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

This Chapter Was Over Decades Ago

The Rock was sent to his next duty assignment in Japan. He married a Japanese woman. While we were married, he would often tell me he wanted to be married to an Asian woman because he was fascinated by their dark, silky hair. For some strange reason, he sent me a photo of himself with his brother-in-law, and a trivet. He looks good in a kimono.

Twenty years later, I received a phone call from someone in Chicago. My ex-husband had listed me as a referral on a housing application. I was sure I misunderstood the caller. No. The Rock had just returned stateside and needed referrals for housing. I explained I couldn’t help as I hadn’t had recent contact with my ex-husband and had no idea what kind of person he had become. I told the caller I didn’t want to malign my ex-husband, but he was not a good person while we were married. Which is why we were divorced.

How does he keep finding me?

I had moved from California to Nebraska to Idaho. I had left the military. I had remarried and had a different last name.

Why does he keep finding me?

That chapter of my life is over and has been for decades.

Prince of Deception

My evil step-father Dick was a liar. Everything about him was a lie. He didn’t complete grade school, but he would use large words which he thought he understood. Often enough to make him sound ignorant, he would use them inappropriately. He didn’t want to be corrected: I tried.

We were told repeatedly that “we don’t air our dirty laundry in public.” We were taught to keep family secrets; at the same time, we were being told that God considers lying a sin. It is extremely common for abusive families to lie to hide the abuse.

Dick told me repeatedly that I was ugly, unlovable, stupid, of no value, etcetera, etcetera. These were all lies! Unfortunately, I entered adulthood believing all his lies.

Both of my parents and the church told me that a good girl would be a virgin on her wedding day. Dick took my virginity and when I realized it, I knew it meant I was no longer a “good girl” but I was confused because everyone talked like I had a choice in whether or not I was a virgin. I also had to continue lying to my mother because she didn’t know, and I felt a fierce need to protect her. I was profoundly confused.

As I got older, the sexual abuse stopped. When I began working, Dick knew when I got paid and would be waiting for me to arrive home. He would tell me he needed a favor; then ask to borrow my entire paycheck to pay a household utility. I lent him money every time he asked (I would have done anything for my mother and siblings); and he never paid me back. Once I realized what he was doing, I began going and spending my paycheck for what I wanted before I took it home. It didn’t occur to me until I was an adult looking back, but how did he pay the utilities before I started earning a paycheck?

As a teen, I purchased a vehicle using a bank loan. Either, I couldn’t have a title in my name or I couldn’t get a bank loan in my name due to my age. I did go pay on the bank loan every time I got paid until it was paid off. I was so excited. Until I saw my car on the corner with a For Sale sign in the window. (I had been grounded for breaking curfew and was riding the bus.) I asked Dick about it when I got home, and he told me he was selling. When the car was no longer there a little while later, I asked Dick if he’d moved it. He’d sold it. I asked him where my money was from the sale. His reply was “What money?” Lying, stealing, manipulative, abusive, evil man sold the car I paid for and kept the money. (Just when I think I’ve forgiven him, I feel angry all over again!)

I’m still confused by the level of lying in my childhood home. As a child, I lied all the time. I lied about my home. I lied about my step-father. I lied about my siblings. I lied to my step-father. I lied to my mother. If my lips were moving…I was most likely lying.

At some point, I stopped lying. I think it happened when I started to realize that Dick was evil. I think this was when I stopped overtly lying and began learning to deny the reality of the bad things that had happened in my life.

I became more and more verbally honest as time went by and even flipped too far the other direction; using the guise of honesty to say very hurtful things to people I claimed to love.

My mother (who has a pure, loving heart) doesn’t always embrace the truth. She often shades reality by suggesting it’s better than it is. I don’t know if she was in denial or if she was afraid that by facing the problems honestly, she would make them worse. This added to my confusion about lying and honesty.

Today, I hate lying, I pride myself on honesty; however, I’ve learned to be more loving in my approach. Every day, I’m conscious of the fact that I lived most of my adult life in denial of my reality and I need to be wary of doing it now.

I can’t stand a liar. I just figured out why today. What can I say? Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.

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. 

I Filed for Divorce

I joined the active duty Air Force. The sent me to Texas for basic training and then to California to my first duty station. The Rock called me while I was in basic training and told me all I had to do was tell my first sergeant I’d made a mistake, they’d release me, and we could continue our life together. I declined.

I was living in the barracks and enjoying the single life. I met a really nice guy on the dance floor at the Enlisted Members’ Club. We had a one-night stand and I got pregnant.

My parents told me The Rock showed up at their home in Arizona unannounced. He was traveling with a friend. He basically was trying to get them to climb on board his train of marital bliss for the two of us. They just needed to talk some sense into me. My dad Tom was home alone. He’s a retired highway patrolman. He offered The Rock coffee, then made sure he saw the handgun tucked in the back of his jeans as he reached to the top shelf for cream and sugar. The Rock and his friend left a short time later.

A day later, The Rock showed up at the base I was stationed at, without warning. I was about six months pregnant. He told me he wanted to reunite, and he would raise the baby as his own. We would be happily married for the rest of our lives. I couldn’t believe him. He had abused me throughout our marriage and now he wouldn’t? He would love another man’s baby and not abuse it? Right. I just couldn’t believe him. I told him I wasn’t going back to him and the only reason I hadn’t filed for divorce was because I didn’t have the money yet, because I was paying back my half of our debt. He continued to his new assignment in Alaska.

Three months later, I have the baby. A few days after I returned home, The Rock called me screaming at me because he wants me to take his name off the birth certificate. I tell him his name isn’t on it. It’s not and never was. I never considered putting him on it.

I file for divorce and it’s granted.

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.

The 3/5-3/8 2019 School Week in Review

This week being a learning coach was mostly a blessing.  Last week, it felt like a curse.   

My 10 year old nephew Nathan is an everyday liar.  I’ve learned through conversations with other adult family members that this has been a problem for years and Nathan continues even when caught blatantly lying.  I hate being lied to.  If you lie to me and I know it, I’m going to call you out. 

This week, I remembered how much I lied at his age.  I was distrustful of everyone and lied to protect myself.  I’m like a reformed smoker who wants to force the rest of the world to stop.  I’m a recovering Control Freak!     

Nathan is lazy.  He’ll ask me for scratch paper that is the same distance from me, as from him, expecting me to retrieve it with a sly grin on his face. I haven’t told Nathan he’s lazy: he told me “I’m lazy” while smirking.  He consistently chooses what requires the least of him.  He’s in a remedial reading course (in addition to his regular Language Arts) because I was concerned he may have missed some essentials previously.  Yesterday, I observed him skipping through being read the stories and guessing at the answers until he hit upon the right one.  He lied about it even though I was standing behind him as he did it and saw with my own eyes.  It seems his reading skills problem is from his choice to do as little as possible.   

This week, we talked about how the bible says a person who’s not willing to work, shouldn’t eat.  We identified what Nathan’s work is school right now.  I’ve begun seeking opportunities to praise extra effort, regardless of the end result.  I’m a recovering Perfectionist, so I tend to be very harsh in my expectations and interactions.   

Nathan is disrespectful of his elders.  He argues with me every day.  He uses sarcasm and insinuates a lack of intelligence.  If I say get out your English book;   he responds with a sneer in his voice, “Do you mean Language Arts?”  If I tell him it’s time to take the test; he says “It’s a Quick Check.”  When an adult says no, he demands to know why.  He pulled the stitching out of one of my best chairs.  He uses other people’s belongings without asking.  He has strewn the contents of his school art kit about because he doesn’t put his belongings away unless I stand over him like a drill sergeant.     

This week, I realized that the adults in my family may be talking about and treating each other in ways that are disrespectful in front of him.  I have criticized the lesson content, the communication with people at the school, and the frequent class changes and cancellations in front of him.  Our attitude is often that if someone disagrees with us, they lack intelligence.  One of the things I said repeatedly in my former life was, “Stupid people annoy me!”  I’ve started trying to change this behavior in myself.   

Nathan rarely takes personal accountability for his actions.  He told me “Everyone lies.” when I confronted him about a lie he had just told me.  He has blamed shoddy schoolwork on myself and his grandmother.  He blames low assessment grades on poorly written questions and not being taught the material.  This week, we discussed the fact that we’re both Christians and will have to give an accounting to God someday and that God won’t want to hear what anyone else did when we’re discussing what we did.   

This week I put up new verses and we talked about what they mean and how they apply to us.  Luke 17:2 is my verse for the week, “It would be better for them (me) to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones (Nathan) to stumble.”  As an adult Christian in my nephews life, I’m a representative of God.  He learns who God is by observing who I am.  If I don’t behave in a way which is deserving of respect; how is he supposed to respect God?  If I use scripture (God’s word) to beat this child and fill him with shame; then he’ll believe God sees him as worthless and unredeemable.  

Nathan came prepared to listen and do this week.  He didn’t lie to me until Friday.  He didn’t attempt to skip lesson material without permission until Friday.  He suffered some natural consequences (instead of me trying to force a different behavior)  for not following directions and had to use “free time” to complete some assignments he didn’t finish during assigned school time because he was stalling or refused to follow directions.  I had many opportunities to praise him. 

Red Flags to Avoid

As pervasive as abuse is, it’s important that we’re aware of red flags while we’re selecting our life partners. Better to completely avoid becoming entangled with an abuser. Survivors can easily connect with an abuser because we’re comfortable with the relationship dynamics with them. It’s what we know.

According to “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy, the general characteristics of abusers include denial of responsibility, deceitfulness, harshly judgmental of others and calculated intimidation. I agree with this conclusion as it’s what I experienced at the hands of my abuser.

My evil step-father Dick was extremely judgmental. He seemed to hate everyone. He was misogynistic. He had nothing nice to say about women ever. He was also racist. Basically, it seems he hated everyone but himself and other pasty-faced white men. Yes, I still have a lot of animosity toward him. In retrospect, I think he was comparing himself to others and finding reasons so he could believe he was superior to them. At some level, he may have known his behaviors were wrong; however, he never had to look at his own shortcomings because he was busy badmouthing others for what he perceived as their problems.

We moved to a town which had a sign on its border which said (I apologize profusely) “No niggers, spicks, or chinks allowed.” He would say the “n*****” were trying to take over the world by interbreeding with white women. I was astounded by his ignorance. He would see a girl walking down the street and proclaim she was a whore and he could tell by the way she walked and dressed. He would tell me all women were alike if you turned them upside down.

My evil step-father Dick also used intimidation to keep myself and my siblings in line. I don’t remember Dick making any direct threats: I just felt this constant, overwhelming sense of dread. I knew I was going to be subjected to more abuse because my best was never good enough. I’m in a constant state of alert because I’m always expecting more suffering to come my way.

When it was time for a spanking, Dick would send me to get his belt. If I was crying, he would spank me until I stopped. If I was not crying when the beating began, he would spank me until I cried.

I wasn’t allowed normal emotions. I was allowed anger.

I split my knee open playing tag in the dark and was crying when I came inside the house. Dick was there and told me to stop crying or he’d let me bleed to death. I stopped. He put rubbing alcohol on my open wound; and I passed out from the pain.

He was always threatening to “wipe that look off your face” or “give you something to cry about.”

Abusers are master manipulators and use all kinds of strategies to trap their victims for as long as possible. I believed I had little to no power as a child. At 11 years old, I began planning my escape by trying to save up enough money to leave my childhood home. I believed that was the only solution.

People were always complimenting my parents for how well-behaved their children were in public. We were terrified of being beaten by Dick when we got home.

No one knew the truth. I didn’t know how to ask for help. When I finally tried, I was dismissed by a health care “professional” as a dramatic teen. My maternal grandmother sensed something was wrong but didn’t know how to ferret out the truth. What my childhood family showed the world was a lie.

It Became a Butterfly

This is the story of my second tattoo.  I’d gotten my first tattoo at 18 years old and had been trying to decide what I wanted next for decades. 

I couldn’t decide.  I certainly didn’t want to put something permanent on my body until I’d found the perfect addition. 

In the meantime, it had come to my attention that my first tattoo no longer looked like a black rosebud, but now resembled a blue fish.  Not okay!  It seems that in order to maintain the original colors, tattoos need to be touched up from time to time.  Who knew? 

I needed to have it repaired; however, I didn’t want just anyone to do it. 

I was leaving the state of Idaho in just a few days when a group of friends threw a going away party for me.  It was so much fun!  The boyfriend of a friend’s daughter attended and drew “tattoos” on everyone who wanted them with Sharpies.  I’d found my tattoo artist!  He was able to fit me in and stated he could do what I was asking. 

I had him tattoo over the old tattoo with two beautiful blue butterflies with black-edged wings.  One is a large butterfly and the other is a smaller one. 

The colors are vibrant and the butterflies signify new life and personal growth to me. 

“Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.” Anonymous

Don’t Get in the Shower If You Feel Paranoid!

I pawned my wedding rings and moved into an apartment. While The Rock was in custody, I returned to our housing and took my belongings. I left everything that was ours for him, I just wanted out with my life and my freedom. We had two vehicles, a VW bug and a Chevy Impala. I took the bug that I drove all the time and paid for and left the Impala which he drove all the time and I paid for with my Guard bonus.

He stole the VW and the police couldn’t do anything because it was titled “The Rock OR Maria O’Rourke.” If it had said AND in between our names, neither of us could do anything without the other person’s signature. Because it said OR, either one of us could do anything we wanted with it. So, I stole it back.

His female Commanding Officer somehow managed to keep him from going to trial or jail. He was released on his own recognizance and as far as I know was never held accountable for attempting to kill me. No one in his chain of command ever contacted me to find out if I was okay. The police never followed up.

I moved on with my life.

I began a relationship with the Supply Sergeant in my National Guard unit. He moved in with me. I didn’t have a refrigerator, so I kept a cooler full of ice and just kept necessities on hand.

My new boyfriend was a drug dealer. We would go to his supplier’s house and he would have me wait in my car. He’d say, “If you hear gunshots, just leave. Don’t wait for me.” Then, he’d distribute it out to street dealers.

I let him talk me into trying cocaine and smoking marijuana. I didn’t like either. The cocaine had no effect at all, and I became weirdly paranoid when I smoked marijuana. I would smoke, then become paranoid, so I’d get in the shower. Once in the shower, naked, I’d become convinced the cops were going to bang on my door any second because someone walked by, smelled it, and reported us.

What an idiot! Don’t get in the shower if you feel paranoid!

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.

One Tough Soldier

It was 1983 and I was in Army Basic Training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina for the Arizona National Guard.  It was end of winter, beginning of spring.  I was nearly done with my months of training. 

When I arrived, I had no athletic history and the physical part was very challenging for me.  I just kept persisting and over time, my physical stamina continued to improve.

My abusive step-father had more than adequately prepared me for the mental aspects of the challenges I faced. 

I had faced challenges with the weapons training as I’m right-handed but fire an M-16 and other rifles left-handed.  I’m unable to hit the target when firing right-handed but still have a tight grouping.  I earned “Expert” marksman firing left-handed. 

I was excited to participate in night exercises and remember crawling under barbed wire with my cradled M-16 while seeing tracer rounds fired from tanks fly over our heads.  After the exercise was over, I was sent to pick up expended rounds from around and on top of the tanks.  There were wooden ladders leaning against the tanks for easy access to the top.  I began to quickly ascend when the third rung from the bottom gave way the moment I stepped on it and I crashed to the ground hard on my left foot.  It hurt but I’m pretty tough and just powered through. 

I had to complete my final physical fitness test in order to complete my Basic Training.  Not finishing meant having to wait and start all over again with another group and that wasn’t something I wanted to do; it somehow seemed like failure. 

I began my 3 mile run and soon the pain in my foot was causing tears to stream down my face unchecked.  Pretty soon, my first sergeant joined me on the track and asked what was wrong.  I told him I had intense pain in my foot.  He suggested I stop and I explained I wanted to finish so I could graduate.  When I was done, he came over and took a look at my foot.  He told me it appears it was broken (he was a trained EMT) and sent me to sick call. 

I went to sick call, waited my turn, and when asked for the reason for my visit I explained my pain and my first sergeant’s suspicion about it being broken.  The young man gave me over the counter pain medication and sent me back to my company.  I hobbled through the last of Basic and the graduating ceremony. 

I went on to Advanced Individual Training in Fort Gordon, Georgia and that’s where I was seen my an Army doctor who x-rayed my foot, explained it had been broken and healed but it healed improperly.  He explained the only way to fix it would be to rebreak it.  I passed on that. 

That was decades ago and the foot still hurts from time to time.  In fact, with age it seems to hurt more frequently but most often when the weather is changing (atmospheric pressures and all that). 

I’m quite proud of the fact that I ran my final 3 miles for my Army Basic Training Physical Training test on a broken foot and that was my fastest time ever! 

Our New Breadmaker

I used to have a breadmaker.  My mother sent it to me (with recipes) when I was a stay-at-home mom of two growing boys.  I made a lot of bread over the years. 

Eventually my sons moved out and I didn’t have a need to bake a lot of bread, so I gave my machine and the books to my oldest son’s girlfriend (she’s no longer among the sane so I have no access to the books I gave her).

Recently, my husband told me someone he knows was buying a group of breadmakers and was going to give us one. 

I felt put out.

I had no need for it.  I had no time for it.  I had no money for expensive ingredients and I had no room to store the machine. 

Sorry for the negativity, but I’m just keeping it real.

The machine arrived and I put it in a pile of other things I don’t have a place to store.  Weeks went by.  The box started to gather dust. 

A few things changed.  We currently cannot use Walmart grocery to purchase our groceries.  My sister-in-law is shopping for us once a month.  My two nephews spend four days a week at my house and both have good appetites.  I’m using a lot more bread. 

I ran out of bread, so I pulled the machine out.  A few things are different.  The loaves are now rectangular instead of round.  The instructions state the liquids go first, then the dry ingredients with the yeast last.  My last machine recommended putting the yeast and sugar in first and the salt last. 

I’d been craving Crusty Hearth Bread, Oatmeal Dinner Rolls, potato bread, raisin bread and a bread which includes almond extract and butter flavoring in the ingredients. 

The first day I made Crusty Hearth Bread, ingredients in the machine for the dough stage, then transfer to a cookie sheet and bake in a circular shape.  Yummy!  The next day, I made Linda’s Easy Potato Bread.  Yummy even though it fell while baking.  The third day, I made Oatmeal Dinner Rolls.  Phenomenal!  Sixteen delicious, generous, slightly sweet rolls. 

Problem!  No more yeast (I only had 3 packets) and no more flour. 

We purchased a container of bread yeast and 10 pounds of flour as soon as we felt well enough to try to shop. 

I made a two pound loaf of raisin bread and I’ve made French toast with it.  It was okay but I’d prefer more raisins and a bread that’s not so dense.  My mother loves raisin bread, so I sent most of the loaf home with her. 

I made another loaf of Linda’s Easy Potato Bread and thought I’d solved the reason the first loaf fell (I peeked while it was rising or baking).  It still fell and I didn’t peek. 

For the life of me, I cannot find the recipe for the bread which includes almond extract and butter flavoring.  Okay, I figured out it was a poppy seed bread (most likely).  I also tracked down the recipe book I previously owned (it’s a series of six now with the first one updated and republished). 

I can’t wait to try making sweet rolls, hamburger buns, cranberry orange bread, banana bread, zucchini bread, pumpkin bread……. 

Many, many thanks to the generous donor of our breadmaker!   

How I Escaped His Attack

I had agreed to work overtime to speed up when I could afford my own place. I had just finished my early shift and was due to start my regular shift shortly when a coworker told me my husband was there looking for me and wanted to talk to me. I agreed to go out back to talk to The Rock. The store was the central retailer in a strip mall. The parking was in the front of the various stores, but there was also pavement in the back which was never occupied by anyone. At the time, I was a cigarette smoker and that’s where we took our smoke breaks.

I go out back and we’re talking. The Rock is accusing me of having sex with the person I’m rooming with. I’m denying it again. Suddenly, the light goes out of his eyes, and he says “Well, I just came here to do this.” He pulls out a brand-new switchblade and opens it to reveal the 6” blade. He makes a stabbing motion toward my stomach and I put up my hand in defense: he cuts the tips of three of my fingers and I begin to bleed quite a bit.

I was hopping mad! Literally.

I lost my mind and started hopping in a circle, screaming at him, “You cut me! I can’t believe you cut me!” I was thinking about the woman they’d recently found dead in a secluded pond, killed by her angry lover in a domestic violence attack. I was thinking about the fact that he had an open switchblade in his hand. I was thinking if I ran, he would catch me before I got to safety. I was thinking that I was losing blood and starting to feel woozy.

A couple in a VW pull up to ask for directions and I ask them to call for help. They sped off.

I told him I needed medical attention. He offered to take me to the hospital. I didn’t want to get in the car with him. (Never let them move you to a different location.) I told him I was woozy and there was a pharmacy in the mall where we could purchase hydrogen peroxide and bandages. He agreed. We walked in together, got the items, waited in line for them, and paid for them. I couldn’t believe no one noticed my distress, the blood, or my wounds.

I told him my regular shift was starting soon and I needed to eat before it began. He offered to treat me to fast food across the street. I suggested we eat inside Montgomery Ward at their little diner. He agreed. We went inside, ordered, and sat down in a booth with our food. I sat there picking at my food, trying to respond to him in a way that wouldn’t create suspicion, while I was trying to figure out how to get away from him.

My supervisor comes in and approaches us. I’m thinking she’s looking for me because I’m late for my shift. Yay! She kneels next to us and starts making small talk. I’m wearing white flats which are splattered with blood and am sporting new bandages on three fingers. She doesn’t notice. While she’s talking to him, I interrupt to ask him if it’s okay if I go to the restroom. He agrees. I leave the table and head upstairs to the employee only bathrooms. He can’t get past the locked door. I go straight to Security and tell them what’s going on. They go detain him until the Air Force Security Police arrive to take him back to base.

“Over My Dead Body”

I was 15 years old and out to dinner with my family: mother Peony, step-father Dick, brother Adam, sisters Tammi and Rhonda.  We were at a Mexican restaurant set in our community’s small downtown. 

Our waitress had a beautiful tattoo and I couldn’t stop looking at it.  It was a beautiful flower nestled amid vines on the swell of her breast.  Gorgeous.  I announce that I wanted a tattoo when I got older. 

My mother announced, “Over my dead body! Or when you’re 18.”  (I used to think she was prudish because of these types of attitudes and comments.)

That gave me 3 years to think about what I wanted for my first tattoo. 

When I was 18 and away at Army training in Fort Gordon, Georgia, I walked to the local tattoo parlor on a Saturday morning and paid for my first tattoo.  It was $20 on my right buttock.  It was a black rosebud. 

It felt like my butt cheek had fallen asleep and was waking up with a million pins and needles in it.  I wore a one piece bathing suit and adjusted the leg hole so the artist could access the area I had chosen. 

A few months later and I’m home on leave.  I’ve met my first husband and we’re planning our wedding so my mother and I go shopping for a suitable dress.  We’re downtown again, in a fun little dress shop.  I’m in the very small, somewhat tatty dressing room.  My mom peeks over the top of the curtain and starts shrieking as she’s pointing.  I think I’m sharing space with a spider and I start spinning around looking for the little monster.  My mom finally blurts out, “What’s that?  On your body?” 

I realize she’s staring and pointing at my tattoo. 

That was many decades ago and I think I’m close to convincing her to get one with me. 

School is in Session

Here are some of the memories my nephews and I are making while they attend an  online charter school with me acting as their learning coach.

Bouncing

School is in session for 8 hours Tuesday through Friday with a one hour lunch break which means they’re here for 9 hours.  The boys are 7 and 10 years of age.  It’s unnatural to require children to sit still for 4 hour periods of time, so they get breaks.  The usually want to play WII on their breaks.  The 10 year old sits on the couch while playing.  The 7 year old stands and bounces throughout his break regardless of its length.  I’ve heard the 10 year old tell his little brother to just sit still for 10 seconds! 

Yes, this child can bounce non-stop for 30 minutes straight while playing WII and talking.  I raised a hyperactive son and I’ve never seen this level of constant movement before. 

Vocalizing

The 10 year old doesn’t move nearly as much as his brother; his thing is vocalizing.  He randomly sings snippets of songs he’s heard.  The other day I’m across the room assisting his little brother when I tune in to what the older brother is doing.  He’s singing nonsense words with clicks interspersed as if he’s been hanging out with African singers.  Random!

Stinking

Some days I wonder if they have early onset dementia.  One day early in this adventure, the older nephew was sitting at a small computer desk which is situated next to the doggy door.  We have a little Jack Russell, she’s sweet and quirky and old.  It was winter and the door was creating a draft.  Our dog was off somewhere in town with my husband.  My nephew shut the doggy door.  At the end of the day, I’m having him tidy up (he’s a Pigpen-not in appearance but in the level of chaos he leaves behind him) when I notice the doggy door is closed.  I confirmed it was okay to close it if he was cold and she wasn’t home.  I explained he just needed to remember to open it again before he left for the day.  He stated he understood and continued tidying up as it was the end of the school day.  The next morning, my little doggy left him a stinking mess just inside the doggy door, which he had not reopened for her.  The first thing my nephew did when he arrived was clean it up.  

Shining

I left the boys at the table and went to the restroom.  Right after I flushed, I noticed something shining in the bottom of the toilet bowl.  A large paperclip.  I asked which nephew had deposited it in the toilet.  Both claimed to have no knowledge initially.  Eventually, the younger nephew told me he had.  I explained he would need to retrieve it after class was over for the day.  I gave him a glove and a towel and he retrieved it.  When I told my mom what had happened, she asked him if that’s what is wrong with one of her toilets too. 

Fidgeting

The 7 year old moves constantly even when seated.  Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.  Lean forward, lean back, lean over for a hug.  Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.  He was sitting next to the wall and nearly pulled the WIFI modem off the wall while wiggling.  He has no idea he’s doing it and I’m not inclined to harangue him throughout the day by telling him to sit still repeatedly.  Again, I think it’s unnatural.  I prefer active to lazy.  I moved his older brother to the seat by the wall and explained he needed to exit the chair on the side away from the wall.  Physically, he’s much calmer than his younger brother; however, he’s managed to knock the power strip off the wall and reset the WIFI by bumping into them unintentionally. 

I hope there are many more memories to be made with these two. 

My First Library Card

I’ve always loved to read. 

My mother read to me while I was still in the womb.  She heard or read that by doing that, she would teach her child to love reading.  It worked for me. 

I don’t remember my exact age, but I do remember when I was allowed to get my first library card.  I was so excited!  My mom had been taking me to the library, but now I could walk to the library on my own and check out books with the help of the librarian. 

I felt so grown up!

I wasn’t allowed to choose a book from any section of the library, but I had access to as much as I could read. 

I was voracious. 

I visited the library frequently and read many, many books. 

The books opened up the whole world to me.  I could read about other cultures.  I could read about other countries.  I could read about subjects that piqued my curiosity. 

Books became a way for me to escape the reality of my abusive step-father Dick.  I would become so entranced in a book, he could stand right next to the chair I was sitting in and I wouldn’t hear him talking to me. 

I love to sit in the stacks and peruse the book covers for interesting titles.  Then I pare down my choices to a few select for me to take home and savor.  I can spend hours in the library.   

I’ve lived all over the country and had library cards everywhere I’ve lived.  In Georgia, I had no money so reading was inexpensive entertainment.  I read about Egyptian President Nasser and the Suez Canal.  When I lived in California, the library was an inexpensive source of entertainment for myself and my sons.  I enjoyed Stephen King, Aldous Huxley, and Nevada Barr,  We also read many African folktales including some narrated by James Earl Jones.   When I lived in Nebraska, I found books that taught me how to can produce from my garden.  When I lived in Washington state, I loved to wander the beautiful libraries looking for random reading material.  Since returning to Arizona, I’ve mostly read books to increase my knowledge about different topics, rather than purely for pleasure.  Unfortunately, my vertigo makes it very difficult to:  get to the library, see clearly enough to read, stay focused long enough to get past a page or two, and retain any new information learned.  Oh well.  I had a really good, really long run at one of my most favorite things to do. 

Thanks Mom.  Thanks for walking me up the stairs to the library entrance and allowing me to get my first library card.  Thanks for trusting me enough to allow me to walk myself to the library often.  Thank you for a gift of reading that I’ve cherished. 

The Common Denominator

I was at another 12-step meeting.  I’d already been to one that day and now I was double-dipping. 

My husband had asked if he could use my car to go watch a soccer game his friends were playing in.  I agreed.  He didn’t come home for 3 days.  We only had one car between us, so I was stranded all weekend. 

He didn’t call me until he was out of money and had no gasoline to get back home from the casino, which was hours away. 

I sent him just enough cash by Western Union to get home (not like in the past when he had padded the amount he needed so he could go back in and gamble some more).  He had my car and I needed it to get to work. 

I was hurt.  I cried all weekend.  We’d been through this before and I was realizing I couldn’t trust him.  He’s a gambler and a liar. 

I didn’t know if I could be in a relationship with someone I couldn’t trust, (More on this later.) so I was freaking out. 

I didn’t really know the people at this second meeting but I was desperate.  I poured my heart out.  I cried.  I was distraught. 

Afterward, a woman asked me if I’d like to have coffee.  I did. 

We sat and talked.  I told her the sordid details of my three prior marriages and divorces.  I told her all about the issues my ex-husbands had.  She asked me, “What’s the common denominator?” 

I kept on telling her about the shortcomings of my exes.  I’d heard her question but only in the edges of my conscience because it didn’t make sense.  They had problems.  I didn’t. 

She asked again, just as quietly, “What’s the common denominator?”

I stopped.  Dumbstruck.  I sheepishly responded, “I am.”

For the first time in my life, I looked at my marriages objectively and realized I was the common denominator.  I chose each of those partners. 

This was a pivotal point in my recovery because I started taking accountability for my part, the part I can change. 

I realized that each of my chosen partners had addiction issues of some kind:  alcohol, drugs and gambling. 

I loved addicts.  I hated addicts.  I was comfortable with these relationships as I’d lived them my entire life.  I was miserable and wanted something different and better. 

I kept going back and as a result I’m no longer the person I used to be.  I make better choices.  . 

Journaling for Answers and Insight

One of the most beneficial things I learned to do in 12-step programs has been journaling.  When I first started attending 12-step meetings I was really sick emotionally, spiritually and intellectually. 

As I started learning a new way of thinking and behaving, I realized I had some really big decisions in front of me and I didn’t know how to make the decisions I needed to make.  I’d always believed I was a decisive person.  I was immobilized by fear.  I didn’t want to make the wrong decisions.

My sponsor had me journal through it.  Now, I’d heard of journal-writing before, and I loved to read and write.  However, I always thought there were more important things pressing for my time.  Writing was a luxury. 

I wanted to improve my life and what I’d done previously hadn’t turned out well.  So, I followed my sponsor’s advice and wrote about the topic until my last line was “I have nothing more to say about this subject.” 

She told me the answers to my questions were inside my head, I just needed to sort through all the thoughts and information to get to it.  She was right. 

I started making decisions with confidence and didn’t look back. 

I completed an inventory and shared it with someone I trusted.  I asked God to remove my character defects.  I made amends to people I’d harmed, as appropriate. 

I’ve continued to journal each day.  I reflect on the last 24 hours and write down a few things of note, so that later I can review my entries to determine if there are any new areas I need to ask God to help me with; and if I’ve harmed anyone, I can make immediate amends instead of waiting for my next inventory.   

I’ve realized that this blog is a type of journaling.  The big difference is that I’m sharing some very intimate thoughts with whoever decides to read this.

Do you journal?  Have you ever used journaling to work through a problem to find your solution?