Shifting the Blame or Avoiding Responsibility

Another characteristic of abusers is denial of responsibility. The abuser actively and constantly attempts to shift the blame for their actions or thoughts, from themselves to others. Abusers are unwilling to accept responsibility for their actions.

They minimize their actions and the aftermath. When I confronted my evil step-father Dick (by letter) about his abusive ways during my childhood (I didn’t have the courage to truthfully and concisely discuss the abuse, so my accusations were somewhat vague), he wrote back that he had “bittersweet” memories too.

Abusers claim others “made them do it” or “made them mad”. Dick was constantly talking to me about girls who were loose based on their appearance and walk. He made it clear that kind of girl deserved whatever she got. And all women are alike, so they all deserved maltreatment.

Abusers are rarely remorseful. Dick seemed quite uncomfortable with any show of emotion, except anger. I was encouraged to be angry with my siblings. When I was laughing or smiling, his demand was, “Why are you smiling?” When he didn’t approve of the emotion showing on my face, it was “Wipe that look off your face!” When I cried, he’d mock me or spank me longer. When I was bleeding due to an injury and crying, Dick threatened to let me bleed to death if I didn’t stop crying. I learned to deny my feelings for so long that eventually I couldn’t even recognize my feelings.

The abuser tries to make the victim feel responsible.

The victim is often expected to meet needs which are not their responsibility and often beyond their ability.  I never did anything to Dick’s satisfaction, my best efforts were always lacking. 

Once abusers are successful at making their victims feel responsible, the victims carry around an overwhelming sense of shame which makes them feel worthless. The abuser can then use that shame to manipulate and control the victim.

Often, other family members encourage lying or denial in dealing with the abuser; which reinforces to child victims that the abuser is somehow justified. When a victim tries to tell an authority figure about the abuse and is either not believed or encouraged to keep it a secret, they are led to believe they are somehow culpable for the abuse.

This is what the Bible says God feels about blame-shifting and the treatment of victims:

“Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent – the LORD detests them both.”                         Proverbs 17:15

My Experience with ADHD

I was gifted this amazing little boy from God.  His name is Fergus.  He has these amazing eyes, the color of almonds.  The sparkle with mischief and gleam with intelligence.  He is full of compassion for others and he’s curious about everything.  He doesn’t stop moving but he’s capable of slipping into super, super slow-motion when someone is waiting. 

For his first 4 1/2 years, it was just he and I.  Experiencing the world through his eyes with fresh curiosity and amazement was like a rebirth of sorts.  I didn’t have a radio in my car, so anytime we drove anywhere (which was often); we talked.  We talked like two adults.  Fergus had a very large vocabulary and an inquisitive mind when he started school. 

We didn’t have a lot of behavior problems prior to school.  He went through a biting phase and gave himself a concussion when he fell off the coat hook he was hanging on. 

His “behavior” problems started when he started school and my take on it is the schools had and have an expectation problem.  It is unreasonable to expect children as young as three years old to sit still, pay attention and behave perfectly for hours on end.  My opinion is that it’s unnatural.  Preschool was a nightmare. 

His Kindergarten teach was an amazing, loving and creative woman.  She called me to tell me he’d had a good day and I burst into tears of relief and joy.  She gave him a carpet square to use as an island and the classroom carpet was an ocean he couldn’t go into without drowning or being eaten by sharks.  It kept him from moving around her classroom and putting his hands on the other children. 

Fergus has always been a loyal person.  If you were his friend, he took that seriously and defended you if he deemed it necessary.  Which is how I got a phone call telling me he’d pushed another child off the top of the school’s playground slide.  That child had pushed his friend, so Fergus pushed him.  Off the slide.  Onto the ground, breaking the child’s backpack strap (when he tried and failed to catch him) but not injuring the child (thank God!).  I offered to pay for the backpack.

I took Fergus in to a mental health professional to be evaluated and he was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), which I’d never heard of previously.  I tend to question things and I seek out knowledge and proof.  I went to my local library and read everything they had on ADHD and ADD. 

As I read, I realized my son was being described and I was devastated that my perfect child wasn’t perfect.  Moreover, to my surprise, I realized that I fit the description even more readily than my child!  At the time, they believed there was a genetic component but it hadn’t been proved yet.  I’m convinced it’s genetic. 

Throughout the years, Fergus’ teachers would go on and on about how polite and likable he was.  Then, they started with the buts.  He can’t hold still.  He’s always touching others.  He doesn’t pay attention in class.  He doesn’t turn in his assignments.  He distracts the other students. 

Over the years, I’ve become convinced that ADHD and ADD run rampant in my family.  My mother and father both have associated behaviors.  Most of my siblings have characteristics of it.  Both of my sons have it.  Fergus has ADHD and Samson has Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), which is basically the thought problems without the hyperactive movements. 

I’ve never been diagnosed and I learned some great coping skills as a child.  Fergus had to be medicated before he was able to realize any kind of scholastic (behaviorally) success. 

All of the books I’d read told me not to expect a miracle pill, so I didn’t.  Imagine my surprise and sorrow when we switched medications and found a combination with dramatic results.  One after another, at the next parent-teacher conference; Fergus’ teachers remarked on what a difference there was in his behaviors.  It was PFM (Pure Fucking Magic).

At this point, I don’t think having ADHD is going to negatively affect my life. 

Evidence in a Toy Box

I was active duty Air Force and worked in the Education Office. One of my duties was to collect tuition assistance from students who didn’t successfully pass their classes. This required my interaction with other support staff across the base. One of the airmen I interacted with was Jedidiah Day Jones. I loved having to call him up. He had the sexiest voice. We flirted a bit.

One day, I was at my desk working when I heard a voice. Oh my. I knew that voice. It was Jedidiah. He was not nearly as sexy looking as he was sounding. We talked for a while and he asked me out. I accepted. We dated a bit and got along well. He seemed to like my son. I was still heartbroken over my last failed marriage. I didn’t want a really good-looking man who would cheat on me. I was okay with liking someone and having it grow into love.

I was honest with him. I told him I wanted to have another child when I was 25 years old because I didn’t want my son Fergus to be an only child. He asked me to marry him and I said yes. He told me he wanted to be a father and for us to be a family. We went to Las Vegas and got married at the Little White Chapel. He told me to stop taking my birth control pills. I asked him if he was sure because as soon as I stopped them, I would become pregnant. I was that fertile. He said yes. Three times.

(That’s right people, we had the same conversation about having another child … count them … three times. Every time, he said he was ready for us to get pregnant and have a child together.)

We got married, got a ticket for a burnt-out headlight on the way home, he moved in with me and we were pregnant three days later. I told him I was pregnant, and he said, “I’m not ready to be a dad.” What the????

The next several months were an emotional roller coaster in a Hell-inspired theme park. He started sleeping on the couch. He drank every leftover dime up. His car was broken down and he expected me to pay to fix it. He stole my son’s birthday money. He got drunk at a house party we threw and tried to drive away in my car, I threw my keys into the neighbors darkened yard. He got angry and left. He moved out. He moved in. He moved out. He cheated on me with a coworker of his who was short and quite plump. I was angry he cheated on me with someone less attractive than I. He moved in. He got angry and wanted to move out again and his best friend who was also a long-time acquaintance of mine told him he was being ridiculous, and he would only move him one more time. He moved out. He tried to take things that were mine before he came into my life. He took back gifts he’d given me. He threatened to take my unborn child.

I panicked. I lied. I told him the baby wasn’t his.

Later I told him the truth, but it was too late. He grabbed hold of that lie and ran with it. He said he wanted a DNA test. I agreed to allow it but refused to pay for it. I told him it was physically impossible for anyone else to have fathered my child.

He told me he was going to ask for full custody and that he was only going to agree to pay $65 a month in child support. He wrote a letter and left it in my son’s toybox stating he was being tempted by Satan to kick or hit me in the stomach, so I’d lose our baby. I still have that letter 28 years later. I used it to ask for supervised visitation after our child was born because it proved he was considering harming our child.

Blaming the Child Victim

Something I struggle with nearly every day is the belief that I’m not enough, that I’m defective, that I’m responsible for every bad thing in my life and the lives of everyone else.

Intellectually, I know it’s not my fault there’s a war in Syria or racism or a myriad of other evils but the soul damage I suffered at the hands of my evil step-father Dick has caused what seems to be permanent damage (unless God decides to miraculously remove it).

Ironically, I even feel like it’s my fault I can’t figure out how to overcome the belief that I’m to blame; this is a perfect example of my “stinking thinking”.

As I read “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy, my dilemma was explained at long last.

Abusers blame their victims. My step-father believed everything was my fault and told me so every day of my childhood.

I believed the abuse was my fault. I believed it happened because I wasn’t good enough. I believed that if I was good enough, my evil step-father Dick would finally approve of and love me. I believed that I had the power to stop the abuse if I was just good enough. The abuse didn’t stop until I moved away as a young adult. I was never good enough in Dick’s eyes.

Rather than conclude that a parent is wrong or evil, children decide they must be bad and at fault for their parent’s abuse.

Children come to believe they deserve the abuse.

My reaction is common among victims of child abuse. They falsely believe the parent is good and they are bad. They believe their own bad behavior brought on the abuse and they can stop the abuse by being good. This gives them a sense of hope and power. They hold on to this belief tenaciously.

I had requested counseling because I thought I had a sexual dysfunction. We discussed the sexual abuse I suffered as a child in the broadest terms. The counselor asked if I felt ashamed of what had happened, and I burst into tears. Of course, I did, and I thought it was because some of it felt good to a child. Sexual touch was designed by God to feel good and it’s good for us when done within the boundaries of God’s plan for us. Now, I understand it was also because my evil step-father Dick had blamed me as a child, and I believed him.

I was attending Celebrate Recovery meetings for abuse survivors in Washington State. The first meeting, the facilitator stated if anyone was abused as a child, they were NOT to blame. I cried as if I was a child again. I needed to hear that so badly and didn’t even know it.

I would love to leave this habit I have of blaming myself for anything that goes wrong behind; however, I’m certain I’m not capable of leaving this shortcoming behind on my own. I’m totally willing to let God remove it from my life. I’m also totally okay with having God use this about me to help another person who has survived childhood abuse. What man intended for my harm, God will put to good use.

“You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives.”     Genesis 50:20

Moving to Humboldt County

My son Fergus told me that he was moving to California with his girlfriend Joanna and my granddaughters. Joanna’s parents were offering to help set them up and Fergus would be able to work in their business.

Joanna’s mother hated Fergus so much she chose not to attend the birth of her second granddaughter because Fergus was there. Mrs. Hope had been working in property management in the same state we lived in but her husband had told her she needed to retire and return to their home in Humboldt County. He insisted.

Mrs. Hope had met her husband while he was a pastor and still married to his first wife. He left wife number one to marry Mrs. Hope.

I begged Fergus to reconsider when he told me her parents were illegal drug farmers in Humboldt County and had work for himself and his girlfriend, their daughter Joanna. I pointed out that the business is not only illegal but highly dangerous. I asked him if he realized he’d be in California away from his own family supports and surrounded by her large family. Fergus told me they would make a lot of money, enough to support their family and moved.

I’ve disagreed with marijuana criminalization since I’ve been an adult; however, illegal is illegal, and I don’t condone breaking the law. My biggest concern was the inherent danger involved. Humboldt County has the largest number of missing persons reported out of all California counties.

Fergus and Joanna claimed they would make good money working for her parents; however, they’re all broke. They started off living in a decent little home, which was older but charming. Fergus and Joanna seemed to bounce between being flush with cash or completely broke. They asked me for financial assistance on more than one occasion. I eventually stopped making loans to them when they didn’t pay them back.

They had to leave the house they were staying in when $100,000 was stolen from them in a drug deal gone bad. They had to move from their modest home into a travel trailer with their four children.

Joanna continued to work as a drug mule for her parents, taking their product across state lines. At this time, she may be unable to do this for them since she has suffered some mental health issues related to illegal drug use. Fergus is no longer involved in this business.

I don’t understand how parents can ask their child to do something illegal, which if caught could get her prison time. If you love your child, don’t you do everything possible to keep them safe? I understand they’re adults, but it’s hard to say no to your parents even if you’re grown. How can Christian parents raise their children to lie, cheat and break the law? This is not the fruit the bible says true Christians will exhibit.

I realize this is hearsay and there’s probably a lot I don’t know. This account is what I believe happened.

My Firstborn

I went to the doctor on base because I kept having stomach pains.  He asked if I could be pregnant.  I said I could but it’s not likely.  He diagnosed an ulcer and prescribed a liquid.  The pain got worse so I went back.  The female doctor asked if I could be pregnant.  I said I could but it’s not likely.  She did a pregnancy test and called me with the results. 

Doctor:  “You’re pregnant.”

Me:  “No, I’m not.”

Doctor:  “Yes, you are.”

Me:  “No, I’m not.”

Doctor:  “Yes, you are.”

Me: 

I was not expecting to be pregnant.  I’d had sex once recently.  I was at a place where I disliked men and believed I was so broken from past abuse that I’d be a horrible mother.  I’d been reading and knew that victims of child abuse often become abusers themselves.  I didn’t want to hurt an innocent child.  So, I scheduled an appointment for an abortion and that clinic is the only place that offered me a military discount. 

My brother Adam argued that I’d be a good mom.  He said I’d been a great older sister and I could use those same tools with my own child.  He assured me I’d be nothing like my step-father Dick. 

I decided to carry the baby full-term and once I’d made that decision, I knew I’d raise the child myself.

I had morning sickness bad!  Bananas made me hurl.  I’d be sick, sick, sick and then a window of opportunity would open.

I ate and ate and ate and ate.  I would go to the chow hall for breakfast and load my plate with a little bit of everything:  pancakes, eggs, grits, bacon, sausage, and potatoes.  Then, I’d pour a little catsup on the potatoes and pour syrup over everything.  Salt and pepper to top it off.  I ate every morsel. 

For most of my pregnancy I referred to my baby as she.  I had the name Jewel Sue picked out.  About a month prior to my due date, I started referring to the baby as he and I didn’t even notice; a coworker pointed it out.  I said, yeah, it’s a boy. 

It was two weeks prior to my due date: my neighbor invited me over for dinner.  She had made steak, potatoes, and carrots.  Yum!  I ate it all.  We decided to go get ice cream for dessert.  I ordered a banana split and finished every drop. 

We went home and my contractions began.  My neighbor took me to the hospital.  They tried to send me home because I was early and it was my first.  I refused to leave.  I walked the halls.  My labor kept progressing.  I began vomiting one layer of food at a time, in reverse order:  ice cream, potatoes, carrots and meat.

I had previously stated I wanted to have my baby naturally, without painkillers.  Whoo boy!  The pain was intense and I begged for drugs but the nurse wouldn’t give me any. 

I was terrified I was going to die (my mom had a kidney issue and didn’t come home right away when my brother was born) and blurted out I hadn’t signed my will. 

The doctor finally arrived and asked the nurse if my waters had broke.  The nurse asked me, I told her they didn’t before they put me on the bed but after that, I didn’t know.  They checked, not broken.  The doctor put a hook like device inside, twisted and pulled, whoosh! 

My baby immediately dropped into the birth canal and began to make his appearance.  The doctor ordered painkillers.  Out popped my baby boy and he was beautiful.  They said he had baby pneumonia from breathing in the meconium.  I thought meconium had potential for a name.  Then they had me push out the placenta.  It was gorgeous with all these iridescent colors shot through it. 

I slept.  I slept for 5 hours.  I woke up and was a bit panicked:  where was my baby?

He was asleep too.  He woke up a little bit later and I nursed him.  He was perfect:  ten incredibly skinny and long fingers and toes, big feet, a full head of big, brown curls on his head.

He was in the hospital for 5 days because he had aspirated his meconium and was jaundiced.  I learned to swaddle him and change his diaper.  He latched on and ate with an appetite. 

I named him Fergus Anthony Reed and we began a lifelong relationship which I have NEVER regretted.

A year after I gave birth, I weighed 97 pounds and was 18 pounds less than when I got pregnant with him.  I should weigh at least 115:  I ate and ate and ate but he ate more than I could take in.   

She Was a Doozy!

Where to begin?

I’ve had many jobs: babysitting, Dairy Queen, gas station, McDonald’s, county treasurer’s office, yogurt shop, Army National Guard, convenience store, Montgomery Ward, regular Air Force, bagging groceries, waitressing, and a major insurance company. I stayed at the insurance company 19 years. I left because I was returning to my hometown to marry and it wasn’t possible to transfer.

I’ve never been fired from a job. I’ve always exceeded the expectations of my supervisors. I’ve had many, many supervisors. Some were great, some weren’t. I figured out what each of them wanted and how to get along with all of them. Except one. The last one. Oh, and she was a doozy!

Her name is Shenehneh Booker. She’s a beautiful, intense, opinionated, vocal, intelligent, passionate woman. She spent the first year telling me what to do, do this, do that, do this, do that. Yes, I was learning how to do things, but I had no understanding of why I was doing it or how it fit into the grand scheme of what we were supposed to be doing. Protecting children.

I’m passionate about children. They are vulnerable and should be protected. They are our future. I was a child once and no one saved me from my step-father Dick. I wish someone had. I’ve been wanting to do something like this since my early 20s.

She seemed to enjoy making other people look small. She would reprimand and ridicule people in public. She would call you into her office, shut the door, get so close your knees were almost touching, then tell you how angry she was about a mistake you’d made. She would tell you how no one was going to have your back if you made a mistake. She would come to your desk and berate you for not doing whatever was currently the thing she wanted from you most. Other people told me she called them stupid and told them they’d never succeed. Other people told me to beware. Other people told me she would choose a victim and then systematically ruin them. I chose to hope for the best.

I was disappointed.

She was the only person who complained about my efforts and my results. Every other person had nothing but positive notes and encouragement for me.

Too many children, not enough time. Too many time-sensitive criteria, not enough time. Too vague training, not enough time. Too many late reports, not enough time. Too many unasked questions, not enough time. Too little help and change, not enough time.

I often wondered if we were doing more harm than good. Sometimes it was evident that intervention was needed. The gray areas seemed to outnumber the black and white.

I would wake up in the middle of the night wondering if a particular child was okay or if I needed to do something more. I would wake up in the middle of the night with my stomach in knots and my heart in my throat; physically sick at the thought of what I had seen and what might happen next and that I had to get up in a few hours and do it all over again.

I had to do it. I believe God brought me to this position. I believe I was obedient to Him. I believe He taught me a lot about myself and others. I believe he put me in situations where I was able to love others on His behalf. I believe if I hadn’t done it, I’d always have regretted it and wished I’d had the opportunity.

All my childhood, I heard how stupid and ugly and worthless I was. I believed it. I spent most of my adulthood trying to heal myself. I couldn’t. I learned to trust God through a 12-step program. I’m surrendered to God. God has healed me. I have serenity, a full range of emotions, the ability to have a loving intimate relationship, healthy boundaries with my family and friend, hope and positivity, gratefulness, and joy.

I no longer live in denial.

Shenehneh is abusing her direct reports verbally and emotionally. She has created an unsafe work environment. She enjoys demeaning and hurting vulnerable adults. She provoked the same emotional and physical responses in me that I felt as a child being abused by my step-dad. She told me to take better emotional care of myself and mocked my recovery on one hand, while verbally attacking me on the other.

I lasted a year and a half, much longer than the average. I did my job to the best of my abilities and training. I treated everyone with respect. I treated myself with love, honesty, kindness, and respect. I did not allow another person’s actions to cause me to lower my personal standards.

No Picky Eaters Here

So, this mama doesn’t play the picky eater game. I didn’t learn to cook until after I got pregnant with my first child. I started off trying to eat well while I was pregnant with him and I began to try recipes in my own kitchen. When my baby Fergus was ready for food, I started making his baby food.

Easy really, don’t introduce too many new food items at a time because you want to be able to recognize and identify any food allergies. Second, don’t add spices as babies’ tummies aren’t ready yet.

As he got older, I tried more and more recipes. I didn’t want my child eating a bunch of pre-packaged stuff over which I had no control over its quality. Every time I tried something new, I required him to try one bite. That became my rule, if it’s the first time you’ve been offered it, try a bite. If you don’t like it, that’s fine, politely explain you don’t like it and you won’t be required to take more.

When my son was around five years old, the next-door neighbor and her husband separated and began divorce proceedings, they had a little girl who ran the roost. Her mother was always feeding her canned raviolis, and macaroni and cheese. Her mother said the little girl wouldn’t eat anything else. I suggested to Stormy (the little girl’s mother) that perhaps she should start implementing rules now, so her child didn’t grow to be a teen who didn’t think any rules applied to her. Stormy disagreed.

She asked me to babysit her child so she could go out on a date. I told her I’d love to watch her little girl and I explained I would not be fixing something special for her. I told Stormy I would serve her a plate of the same food I was feeding my son and if she didn’t eat it, that was her choice. Skipping one meal would not injure her child. She apparently didn’t believe me because she brought raviolis when she brought her daughter over.

When it was dinnertime, I placed a plate in front of her with a few bites of fish, some mashed potatoes, and some peas. She said she didn’t want it. She wanted raviolis. I explained I wasn’t going to make raviolis but there was a plate of food in front of her. I asked her to try the food. She refused. She cried for a while. I stood my ground. Eventually, she got hungry enough to try the food. Surprise! She liked it and asked for more, which I gave to her.

This is the avenue I’m taking with my nephews. They haven’t encountered a person who won’t fix them whatever they want. (Grandmas are allowed to feed their grandbabies anything they want.)

Don’t get me wrong, if I know you don’t like cilantro, I’m not going to add it to the meal I invite you over to share with me. I love to feed the people I love. I love to cater to them in a loving way. It’s my belief that it’s a good thing to try different foods and cuisines. Variety is the spice of life. All things in moderation.

Having said that, I’m kind of a picky eater. I don’t like cooked salmon, but I love salmon sushi. I don’t like Spam or brisket, too salty. I don’t care for the taste of lamb. I don’t like dove. I don’t like the texture or taste of steak. I don’t want to eat anything that looks like it did when it was alive, so no fish with the scales on and the eyeballs in. Eeeew! I like fish if it’s not too fishy. I don’t like mussels. I don’t care for the taste, smell or feel of chitterlings. I don’t care for eggplant, but I wish I did because they’re beautiful. I can’t stand Brussel sprouts, but cabbage is good: bok choy is even better. Black eyed peas taste like dirt.

Things I like include chicken and pork. Javalina is delicious when cooked right and it’s not that hard! I like deer that’s not too gamey and if it is, I just blend it with beef. Elk meat is delicious! I like rabbit and goose. Lobster soaked in butter in Boston is yummy. I love rockfish. I love potatoes, peas, carrots, green beans, beets and asparagus. Spinach and kale are yummy, but I can’t have much because I get kidney stones.

I’m so proud of my nephews. They are very opinionated about what they do and don’t like. They have been great sports about trying new dishes Aunt Maria offers them. Sometimes they take a bite and politely decline. Other times, they try it and ask for more and more.

A Piece of Western History

There is a small town within field trip range of the town I grew up in. It’s nestled in the hills and you must brave a narrow, windy road to get there. Okay, okay, there are two other directions you can approach from, which are not as scary as the twisty road one. However, the twisty road has the added benefit of having stone stairs that lead up one side of the road to a tiny pond with gold fish in it.

There was a mine in the area, not active when I was a child. In 1915, more than $10 million in gold was discovered by two miners. By the 1960s, the town was nearly a ghost town. It’s now a tourist attraction. There’s still a mine but it doesn’t run all the time; only when it makes economic sense to do so.

Wild burros roam the streets and you can purchase food to feed them. When I was younger, you could feed them carrots; however, they now have a type of diabetes and are only fed special pellets. When my youngest was just a few years old, we bought some carrots and were walking around town when a burrow attempted to take the carrots right out of the backpack he was carrying. The burros are descended from animals turned loose by prospectors. The animals are ranging further and further away; and they eat everything right down to the roots. They’re also dangerous to indigenous animals in the area. They also travel onto the highways and are struck by unsuspecting drivers. Local sportsmen are not allowed to hunt them.

I had to take my children to see this tourist town because it’s a part of my history and I’m part of its history. You see, the hotel has a second story which has been closed off to tourists because it’s no longer structurally sound; however, when I was in grade school, I visited this establishment and sent them a thank you note a few days later. My thank you was hung on the wall upstairs and the next handful of times I visited; there was my letter.

The hotel has cold, delicious sarsaparilla soda. The menu is all American and you can even get burro ears (homemade potato chips). The restaurant is always packed and there’s usually live music. There are dollar bills tacked to every available surface from thousands of diners over the years.

Today, when I visit, I like to have photos taken with my ass (my much-loved husband) and any family brave enough to join us.

What’s In a Name?

I’ve always been fascinated with names.

When I was a little girl, I went through a period of time when I asked my mom to call me by a different name each week. I love my name. It’s been a bit awkward through the years as people assume I’m Latina and a fluent Spanish speaker. This often occurs in telephone conversations. It happens less frequently in person as I’m not Latina and don’t look Latina.

I remember when my brother decided he needed to be called Doug instead of Dougie (his name is Douglas). It was a matter of him needing his name to match his level of maturity. It was hard to switch, but I worked at it diligently as I wanted to show him respect.

I remember another time teasing my little sister Rhonda about her middle name. She was named after our Aunt Ellen and at the moment we thought Aunt Ellen was mean for disciplining us. “Rhonda Ellen Jones, Rhonda Ellen Jones” we chanted again and again, while she pleaded for us to stop.

My mother and I share the same middle name, Sue. I love that I’m named after her. Today, I have a niece and a granddaughter who are also named after myself and my mom.

I’ve heard surnames I would change if they were mine: Roach, Hiscock (or any variation with cock in it), Peanisbreath, Butt, Goodenough, etcetera. I’ve also heard first names which made me think the person’s mother didn’t love them: at the top of that list is Vagina (pronounced Va.jean.uh…right).

Parents, be good to your kids before they even arrive, think through what you name them.  Think about the acronym the first letters of your child’s name will spell. If your last name is Smith, don’t name your baby girl Amanda Sue! Be careful, even a presidential name like Bush can become problematic when combined with the wrong first name, like Vagina!

When I was naming my sons, I wanted them to have choices. I chose unusual first names and common middle names, so they could decide what they preferred. My oldest went by Fergus until the first grade, then switched to Anthony, then back to Fergus when he enrolled in college, his Aunt Tammi still calls him Anthony.

Fergus helped me choose Samson’s middle name.  He was a Ninja Turtle fan, so he wanted Donatello.  We compromised with Donald.  Samson decided he wanted a completely different name altogether and began using a nickname his friends chose for him.

Names mean something.  Throughout the Bible the meanings of names are given and there are many times when a person’s name is changed after they make a fundamental change.  The bible says Christians will be given a white stone with a new name on it. I’m looking forward to it, as I believe it will mark a fundamental change in who I’m going to be for the rest of eternity.

“Whoever has ears, let them hear what the Spirit says to the churches. To the one who is victorious, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give that person a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to the one who receives it.”               Revelation 2:17

Dishing Some Dirt About Myself

I’m a gossip. A tittle-tattler. A meddler.

My definition of gossip is now talking about someone when that person is not present in the conversation. The intent of the person talking has no bearing on whether or not it’s gossip.

Something had to change.

I talked to God about it and confessed it as sin. I asked Him to help me stop since it was a lifetime habit and I didn’t even know how to begin to change. I talked to my sponsor and 12 step friends about it. After decades of gossip, I knew I couldn’t possibly locate and make amends to all the people I’d talked about behind their backs. I decided to focus on the people I was most likely to continue to gossip about or with.

This is how gossip, typically, played out in my life. I have a loving mother and three siblings she gave birth to in my life. My Mom is Peony. My brother is Adam. My sisters are Tammi and Rhonda. I have a plethora of extended family. Tammi and I would be at Peony’s and we would end up talking about problems Adam was facing and how he could resolve them. Adam wasn’t present. Rhonda and I would go out to lunch and end up talking about problems Mom was facing and how she could resolve them. Mom wasn’t present. Rarely did I go to the person for whom we were brainstorming solutions to share our ideas with them.

I spoke with Mom, Adam, Tammi, and Rhonda. I spoke with my sons, Fergus and Samson. I explained to each of them that I had realized I’m a gossip and I was determined to change. I confessed I had gossiped about each of them. I apologized for being disrespectful both in gossiping about them and in thinking I could solve their problems or even needed to solve them. I told them, going forward, I would not be speaking about them unless they’re present.

It was awkward at first. What do you talk about when you’ve always talked about other people you both know when you get together? Well, you eventually start talking about yourselves. You share more deeply than you ever have before if the person you’re talking to is someone you care about and are safe with. Some family members were offended. Some were hurt. Some were glad I’d finally figured this out about myself.

It is something I still struggle with a bit. Sometimes my unwillingness to gossip is viewed as disrespectful to the person who wants me to tell them details about another person’s life. Sometimes it’s viewed as denial or keeping secrets. Relationships are complicated. My interactions with a loved one may affect me so deeply that I need to discuss it with someone else, now I talk to a 12 step friend rather than another loved one. Sometimes it’s unavoidable: a discussion between two family members must be had when a third family member is incapacitated by health.

I try to follow a few guidelines:

1) Don’t talk about the person if they’re not there.

2) Don’t share someone else’s story.

3) Choose a couple of  non-relatives who are safe to run things past. 

4) Ask myself, “What’s Your Motive?”

5) Direct the person asking for detail about someone else to speak to the someone else directly.

My two sons, Fergus and Samson, are examples of the opposite extremes people feel about the details of their lives being shared by others. Perfectly natural to ask a sibling about their children. Right? I have 10 nieces and nephews. It’s much easier to ask 3 siblings for updates on their children, than to contact the 10 nieces and nephews. It also conveys to the sibling that I love them, and I love their children. Right? My son Fergus could care less if you talk about him. If he’s having successes, he wants his family to celebrate with him. If he’s having problems, he wants our prayers. My son Samson is the opposite, he doesn’t want to be talked about whether it’s good or bad. Period. He is highly offended when he discovers someone has talked about him. Neither is right or wrong, it’s just their preference. I do my best to respect their wishes.

Today, my relationships with the people I love are more honest and respectful.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the subject of gossip!

The Destruction of a Family

Since Ariel’s birth, Fergus and Joanna’s relationship has deteriorated as Joanna realized Fergus is not going to marry her even though they share a child together. She’s always been a brusque woman. She’s emotionally damaged from a bad relationship with her mother. Her mother is very controlling. Joanna ran away from home as a young teen. Although she returned, their relationship is strained.

Joanna became verbally abusive to my son after she realized he was not going to marry her. Thanksgiving 2015, Fergus and Joanna brought the girls to Washington state to celebrate with myself and my other adult son Samson. Samson lived closest to the restaurant Joanna chose for our shared meal, so we all stayed with him. He didn’t have enough bedrooms, so most of us slept in the living room. Joanna was on the couch and I was in a sleeping bag on the floor. In the middle of the night, I was wakened by Joanna yelling at Fergus to come get Ariel to change her diaper and how she had been up all night changing diapers for the girls and taking kids to the bathroom while he did nothing. Fergus responded in a reasonable tone and reported there were no dirty diapers in the trash; so her claim was untrue and he was up and taking care of the dirty diaper. Joanna continued to loudly berate him; despite the fact that it was the middle of the night, the diaper was being changed, and there was a household of sleeping relatives and their four children she was disturbing with her tirade.

Joanna started attempting to control me through phone calls and texts demanding that I assist her in controlling Fergus and making him do what she wanted. I explained to her on many occasions she can only control herself and she needed to identify her part in the problems in their relationship and fix her part, because that’s what she could control. This frustrated her a great deal. At one point, she decided I was a horrible person and would not allow me to even talk to my granddaughters on the phone. She called me a drug pusher for following doctor’s recommendations when Fergus was a child to treat his ADHD, stating that I’d given him meth. She sent me unsolicited private details about their sex life. She sent random texts to Samson’s girlfriend telling her how to raise her child and to stay out of Joanna’s business.

In late 2016, Fergus informed me they were living in a travel trailer and Joanna had decided she wanted to have sex with other men in the trailer while Fergus watched their children. He was not agreeable to that plan. He also indicated she was using illegal drugs intravenously and hiding the needles in the woods around her parents’ home. She was shooting up in her legs and was telling people the bruising she was causing was because he was getting physical with her. Fergus became homeless when she moved the trailer to her parents’ property and kicked him out. He was very concerned about her erratic behaviors and the effects on the girls.

Joanna disappeared in 2017 while on a business trip for her parents in another state. Neither Fergus, nor her parents, nor her daughters knew how to get in touch with her. She was eventually found in a mental health hospital recovering from the effects of illegal drug use. During this time, Fergus went to court to get custody of his daughters back because Joanna’s parents had them and would not return them to Fergus or even allow visitation. Fergus was unable to get custody of Carmen because she is not his biological or legal child, despite parenting and loving her for years. He was awarded full custody of the other three girls: Amiya, Beatrice and Ariel. Fergus has made certain the girls have a relationship with their mother and their maternal grandparents and extended family.

Joanna returned to California but wasn’t mentally able to parent. She left the state a second time to go to rehabilitation in another state. For the second time in their young lives, the girls’ mother disappeared with no way for them to contact her. She returned the end of 2018 and told Fergus she was planning to marry someone she met during her last extended period away from her children.

She has no job, no home and limited mental functioning. Fergus made certain she spent time with the girls and was in the process of setting up supervised visitation when she filed a motion requesting an order of protection claiming he has stolen from her and raped her.

It’s safe to say this family has been destroyed by drugs and addictions.

Tittle-Tattler

I was a gossip. A tittle-tattler.

My son Samson had caught me with my lips flapping, gossiping about he and his girlfriend Callie Stafford. I was mortified but confused.

Fast forward weeks or months. I’m at a large 12 step meeting. I’m listening to each person share about the topic of gossip. Initially I felt like it didn’t apply to me. I wasn’t talking about Samson out of meanness or to make myself look better. He’s my son and I want only good for him. I was concerned the choices he was making were going to negatively impact his future. I was voicing my concerns which were born out of my love for him. That’s not gossip! Right?

As I reflected, I realized that I often had conversations with people I have in common with other people I worried about. I thought I knew how to fix the talked about person’s problems, and I was telling our mutual person how the talked about person can fix all their problems. Only I rarely talked to the person we were talking about to share all this great advice. Wait a minute? Who put me in charge? What made me think I could fix anyone else’s life? Look at the unholy mess I had created out of my life; listening to my best advice!

I have no right to try to fix someone else’s life and if I’m really trying to “help” them, why aren’t I talking to them directly?

Duh!

I hadn’t been able to figure out how to fix my problems, so I had started focusing on fixing other people’s problems. It wasn’t intentional but it happened anyway. So, I had plenty to say about other people. I didn’t have much to say about myself.

I wasn’t okay with myself or silence. I felt like I had to fill the gaps in conversation, so I filled them with talk about other people.

I realized I needed to make a major change in my life, and it was going to be uncomfortable and awkward for a while.

I decided to ask my Higher Power for insight into what to do next.

Another Day in Court

Fergus is an amazing dad. He’s affectionate. He’s in constant teaching mode, using everyday moments to educate his daughters. He shops organic food and feeds them healthy, colorful, tasty food he creates himself from scratch. He takes them on adventures in the outdoors frequently. He maintains extended family relationships. The girls are well cared for emotionally and physically. They are well loved. They want for nothing. For the last year, he has had full physical and legal custody of Amiya, Beatrice and Ariel.

Joanna, his ex, has no job, no home, and seems to have cognitive damage caused by drug use. She’s living in a car someone purchased for her. She has attempted to use manipulation, sex and children to control and coerce Fergus into doing what she desires. However, that has not stopped her from filing an order of protection with the courts alleging Fergus of burglary, theft, and rape. Fergus found out about the order and the allegations when he as at the courthouse researching what he needed to do to ask the court to require mediation for the purpose of determining appropriate, supervised visitation.

He couldn’t tell if he could, legally, have the girls with him. He contacted the police and they told him the order had not been granted and they had an upcoming court date to go over the allegations. A few days later, he’s taking Beatrice to a school Christmas presentation, when Joanna shows up with a police officer who told Fergus the order was granted, and he had to turn custody over. He did. The following day, he turned Ariel over to Joanna.

They had court this week.

Since Ariel’s birth, Fergus and Joanna’s relationship has deteriorated as Joanna realized Fergus is not going to marry her even though they share a child together. Joanna became verbally abusive to my son, she kicked him out and moved their travel trailer to her parent’s property.

In early 2017, Joanna left the girls with her parents and went on a business trip for them to Idaho. She did not return when expected and was missing for months. Joanna was eventually found in a hospital where she’d been put after being discovered along the side of a road, unable to tell anyone who she was or what was wrong with her. This was apparently the result of extensive drug use. While she was missing, her parents refused to allow access to the girls for my son or myself. When I called, they refused to call back and the one or two occasions they did answer, they hung up on me.

Fergus went to court on multiple occasions to get custody of Amiya, Beatrice, and Ariel as Joanna’s parents refused to return them to him. Mr. and Mrs. Hope have not allowed Carmen to have contact with myself, and only limited contact with her sisters. Fergus encouraged contact between the girls and their mother’s extended family. He did not bring kidnapping charges against Mr. and Mrs. Hope when they refused to return his daughters to him, even after ordered to do so by the court.

Joanna eventually returned to California. She was mentally unable to appropriately care for her children. She was living in the travel trailer on her parent’s property. Fergus allowed as much contact between her and the girls as possible, while maintaining their safety. Joanna would contact Fergus and tell him they needed to get together to talk about the girls, he would pick her up and she would refuse to speak to him, sitting in silence as if catatonic for hours in restaurants, on his couch, and even on the sidewalk in front of his residence. During this time, she sent me a letter of apology with artwork from my granddaughters telling me she would call. She thanked me for my son and told me she loved me. She never called and when I sent a reply, it was returned undeliverable.

Joanna took off again in 2018 to go to treatment in another state. She only recently returned to California. Both times Joanna disappeared for lengthy periods of time, she left no way for her daughters to maintain contact with her.

Fergus has tried to treat Joanna with dignity and respect, and even gave her financial support he didn’t owe her. He put a deposit on a motel room, so Joanna had a place to stay since her parents have her ex living in the trailer on their property and aren’t willing to have her live in their home.

Joanna appeared at court unprepared and the judge granted her a continuance even though Fergus was ready with his evidence. Their next court date isn’t for about 3 weeks.

A Tribe of Girls…and Fergus

I have an amazing son who’s 32 years old. His name is Fergus Anthony Reed-Gilliland. He’s never been married. He has five daughters: Carmen, Amiya, Rose, Beatrice and Ariel who are all under the age of 9. He’s pursuing an engineering degree while maintaining a household as a single dad.

Carmen is not his biological daughter. She is his ex-girlfriends Joanna Hope Jr’s. Fergus met Joanna in Idaho at a call center they were both working at. He was expecting his first biological child with his girlfriend Ruby. Joanna was married and expecting her first child. After Carmen and Amiya were born, Joanna and her husband separated and got divorced. Ruby relapsed when Amiya was 3 months old and began using meth again, toting Amiya around with her. Fergus found out and left Ruby, taking his child with him. Joanna moved in with Fergus.

It was an odd arrangement because Fergus stated repeatedly how they were just good friends who were pooling their resources to raise their children better. They were friend with benefits that started in the bedroom and touched all the other areas of their lives. Joanna told me repeatedly how much she loved him and wanted to marry him. She asked for my help and I schemed with her to try to convince him they should make a lifetime commitment. I did. My BAD! He never changed his mind and they never married, which potentially drove her to madness.

Fergus met a stripper named Ramona and began dating her. She got pregnant. During her pregnancy, it became apparent she is schizophrenic. I gave her clothing to wear during her pregnancy and supported her in every way I could. She was from the East Coast and had a strained relationship with her mother. Her father flew out to check on her right before the baby was born because she’d been admitted to a mental health facility. The three of us met for dinner and that’s the last time I saw her. She had Rose and went back to live with her parents. She never called me after the baby was born. We stayed in touch on Facebook for a while. Eventually, her anger with Fergus for not committing to her caused her to break all contact between him and his family. Me. I’m heartbroken at not being in Rose’s life.

Within a month of Ramona getting pregnant, I was talking to Fergus and told him if he was still having sex with Joanna, he’d better wrap it up because otherwise she might get pregnant on purpose. He informed me it was too late, she was pregnant. During Joanna’s pregnancy, she confessed to me that Fergus might not be the father as she had sex with her ex to get back at Fergus impregnating and continuing to date Ramona. Fergus explained he was committed to Joanna’s child and his name would be put on the birth certificate regardless of who was the biological father. Although I don’t understand his decision, I’ve supported it. Joanna’s mother, Joanna Sr. hated Fergus and told Joanna if he was at the birth, she wouldn’t be there. I attended the birth, Joanna Sr. did not. Due to ethnic considerations, it was obvious Beatrice was not Fergus’ biological child. Beatrice has my middle name and, more importantly, my heart. My son has been her father from her birth.

Fergus and Joanna moved to California to be close to her family. Ariel was conceived and is the biological daughter of Fergus and Joanna Jr. So out of the five girls my son has been father to, three are his biologically, two are not. Of the two who are not, one is legally.

The relationship of the parents has fallen apart because Fergus won’t marry Joanna. She chose to abuse illegal drugs intravenously and is not mentally able to provide for their basic needs now.

Carmen is with Joanna’s parents as she has no biological parent able to care for her and they won’t allow Fergus to parent her. Amiya is with Fergus. Rose is with her mother in parts unknown. Beatrice and Ariel are with their mother in California pending a court hearing to return them to Fergus’ care.

Carmen, Amiya, Beatrice, and Ariel belong together. They’re sisters. They’re beautiful, energetic, intelligent, inquisitive, spinning princesses who love each other and their daddy deeply. They have gigantic personalities which dad encourages by loving them and spending time with them.