luckily, as it turned out, the end of the semester was at hand. I left school for the upcoming semester on the urgings of my parents. That worked out great. I didn't even have to be mean to him...yet.

He wrote letters to me that spring semester and I responded. I really don't know what prompted me to do this, but eventually I pointed out to him that he should just go ahead and have sex with Russ and cut out the middle(wo)man. He stopped writing to me. It seemed like a logical thing to say (even though I'm sure I knew he'd be upset). It wasn't like we were in love or anything.

I didn't date anyone at all that spring, but when summer came around I registered for some classes at a local college. I had a job, working at an electrical supply company. It was there that I met my next mistake. This guy used to come in regularly to pick up parts and I was immediately attracted. Somehow I managed to get him to ask me out. Right here you might say, "Hey, probably not such a good idea." Good point.

I had absolutely no intention of getting emotionally involved with him. He was a blue-collar guy, not much interested in knowing anything and not much interested in ever leaving my hometown. Totally unsuitable for long-term relationship, but quite suitable for sex. Notice how every time I pick the guy it turns out the only thing I'm looking for is sex? Hmmm...seems to be a pattern here.

At first, I refused to fuck him because I wasn't doing any kind of birth control. At some point in our "relationship" he told me he was using a condom, but that was a lie. Everyone I knew at that time of my life was baffled as to how I could be fooled. They didn't really know my history though. I was adamantly opposed to actually touching penises...it was far to reminiscent of the abuse suffered at the hands of my uncle. No touching. Ever.

As you might guess, I became pregnant. So what the hell, Don and I spent the summer having incredible sex whenever we could. There was absolutely no way on god's green earth that I was going to have that baby and be forced to live in my hometown permanently. No way I was going to marry don. I knew exactly what I had to do and I did it. All alone. I paid for the abortion and I went to have it alone. All of that part of the tale occurred when I went back to the other university. Once again, just like with the date rape episode, I accepted total responsibility for my mistake. That's one of the good things about me...I don't shirk responsibility. After i went back to school, I didn't really need don anymore. Don't get me wrong...I doubt that he missed me at all. I'm sure I served the same purpose for him as he did for me.

I'm not so sure that my need to be in control of sexual relationships has anything to do with the date rape episode. I think it's probably more a product of my upbringing, which I will get around to talking about sooner or later. I guess the big revelation for me is just how angry at men I must have been. Had you asked me about it then, I would have said i wasn't angry at all, except in a broad feminist context. I don't feel particularly angry now, either, as I contemplate the past. I guess mostly I feel sorry for that young person who suffered through such great difficulties.

Cretins and Feral Kitties

"Odd things: animals. All dogs look up to you. All cats look down to you. Only the pig looks at you as an equal."~ Winston Churchill (1874-1965)British prime minister during World War II, winner of Nobel Prize for literature 1953

My husband is at a sound studio somewhere on the west side. He and his co-author have been invited to write liner notes for a cd still being recorded. There's some possibility that Bob Dylan might show up. I have to admit I'm a little envious, but whenever I think about what it would be like to meet Dylan (or any number of other artists I admire) I can't imagine what I could say.

"Oh my god! You're Bob Dylan! did you know that?" that's pretty impressive, right?

"I've listened to your music since i was 13." Never heard that before, I'm sure.

My other experience with meeting a musician I admire happened about 20 years ago. I was working at a fundraiser where the artist was performing. The concert was over and I was looking for my supervisor. I went flying into a room somewhere backstage and came face to face with the artist and someone with whom he was talking. I'm sure absolutely every bit of blood drained out of my face. I mumbled something about looking for Anne, but no one there knew where she was. My husband was with me and Murphy and I leaned against a table while my husband talked to him. When he put his arm around me, it was the only thing I could focus on. I didn't say anything. I was mortified that I'd inadvertently invaded his space. I also just couldn't think of a thing to say. And, of course, there was that arm around my waist.

My hubby is having a pretty good time, whether Bob shows up or not. Meanwhile I'm stuck at the company from the Crazy Land. I haven't had much contact with my co-workers today; I've been trying to limit contact lately. Too much negativity.

I did get to spend some time with the feral cats I've been feeding since they were babies. So far, I've managed to tame four of them. One of the little guys allowed me to pick him up and put him on the bench where I was sitting. He lay down next to me so that his whole body was touching my leg. After about ten minutes of petting, he started grabbing my fingers with his paws, claws in. I wish I could take him home with me, but my beautiful huskies would kill him in less than five minutes. I'm going to try to get him neutered next week. I hope to get all of them spayed or neutered, but I don't want to rush the getting-acquainted process. I'd like to try to minimize the trauma, if i can.

I'm so happy some of them started trusting me. It's far more important to me that animals like and trust me than humans. Animals are completely predictable. They won't hurt you unless they're scared or injured. I suppose the same could be said of people, but it's not so easy to intuit their fears and wounded places. I think I've always preferred animals to humans. I spent most of my life as an only child, but I had animal companions from the time I was very little.

My experiences with other children didn't inspire a lot of confidence. My mom started taking me to daycare at some point. She says she was afraid we were too close and she wanted to try to help me individuate more before I entered grade school.Unfortunately, those experiences at day care did little to move me in the direction of sociability. There wasn't much adult supervision at any of the day care places I was in. It was a little like Lord of the Flies. Kids would just come up and be aggressive for no apparent reason. (I don't know...maybe there was a reason and I just couldn't see it.) My solution was to stay as far away from them them as possible.

Another critical incident occurred at home (Big surprise, right?). I was friends with a little girl who lived across the street from us. one day, she had a cousin (I think) over and I was going to go over and play. The girl I knew told me not to come over. Well, hell, I just thought she was kidding. I think I was laughing as I crossed the street. When I made it to her side of the road, she picked up a coke bottle and slammed it down on my head. The coke bottle didn't break, but it caused a deep cut and I started bleeding heavily.

I was infuriated. I went into my house, blood streaming down my face, and demanded a coke bottle. my mom says I was white and shaking. Fortunately, she didn't give me a weapon. Her primary goal was to make sure I wasn't going to bleed to death in the kitchen. When my father came home, he was irate. He made me sit out on our back porch for about a week with a huge stick, waiting to beat the shit out of the little monster child. I never was very good at that sort of thing, though. I hit people when they hit me first, but if they cried, it made me cry, too, and I would try to comfort them.

By the time I got to the first grade, I was extremely wary of other children. My mother says my dad would drive by the schoolyard sometimes at lunch or recess to find out how I was doing. I was doing fine. I immediately crawled up to the very top of the jungle gym and hung out there until it was time to go back in. He told my mom he felt really sorry for me. As far as I know, that may have been the only time he had compassion for me.

When i got my first report card, all of the grades were a's except for one that must have had something to do with socialization. I got a "needs improvement" on that. That really pissed me off. I was forced to start socializing with the little cretins. I don't think anyone ever did me any harm, but I really resented the teacher forcing me to do something that didn't even seem germane to my education. (Yes, I thought I was imminently qualified to make that judgment.)

My relationships with people never improved much. There have always been one or two people I trusted and cared for. Of course, Becky was one of those few. As an adult, I have many acquaintances (who would probably call me their friends) but few friendships. I'm a very unusual person, in part because I have a rare personality type and in part because of my highly unusual history. I like most people, but I maintain an emotional distance.

Love and Despair

I started the morning by reading some email from a post traumatic stress disorder group to which I belong. It's amazing...even that made me quake inside. None of the posts detailed the causes of people's ptsd; they were descriptions of the challenges people still face in their lives many, many years after the traumatizing event(s). I haven't contributed to the list yet and I may never do so. I fear the possibility of triggering more symptoms, which I have pretty regularly without any clear reason. I mean, I know the reasons why I have ptsd; I'm just not always sure how reactions get triggered.

Yesterday I was talking about trying to fit the "new" rape information into my understanding of how I became who I am. After the sexual assault, I embarked on a relationship with a guy who was a junior at the time. We dated for a while before I agreed to have sex with him. Finally, I decided to go over and spend the night.

In retrospect, I'm not sure why i made the decision. It may have been that I believed he cared about me or it may have been that I just wanted to have sex. It was less than fabulous. I remember thinking "hmmm...this doesn't really feel very good." I was very aware of a faucet dripping in the bathroom and I knew that sound would lodge in my memory. I think I was probably dissociated. That would be a good guess considering my childhood and my recent experience at college. I was really good at dissociating...I still am, as a matter of fact.

I'm not sure how long it took to become proficient in slipping away from my body. I know that when I was left alone with my uncle when I was five, I decided that, though he might be so big as to make physical resistance impossible, I could prevent him from having access to my mind and heart. The television was on and there were cartoons, so it must have been a Saturday. While he proceeded to do as he pleased, I turned my head away from him and concentrated on the cartoons. He didn't like that. He wanted me to pay attention to him and what he was doing. After he turned off the television, I started studying the ceiling. After that, my memories of that episode fade away. I was very angry with him and I knew that by ignoring him, I was in some way thwarting his desires. A little child's body may be easy to control, but it was not in the least bit easy to control my mind. I guess he made do with what he had because he did not stop.

There were plenty of other times in my life when I continued to practice dissociating. So many, in fact, that I ceased to recognize it as an altered state of consciousness. by the time I got to russ, I could choose to not be present without actually realizing that's what I was doing. I know that's very paradoxical, but I guess learning to regularly survive dangerous situations at some point becomes commonplace. Being absent from self can also become mundane and difficult to identify.

Russ and I continued to see each other for a month or so. I recall being very intellectually competitive with him. He was an engineering student of some kind, but I didn't have much respect for that kind of knowledge and I strongly suspect I let him know that. Some people who had known him for a while told me about his history. The semester before he met me, he had been involved with some young woman who had become pregnant. She had an abortion before she left to continue her education somewhere else. Apparently, the breakup wasn't his idea. I do know that she didn't wish to have further contact with him. According to his friends, he was still trying to regain his bearings. Starting a relationship with me probably wasn't the most mentally healthy thing for him.

Eventually Russ decided to break it off. It was then that I hit the wall. All of my feelings of abandonment rose up like some monster inside of me. I thought about suicide a lot, but didn't attempt it. Since my attempt when i was 11, I had managed to stop myself from trying to die. The lack of russ. I wanted to get him back...really, really badly. Other young men, including David, wanted to get to know me, but I was angry with them and I didn't trust them. I guess I wanted to get Russ back so I could continue to dislike him.

I must go now...the person I'm supposed to meet has just shown up. more psychobabble later.

One Damned Thing After Another

"Rape is a culturally fostered means of suppressing women. Legally we say we deplore it, but mythically we romanticize and perpetuate it, and privately we excuse and overlook it." ~ Victoria Billings (1856-1950) Pseudonym of Henry Wheeler Shaw Irish playwright & critic

"Life is just one damned thing after another." ~ Elbert Hubbard

Last week the topic of conversation with my therapist was the ways sexual abuse altered my life. The obvious first answer to that would be the profound lack of trust I have in men. That doesn't mean all men, nor does it mean that I'm unable to be emotionally close with men. After all, I've been married for almost 31 years now to the same man. It's further complicated by the fact that my upbringing and the years of abuse I suffered in my childhood has also had a very negative impact on my ability to trust, generally.

In the course of exploring this issue, I related to her the circumstances of my first chosen sexual experience. The boy I dated in high school applied a lot of pressure to get on birth control pills so we could have sex. I didn't do it, in part because I thought there was a very strong possibility that sex had become so contaminated for me that I might find myself hating anyone I slept with. I loved Michael, but I broke up with him because of that fear. I decided that the best course of action for me was to find someone with whom I had absolutely no emotional connection and use that person as a test case.

My first week or so in college gave me the opportunity to carry out the plan. I kept seeing this great looking guy around campus, but I thought I probably wasn't good looking enough for him to notice me. One of my friends and I ran into him (Dave) in one of the co-ed dorm hallways and he invited us back to his room. Needless to say, we went. I'm not exactly sure of what the sequence of events were, but finally we were alone. We had been making out before, but when everyone else left, things just naturally proceeded down the road toward making love. That was fine by me. However, as he entered me, I began experiencing a lot of pain (I mean a lot). I asked him to stop, but he didn't. at some point, I began screaming for him to stop, but he didn't.I slept over that night and when we got up the next day, it was apparent that he wanted to have a relationship with me. I gave it my best shot, but I think I was enraged with him that he didn't stop. (Unfortunately, it's taken me 30 years to figure that out.) He continued to call and we continued to hang out together, but we never had sex again. After a couple of weeks, I managed to extricate myself from the situation.

The curious thing about all of this is that, up until last week, I didn't really count that experience as rape. If anyone else had related the same events, I would never have any hesitation to label it as such. I'm a feminista....how could I not see it as rape? Well the answer to that question is obvious in some ways. Gabrielle, my therapist, had no trouble whatsoever in identifying it as rape. At some point Saturday, I started to try to put that experience within the context of all of my relationships. It was quite unsettling. It was so unsettling, in fact, that I was too overwhelmed to continue. I think I need to make this exploration slowly, but now isn't the time. for now, I'm holding it in my heart and allowing things to come to fruition without intellectualizing.

Bikini Wax At The Office

"Hard work never killed anybody but why take the chance?"~ Edgar Bergen (1903-1978)

Last night I started thinking about the fact that this weblog is the only place I've ever felt I could be completely honest. No one I know is aware that I even have a weblog (many of them don't even know what a weblog is) and anyone who stumbles across it won't ever know who I am. I don't have to protect anyone's feelings or refer to events in code. Wow...how liberating!

In celebration of total honesty, I have to share one of my office stories with you. A couple of months ago, one of my coworkers decided to get her first Brazillian bikini wax. I've never had a bikini wax of any kind, so I told her to let me know how painful it was...just in case I lose my mind at some point and decide to get one for myself. The day after the waxing, she came over to my office, locked the door behind her and started telling me about the procedure. Then, she pulls her dress up and her underwear down and SHOWS me the bikini wax. I glanced down and looked up immediately, commenting that it did look a little odd. She stood there and continued the conversation without any wardrobe adjustment. Finally, to my great relief, she pulled her underwear up and left. You can not imagine how relieved I was. I mean, I'm pretty comfortable with my own body and I certainly have seen friends in various stages of undress, but never, never, never has anyone wanted to show me their genitals. Luckily for me, she hasn't felt the need to expose herself again. The company I work for is the weirdest place I've ever worked.

Here's a brief glimpse into the madness. The owner of company never participates in any office activity, including work. He sits in his office all day, playing cards online. If you have a work-related question, you'd better make it snappy because he's not going to be happy that you're intruding on his game. It's just as well, really, because generally speaking, he won't know the answer and won't care about whatever it is you're there for.

Then there's The Information Superhighway, who got the bikini wax. I don't really think she needs any more introduction. Next to her is Mr. Moneybags, who's a right wing, bigoted, hypocritical, Bible-thumping asshole who's pretty sure he's got all the answers. Just ask him. He's mean spirited, doesn't like anyone particularly (probably not even himself) and spends most of his time complaining about the company.

Crazy Employee is our newest addition, whose husband lost his job and was unemployed for about six months. Crazy Employee is famous for her win/win situation arguments. She needed to get her car fixed and wanted the company to buy a new engine for it and to have one of our employees (a mechanic) to install it. Win/win. When no one saw the benefit for the company in doing that, she just took it to a mechanic's shop where we have a corporate account, got them to fix it and charged it to the company. No, she did not ask for permission to do that. Oooo, win/win again. We also have a corporate account at Sam's Club, where we get office supplies like paper towels, toilet tissue, etc. again, without asking, she charged a lot of food (and I'm talking wine and t-bone steaks) and some clothing to the account. No, she didn't get fired. As a matter of fact, no one even talked to her about it. She was sent a memo, telling her that her charging privileges had been revoked. That's telling her.

Then there's Loathsome, who is working at our office out of state...much against his will. he's a blue-collar guy who compensates by being unbearably pompous, vain and pretentious. He wears the best clothes money can buy. Loathsome was at a company party one year and, when someone commented about his decision to wear a tee-shirt with dress slacks, he responded with "This shirt cost $200. this is class." Too bad the same could not be said of the person wearing it.

Computer Coot is supposed to be our computer specialist. He's like 95 or something and doesn't know anything about computers. I don't think anyone here has a fully functioning computer. If he doesn't know what's wrong with your computer (which is, oh, about 99.9% of the time), he tells you he doesn't know, but wants you to let him know if it happens again. I guess we should give him credit for honesty, but we're too annoyed that our computers won't work. He spends most of his time downstairs in his office, looking at porn or playing cards.

There are three more people who work here, but I don't have time to tell you about them. I guess I'll just have to get to them tomorrow.

The Past Falls Away

"Prosperity comes from the Latin root which literally translates: 'according to hope' or 'to go forward hopefully.' Thus it is not so much a condition in life as it is an attitude toward life. The truly prosperous person is what psychologist Rollo May calls 'the fully functioning person.'"~ Eric Butterworth, 20th Century Spiritual Teacher

I started out thinking I'd write to you about the issue of enlightenment, but something more pressing has interjected itself into my consciousness. Actually, I've been thinking of this topic all day, but I'm not sure it's going to take me anywhere. I'm sure the thought has lodged itself in my brain for a good reason, so here goes.

Since Becky died, I've felt the past fall away from me. It's as if the events and people in my past had wrapped themselves around me and held on tightly. From this vantage point, it feels like the swaddling has been too tight and I've been unable to move because of it. Of course, so much of my past will probably never let me go. The terrible experiences of my early life aren't holding on from the outside. They're burrowed deep into my existence and still color everything I do, everything I perceive. Trauma doesn't let go. Though I may seem very well adjusted to everyone (even those who know me best), it's only because those waking nightmares I experience are only visible to me. Even in the midst of internal turmoil, I maintain my calm exterior. Sometimes I can only manage to maintain my composure by dissociating. Though I'm not sure I told her everything (I'm almost certain that I haven't), She always understood how deeply I've suffered and what a great victory it's been for me to hide that suffering from others. The past that wraps itself around me is related to the people I knew and loved in my youth. In the months leading up to Becky's death, I felt this incredible need to reconnect with people I haven't seen in over 30 years. I even attempted to contact Michael...just to make sure that he found his way in the world and found people who could appreciate his intelligence. I managed to speak with his mom, who gave me a little update. He's been married for 17 years and he has a daughter who graduated from high school last May. He has a Ph.D. in finance (what a waste of a perfectly good mind) and works as the director of research for a finance company. Apparently he has moved about quite a bit in his career. I wonder if that's because he never fully developed adequate social skills. Unfortunately, too much brain power can be very isolating, especially if it seems that you place too high a value on it.

After I spoke with his mom, I was suicidal for the first time since my father killed himself. He has clearly accomplished his achievement goals, while I languish here being almost useless. I spent a fair amount of time in my youth working to make the world a better place. Somewhere along the way, I decided that there really wasn't much I could do to make any appreciable impact in the world. Then I dedicated myself to making money, but I never really made enough money to actually count myself as being successful. Now, of course, I spend my days as an employee emeritus, not making much of a contribution at all unless you count the emotional impact I seem to still have here. In short, I felt like a failure. Maybe I still do...I'm not certain.

My therapist hastened to point out to me that, having started out my life with so much trauma and so little nurturing that I am, in fact, quite successful. I don't know. I always wanted to transcend my upbringing to such an extent that I could achieve as much as anyone else. She keeps reminding me about the futility of those hopes. That, I suppose, is a part of the suicidal impulse I felt. I recognize intellectually that she's correct. Lately I also think that to fail to recognize my achievements (personal and professional) really reveals a lack of reverence for the abilities I was given, in spite of everything.

No doubt about it, I'm deeply flawed and those flaws have sometimes resulted in people being hurt. I'm so very sorry about that. On the other hand, I was born with the ability to recognize the madness surrounding me and with the determination to free myself from it. People who know something about me always seem to believe that I had something to do with this outcome. It's my contention that I basically hit the genetic jackpot. I arrived in the world with abilities that so many other people (who have not fared as well as I) don't have. That is the reason I am able to reach out to others with compassion, the reason I hold myself to the highest standards, the reason I'm able to find positive aspects of terrible circumstances.

I like to think that I'm finding a new definition of success. That definition embraces the great struggles of my life. The people I once knew are, without a doubt, more professionally successful that I, and maybe they're more successful in their personal lives, too. That's impossible to discern. For me, in spite of everything, I have managed to love people. In spite of everything, I can still laugh...even at myself. In spite of everything, I am able to comfort others who are suffering. That's the beginning of a new vision.

Sexual Abuse, Again

"I am circling around God, the ancient tower,
and I have been circling for a thousand years,
and I still don't know if I am a falcon, or a storm,
or a great song."

-Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Robert Bly

Well it's a very scattered day today. I'm helping to answer the phone here because Karen left this morning. Hmmm....seems to be a recurring pattern here, but no one wants to actually confront the issue. I could, of course, but I won't. When Karen started using the corporate credit card to buy food, gifts, get her car fixed. etc., no one ever said anything to her about it.
She was sent an email revoking her credit card privileges, but that was it. Can you believe that? She would have been in my office the moment I found out about it and we would have had a very serious discussion. This company is like a riderless horse.

I saw my psychiatrist today...just the usual check the meds kind of visit. I've been feeling like a slacker lately since I cut back on my (previously) rigorous workout schedule. It's a little ironic that the reason I finally started limiting my workouts was because she told me a couple of visits ago that I could wind up with congestive heart failure. Then Becky died about six months later of heart failure. Her death has kept me vigilant about giving in to my need for overwork. I told her that I hadn't gone back to my old schedule of an hour a day, five days a week, but I decided to eliminate some more food items from my diet.

She suggested that I might be obsessing about body issues in order to distract myself from some more difficult issue. Wonder what that might be. I'm willing to accept that explanation, but there are so many ways in which I don't meet my own expectations that I don't really even know where to begin. Maybe it's related to the sexual abuse I started to talk about, but then didn't because of Becky's death. Who the hell knows.

I'm certainly willing to acknowledge that I'm still angry about it and I haven't forgiven the perpetrator. (Well, there was a lot of sexual abuse in my life and certainly more than one perpetrator.) My therapist says that my emotions around those events are frozen in time, so when I start to think about it, I react the same way I did when I was five. I either dissociate or I'm overcome with anxiety. I think rage is one of those emotions I'm not all that comfortable feeling. This issue is certainly rage-inducing. I've been watching a trial on Court tv about a little girl who was sexually abused when she was three. I don't actually know when my own abuse started, but I know I was under the age of five because the time I remember when I attempted to escape from him occurred when I was five. I tried to persuade my father to not leave me with him, but got nowhere. Then, when everyone was gone, I tried to hide in the bathroom so he couldn't find me. Clearly, abuse had already happened prior to that time.

I do know that eating disorders are frequently caused (in part) by sexual abuse. I don't have an eating disorder, just strong tendencies. So maybe that's the issue. Fuck. I don't know. I won't see my therapist until Friday, so I guess I have till then to figure it out. Of course, now I've upset myself. I guess I'll just go back to work now and try to calm myself down.

Sexual Abuse

I have an opportunity tonight to attend a dharma talk by a Chan master from Houston. I'm not sure whether I'm going to go, mainly because I'm a little worn out today. The larger issue is one of discomfort with the idea of going someplace by myself. since my mother moved here, I haven't really gone many places alone--I'm usually with her or Hubby. It's funny in light of my long-standing preference for being alone. I think the talk will be attended mainly by Korean and Chinese students, so I wouldn't even have to interact with anyone...just show up and sit down. It's been a while since I've focused any attention on my spiritual studies.

Most recently, I've been reading a lengthy article about Ah-nold Schwarzenegger. Now there's a pretty scary guy. He apparently runs California almost exclusively by fiat. I also started a novel by Steven Wright called "Going Native." Very Pynchon-esque, but not quite as dense.

Last weekend I saw the documentary, "Capturing the Friedmans". I had tried to mentally prepare myself before watching it because I was afraid it would trigger sexual abuse flashbacks. I haven't had any problems, but I was surprised to find that many people who saw it didn't believe there had been any abuse committed...or that, if there was abuse going on, it was perpetrated only by the father. I'm almost certain that children were abused and that both father and son participated in it. I think the thing that makes it easy to believe the charges were false was the fact that some of the children had some pretty wild stories to tell. Perhaps all of the activities they related didn't in fact occur, but that doesn't mean that there was no abuse. The father was a pedophile--there's absolutely no doubt about that. People who aren't pedophiles do not own kiddie porn. It's highly unlikely that a pedophile would create many opportunities to be with little boys (in this case) and have the self-control to not abuse.

As for the son, I do believe he was abused by his father. As a matter of fact, I'd be surprised if all the sons weren't abused. Again, that's a very unlikely scenario. There was an extraordinarily high level of denial going on with all of the family members. It could be that the other sons could only cope with it by blocking out the memory. That's certainly what seems to have happened with the perpetrator's brother, who was sexually asssaulted when he was a little boy. We know this is true because Friedman the elder confessed to it. I also think the fact that David, the eldest, made a career of being a clown for children's birthday parties speaks to the likelihood that he was abused, too. As for the third son, there was not enough information to guess one way or the other.

watching Jesse (the son who participated in the abuse) talk about the entire situation convinced me of his guilt. As you know, I see child abusers around every corner and I recognize my propensity to think the worst of people when sexual abuse allegations are levelled. Nonetheless, that doesn't mean that my judgment in these cases is incorrect.

As for my own sexual abuse issues, i haven't spoken with my therapist about it in a month or so. The week before Becky died we had begun to discuss the issue because I was having flashbacks then. I can't always tell what triggers them and I don't recall right now whether I knew then. I've spoken of the abuse to so many people, both therapists and "counselors," that I pretty much believed there was nothing left to say. Therapist pointed out to me that much of that talking was useless at best and very harmful at worst.

The first person I ever really talked to about it was my high school guidance counsellor. just thinking about that makes me angry to this day. as I would talk about it (and the other more bizarre elements of my childhood) to her, I could see a voyeuristic pleasure she got out of hearing it. To make matters worse, her only advice to me was to lay my problems at Jesus' feet. You can not imagine how contemptuous of her I was. It still makes me angry.

The second time I talked about it at length was with a psychologist when I was in college. I ended up seeing a male psychologist, which was definitely not in my best interests. As a matter of fact, I have refused to see any male mental health providers ever since. The guy in college wanted me to give him the particulars and I believe I did so to whatever extent I was capable. So much of it is unavailable to me because when it happened, I dissociated so effectively that I really wasn't present for much of it. At the end of every session, he wanted to hug me. I didn't really feel that I had much of a choice, even though in retrospect it's clear that was, in itself, abusive. I think I've reached the limit of my tolerance for thinking about it.

The Jamie Saga, Part 2

Jamie told me that his most recent girlfriend had been living in California, which is where he lived when they met. Details were a little sketchy about that relationship, but he told me he decided to end the affair because she was unable to have children. He said she'd phoned a couple of weeks prior to our lunch and informed him she'd be coming to the city that weekend (the weekend of the lunch date). He said she might well be there when he got home. Jamie seemed to bitterly resent the fact that she sold her house in California and made a profit. Once again, I was amazed and baffled.

I told him Kenyon called me to let me know you died and how much I appreciated the fact that calling me with that news was very brave and very kind. Jamie asked if Kenyon knew Bill wasn't his father. Bill knew he wasn't the father, I told him, but I'd never asked about Kenyon. I just naturally assumed he knew because I can't imagine you withholding that information. The fact that Jamie was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis must have reminded you of the necessity for telling Kenyon. Anyway, I said I decided a long time ago that if you wished for me to know, you'd tell me. Jamie said he has no interest in taking a role in Kenyon's life. He acknowledged that Bill raised Kenyon and, therefore, he really has no right to intrude into that relationship. He also asked me to contact him should Kenyon ever ask me about his birth father. I agreed to his request, knowing that scenario is highly unlikely.

At that point, lunch was over and, since Jamie didn't express any interest in how things are going for me, it was definitely time to leave. I said I'd get in touch with him if i was able to find a job that seemed right for him. (I'm still interested in doing that, but I'll be damned if I can figure out what he's qualified for.) He glumly requested that i call him sometime. Another disconnect. What the hell is that about? Furthermore, I can't imagine why I'd wish to spend another couple of hours listening to him complain.

On a more positive note, I looked fabulous. I know this is shallow, but I work very hard to maintain myself. In fact, I sometimes wish I could just send some photos of my butt around to all of my former boyfriends. It looks much better than it did when I was 20. I hope he passed that info on to E.U. Jamie is about as close to him as I care to get. I don't think I'm really ready to get together with any of the men I slept with 30 years ago. Don't you think that would be just too weird?

Enough already. Please know that I tried to do what I thought you'd wish. Jamie wondered how I might find out whether you had a chance to tell Kenyon about him. I have absolutely no intention of pursuing that information. I can't imagine anything more destructive.

Quote of the day:
“One can have no smaller or greater mastery than mastery of oneself.” Leonardo daVinci