Domestic Abuse,

I find there to be Irony in the fact that people know when they are wrong and still continue on a journey of dysfunction. I really don't have memories of my mother before the age of ten. I have seen pictures of her, but I don't relate to the woman. I do remember that her eyes gave away her emotions and that when she knew it was going to be bad, she would say to my eldest sister get the children out of here they don't need to see this. I guess that is why we spent a lot of time down by the river or in the city park.

My father had tape recorded his memories as far back as the death of first child. When he passed away my sister held on to the tapes. She called me troubled and rambling. I said why would you want to listen to them, when we lived them. Let it go! She is not one to let much of anything go. My parents weren't drinkers, my mother would have a social drink maybe once a year. Her vice was condoned, it was medical prescriptions. A rather bizarre situation as my father was extremely violent with the children and my mother with him. Some kind of off the wall circle that encouraged viscous and uncontrollable behavior between them.

Looking back as an adult I now understand more about the social sins of mental health. The time in which they lived and how little is known about the deprivation of the brain and its need for a source of nutrition, health and well being.

Some stories were repeated over and over so many times, between strangers, newspapers and my father, that what we didn't witness we felt we did. Sometimes we saw the blood,sometimes not but the fall out was always there. There is no condoning such violence and as I tell my sister to let it go, I don't ask her to forget but to blow it in the wind, is to free her soul.

I am not actually sure what set it off all the episodes. There was a blend of issues, depression, health and that led to financial as well as personal problems. Suicide was an almost acceptable alternative when you didn't know what to do. My grandfather had succeeded in taking his life,my mother had made many attempts without success and following in their footsteps was my only brother who or more than once had his stomach pumped.

Noise blocking out noise, that is what allowed me to sleep, to this day I need noise to block out noise so I can rest. My father looked down on me as the weak link, I think he didn't beat me because he didn't want to. He was afraid that I would be the mouth piece that would reveal the horrid stories of abuse to children and adults alike. Literally not able to stop shaking from a very young age on, it raised a red flag, Sent to the doctors they were told to bring some kind of normalcy to the home. When all that could be done was I was sent to a private school where I spent seven years. These seven years were a time of healing and though separate much of the time from my siblings I was able to experience a world outside of the daily dysfunction.

I was certain there wasn't any good which would come from reliving the stories but as I see it, there is a certain amount of baggage that needs to be tossed out. Not only is it to help in the final healing process, but also to acknowledge and reveal the hidden secrets of an abusive family.

My mother was seventeen her father had asphyxiated himself by allowing the exhaust into the car. She never truly dealt with the death of her father. She blamed her mother for his death, because she had asked him for a divorce. Though several stories surfaced, a few that he was going deaf and his health was ill. My mother was never really clear on where he was emotionally obviously he was depressed, alone and separated from my grandmother. My mothers closeness with her father left scars on her soul.

It was world war two and many of the young girls wrote letters to the soldiers, my mother wrote to several of the men, my father would be one of them. An attractive young woman my mother dropped out of school in her senior year. She took several jobs as secretary, waitress and in a toy factory. My father had become smitten with her and as the war was coming to and end a new war one on the home front would begin.

When Children Cry

To My Dear Friend, Butterflies are Free!

Fear the tool of the abuser

Fear_a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid.

In most abusive situations the tool of fear is used to retain, control, undermine, set the seed of insecurity, over the top discipline, domination and manipulation. Is this a pack like trait that humans have not quite evolved away from? I believe most abusers know they are abusing and they know it is unacceptable to the main stream of society. So goes the old adage " what goes on in the home stays in the home."

There was such a anxiety when it came to strangers. We weren't allowed visitors nor friends in our home. The phone was off limits and in many ways the seeds of fear were deeply ingrained. My father was very aware that our home life was far from the norm and in today's standards
he would have been imprisoned. It wasn't that at times, red flags weren't there , they were. My youngest sister and I were in a private school, it was the early seventy's a very transitional time in history. My youngest sister wasn't flourishing, she rebelled in violent and socially unacceptable way. School was aware something was wrong, seriously wrong.. A letter was sent home asking permission for her to talk with a school appointed psychologist. That was one hellish day at our house of course my parents refused to sign the papers and In turn pulled her out of the school and placed her in the public school system. In the public school system she had gone unnoticed. She dropped out of main stream school and was placed in a alternative learning environment. Sixteen she was on her own, and learning more about the streets then any teenager needs to. The bullet scars in her leg, measures little to the scars to her spirit. She became cold and distant. She fulfilled mothers predestined view of her and became self destructive, drugs, alcohol, prostitution and very ugly inside and hateful. She soon learned to manipulate and gain status, but the scars of hell can not be cleansed from her soul.

We lost contact for many years as her life spiraled downward. There was a point where the sister bond was crossed, as you had to begin to look out for .

Abuse

In a domestic war, the battle is the sin and there are no winners!

The fall from Grace..

Not one for watching television, and still you can’t get around the media circus over Britney Spears and Anna Nicole Smith. Everywhere you go grocery stores, shops etc people are talking about them. Is it that we like to point fingers at those who have more and fall from grace? The old adage” we all put our pants on one leg at a time.” or is it “curiosity killed the cat?”


Trying to get the facts for my own childhood, I glanced over a few articles my sister had saved. For my brother and sisters, life for them seem pretty perfect, at first that is. We came from what seemed from the outside a fairly average family. But life was going to take a drastic change. My mother had quite the princess lifestyle. The only little girl in a rather large extended family, she had everything she ever wanted. In the era it was unheard of supermarkets and malls, everything was little shops.My grandmother owned her own Beauty shop. Grandfather was a music professor and my great grand parents owned the groceries stores that were so common to the city. Educated an attractive her life seemed almost perfect, until that is her father took his life, her world came crashing down around her. She was daddies little girl, the stories circulating varied. Some say he couldn’t deal with the fact that he was going deaf , a musician without hearing. Others said that he didn’t deal well with my grandmother asking for a divorce in a time when divorce was uncommon and unheard of . Either way it was devastating. Unstable and not dealing well with the loss of her father, she married far to young. Even worse she married a man from the wrong side of tracks. At first family extended a hand out, and they
pulled some strings to get him employed with a great company making a very comfortable wage for the times.
New home, new husband, new life and then came four children. The stories vary to some degree depending on who your talking to. My mother went about living the lifestyle she was accustomed to, She shopped only the finest boutiques, and her children dressed in the best of clothes. It was all about image, to the outside it was perfect.There was more going on as they say “ then meets the eye.” My father became ill, not manly to be ill,he didn’t go for medical help, instead he allowed a infection to get into his blood stream, one that would nearly kill him. He didn't recuperate very quickly and didn’t get back to work. Mother went on as if nothing
happen the children in dance classes , shopping for the best , a new car, life as usual. They used what savings they had to pay the bills and as my mother said" I thought he would make it back to work sooner." It didn’t quite happen that fast, taxes , utilities and store credit cards were mounting. She picked up some work secretarial and even went into a factory for awhile. But the pressures were mounting, Dr. prescribed drugs just complicated life, uppers, downers and something in between.

I was two years old and my sisters eight , ten and my brother twelve, when my mother in a very public display attempted suicide. She broke her back and was hospitalized for quite a long time after that, my eldest sister had become really the only mother I knew, what little visions I can remember were of her pushing me in a stroller and holding me. Ah... they grew up quickly as their childhood life shattered., ridicule from other children, the struggles that came with children raising children.

My father eventually made it back to work and I remember as a adult asking why he didn’t stay working he had children that to needed to fed, he said it was difficult with the other men, his pride had gotten in the way. What did he think was going on for his own children,had he not visioned his own childrens plight, what they were enduring in school etc.

Strict he was and the house was perfect, the eldest sister worked washing clothes by hand , ironing , cooking cleaning, she became a little adult. My brother did everything possible to make a few dollars to pay the corner store grocery bill from picking up odd jobs to penny pitching. I use to love to watch him penny pitch, he became so good that he could make a few dollars in one till and that bought a lot of milk and bread.
For me many of the memories from the years of ten and under are muddled, I think I have unconsciously blocked many of the extreme and violent ones out. Occasionally a word, a place, a conversation would evoke a thought and like a flash, a chapter would open.

The last frontier...

I was asked if writing about the skeletons in the closet and hellish conditions of the world was a way of purging myself, cleansing the soul, revenge or in away therapeutic.None of the above is even close to the truth. Reviewing my own personal childhood history and the ills that are presently taking place in the world is far from therapeutic. I am a strong believer that moving forward is very healing and a sense of complete inner strength. That to remain in the past is stagnant at best.
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In my travels I have spoken with many people, more so I have listened to many people. Each person had a story to tell of their own personal hell that they were combating. One particular woman stood out in my mind, she told me of the abuse she endured and the hell and fear that still subside within her. After a good period of time, she made eye contact with me and
placed a red rose in my hand, she said “you won’t forget me, will you?” I have not forgotten.
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From that time on I did a few things which I thought were help, I ran a race for mental health, I donated 50% of my earnings to domestic abuse and yet a emptiness of achievement for what little I might have accomplished in helping our brother and sisters of the world.
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Time went on and people contacted me from places as far as Australia and other varied countries through out our great world. They said we have abuse here too. I said I am sure you do. My goal in removing the “ skeletons from the closet” is to educate and remove the stigma attached to that which we have little understanding of, “the weakness of the mind.”
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Lately dwelling on the negativity has been a great drain on my spirit and has placed a great heaviness on my heart. I will continue to try and reach out to as many people and to educate, touch and and heal hearts. But I will posting less frequently, as my mind heart and soul need a chance to separate from the evils of the world and explore a more balanced reality. I walk with no shudders around the eyes, I am well aware, that it is rare a family who is not touched by drugs, alcohol and abuse.
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The media makes a 3 ring circus of human weakness and the rich and famous and those of Hollywood only go to prove how common we all are. For the mind is the last true frontier....
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I will continue to look forward to your comments and emails and thank those who take the time to relate and try to understand. We are all very vulnerable and at any time we could meet up with strangers violence upon stranger, domestic abuse, hardship, sickness, mental health issues as well as abuse of drugs. Shame should not be in holding oneself responsible, shame should be in denial.

Violence

When Hell Comes to Visit

To those people who are not instinctively violent, there is a curiosity to what causes a person to step over the line and become the perpetrator of violence. The spawn of evil that is like a wild seed blowing in the wind, spreading dangerously throughout our communities. Unfortunately there is not one cause, and so to annihilate the problem, is complicated. As I have looked into the eyes of violence from early childhood on, I saw that evil was not choosy as to whom it chose to carry out the dark side of humanity.

It could simply be a genetic weakness, drug and alcohol related, or the even more complicated to decipher, mental illness. I have witnessed extreme violence several times through out my life, each came with a very distinctive set of circumstances. The first time it fell under domestic abuse, and I believe alcohol and drugs played a large part in edging on the violent behavior. You never become numb to scenes of violence, I believe you become more aware. The repeated behavior taught children how to live under the control of fear. It also teaches a person how to read others attempted actions through the eyes.
Inner city living came with its own set of rules, fear, lessons, pains and confusion. As violence in the city escalated, I witnessed another type of violence. Stranger upon stranger. Here I was in a city gift shop as I looked into the gunmen's eyes. All I can say is that I knew, he knew, I knew, no humor in that. Our eyes locked and I saw his desperation, I saw his fear, I didn’t necessarily see hatred in his eyes. He allowed me to walk out of that store, as he pulled the gun on the store clerk. I saw that hell walked many a path. It's not that evil goes through stages of morphing that we cannot not always identify it, it's that if effects so many people in so many ways.
Which brings me again to standing at the gates of hell. This time it fell to close to home. I could sense at this moment anger, here we had a situation with no drugs, no alcohol, no evidence of mental illness, yet the breakdown of one human who had inadequate sleep and food and was hell bent on expressing his anger and hatred by wailing a gun through the air, no particular reason, no particular day, just stepping on the edge of insanity.
There are so many ways that evil makes its way into peoples live, that it is impossible to identify them all, who will be the next perpetrator or the next victim? The motives are endless, we have greed, hatred, revenge, sickness, desperation and the list goes on. Can we isolate the gene that might promote violent behavior, the weak gene, or should we? This dark characteristic side of humanity.