Funny how I forget the lessons I’ve learned. They’ve all been learned the hard way and at some point I behaved accordingly. Then suddenly something will happen to shine a bright light on the reality that I have actually forgotten and slipped back into old thought patterns and behaviors.

This time nothing earth shattering happened. My husband just went out of town for a week. I miss him. We spent a great weekend at a lake house with the kids right before he left. It was nice and relaxing. And then he was gone. This is certainly no tragedy and it’s perfectly normal that I would miss my husband.

It’s more what happened while he was gone that woke me up to some truths about  myself. Coincidentally (or not, depending on how you view these things) I’ve been reading a few books that were seemingly unrelated but all talked about mindfulness and empowerment on some level. So, being more mindful I’ve noticed quite a few things.

First and foremost, my anxiety level is way down. I’m still extremely busy at work. In fact, the end of each month is always busy in my industry and this month is busier than most. Before he even left I had made a decision to stop working too much and stressing myself out about it but I certainly didn’t expect my anxiety to decrease so dramatically. There is a lot more to it than work as it turns out.

The two biggest lessons I had forgotten (and am now writing down so I can be reminded again…just in case) are: 1. I am a capable adult and 2. My husband is not my father.

#1 – I am a capable adult. I forgot this. Somewhere between reuniting with my husband after our separation (during which I felt very capable and empowered) I lost that lesson. I’ve been beating myself up, catastrophizing and just feeling weak and bad about myself in general. In being mindful this week I’ve been thinking about all the evidence there is indicating that I am, in fact, a capable adult. I survived an abusive childhood, I survived marital infidelity, I gave birth to two beautiful baby boys both under not-so-normal circumstances, I’ve been successful in my career, I got myself into therapy 3 years ago when I realized something was very, very wrong, I made huge changes in my relationships and life in general, survived the near-demise of my marriage and career, managed to reconcile with my husband when we seemed worlds apart, went back to college, overcame my public speaking phobia, survived the death of one of my best friends…I could go on and on but you get the idea. I forgot all these things and more. Instead I’ve been focusing on the negative, and even on the potential negative. This has made me feel inadequate, like a basket-case and generally fucked up. I’m not fucked up. I was 3 years ago, no doubt about it, but now…I’m fine. I’m not defective and I don’t need to focus on what I think my shortcomings are. If I am not happy about any aspect of my life I have the power and the tools to change it or at the very least change how I think about it. Period. Duh.

#2 –  My husband is not my father. I don’t consciously think of my husband as my father in a literal sense, that would just be gross. But I do project my father’s behaviors onto my husband, simply because he is the man in my life and the father figure in this house. These two men could not be more different and I’m certain that is the biggest reason I chose him. My father was loud, explosive and abusive. Bigger than life and scary as hell to me as a child. My husband is a nice, caring, even soft-spoken guy. He does get angry and irritated from time to time though just like everyone else. When he is angry I become extremely anxious. He is rarely angry with me but I take it personally and feel almost compelled to fix it. Very old pattern. I learned the lesson that I am not responsible for fixing anything or for his emotions back when we were in marriage counseling. Old patterns die hard when I’m not being mindful.

I’ve noticed for several years now that I also become extremely anxious every weekday around dinner time. I suspected that it was because as a child I was expected to have dinner ready and waiting when my parents came home from work and the consequences of failing to do so were severe. I just didn’t know how to stop this anxious feeling around dinner time. In this week that my husband has been gone I have not felt anxious at dinner time. Not even once. It would be convenient for me to blame my husband for my dinner time anxiety. He’s gone and so is the anxiety. It’s not that simple or his fault. The reality is that he doesn’t expect me to have dinner ready and waiting for him. Even if he did, he is not abusive and…back to #1…I am a capable adult. If he were to become angry with me for not having dinner ready when he got home from work….so what? I’m not a helpless child at the mercy of a tyrant. Plus, he knows where McDonald’s is.

Empowerment. It’s a beautiful thing and a lesson I cannot believe I forgot because it’s SO important. Living in the here and now and being aware (mindful) of old beliefs and patterns that simply are not part of my reality today….another beautiful thing that leads to even more empowerment. I’m not going to bother to try and figure out why I forgot these lessons. I’m just grateful that my husband went out of town for a week, that I chose to read some books that got me thinking, that he’s going to be back home tomorrow, that he is who he is and that I’ve recovered these important lessons.

Thanks for stopping by!

About five years ago, our car was stolen. Yes, right here in suburbia. We went out for the evening with friends and when we returned it was not on the street where we had parked it.  It was recovered a few hours later when someone called the police to report noisy teenagers driving a car around a local park. There was some damage to the car but nothing major. The teenagers were never caught, our insurance company paid for the repairs and we went on with our lives.

We did have our suspicions about a teenage boy who lives down the street. At the time he was the only teenager on our street and the circumstances surrounding the theft of our car indicated that whoever did it would have had to have known we were gone for the night. Only someone living very nearby would have been able to see us pile into a friend’s mini-van with obvious intentions of going out for the night. We had no proof that it was him but he seemed the mostly likely candidate.

We were somewhat surprised when a year or two later this same teenager came knocking on our door offering to cut our grass. He was a little older and looking to make some money during summer vacation. We said yes despite our suspicions, because they were only suspicions after all, and even if it had been him thought maybe he’d matured and were happy to have someone else cut the grass.

At some point over the past few years, he seemed to expand. He provided us with business cards and a brochure offering full service landscaping, took on a partner and purchased one of those big trailers on which he hauled around several commercial-grade lawn mowers, weed-whackers and other landscaping materials.

A few weeks ago, while cutting our grass he hit a tiny rock. It flew into our patio door with such force it made a loud noise that scared the crap out of me and the outer pane shattered immediately.  It crackled like ice for several minutes before starting to fall apart. He immediately said he’d pay to replace the pane of glass and stopped by a few days later with someone to provide an estimate. A week later a second person came by to measure for an estimate.

Another week later we had heard nothing. Hubby called and the teenager, now nineteen years old, indicated that his parents suggested we file a homeowners insurance claim, told us he really didn’t have the money right now, and over the next couple of weeks made it pretty clear that he was trying to get out of paying for the damage. He even kept cutting our grass each week but never came to the door to collect his weekly fee. After hubby placed a call to his cell phone only to find the number had been disconnected we decided to go talk to his parents.

Throughout all of this hubby and I had debated back and forth about how to handle this situation. On the one hand, he is just a kid (although technically of legal age), it could have happened to anyone, and we aren’t going to take anyone to court over this. On the other hand, it didn’t happen to anyone, it happened to him, he offered to pay for it, and our budget is pretty tight.

His father was immediately belligerent. He had this whole tough-guy thing going on. My immediate impression was that he was a total douche. I mean, if my son broke a neighbor’s window playing baseball or something I would pay for the damage and would certainly not tell my neighbor to kiss off as he seemed to be doing with us. Finally the reason for his behavior came out. His son is in jail. He’s supposed to enter the military in July but since this is his third recent scrape with the law, and this one a felony, his military future is not looking good. The legal fees are going to be enormous. Suddenly the problem we had come to discuss seemed so petty. We are the least of this man’s problems.

I had to fight back tears. Not because of the legal fees or the fact that there is now no way he is replacing our pane of glass. The pain of watching your child go down the wrong path. Especially the path of a criminal right on the cusp of what could possibly lead to a much brighter future (joining the military tends to straighten people out). I can’t even imagine it.

When they are babies their futures seem so bright. The possibilities endless. As young children there is so much potential as their own interests and strengths develop. We have such high hopes for our kids. Sure, an argument could be made that this teenager’s problems are a result of bad parenting but I have no way of knowing if that is the case as I don’t know them at all. No matter what led him down his chosen path, the disappointment, guilt and grief his dad must be feeling right now knock the wind out of me every time I think about it. Shattered dreams, especially those we have for our children….well, it’s terrifying to even consider my own sons ending up in the same position as this troubled young man.

He did not discuss the details of his son’s crimes but did soften up considerably after he got the truth off his chest and we expressed compassion for him and his son. He even apologized for his initial behavior, acknowledging that we had no way of knowing what was really causing his anger. By the time we left I wanted to give him a hug. I hope it’s not too late for his son and that he can get his life together. I hope his parents don’t have to live with shattered dreams for the rest of their lives.

Thanks for stopping by!

When my friend Gina was first diagnosed with cancer her biggest concern was that she would die before her twin daughters turned 18. She was afraid that their biological father would take them away from everything she had worked so hard to provide: stability and love, their home, their step-father and their little sister. Throughout her battle with cancer I never once heard her complain about herself, the treatments or anything else. Her mantra never changed. She simply had to stay alive until the twins were 18. She knew she could not fall short of this because the consequences for her daughters were too horrific for her to even consider.

Her worst nightmares have come true.

Last week, less than two months after losing their mother, their biological father abruptly removed them from their school in the upscale suburb in which they have lived for more than 1/2 of their lives. He has taken them to the home of the most recent woman he is living with in a rough neighborhood. He has told them that their mother never loved them and only wanted his money. He has cut them off from all of their family and told them they will never see their step-father or little sister again. He has not even bothered to enroll them in school.

I don’t know what precipitated any of this. I do know that the girls are terrified and cut off from everyone they love, everything that is familiar and safe to them and all while still grieving the very recent death of their mother.

Her sister said it best, “Gina is counting on all of us to fix this.”.

I don’t know how to fix this. All I do know is that getting the word out through my blog may lead us to someone who can help. There is a court hearing next week in DuPage County IL. If anyone reading this knows anyone or knows someone who may know anyone that can help my friend’s daughters (attorneys, advocates, etc.) PLEASE leave a comment here.

Thank you.

Oh but if I take my heart’s advice I should assume it’s still unsteady

Oh I’m never really ready, I’m never really ready

I’m in repair, I’m not together but I’m getting there”

- “In Repair” by John Mayer

Today, November 3rd would have been his 72nd birthday. The 10 year anniversary of his death was last month. We received a piece of junk mail addressed to him today. He never lived here. We bought this house 2 years after he died.

Ten years. It seems like a lifetime ago.

I don’t believe one of the things I said in last year’s post. I know I believed it at the time.

“I forgave him and grieved for my lost childhood a long time ago.”

No. That’s simply not true. I have never grieved for him or my lost childhood. It’s too much. Whenever I come even close to wrapping my brain around any of the emotions that surface when thinking of him I have to back away. The many forms of abuse I endured when he was healthy are so complicated and so much a part of my identity that I have to deal with my recollections in small doses.

I’m not even sure how to go about grieving for him. It’s so surreal, losing a parent. The hospice nurses told me that it’s actually more difficult for children who lose parents with whom they had a less than loving relationship. They warned me that I may not grieve at all but that somewhere down the road, “maybe even 10 years from now”, it will hit me, and hit hard.

I moved out just as he was beginning to get really sick. After I moved out I mostly only saw him at the occasional obligatory holiday and the seemingly endless emergency hospital visits and eventually in the nursing home. My only memories of him as an adult revolved around pretending everything was normal and his illness. That’s it.

I think that’s why it’s been easier for me to reconcile my relationship with my mother. She’s still here (thank God…or whoever). I never got to know him as a healthy adult.

I wonder how different my life would be if he were still here and healthy. I wonder how he’d have treated my sons. I wonder how he’d have treated me. I’ll never know.

I have to deal with all these conflicting feelings at some point. It’s obvious that avoiding them has caused most of my problems, especially my weight and body image issues, my anxiety and my trust issues. It’s just so overwhelming that I’m not sure when I’ll be able to do it. I’m in repair. I hope wherever he is, he is too.

Thanks for stopping by!

I have written quite a bit about my much maligned father.  However, as I’m sure is true with just about everyone, there were some good times too. When he wanted to be he was absolutely hysterical with a biting wit and also acted like a little kid in many ways.  I was reminded of this today.

My aunt sent an e-mail to my sister and I asking for recipes and/or family cooking stories to share in a cookbook she’s putting together for her daughter who recently moved out on her own.  My sister is an excellent cook.  I’ve come a long way, but am still domestically challenged.  My response to my aunt’s e-mail was pretty much along the lines of, “I’ve got nothing, go ask my sister.”.

My sister, who occasionally blogs over at Be Green Save Green, responded with the e-mail below.  I have re-posted it here in it’s entirety.  I have no idea if anyone reading this will find it anywhere near as hilarious as we do but I couldn’t resist.  When I first read it, I laughed so hard tears were streaming down my face for 10 minutes.  Without further ado, for your reading pleasure, may I present a small glimpse into our lives when our father decided to cook:

You wanted a food/story about mom & dad?! Well, frankly, neither one of them had any culinary skills to speak of! However, about once a year dad would get a hair up his a$$ and bust out the giant cast iron skillet……this dish came out different every time, but the main ingredients are as follows:

1) 1 box of Kraft Mac & Cheese

2) 1 pound of hamburger meat

3) 1 bag of the nastiest/about to expire frozen veggies you can find in the freezer (“Oriental Blend” or Lima Beans are preferred)

4) 1 can of corn

5) 1 mini jar of pimentos (We have NO IDEA why these things were readily available each and every time!)

After you brown the meat and drain off the grease (into a coffee can, you know….for the war effort!) add the Mac & Cheese and follow instructions. Then dump in the rest and cook until you almost can NOT distinguish between the ingredients.

Voila! You have the annual favorite:  Big Dad Stud Surprise!

Now, go order a pizza because if this sounds good you have NO business being in the kitchen!

He named it himself. I believe it was a variation on the name of a Western that he liked to watch. Yes, in fact, it did taste as horrific as it sounds. It resembled something like this:

This picture really doesn't do it justice. It was worse.

Thanks for stopping by!

Being the mother of two sons, this topic is pretty much constantly on my mind.  I wasn’t inspired to write about it though until I read my friend Lynnette’s blog post; A Small Glimpse Inside The Boy.  In that post she discusses seeing a small glimpse of what her husband must have felt as a boy.  It made me shiver.

I grew up with only one sibling.  A sister.  When my first child arrived and he was a boy, I thought to myself, “what the hell do you do with these little guys?”.  I had no experience from which to draw on to raise this child.  So, I did what I do.  I read.  I read a lot.

It turns out that most boys are raised to “be men”.  This means to not show any emotions except anger.  All other emotions are considered weak.  By whom?  By the “men” who were raised the exact same way but deep down feel horrible about themselves because they do in fact have emotions other than anger.  That’s just not going to work for me.  Talk about dysfunctional.

See, I don’t want to be one of those moms on the news saying, “No, I had no idea he was building pipe bombs in our garage.”.  I don’t want my boys to turn into workaholics, rage-aholics, alcoholics or any other a-holic just to numb the feelings that they aren’t “supposed” to feel.  Uh uh.  I want my boys to understand that emotions are normal and ok.

The tough part about this is that society still doesn’t believe that emotions are normal or ok.  Boys are made fun of when they cry, even at very young ages.  In organized sports, boys are told to “shake it off”, “man up”, “suck it up”, etc.  They are called crybabies or pussies.  NO!  Little boys who get hit with line drives are going to cry.  It hurts.  They are little boys.  There is nothing wrong or unnatural about them crying.  If a little girl on a little league baseball team got hit with a line drive and started crying, all the coaches and parents would probably rush out there to check on her, make sure she’s ok, give her hugs and kisses and probably even tell her to sit out the rest of the game with a lollipop.

No wonder we have so many wars, high school kids shooting up their schools and men seeking power at all costs.  We’ve raised them to be angry.  Think of all the different emotions you can feel in just one day.  Apply those same emotions to a man.  If he is raised, as most boys are, to only show anger, then he would probably be angry most of the day.  Every day.

So where do all those feelings go?  No matter what they are taught, those feelings still exist.  They are turned into anger and either directed inwardly or outwardly.  Those are their only two options.  Add to that the fact that they know they feel other emotions but that they are weak for feeling them and another layer of crap is dumped on them.  Shame.  If “real men” don’t feel emotions, but I do feel emotions, then I’m not a real man.  That’s the message they receive loud and clear.

This leads to a whole variety of problems during childhood and even more later in life.  Bullies, rageful criminals or withdrawn depressed kids are the results of these lessons.  They end up becoming emotionally distant adults at best or violent abusers at worst.  The women in these men’s lives are basically dealing with a “man” with the emotional maturity of a five year old.  So, their relationships suffer, causing them more emotions that are not “manly” and they feel even worse about themselves.  One of the theories on what causes narcissism speaks to this:

There are many theories regarding what causes a narcissistic personality disorder. Subsequently what you are about to read is one more theory, based on my experiences in treating many patients with narcissistic personality disorder. I have found definite commonalities between individuals from which one can draw conclusions regarding causation. As such, I believe one of the most common causes is impoverished self-esteem, occurring at a young age. These individuals often have a loss of a strong father figure in their lives. If they have not lost their father figure, then the father has been emotionally absent. These fathers are usually condescending, critical, and do not empower their children at a young age. Subsequently, as they grow older these children overcompensate for their lack of self-esteem, carrying with them some traits from their fathers such as the emotional distancing, while inflating their false sense of self worth. Sadly, individuals with narcissistic personality disorder really never find their true selves.

~ PeaceAndHealing.com

So,  how do we stop this nonsense and let our boys and men know it’s ok and normal to experience all sorts of emotions and stop the spread of anger, abuse and self-loathing?  I don’t have an answer to this question.  It’s a societal problem that most people don’t seem to want to change, despite senseless, preventable events such as Columbine.

How I handle this with my boys is by telling them the sad truth.  They have been told that society looks down upon boys who express emotions such as sadness, hurt and pain.  They have also been told that while they do need to “suck it up” out there in the world in order to avoid being ridiculed and targeted by their peers and/or bullies, they do have a safe place in which to express any emotions they have.  They are encouraged to do so here at home.  I have explained that while it’s confusing, the fact is society doesn’t like it but that’s ridiculous and so home is a safe haven in which emotions are expressed freely.  All of them.

There was a particularly grueling football practice last season.  It was hot out.  They practiced for 2 hours a day, every day of the week.  It was a competitive league and the coaches were tough.  This particular practice, my oldest son took some hard hits.  By the end of practice he felt exhausted and beaten up.  I saw as he walked towards me that he was fighting back tears.  He was ten years old.  I whispered to him that he did a great job at practice and to just hold it together until we got to the car.  He nodded.  Once we got to the car, he let it all out.  By the time we got home, he felt fine.  Tired, but fine.  It was so simple.  He didn’t have to keep all that bottled up forever, just until we got to the safety of our car, away from the other dads and boys who would most definitely have made fun of him if he had cried at football practice.

I understand that this most likely started long ago when men went to war, when their lives were consumed with hunting and fighting.  This is no longer the case.  Most men in today’s society have families with whom they spend time and go to work in a civilized office in a suit and tie.  It’s time that we let our boys and men off the hook.  It’s time that we accept them and their feelings, just as they accept us and ours.

Thanks for stopping by!

I really wasn’t sure what to write after my last post.  On the one hand, it was dark and depressing and I thought maybe I should lighten things up.  On the other, it seemed odd to suddenly switch gears, almost like pretending that I didn’t actually publish the deep dark family secrets.  That felt wrong, just like how we all used to pretend that my father wasn’t a raging lunatic and that everything was fine.  I chose a quote from My Way because it was my father’s favorite song and was played at his funeral.  That gives you a clue in which direction I decided to go.  That’s right…even darker.  Read on at your own risk or come back tomorrow after I have changed the subject completely. 

My father had been extremely sick for years.  His health began to fail due to complications from diabetes when I was 22 and he died when I was 29.  Seven long, unlucky years for all of us.  He was near death so many times during that seven year period that I lost count.   He had a kidney transplant among countless other surgeries.  My sister even saved his life once by performing CPR herself while waiting on an ambulance. 

In the end, it was his decision to die.  His body was rejecting his transplanted kidney, he needed heart surgery that was risky at best and he was living in a nursing home.  He was 61 years old.  He decided he didn’t want to go back on dialysis, have risky heart surgery or another kidney transplant.  He was done.  Or, so I heard.

I saw him regularly because my mother had a schedule for us to follow so that one of the three of us visited him every single day.  Yes, at age 29, married, with a one year old baby at home and a full-time job, I followed the schedule.  To not follow it was unthinkable.

He never spoke to me about his decision.  Not once.  He never said goodbye.  Neither did I.  Each time I saw him, we pretended everything was fine, just like always.

I was shocked when my mother first told me about his decision to stop all medical treatment.  It took a few moments for the implications to sink in.  No more treatment.  He was actually going to die.  She came over to my house, alone, to tell me.  She delivered the news as calmly and as emotionless as any medical professional would.  She is a nurse.  Based on all of his medical issues and all the medications he would no longer be taking, the doctors estimated that it would be a matter of a few days.  Of course, not one to go quietly, days turned into weeks.  I firmly believed that he would out-live us all. 

The weeks leading up to the end of my father’s life still seem surreal almost ten years later.  My mother, always in control, began planning his funeral immediately.  Yes, while he was still alive.  The schedule increased in frequency.  We all visited every day.  I have a home video of his last semi-lucid day.  It is truly disturbing to watch.  There we were, in the grass outside of the nursing home, video taping what must have looked to outsiders like a normal family picnic.   There was nothing normal about it, although we were all pretending that it was.  He held my son for a while but it looks unnatural.  It looks staged.  He wasn’t interested.  He was playing the part to the very end.  The rest of us were talking and laughing as if it were any other day.  We were playing our parts too.

One night my sister woke up abruptly.  She was hysterical.  She woke my mother up and said they had to go see my father right away.  They went.  They were in the room when he took his last breath.  They heard it.  It never occurred to either of them to call me.  That hurt at first but I now realize that I wouldn’t have wanted to have been there.  The hospice nurses had told us that anyone who was meant to be there would be.  I believe that they were right.

It was finally over, or so I thought.  I now know that feelings that get pushed down, buried and aren’t dealt with, do come back to haunt you.  I also finally know that when they do, they are just feelings.  They can’t harm you unless you ignore them.  Facing the pain isn’t fun or easy but it is enlightening and liberating.  I’m so close I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  I think I’m almost free.

Thanks for stopping by!

I’ve mentioned that my father was abusive in previous posts.  I’ve probably even written about some incidences and described the overall vibe in our home.  I have never written a specific post explaining the nature of the abuse in detail.  I’ve never really even talked about the specifics to anyone.

I was talking to a friend today about the guilt I still feel over the fact that his long-term serious illness annoyed me, how I used to roll my eyes and begrudgingly show up whenever some major medical emergency occurred, about how relieved I was when he finally died, and about how pissed off I still am that I never truly got to tell him how much I hated him and why.

Up until the day he died I had revenge fantasies.  There were two different versions.  The first one was that he acknowledged and sincerely apologized for and regretted the way he had treated me.  I get to tell him it’s too little, too late and he can go fuck himself.  The second one is that he attempts to berate, insult or degrade me while in a narcissistic rage and completely devoid of fear, I tell him he no longer has any power over me, what a piece of shit coward he was for bullying his young daughters and again…he can go fuck himself.

I never got the chance to even attempt to realize either of these fantasies.  He was very sick for a very long time.  He was a completely different person.  He was just a frail, pathetic shell of the “man” he once was.  We never discussed his behavior when I was his child.  I felt guilty for all the anger, hate, annoyance and revenge fantasies because he was just a sick, weak man.  That really pissed me off.  I felt gypped.  Any opportunity that ever possibly existed to enact one of my revenge fantasies disappeared as he got sick.

The day he died, I cried.  I cried at his wake and funeral.  In fact, the day of the funeral I tried to get out of going.  I sobbingly told hubby I couldn’t go.  It would be the last time I saw him.  Forever.  All hope of my revenge fantasies were officially dashed.  More devastating, all hope of him ever loving me was also dashed.

I know we aren’t supposed to speak so harshly about our parents.  We definitely aren’t supposed to speak so harshly about the dead.  These societal “shoulds” are what have caused my guilt over my true feelings.  I’m supposed to miss him.  I’m supposed to feel some great loss.  I’m supposed to remember him fondly.  I don’t.  I never have.

Maybe explaining some of the sordid details will help with understandng how and why I feel the way I do.  It is difficult to talk about.  It was supposed to be the big family secret.  It is painful and humiliating.  I don’t want pity.  I’m a grown woman with a pretty damn good life.  I just need to get all this baggage out of my system.

The worst of the abuse was verbal/emotional abuse.  He called me names such as whore, little bitch, slut, etc.  These are only some of the words he used.  I know that I have forgotten most of the words.  I used to kind of blank out, go to another place in my own head, and wait for the storm to end.  Based on discussions I’ve had with my sister, I know he also frequently asked, ‘What’s wrong with you?!”.  My blanking out served me well, in that I don’t remember every horrible thing he ever said.  It is also confusing as hell to have the vast majority of your childhood “missing”.

I do remember the rages.  Any little thing could set him off.  Once ignited, that time bomb could not be disarmed.  I got it at full throttle.  I remember psychotic narcissistic rages in which I was screamed at for hours and hours on end.  The punishment never fit the crime.  Most times there was no crime.  I remember that during these rages, he would also hit me, pull my hair and throw things at me.  Once, a full 2 liter bottle of pop was whipped at my head.  Another time, a large can of coffee.  One of his favorite tactics would be to ask some ridiculous question (such as, “what’s wrong with you?”) and then demand an answer but tell me to shut up as soon as I started talking and then smack me in the head or across the face.  These rages went on for hours and hours.  He never left one bruise, cut or any outward wounds.  He was particularly fond of getting right into my face, pulling my hair so that I was forced to look directly into his face, just inches away from mine as he screamed insults at me, spit landing all over my humiliated face.

Every single time I swore I was not going to cry.  He was NOT going to get to me.  Every single time, I did.  I beat myself up for being so weak.  When it was finally over I would go to my room and scream into a pillow and sob.  I felt completely and utterly helpless and alone.  I would plot runaway attempts.  I would wish for him to leave or die.  I would fantasize about my mom getting us the hell out of there.  None of it ever happened.

Well, actually, he did finally die, after an excruciatingly long illness but I was an adult, out on my own by then.  It brought me no pleasure seeing him so sick.  It just pissed me off that I felt like I had no excuse for cutting him out of my life.  My mom and sister needed what little help I was able to provide.  I felt it was my duty to be there for him and for them.

Today, when I hear about a true narcissist who behaves similarly, these revenge fantasies are brought vividly back to life.  I have actual emotional flashbacks.  I want to confront the narcissist when he’s in the middle of a psychotic rage to let him know I’m not scared anymore and take him down a notch.  Actually, several notches.  I’d like to totally emasculate each and every one of them.  There is one at work but he doesn’t bother me enough to even get into a discussion with.  A couple of friends are married to narcissists but they are their battles, not mine.

I will never get the chance to have my father (or a similar substitute) finally love me.  I will never get the chance to live out one of my revenge fantasies.  I will never out-manipulate a narcissist.  I will never hurt a narcissist.  They have no actual human emotions.  I need to find a way to give this up and move on.  Right now, after having just talked about it recently, I am just really bitter and pissed off that the bastard got sick and died without ever taking responsibility for his actions, throwing me even one tiny crumb to show he loved me or giving me my shot at him as an adult.  Hopefully continuing to talk about it and write about it will help me move closer to forgiveness.

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My oldest son’s 11th birthday is this week.  Not to point out the obvious, but I am simply not old enough to have an eleven year old.  It’s not possible.  I’ve done the math. 

As I always do on my kids’ birthdays, I remember their births, the day they were born.  This always shocks me.  It doesn’t feel as if 11 years have passed.

When my water broke 7 weeks before my due date, I didn’t even realize it was 7 weeks before my due date.  I wasn’t keeping track of the weeks at all.  People always asked how many weeks pregnant I was and I always guessed or just told them my due date.  That’s how clueless I was.  We had only attended two sessions of our prenatal classes.

I won’t go into all the gory details of my labor and delivery but suffice it to say that he was born with no problems, a little over 6 weeks early, and weighed 5 pounds, 11 ounces.  He spent one night in the NICU for observation and then was handed over to us (like we knew what to do with him) pronounced healthy, with none of the possible problems they had warned us about with preemies. 

He was the sweetest baby.  He was so tiny and his cry was more like a little squeak.  He let anyone hold him and was even-tempered, right from the beginning.

At three weeks old, we almost lost him when he had to have surgery for a birth defect called pyloric stenosis.  He didn’t react well to the anesthesia and it was touch and go for a day but he recovered from that just fine too.

Now, that little guy is turning eleven?!  I borrowed the term “eleventy-teen” from a friend of mine who referred to her son as that age when he was eleven.  This is the age when the early signs of becoming a teenager begin to rear their ugly heads.

So far, besides the sex education lesson he gave us at dinner one night, the fact that he calls me “Mom” in public (I still prefer Mommy, as long as I can get away with it), and there are to be no hugs in public under any circumstances, and he really, really needs a cell phone, he’s still closer to childlike than to teen-like. 

I just don’t want him to grow up so fast, if at all.  I don’t want him to lose the enthusiasm he has for everything from magic tricks to special effects in movies to fireworks.  I love that he’s excited and proud of himself for being placed in an advanced math class next year and even that he’s nervous about starting middle school (so am I!).  I don’t want other kids, life in general, or God forbid, me or his dad, to cause him to laugh less, play less or put on uncomfortable adult disguises.   And I hope he has a happy 11th birthday. 

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I have attempted to understand why women stay in abusive relationships my entire life, particularly when their children are also abused in these relationships.  As a child I was told that we couldn’t leave because we couldn’t afford it, that I deserved the abuse, that he had “changed” and that I was over-sensitive.  I believed it all.

To this day I have extremely conflicted feelings about women who stay in abusive relationships and allow their children to be abused.  On the one hand, I empathize with their feelings of helplessness and on an intellectual level, I understand that they honestly believe there is no way out or that he isn’t all that bad or that he has changed.  On the other hand, I also know that they are adults, are not helpless and are the only one who can save their children by removing them from the abusive relationship. 

I have no tolerance for the mistreatment of children.  I realize that sounds like a ridiculously obvious statement that no one in the world would disagree with.  However, while it may be true that no one would verbally disagree with me on this, there are many, many adults whose actions prove that they disagree.  These are the abusers and those that allow their children to be abused. 

Children are, in fact, helpless.  They cannot save themselves.  They are totally dependent on their parents.  When one of their parents is abusive and the other either looks the other way or is an active participant in the abuse, there is no hope. 

I actually experience “flashbacks” when I am confronted with stories of child abuse.  I feel the same feelings I felt when I was a helpless child.  It takes me days to recover a sense of normalcy after even seeing a movie in which children are abused.  I feel raw, vulnerable, shell-shocked, anxious, angry, depressed, horrified, scared and helpless.  I want to save them all.  The sad reality is that I can’t. 

In my own attempt to make sense out of my own childhood and move on, I have come to view my own mother almost as two separate people.  I have had to separate the person she is today from the person who raised me.  I know this sounds odd but it has allowed us to have a pretty decent relationship.  I still have to deal with my own feelings about the woman who raised me, but that’s a very slow moving, long and painful process.  In the meantime, I am no longer a helpless child completely dependent on her.  I can see her as she is today.  She is a good Grandma.  She is as emotionally available to me as she can be.  She recently announced her retirement and I couldn’t be happier for her.  She deserves it.  She’s had a rough life and has always worked hard.  I’m glad that she is going to have the chance to enjoy retirement, relax and just…be.

My original intent for this post was to discuss the cycle of abuse.  I’ve seen a diagram of it many times.  My plan was to find that diagram and then write about each phase in significant detail.  Instead, while trolling the internet in search of the diagram, I came across an amazing website that describes it all much better than I ever could.  It also contains tons of helpful information and resources for women in abusive relationships.  That website is Heart 2 Heart. 

Here is the diagram that I was looking for.  If you click on it, it will take you to their section explaining the cycle and much more…

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