I have mentioned in a previous post that my father would go several days in a row without being seen. My brother was a teenager, without my mother or father around, there wasn't a lot of accountability for his time. He was mostly gone, when he was at home it was usually to make sure I was doing okay. My sister was living with other families most of the time. The result was that I was home, by myself a lot of the time.
For my part that mostly meant I watched what ever I wanted on TV if I wasn't out riding my bike. Safety was not a big concern for any of us. Either for a lack of concern or negligence our front door was unlocked much of the time. Like my brother and father, I mostly came and went at will.
One day I came home and found an older teenage boy in my living room. I had seen him around, his house was at the end of the block. His younger brother was in the same grade at the same school. I was stunned, and didn't know what to say. I just stood there staring at him, wondering why in the world he was in my living room. He undid the buckle of his pants and began to unzip his pants. He said "listen, I know you're gay because you go to school with my little brother and he told me. He told me you suck dicks in the bathroom. I want you to suck my dick." I insisted I didn't. In reality I was scarcely beginning to understand the mechanics of sexual interaction and certainly had no inclination to become active. I was only ten years old.
I shook my head no and stuttered, as I turned to run he grabbed me by the hair, then the collar and jerked me back, throwing me on the floor. Before I could react I felt the weight of his body slam down on top of me knocking the breath out of me. He was more than twice my size. He kept saying "It's cool man. Just be cool okay?" His breath smelled awful. He put one hand between my shoulder blades and was pushing down. He was so heavy, I could squirm but could not get free. His left hand kept tugging at my pants.
My body was on fire and at the same time was cold and tingling, it was as if the heat was so intense it became cold. I was enraged, I was terrified, I was weak and helpless. The sound of everything became intensely loud. Then there was nothing. I heard nothing. The hard lines of the room and the furniture around me, the leg of the chair inches from my face, it all darkened and the lines became hazy. Everything began to blend together, light, sound, shape, pain, fear all melted into one blob. The weight and the pushing on top of me and the floor beneath me was all the same thing. I was just there in the blob. Time stopped. Eventually the pushing stopped. The weight lifted. The blob was changed but still I was there inside the blob. light faded from the room, I stayed there waiting for someone to come and ask some kind of question. No one came home. Eventually I got up.
Shift
In a previous relationship, the last one before I left Texas, the relationship had devolved to mostly fighting. One day we were in one of our longer more intense arguments. I was methodically laying out my grievances against her and with each point that I tried to make the argument would spin off in a different direction on a different tangent. After some time she began to see the points I was making and began to understand what I was saying in a new way. Then, startled with a new view, she looked at me and said "OH MY GOD! I AM NOT INNOCENT!"
Twenty years after the fact, I still find that statement quite remarkable. We had been together for almost two years, we went through some tough times, and the whole time she had been thinking she was completely innocent of any wrong doing. It hadn't occurred to me that anyone could be that delusional.
It was a very turbulent time and I was going through some very painful life lessons. I had a lot to learn. I still do. But I have learned that there are a whole lot of people walking around sincerely thinking they don't ever do anything wrong.
For my part, I have come to understand that there is a difference between guilt and wrong and innocence and right. But I have also come to understand that this binary view is inappropriate for most peoples relationships and situations. I have no delusions about being right or innocent. I claim neither, not in that instance in which I was fighting with my girlfriend, not in my recent divorce. At this point I really try not to think about people and situations in such terms, it doesn't help anyone achieve anything positive or constructive.
Most people begin and end with themselves, what they like, what they want. Right/wrong, guilt/innocence automatically puts most people on the defensive, which means they aren't listening very well.
Right / Wrong and Guilt / innocence are appropriate for math exams and a court of law. Most other places it's really counterproductive.
I also wont argue with people. Most things are not worth arguing about. But what does arguing accomplish anyway? It puts people on the defensive which means you will have a harder time making an agreeable point.
If someone starts talking to me I will do my best to listen and I will listen for as long as I am able. Listening to people who have something to say is one of the most important and loving things we can do for another person. If something is said that I disagree with, and my thoughts are solicited by the person speaking I will give my view, I will give the reasons for holding that view and then I am done. On occasion, if the subject is important enough and it is someone I feel close to I will engage in a calm, rational debate of facts and rational ideas.
Experiences, some of them painful, has taught me that this is the best way to interact with others. I really do enjoy when someone disagrees with me and we have a rational debate. In such cases there is often something else that I had not considered, some potential caveat that I had not seen. If they make a good case I will usually change my mind or moderate my opinions or I end up learning something. In any case I am better for the exchange.
Africa
In 2012 I went to Africa.
It is the only time I have ever been out of the country. It was also the first time I had ever traveled out of the southern U.S.
Africa was not ever a place that I thought I would go. I had not ever wanted to go to Africa.
Prior to that trip I was a follower of Christ and in a spiritual crisis. I thought God was telling me to go to Africa so I went. I am glad that I did, it changed my life.
I went to Africa with the idea that I was going to there to help the African people. I thought there would be some grand moment of revelation or of God speaking to me. Why else would God tell me to go to Africa?
From the moment I got off the plane, I began to fall in love with Africa, with Nairobi Kenya, where our plane landed. It was strange to me, to set foot on soil so far from home, literally on the other side of the planet. The soil was sandy and reddish, not unlike the soil I have seen in pictures of Mars taken by the rovers. It might as well have been Mars.
There was a 100 foot cactus growing up like it was a shade tree, in the middle of the round-about near the airport exit. There were scores of large white birds on the roof, the telephone poles and in the trees. I had not ever seen or heard of birds like these, but they looked like they were big enough to eat a toddler if they were so inclined.
There were military personnel, police officers and security officers everywhere with M16 looking rifles, not across their back but in front, ready to open fire in the blink of an eye. There is definite sense in the air that you don't want to cause trouble with anyone.
Africans have a very different outlook on how to drive and navigate traffic. They are not put off by litter the way we are here in the U.S. When they saw another large group of fat Americans, us, they see opportunity to earn money. But the ones I encountered all wanted to do something for me to earn the money. In the seventeen days that I was there, I only encountered one beggar. One person who said "Please, give me some money". I saw more people than I could ever count were living in desperate poverty.
We did not stay very long in Nairobi, we were headed to a rural village named Tawa. We were a church group, we did churchy things. We went to church. We visited the orphanage and schools. We visited people in their homes. We hiked up mountains. We saw incredible sights of plants and animals. We met wonderful and amazing people. We ate new and interesting food and learned new tastes.
We were in an impoverished region, a region devastated by drought. Of the farms that had not been abandoned, all of them were struggling to produce enough food to sustain themselves. It is a common story in this region to hear that the man, unable to produce enough to sustain himself and his family, abandons the farm and the family to go to the city to find work and start over. In these conditions, I was surprised to not find one single person was sad, depressed, or unfriendly. They live every day of their lives truly struggling to survive. But each time we gave something intended to be a free gift, they would insist on also giving in return. Even if we didn't present them with a gift, they insisted that they give to us a gift of some sort. I tell you with out exaggeration, every single person we came across met us with a smile and was truly generous. There were no beggars in Tawa. No open hands looking for something, only open arms and warm greetings.
I do not mean to suggest that this place is perfect. It is a desperate place, where the struggle to survive is real, it is intense and unrelenting. I am saying that these people do not have the problems of self pity, selfishness or greed like we have here in the U.S. And after reading this you perhaps think to yourself "Well I am not like that!" Yes, you are. I was and I am. Compared to other Americans, perhaps you are not. Compared to the Kenyans I met, yes you are. We all are.
Visiting the poorest of the schools we would see, we met a small child that has haunted me ever since. We noticed one child standing off at a distance from all the teachers and children. He did not say or do anything to draw attention to himself. He was not trying to hide. He just kept a good distance away from everyone. We asked about him and the teachers had him cover over to us and they told us his story.
The father had abandoned the family. The mother was unable to feed all of her children and so to ease her burden, she beat this child to drive him away so she would not have to see him. He had at one time been a student at that school but it had been some time ago. At first the teachers were giving the child some of their food and gave him water from the water tank there at the school. But as the drought had gotten worse they were no longer able to spare the food. The foundation of the water tank failed and the back half of the water tank broke off and fell down the hill side so they were no longer had water available.
There is no power grid in Kenya. There is no water water pipes delivering water everywhere in Kenya. If you want water you have to go find it. Most of the creeks had long since dried up. There was a river near by but it was very, low and also polluted with waste. Most people in Tawa have to walk 20 to 40 minutes to access water from the river. There are some wells that have been drilled but you must pay money to get water from the wells.
So here is this small child, he looked like maybe he was four years old. He is literally dressed in rags, he as an infection in his eye. He has no food. He has no water. He has no medicine. He has nothing. He has nothing in truest, cruelest sense of the words.
Here in the U.S. when we say "There is nothing to eat" what we mean is there is nothing that we want to eat or there is nothing that we are willing to spend the energy to prepare so we can eat it. There is food to eat, we're just either to lazy or picky to eat it. In Tawa, no food means there is - no food -. Really and truly, no food.
This little boy was actually eight. He lives in Tawa Kenya, so he looks like he is four to me, another fat American. This little boy had no food, no water. But on this private bust that we rented, driven by the driver we hired, is a 5 gallon igloo cooler that is filled with crystal clear, clean iced water. And in my seat is two packages of crackers that I brought along for a snack. Of course I had already had a nice large breakfast before we left where we were staying that morning.
We have seen pictures in magazines, in movies and on TV of starving children in Africa. I sometime felt sad for them but usually did think much about it. It is a completely different situation when a starving child is looking you in the eye. A child that is not so unlike my own children. Everything that I knew understood about life or the universe or my place in it changed in that moment. Everything changed, everything in the same magnitude as none, like no food, no water. I continue to be changed each day. This child is with me, reminding me that I need to change.
In that moment I was overwhelmed by the amount of need in the world. I was overwhelmed by how ridiculously insignificant I am, how powerless I am to do anything about the suffering in the world, the suffering of children like my own precious children. But then I realized that it is not for me to solve the problems of the world, it is up to me to do something.
Do Something! Do what?
I can change my attitude. I can change the way I look at people and situations. I can change the way I live my life, how much I consume, what I consume. I can focus on giving more than I take.
In Tawa, people were giving from the heart. We were giving out of our abundance. In Tawa, the most important thing between any two people is the interaction, the relationship between them. We were so wrapped up in task lists, times, places and events. People were secondary.
It is up to me to change. Make people and my relationships with them most important. Give what ever I have to give, to whoever needs it, and give it freely. I am not the smiley type but I can be kind and polite. I can listen when people want to speak.
If I can learn to want less, to need less, there can be more for people need but have nothing or do not have enough.
I may not make one iota of difference in the world but it won't be because I have not tried. Trying is doing something isn't it?
It is the only time I have ever been out of the country. It was also the first time I had ever traveled out of the southern U.S.
Africa was not ever a place that I thought I would go. I had not ever wanted to go to Africa.
Prior to that trip I was a follower of Christ and in a spiritual crisis. I thought God was telling me to go to Africa so I went. I am glad that I did, it changed my life.
I went to Africa with the idea that I was going to there to help the African people. I thought there would be some grand moment of revelation or of God speaking to me. Why else would God tell me to go to Africa?
From the moment I got off the plane, I began to fall in love with Africa, with Nairobi Kenya, where our plane landed. It was strange to me, to set foot on soil so far from home, literally on the other side of the planet. The soil was sandy and reddish, not unlike the soil I have seen in pictures of Mars taken by the rovers. It might as well have been Mars.
There was a 100 foot cactus growing up like it was a shade tree, in the middle of the round-about near the airport exit. There were scores of large white birds on the roof, the telephone poles and in the trees. I had not ever seen or heard of birds like these, but they looked like they were big enough to eat a toddler if they were so inclined.
There were military personnel, police officers and security officers everywhere with M16 looking rifles, not across their back but in front, ready to open fire in the blink of an eye. There is definite sense in the air that you don't want to cause trouble with anyone.
Africans have a very different outlook on how to drive and navigate traffic. They are not put off by litter the way we are here in the U.S. When they saw another large group of fat Americans, us, they see opportunity to earn money. But the ones I encountered all wanted to do something for me to earn the money. In the seventeen days that I was there, I only encountered one beggar. One person who said "Please, give me some money". I saw more people than I could ever count were living in desperate poverty.
We did not stay very long in Nairobi, we were headed to a rural village named Tawa. We were a church group, we did churchy things. We went to church. We visited the orphanage and schools. We visited people in their homes. We hiked up mountains. We saw incredible sights of plants and animals. We met wonderful and amazing people. We ate new and interesting food and learned new tastes.
We were in an impoverished region, a region devastated by drought. Of the farms that had not been abandoned, all of them were struggling to produce enough food to sustain themselves. It is a common story in this region to hear that the man, unable to produce enough to sustain himself and his family, abandons the farm and the family to go to the city to find work and start over. In these conditions, I was surprised to not find one single person was sad, depressed, or unfriendly. They live every day of their lives truly struggling to survive. But each time we gave something intended to be a free gift, they would insist on also giving in return. Even if we didn't present them with a gift, they insisted that they give to us a gift of some sort. I tell you with out exaggeration, every single person we came across met us with a smile and was truly generous. There were no beggars in Tawa. No open hands looking for something, only open arms and warm greetings.
I do not mean to suggest that this place is perfect. It is a desperate place, where the struggle to survive is real, it is intense and unrelenting. I am saying that these people do not have the problems of self pity, selfishness or greed like we have here in the U.S. And after reading this you perhaps think to yourself "Well I am not like that!" Yes, you are. I was and I am. Compared to other Americans, perhaps you are not. Compared to the Kenyans I met, yes you are. We all are.
Visiting the poorest of the schools we would see, we met a small child that has haunted me ever since. We noticed one child standing off at a distance from all the teachers and children. He did not say or do anything to draw attention to himself. He was not trying to hide. He just kept a good distance away from everyone. We asked about him and the teachers had him cover over to us and they told us his story.
The father had abandoned the family. The mother was unable to feed all of her children and so to ease her burden, she beat this child to drive him away so she would not have to see him. He had at one time been a student at that school but it had been some time ago. At first the teachers were giving the child some of their food and gave him water from the water tank there at the school. But as the drought had gotten worse they were no longer able to spare the food. The foundation of the water tank failed and the back half of the water tank broke off and fell down the hill side so they were no longer had water available.
There is no power grid in Kenya. There is no water water pipes delivering water everywhere in Kenya. If you want water you have to go find it. Most of the creeks had long since dried up. There was a river near by but it was very, low and also polluted with waste. Most people in Tawa have to walk 20 to 40 minutes to access water from the river. There are some wells that have been drilled but you must pay money to get water from the wells.
So here is this small child, he looked like maybe he was four years old. He is literally dressed in rags, he as an infection in his eye. He has no food. He has no water. He has no medicine. He has nothing. He has nothing in truest, cruelest sense of the words.
Here in the U.S. when we say "There is nothing to eat" what we mean is there is nothing that we want to eat or there is nothing that we are willing to spend the energy to prepare so we can eat it. There is food to eat, we're just either to lazy or picky to eat it. In Tawa, no food means there is - no food -. Really and truly, no food.
This little boy was actually eight. He lives in Tawa Kenya, so he looks like he is four to me, another fat American. This little boy had no food, no water. But on this private bust that we rented, driven by the driver we hired, is a 5 gallon igloo cooler that is filled with crystal clear, clean iced water. And in my seat is two packages of crackers that I brought along for a snack. Of course I had already had a nice large breakfast before we left where we were staying that morning.
We have seen pictures in magazines, in movies and on TV of starving children in Africa. I sometime felt sad for them but usually did think much about it. It is a completely different situation when a starving child is looking you in the eye. A child that is not so unlike my own children. Everything that I knew understood about life or the universe or my place in it changed in that moment. Everything changed, everything in the same magnitude as none, like no food, no water. I continue to be changed each day. This child is with me, reminding me that I need to change.
In that moment I was overwhelmed by the amount of need in the world. I was overwhelmed by how ridiculously insignificant I am, how powerless I am to do anything about the suffering in the world, the suffering of children like my own precious children. But then I realized that it is not for me to solve the problems of the world, it is up to me to do something.
Do Something! Do what?
I can change my attitude. I can change the way I look at people and situations. I can change the way I live my life, how much I consume, what I consume. I can focus on giving more than I take.
In Tawa, people were giving from the heart. We were giving out of our abundance. In Tawa, the most important thing between any two people is the interaction, the relationship between them. We were so wrapped up in task lists, times, places and events. People were secondary.
It is up to me to change. Make people and my relationships with them most important. Give what ever I have to give, to whoever needs it, and give it freely. I am not the smiley type but I can be kind and polite. I can listen when people want to speak.
If I can learn to want less, to need less, there can be more for people need but have nothing or do not have enough.
I may not make one iota of difference in the world but it won't be because I have not tried. Trying is doing something isn't it?
Demons
Demons. They exist.
I have them in my head. Some will go away if you ignore them. Some are tougher to battle and defeat.
The sneaky bastards are shape shifters. Sometimes they are a small voice. Sometimes they almost squeeze you out of your own brain. They distort truth and reality so much, so often, in so many ways it can be easy to lose touch with the real world. It gets scary.
It is a terrifying sensation to feel your mind working against your own best interest. This is the nature of my mental health issues.
I spent many years trying to let go, overcome, forget, forgive, ignore, or suppress my demons. I was wound up pretty tight but I was making some headway. I was feeling confident about most everything. Then it all started to unravel. I started to unravel.
I was blindsided with a reminder of past experiences. I was provoked to anger and rage, unintentionally, by a well meaning relative. It tapped into some deeply suppressed feelings I thought I had dealt with. I was laid off. I had to quit school and the pursuit of a degree, something that I had wanted and sought after for a long period of time. I lost my faith. One of my children was hospitalized with a life threatening illness. Our strained marriage was pushed past the breaking point. I had an increasingly harder time holding down a job. Then I had a breakdown. Then the last straw broke and my marriage ended. It wasn't really her fault any more than it was mine. We were both taken by surprise, though for different reasons. For me it got a lot worse before it got better.
Mental health issues are ongoing.
I met someone. we have pretty much been together ever sense, in some form or another. In word, thought and deed, she is so different I often, affectionately point out to her what a freak she is. Having some one who understands, loves me any way and encourages me makes a difference.
It is simple and easy to think that a man twice divorced does not take wedding vows seriously. In my case that is not necessarily true.
I got married the first time when I was 19. That story will come in a future post. I came home one day and our apartment was empty. She was just leaving but I noticed that she had replaced my ring with her new lovers ring.
The previous post pretty much contains everything I will say about the second marriage, in regards to her. But I had said 'till death do we part' and I meant that. I was broken. I had lost hope in an intervening god and the marriage was broken. The marriage had been sustained, for my part by hope and prayer for many years. I was preparing to end my life.
One night, after everyone else was sound asleep I went out to the car, set everything up run the exhaust into the inside of the car and ensure that there was a good air seal. I sat down in the driver seat with pen and paper, put the key in the ignition but then hesitated. I sat there for some time running everything through my mind and eventually realized I couldn't follow through with it. I would not willing miss out on my children's lives.
I had to figure things out. I had to find a new reason to live. A new way to stay alive. At first I thought I would live for my children, but that puts an unfair burden on them and I couldn't do that to them.
And the end of your life, what ever you did, whatever you didn't do, it's on you. Each of us are responsible our lives. There are people are not dead, but they are not really living either. I was one of them. I was filling up my time waiting for death to come and getting a little bit impatient.
For me, the first thing I needed to do if I was really going to live my life was resolve my marital issues. She was unwilling to go to counseling then. Then the ultimatums came and so I called her bluff. I chose the what else and wouldn't back down. She did not believe I would call her bluff. Then she believed that I would cave in. That is not how it went.
Ending the marriage did not slay my demons. In some ways it fed them. But now I am living my life on my terms. I make decisions and I am able and willing to accept responsibility for each choice. I thought it would be possible to end my marriage without costing me my relationship with my children. I was wrong. But for everything that has happened and all that I have endured I have not and do not have one iota of doubt or regret about that decision. I chronically second guess myself over nearly everything, but not that.
I am still battling demons. I thought I would have to do that on my own, but I am so happy that I was wrong about that. My beloved is always with me, helping me and encouraging me.
I have them in my head. Some will go away if you ignore them. Some are tougher to battle and defeat.
The sneaky bastards are shape shifters. Sometimes they are a small voice. Sometimes they almost squeeze you out of your own brain. They distort truth and reality so much, so often, in so many ways it can be easy to lose touch with the real world. It gets scary.
It is a terrifying sensation to feel your mind working against your own best interest. This is the nature of my mental health issues.
I spent many years trying to let go, overcome, forget, forgive, ignore, or suppress my demons. I was wound up pretty tight but I was making some headway. I was feeling confident about most everything. Then it all started to unravel. I started to unravel.
I was blindsided with a reminder of past experiences. I was provoked to anger and rage, unintentionally, by a well meaning relative. It tapped into some deeply suppressed feelings I thought I had dealt with. I was laid off. I had to quit school and the pursuit of a degree, something that I had wanted and sought after for a long period of time. I lost my faith. One of my children was hospitalized with a life threatening illness. Our strained marriage was pushed past the breaking point. I had an increasingly harder time holding down a job. Then I had a breakdown. Then the last straw broke and my marriage ended. It wasn't really her fault any more than it was mine. We were both taken by surprise, though for different reasons. For me it got a lot worse before it got better.
Mental health issues are ongoing.
I met someone. we have pretty much been together ever sense, in some form or another. In word, thought and deed, she is so different I often, affectionately point out to her what a freak she is. Having some one who understands, loves me any way and encourages me makes a difference.
It is simple and easy to think that a man twice divorced does not take wedding vows seriously. In my case that is not necessarily true.
I got married the first time when I was 19. That story will come in a future post. I came home one day and our apartment was empty. She was just leaving but I noticed that she had replaced my ring with her new lovers ring.
The previous post pretty much contains everything I will say about the second marriage, in regards to her. But I had said 'till death do we part' and I meant that. I was broken. I had lost hope in an intervening god and the marriage was broken. The marriage had been sustained, for my part by hope and prayer for many years. I was preparing to end my life.
One night, after everyone else was sound asleep I went out to the car, set everything up run the exhaust into the inside of the car and ensure that there was a good air seal. I sat down in the driver seat with pen and paper, put the key in the ignition but then hesitated. I sat there for some time running everything through my mind and eventually realized I couldn't follow through with it. I would not willing miss out on my children's lives.
I had to figure things out. I had to find a new reason to live. A new way to stay alive. At first I thought I would live for my children, but that puts an unfair burden on them and I couldn't do that to them.
And the end of your life, what ever you did, whatever you didn't do, it's on you. Each of us are responsible our lives. There are people are not dead, but they are not really living either. I was one of them. I was filling up my time waiting for death to come and getting a little bit impatient.
For me, the first thing I needed to do if I was really going to live my life was resolve my marital issues. She was unwilling to go to counseling then. Then the ultimatums came and so I called her bluff. I chose the what else and wouldn't back down. She did not believe I would call her bluff. Then she believed that I would cave in. That is not how it went.
Ending the marriage did not slay my demons. In some ways it fed them. But now I am living my life on my terms. I make decisions and I am able and willing to accept responsibility for each choice. I thought it would be possible to end my marriage without costing me my relationship with my children. I was wrong. But for everything that has happened and all that I have endured I have not and do not have one iota of doubt or regret about that decision. I chronically second guess myself over nearly everything, but not that.
I am still battling demons. I thought I would have to do that on my own, but I am so happy that I was wrong about that. My beloved is always with me, helping me and encouraging me.
Dawn
No, not the light of a new day coming. More a case of darkness setting in.
If you have been reading the other posts you have heard mention of Dawn before. To this day that name is odius. I have yet to work my way through forgiving the wretched beast that is Dawn. She has/had her own story. Academically I know that I am no better or worse than her, but the effect of her presence in my life marks the darkest, worst days of my life. There is no parallel to scourge on my life that was Dawn.
Dawn would come and go over time, and there was not ever a time that her presence in my life meant anything good or positive. I did not ever hear say a kind word about anything or anyone. I did not ever see or hear of her doing any good deed ever. Only vitriol spewed from her mouth. Many times I would feel her bony hands smack my face and head like a hammer. As I write this I feel the cold darkness that marks her time in my life creep on me as if something palpable.
I can not tell my story with out speaking of her.
After the first time I saw Dawn she was not seen again for a long time and I had initially forgotten about her. The next time I saw her, I came home from school to find her sitting in my living room watching TV. As I came in she announced to me that she was living there now. She was rude and ill tempered. She made frequent threats. Then one day she was just gone. I didn't miss her.
During this time my father became something of a scarcity. It was common for several days to pass without seeing or hearing from him. When he did show up, he was usually drunk.
Dawn reappeared in the living room one day. She was angrier and made good on her threats from the beginning. It was a short period of time until Dawn smacking me in the face became not just a daily occurrence but several times throughout the day. There was no way to avoid it. No matter how hard I tried, I would say or do something to incite her wrath.
It is difficult to think and write about her and these times so I am telling the most significant memories. I believe it will suffice for you, the reader to understand how she still has an impact on my life to this day.
Bear:
I had been wanting a pet dog for sometime. My father would not allow me to get one, but that didn't stop me from wanting one. This was after all relations to the church had been severed. I had one friend, Richie. His dog had puppies. Since my dad wasn't around very often I brought a puppy home and just sort of hoped that once my dad came back around and realized that there was a dog there, that he would let me keep him. It worked. My dad begrudgingly let me keep him. His name was Bear. He was black with tan, he had a bit of rottweiler in him but was pretty much a mutt. He had a big belly and wobbly legs. My brother commented he looked like a Grizzly bear the way he walked and so I named him Bear.
Bear was my buddy. He and I were bonded. He understood that I was his human. I loved that dog dearly, and he was a very happy, playful puppy. We were inseparable.
Then Dawn came back. She brought a friends dog with her that she was keeping for a few weeks. It was an old, mean dog. One of those small cat-dogs. Dawn decided that since the two dogs didn't get along that my dog had to stay outside. My puppy didn't understand and became upset. Then he got sick and stopped eating. I watched Bear turn from a happy, playful and rotund puppy to trembling dog that refused to eat and become emaciated.
It was also an unusual winter for the Texas coast. We had snow and ice and still I was not allowed to bring my dog in. The landlady who was not fond of us or either dog, brought Bear inside her home since he wasn't allowed inside my home. When Dawn found out, she got angry and made me take the dog back outside.
The next morning I went looking for Bear but he didn't seem to be in the yard. I asked the land lady and the neighbors, they hadn't seen him. I went back to where I had last seen him. There was an accumulation of ice on the ground there. I started digging and I found my puppy, buried under ice, frozen.
Dawn killed my puppy.
Dear ol' Dad;
This is part of my brother's story but it is also is part of mine. It began with me and ended similarly.
For one reason or another, I was as usual in trouble with Dawn. She had gripped my shirt collar and was jerking me around. It hadn't escalated to hitting yet, but I was already crying. Often there was a verbal barrage that preceded the main event of me getting smacked around. I had been complaining about her, to her and to my dad. I was crying and asking why it was always Dawn that had to punish me and why it couldn't be my dad once in a while. My dad spanked us with a belt, but that was not as bad as being smacked in the head and being jerked around.
I remember balling, almost hysterically, pleading with my dad to punish me this time. To spank me with the belt. He wouldn't answer me. He would not even look at me. He just kept taking a bite of his dinner, sipping his coffee and taking a drag of his cigarette.
About the time Dawn started hitting me my brother came out of his room and interjected himself into the situation. He was not going to allow her to hit me this time. Unable to hit me, she took a swing at Charlie who responded in kind. Once my father realized what was happening he was swiftly out of his chair, grabbed Charlie by the hair, threw him across the room where he collapsed in a heap. My father swiftly moved into the corner and began pummeling Charlie. After several uncontested blows my father picked up by his hair and drug him outside and across the street. I stood in the door way of our home, watching my father and brother trading blows. Then my father yelled that he was not his son anymore and that he was not ever to return to our house.
T-Shirt Painting;
This is embarrassing. I didn't stop wetting the bed till I was in ninth grade. in Fourth grade I was a prolific bed-wetter. Every single night, the entire mattress would be soaked. I was shamed and humiliated, I wanted to stop but it was uncontrollable. Apparently Dawn thought more shame and humiliation would do the trick. She painted a picture of a boy laying in a bed with a stream of urine arching up and splattering in the bed. I big, bold, friendly letters read "I wet the bed!" She put the shirt on me and sent me off to school.
Report Card Day;
We were a working class, blue collar family. My aspirations were to be a cowboy, a preacher and a U.S. Marine. I was not a good student. During one of the times in which Dawn had disappeared, my father had started becoming scarce again and Charlie had assumed the role taking care of me. It corresponded that I brought my straight 'F's' up to an 'A', a 'B', a few 'C's' and a few 'D's'. Then Dawn came back and my grades began to decline. They didn't drop as low as they had been but it was a definite downward trend. On the day that I brought that report card home Dawn was on the front porch smoking. Once she saw my report card she grabbed me by the collar in the usual way and began wailing away on my face. On the front porch. Right after school, in front of all the neighbors. At that point I didn't have any friends and was known as the weird kid with all the problems. I got picked on and bullied a lot. Now everyone from school got to watch me get the shit beat out of me by my goonish looking 'step-mom'.
That particular beating didn't last as long though because Dawn's hand started hurting. About the time everyone's fun was wrapping up my dad came home. He left a few minutes later to take Dawn to the emergency room. She came back with a cast on her wrist. I was grounded because it was my fault after all. I had made her do that to me with my report card.
This is not an exaggeration or embellishment. There was a red hand print with five fingers on the left side of my face.
There are many other 'Dawn stories' but this should be enough for you to get the point. The effects of her time in my life linger with me to this day.
If you have been reading the other posts you have heard mention of Dawn before. To this day that name is odius. I have yet to work my way through forgiving the wretched beast that is Dawn. She has/had her own story. Academically I know that I am no better or worse than her, but the effect of her presence in my life marks the darkest, worst days of my life. There is no parallel to scourge on my life that was Dawn.
Dawn would come and go over time, and there was not ever a time that her presence in my life meant anything good or positive. I did not ever hear say a kind word about anything or anyone. I did not ever see or hear of her doing any good deed ever. Only vitriol spewed from her mouth. Many times I would feel her bony hands smack my face and head like a hammer. As I write this I feel the cold darkness that marks her time in my life creep on me as if something palpable.
I can not tell my story with out speaking of her.
After the first time I saw Dawn she was not seen again for a long time and I had initially forgotten about her. The next time I saw her, I came home from school to find her sitting in my living room watching TV. As I came in she announced to me that she was living there now. She was rude and ill tempered. She made frequent threats. Then one day she was just gone. I didn't miss her.
During this time my father became something of a scarcity. It was common for several days to pass without seeing or hearing from him. When he did show up, he was usually drunk.
Dawn reappeared in the living room one day. She was angrier and made good on her threats from the beginning. It was a short period of time until Dawn smacking me in the face became not just a daily occurrence but several times throughout the day. There was no way to avoid it. No matter how hard I tried, I would say or do something to incite her wrath.
It is difficult to think and write about her and these times so I am telling the most significant memories. I believe it will suffice for you, the reader to understand how she still has an impact on my life to this day.
Bear:
I had been wanting a pet dog for sometime. My father would not allow me to get one, but that didn't stop me from wanting one. This was after all relations to the church had been severed. I had one friend, Richie. His dog had puppies. Since my dad wasn't around very often I brought a puppy home and just sort of hoped that once my dad came back around and realized that there was a dog there, that he would let me keep him. It worked. My dad begrudgingly let me keep him. His name was Bear. He was black with tan, he had a bit of rottweiler in him but was pretty much a mutt. He had a big belly and wobbly legs. My brother commented he looked like a Grizzly bear the way he walked and so I named him Bear.
Bear was my buddy. He and I were bonded. He understood that I was his human. I loved that dog dearly, and he was a very happy, playful puppy. We were inseparable.
Then Dawn came back. She brought a friends dog with her that she was keeping for a few weeks. It was an old, mean dog. One of those small cat-dogs. Dawn decided that since the two dogs didn't get along that my dog had to stay outside. My puppy didn't understand and became upset. Then he got sick and stopped eating. I watched Bear turn from a happy, playful and rotund puppy to trembling dog that refused to eat and become emaciated.
It was also an unusual winter for the Texas coast. We had snow and ice and still I was not allowed to bring my dog in. The landlady who was not fond of us or either dog, brought Bear inside her home since he wasn't allowed inside my home. When Dawn found out, she got angry and made me take the dog back outside.
The next morning I went looking for Bear but he didn't seem to be in the yard. I asked the land lady and the neighbors, they hadn't seen him. I went back to where I had last seen him. There was an accumulation of ice on the ground there. I started digging and I found my puppy, buried under ice, frozen.
Dawn killed my puppy.
Dear ol' Dad;
This is part of my brother's story but it is also is part of mine. It began with me and ended similarly.
For one reason or another, I was as usual in trouble with Dawn. She had gripped my shirt collar and was jerking me around. It hadn't escalated to hitting yet, but I was already crying. Often there was a verbal barrage that preceded the main event of me getting smacked around. I had been complaining about her, to her and to my dad. I was crying and asking why it was always Dawn that had to punish me and why it couldn't be my dad once in a while. My dad spanked us with a belt, but that was not as bad as being smacked in the head and being jerked around.
I remember balling, almost hysterically, pleading with my dad to punish me this time. To spank me with the belt. He wouldn't answer me. He would not even look at me. He just kept taking a bite of his dinner, sipping his coffee and taking a drag of his cigarette.
About the time Dawn started hitting me my brother came out of his room and interjected himself into the situation. He was not going to allow her to hit me this time. Unable to hit me, she took a swing at Charlie who responded in kind. Once my father realized what was happening he was swiftly out of his chair, grabbed Charlie by the hair, threw him across the room where he collapsed in a heap. My father swiftly moved into the corner and began pummeling Charlie. After several uncontested blows my father picked up by his hair and drug him outside and across the street. I stood in the door way of our home, watching my father and brother trading blows. Then my father yelled that he was not his son anymore and that he was not ever to return to our house.
T-Shirt Painting;
This is embarrassing. I didn't stop wetting the bed till I was in ninth grade. in Fourth grade I was a prolific bed-wetter. Every single night, the entire mattress would be soaked. I was shamed and humiliated, I wanted to stop but it was uncontrollable. Apparently Dawn thought more shame and humiliation would do the trick. She painted a picture of a boy laying in a bed with a stream of urine arching up and splattering in the bed. I big, bold, friendly letters read "I wet the bed!" She put the shirt on me and sent me off to school.
Report Card Day;
We were a working class, blue collar family. My aspirations were to be a cowboy, a preacher and a U.S. Marine. I was not a good student. During one of the times in which Dawn had disappeared, my father had started becoming scarce again and Charlie had assumed the role taking care of me. It corresponded that I brought my straight 'F's' up to an 'A', a 'B', a few 'C's' and a few 'D's'. Then Dawn came back and my grades began to decline. They didn't drop as low as they had been but it was a definite downward trend. On the day that I brought that report card home Dawn was on the front porch smoking. Once she saw my report card she grabbed me by the collar in the usual way and began wailing away on my face. On the front porch. Right after school, in front of all the neighbors. At that point I didn't have any friends and was known as the weird kid with all the problems. I got picked on and bullied a lot. Now everyone from school got to watch me get the shit beat out of me by my goonish looking 'step-mom'.
That particular beating didn't last as long though because Dawn's hand started hurting. About the time everyone's fun was wrapping up my dad came home. He left a few minutes later to take Dawn to the emergency room. She came back with a cast on her wrist. I was grounded because it was my fault after all. I had made her do that to me with my report card.
This is not an exaggeration or embellishment. There was a red hand print with five fingers on the left side of my face.
There are many other 'Dawn stories' but this should be enough for you to get the point. The effects of her time in my life linger with me to this day.
Tangent to Catharsis
Not every post will be in chronological order. This post jumps way ahead to the present day. My life, my story, my prerogative. I hope that you will not be put off by this.
The next post in the story following the time line I began with is difficult to write and I need more time to finish it.
Additionally, the content of this post weighs more on my mind at this time and I want to put this 'out there' so that I might, hopefully move forward.
I went through a divorce last year. It was much uglier and nastier than it really needed to be; But I can be unbelievably and ridiculously foolish and naive. Such was the case with this divorce. Sadly, as is always the case, the children suffered the most.
None of my children will speak to me or see me. It is hard for me to understand how after pouring so much of my time and energy into them they could go so long not wanting to see or hear from me.
Father's day is coming up and I will not see or hear from my children.
I have always tried to be accountable to my children as a parent. When it was pointed out or I realized that I made a mistake, I went to them with a confession and an apology. I tried earnestly to not repeat my mistakes.
At no point, not to anyone, have I ever made the claim or implication that I was innocent or without fault for the failure of my marriage. My guilt doesn't prove her innocence.
Long story short; I was not the husband she wanted or needed. She was not the wife I wanted or needed. It had been that way for most of the 17 years we were married.
The breaking point was the ultimatums. You see, I am the sort of person that if pushed, would maybe shoot myself in the foot to spite you when it comes to ultimatums. Prior to the beginning of our relationship, she witnessed the end of my previous relationship because of an ultimatum.
An ultimatum is in effect saying 'your thoughts and feelings are of so little importance to me, you are of so little importance to me, that if you don't do what I want I will throw you and this relationship away.'
If you give me an ultimatum, you can only lose.
My son gave me an ultimatum, with truly impossible and ridiculous conditions. He now uses that as a justification for not having any contact with me.
I was not ever informed why my daughters broke off communications and contact with me.
Each of them at separate times, unaware of what their siblings had said, told me about things their mother and others from the church said about me. Most of which is a creatively, selective, and contorted version of the truth. I have sufficient reason to believe that they are actively discouraged from having contact with me.
Children are impressionable and as time has passed, my son has contradicted himself. Accusations he once made against his mother he now makes against me. There is perhaps some truth in both variations but as words are spewed, the truth is lost and wounds are inflicted.
I was harsh with my children. I was overbearing many times. I didn't shield them from my anger and frustration as I should have. I have been thoughtless and insensitive to them many times.
I miss my children. I love them dearly. I hope we will overcome our wounds.
The next post in the story following the time line I began with is difficult to write and I need more time to finish it.
Additionally, the content of this post weighs more on my mind at this time and I want to put this 'out there' so that I might, hopefully move forward.
I went through a divorce last year. It was much uglier and nastier than it really needed to be; But I can be unbelievably and ridiculously foolish and naive. Such was the case with this divorce. Sadly, as is always the case, the children suffered the most.
None of my children will speak to me or see me. It is hard for me to understand how after pouring so much of my time and energy into them they could go so long not wanting to see or hear from me.
Father's day is coming up and I will not see or hear from my children.
I have always tried to be accountable to my children as a parent. When it was pointed out or I realized that I made a mistake, I went to them with a confession and an apology. I tried earnestly to not repeat my mistakes.
At no point, not to anyone, have I ever made the claim or implication that I was innocent or without fault for the failure of my marriage. My guilt doesn't prove her innocence.
Long story short; I was not the husband she wanted or needed. She was not the wife I wanted or needed. It had been that way for most of the 17 years we were married.
The breaking point was the ultimatums. You see, I am the sort of person that if pushed, would maybe shoot myself in the foot to spite you when it comes to ultimatums. Prior to the beginning of our relationship, she witnessed the end of my previous relationship because of an ultimatum.
An ultimatum is in effect saying 'your thoughts and feelings are of so little importance to me, you are of so little importance to me, that if you don't do what I want I will throw you and this relationship away.'
If you give me an ultimatum, you can only lose.
My son gave me an ultimatum, with truly impossible and ridiculous conditions. He now uses that as a justification for not having any contact with me.
I was not ever informed why my daughters broke off communications and contact with me.
Each of them at separate times, unaware of what their siblings had said, told me about things their mother and others from the church said about me. Most of which is a creatively, selective, and contorted version of the truth. I have sufficient reason to believe that they are actively discouraged from having contact with me.
Children are impressionable and as time has passed, my son has contradicted himself. Accusations he once made against his mother he now makes against me. There is perhaps some truth in both variations but as words are spewed, the truth is lost and wounds are inflicted.
I was harsh with my children. I was overbearing many times. I didn't shield them from my anger and frustration as I should have. I have been thoughtless and insensitive to them many times.
I miss my children. I love them dearly. I hope we will overcome our wounds.
The End of the Holy Rollin'
If you are not familiar with the Pentecostal denomination of Christianity, they tend to be on the more extreme end of fundamentalism. The church in which I grew up was very strict. We had a really long list of things we didn't do or didn't approve of and we were very proud of our list. It showed how good and righteous we all were.
Members of the congregation 'speaking in tongues' was a regular event in each service. In fact, as it was taught in that church at that time, you hadn't received the 'Holy Ghost' if you hadn't spoken in tongues, and you were not 'saved'. Hell fire and damnation was a regular feature in the sermons. But if you have not ever sat through a service like that you cannot understand it. There is nothing else in our society to give a context for comparison.
When fundamentalist speak in tongues, it is always unintelligible. No two different people 'speak' the same and in my experience, no one ever interprets what is spoken. And if you know your scripture, you know to speak in tongues without interpretation is useless. That part was not discussed though. Also ignored was that fact that we were all native English speakers and so to speak in tongues was superfluous. In our church there were the regulars; those who would stand up and speak in tongues with predictable regularity. There were the newcomers, those who showed up a few times, spoke in tongues but in a short time would fade out of the scene the same way they drifted in.
The regulars 'spoke' frequently and with ease. For anyone else it was an extended and arduous experience. Usually it would start with an alter call. Someone praying fervently, perhaps staying at the alter longer than anyone else would have. Then one person would come over and lay hands on them. Then another, and another. Eventually there would be a mass of people surrounding a single person, all of them reaching to put their hands on that one person. The prayers would become louder and more fervent. Eventually the one person at the center would begin crying and speaking in tongues.
Sometimes people speaking in tongues would fall down on the floor and begin convulsing as if having a seizure. Sometimes they would begin jumping up and down while convulsing and they would begin screaming louder and louder. Others would run up and down the aisles.
When I was about six or seven I spoke in tongues. I ran up and down the aisles. While I was aware of my self and what was happening around me, there was a sense of being outside of myself. Looking back I believe that it was a state of hysteria. I can elaborate at length but I will spare the reader, at least for the time being.
That same night I spoke in tongues I was baptized. Then everything went back to normal. It was a big and important occasion, sort of like all of the sudden it arbitrarily became a holiday and everyone responded accordingly. I was baptized, then just like that it was over and I was just a kid. Like any other kid. I didn't ever speak in tongues again. In time that became an issue that would lead to my first of many spiritual crisis'.
It happened that my first spiritual crisis coincided with my mother's illness getting worse and then dying. Predictably, I thought God took my mother to punish me.
Then my dad didn't behave the way the church 'family' thought he should and we were all ostracized. Take a moment dear reader, consider a child about eight or nine years old thinking that God has taken his mother because he has been bad, quite possibly because he has not spoken in tongues. That child has had contact with his church severed. I had lost my mother. My church family. I had been isolated from all of my friends.
My father, in his grief became a somewhat irregular presence. We were passed from my father to grandparents to one of two other families, back and forth, like a hot potato. And it is all about to get worse.
Members of the congregation 'speaking in tongues' was a regular event in each service. In fact, as it was taught in that church at that time, you hadn't received the 'Holy Ghost' if you hadn't spoken in tongues, and you were not 'saved'. Hell fire and damnation was a regular feature in the sermons. But if you have not ever sat through a service like that you cannot understand it. There is nothing else in our society to give a context for comparison.
When fundamentalist speak in tongues, it is always unintelligible. No two different people 'speak' the same and in my experience, no one ever interprets what is spoken. And if you know your scripture, you know to speak in tongues without interpretation is useless. That part was not discussed though. Also ignored was that fact that we were all native English speakers and so to speak in tongues was superfluous. In our church there were the regulars; those who would stand up and speak in tongues with predictable regularity. There were the newcomers, those who showed up a few times, spoke in tongues but in a short time would fade out of the scene the same way they drifted in.
The regulars 'spoke' frequently and with ease. For anyone else it was an extended and arduous experience. Usually it would start with an alter call. Someone praying fervently, perhaps staying at the alter longer than anyone else would have. Then one person would come over and lay hands on them. Then another, and another. Eventually there would be a mass of people surrounding a single person, all of them reaching to put their hands on that one person. The prayers would become louder and more fervent. Eventually the one person at the center would begin crying and speaking in tongues.
Sometimes people speaking in tongues would fall down on the floor and begin convulsing as if having a seizure. Sometimes they would begin jumping up and down while convulsing and they would begin screaming louder and louder. Others would run up and down the aisles.
When I was about six or seven I spoke in tongues. I ran up and down the aisles. While I was aware of my self and what was happening around me, there was a sense of being outside of myself. Looking back I believe that it was a state of hysteria. I can elaborate at length but I will spare the reader, at least for the time being.
That same night I spoke in tongues I was baptized. Then everything went back to normal. It was a big and important occasion, sort of like all of the sudden it arbitrarily became a holiday and everyone responded accordingly. I was baptized, then just like that it was over and I was just a kid. Like any other kid. I didn't ever speak in tongues again. In time that became an issue that would lead to my first of many spiritual crisis'.
It happened that my first spiritual crisis coincided with my mother's illness getting worse and then dying. Predictably, I thought God took my mother to punish me.
Then my dad didn't behave the way the church 'family' thought he should and we were all ostracized. Take a moment dear reader, consider a child about eight or nine years old thinking that God has taken his mother because he has been bad, quite possibly because he has not spoken in tongues. That child has had contact with his church severed. I had lost my mother. My church family. I had been isolated from all of my friends.
My father, in his grief became a somewhat irregular presence. We were passed from my father to grandparents to one of two other families, back and forth, like a hot potato. And it is all about to get worse.
Mile Markers
There are milestones in everyone's life. 'Milestones' has always had a positive connotation in my mind and I believe most other people's mind. They suggest achievements.
I have milestones. Mostly I have mile markers.
In my twenties I began to recognize that many people had grand achievements that they felt gave them status. Academic degrees. A job title or a business. A home or a car. A marriage and a ring. A new last name that they felt elevated their social status.
In contrast, my grand achievement was that I wasn't dead. I survived. I wasn't much fun or good for conversation or parties. I existed in a different world than most everyone around me. And when I told my story, I am sure many people did, and do think now that I have exaggerated and sensationalized my stories for sympathy or effect. Neither is the case. As this story unfolds it becomes clear how neither is of any benefit.
The first story of survival began with the death of my mother, but in some sense, is ongoing. Before the shock of death could settle into my impressionable young mind there would be other world shattering events that initially eclipsed that event.
My mother was the nucleus of our family, in that if any other of the five of us had passed away I believe we would have remained intact as a family unit. Mile marker; She passed and we fell apart as a family, then as individuals.
After my mother passed away we went to my grandparents. In time my brother and sister would move back and forth between my grandparents, home with my dad, and other families with which we were connected through the church. As best as I can remember, it was about three months between my mother passing and when I finally came home to live with my father, brother and sister. I was the youngest of the three, and the last to learn about anything.
The first morning back with my family I woke to find my father sharing his bed with a woman and couldn't really understand how or why she wasn't our new mother. Mile marker. I was not bothered by there being a woman in bed with my father. There was no context for the implications of such things. I was upset that I had been left out. My father and siblings were living their life, had been, and I was just now coming back home. I knew enough to understand that I was there only because my grandmother had insisted that my father bring me home.
It was not long before we were sent back to my grandparents. Mile marker. The back and forth between this house and that house became the new normal for a bit of time. The church had always been an important part of our lives when my mother was with us. We attended every Wednesday evening and twice on Sunday. Our social connections were all families within the church. After my mother passed, we attended church less and less.
From my perspective, looking back, I only had one real connection to the church left. Barbara Rice was my mother's best friend and had 'saved' her from Catholicism. Tom Rice was a really good and close friend to my father. Tony was similar in age to my brother and they were best friends. Timmy was similar in age to me and was my best friend. As I remember it, Timmy and I were closer to each other than anyone else in our lives. We shared thoughts, we were always in sync with each other. Timmy was always helping me go a little bit further, reach a little bit higher. He helped me be bolder, braver and stronger. I have not ever had a better, or truer friend than I had in Timmy as a small child. We were children. Circumstances tore us apart. I still remember the very last time I talked to him as a little boy. Mile marker.
My father was not a bad man. He was a troubled man, grieving and perhaps feeling a bit lost in the world after the loss of my mother. Occasionally he took us to church. I remember the last time. Dawn, the woman in my father's bed, sat next to my father, on his left. On her left I sat and on my left, was my brother. My sister sat to the right of my father. I remember that people kept looking at us. I didn't understand why at the time, I probably assumed that it was because they hadn't seen us much since my mother passed away. But for all the gawking, little was said to us. We didn't ever go back to church again. Mile marker.
Everyone knew my father was physically involved with Dawn. Dawn had been a friend of my mother though I had not ever known or heard of her. No one in the church approved of their relationship and were intent on letting my father know of their disapproval.
Since my first tricycle I have been an enthusiastic cyclist. Left to my own devices, then or now, I will probably end up on my bicycle riding for the sheer pleasure of it. When I was a child it was common for me to leave the house in the morning on my bike and not return till just before sunset. I rode all over Galveston Island free as the wind, wandering at will. Eventually I began to wander past the church on Wednesday evenings to see my friends. But it wasn't long before the children were instructed to not play with me. I started calling my friend Timmy on the phone. Soon that was prohibited too. that was the last tie to be cut. Mile marker.
The breaking of these ties were critical in my formation as a person. The effects were devastating though it was to be some years before I began to understand just how much. But this devastation will pale in comparison to what is still yet to come. There will be times when all of this is little more than a minor blip.
Through the course of my life there are many stories. Some of them are not necessarily mine to tell and I will leave it to those people to tell. This is my story, from my perspective, as complete and honest as I can tell it. as I trudge through these stories I may find the need to edit them after posting in an effort to continue to be as complete and honest as possible without infringing on anyone else's story. At least while they are living.
Who?
My name is Richard. I'm from Galveston.
I told you that already in the previous post.
So who am I?
There are all kinds of ways to answer a question like that. Most answers to a question like that depend on context. I am the sort that is not as limited by context of time and place the way most 'normal' people are. But then 'normal' isn't usually one of the words people who know me would use to describe me.
"Who am I?" has almost always been a deep philosophical question for me. I haven't ever had a good answer. Certainly not one that is concise.
I am Richard. I am a Libra. I was born at John Sealy Hospital on a Wednesday in the fall of 1971. I like to run, hike, and ride bikes. I am a carpenter. I have three children. My favorite color is blue. I love food and music, almost without limitation or exception. I'm 5'9" and 175 pounds. I am twice divorced, a father of three. I am a former drug user and I have significant mental health issues. I am a survivor of child hood trauma that included physical and sexual abuse.
You still don't know me. I am not known to you. There is a good chance I just said something that makes you want to stop reading.
We have a fundamental need as humans to be known. We need to have witnesses to our life like we need a well balanced diet and sunshine. We could live without these things but it would be a diminished life. I don't need you to like me or agree with me, but I do need to be heard and understood.
I usually like when people disagree with me if it leads to an intelligent and rational discussion. I actually got in an argument on the internet once and as a result changed my mind. I strive to always be open to learning something new.
I have sought after wisdom as an atheist, as a 'seeker', as a Christian, as a student of various philosophies. I have come very close to becoming Islamic and Buddhist. I have poured through religious texts seeking answers, seeking hope, peace and healing. I have found good and useful insight in each system of belief but also voids that depend on me ignoring the voids for that system to be sustained. I won't say any of them are wrong. I won't say any are right. None of them hold a complete grasp of 'truth'.
This is important for you to know about me because in my experience one's religious / philosophical disposition or lack there of is the single biggest component of one's identity. In my case, most of the stories of my life are intertwined with movement in my disposition on this subject.
I was born into a Catholic family. I was baptized as an infant. Shortly before I turned two years old my mother decided that we were Pentecostal. As a result there was a two year rift with my fraternal family. My maternal family members had either passed away or drifted away and were mostly non-existent in our lives.
As I became self-aware, being Pentecostal became an integral part of my identity as a child. As a child grows they learn their name and a few words. They learn their family name. Being Pentecostal was just as much a part of my identity as my name and family name. It framed what I saw my self growing to become. At age five I "spoke in tongues" and was baptized. In the Pentecostal church one is not truly 'saved' till they 'spoke in tongues' and was baptized. I remember my mother was immensely proud and pleased with me.
When I was seven, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Over the next two years I would see her suffer and shrivel until she passed away from this life and away from me.
The turbulence that ensued has daunted me for the majority of my life. The tragedy of the loss of my mother was the first of far too many to come.
I told you that already in the previous post.
So who am I?
There are all kinds of ways to answer a question like that. Most answers to a question like that depend on context. I am the sort that is not as limited by context of time and place the way most 'normal' people are. But then 'normal' isn't usually one of the words people who know me would use to describe me.
"Who am I?" has almost always been a deep philosophical question for me. I haven't ever had a good answer. Certainly not one that is concise.
I am Richard. I am a Libra. I was born at John Sealy Hospital on a Wednesday in the fall of 1971. I like to run, hike, and ride bikes. I am a carpenter. I have three children. My favorite color is blue. I love food and music, almost without limitation or exception. I'm 5'9" and 175 pounds. I am twice divorced, a father of three. I am a former drug user and I have significant mental health issues. I am a survivor of child hood trauma that included physical and sexual abuse.
You still don't know me. I am not known to you. There is a good chance I just said something that makes you want to stop reading.
We have a fundamental need as humans to be known. We need to have witnesses to our life like we need a well balanced diet and sunshine. We could live without these things but it would be a diminished life. I don't need you to like me or agree with me, but I do need to be heard and understood.
I usually like when people disagree with me if it leads to an intelligent and rational discussion. I actually got in an argument on the internet once and as a result changed my mind. I strive to always be open to learning something new.
I have sought after wisdom as an atheist, as a 'seeker', as a Christian, as a student of various philosophies. I have come very close to becoming Islamic and Buddhist. I have poured through religious texts seeking answers, seeking hope, peace and healing. I have found good and useful insight in each system of belief but also voids that depend on me ignoring the voids for that system to be sustained. I won't say any of them are wrong. I won't say any are right. None of them hold a complete grasp of 'truth'.
This is important for you to know about me because in my experience one's religious / philosophical disposition or lack there of is the single biggest component of one's identity. In my case, most of the stories of my life are intertwined with movement in my disposition on this subject.
I was born into a Catholic family. I was baptized as an infant. Shortly before I turned two years old my mother decided that we were Pentecostal. As a result there was a two year rift with my fraternal family. My maternal family members had either passed away or drifted away and were mostly non-existent in our lives.
As I became self-aware, being Pentecostal became an integral part of my identity as a child. As a child grows they learn their name and a few words. They learn their family name. Being Pentecostal was just as much a part of my identity as my name and family name. It framed what I saw my self growing to become. At age five I "spoke in tongues" and was baptized. In the Pentecostal church one is not truly 'saved' till they 'spoke in tongues' and was baptized. I remember my mother was immensely proud and pleased with me.
When I was seven, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Over the next two years I would see her suffer and shrivel until she passed away from this life and away from me.
The turbulence that ensued has daunted me for the majority of my life. The tragedy of the loss of my mother was the first of far too many to come.
Introduction
Hello.
I am Richard of Galveston. Galveston Island is where I was born and lived the first years of my life. It is and always has been a part of my identity.
I am going to tell you the stories of my life, and in so doing tell my life story. I will only tell the truth; as I remember it and understand it. It will be from my perspective, it will be without exaggeration or embellishment. I will do my best to tell the complete story.
I hope that you will find it interesting.
I am Richard of Galveston. Galveston Island is where I was born and lived the first years of my life. It is and always has been a part of my identity.
I am going to tell you the stories of my life, and in so doing tell my life story. I will only tell the truth; as I remember it and understand it. It will be from my perspective, it will be without exaggeration or embellishment. I will do my best to tell the complete story.
I hope that you will find it interesting.
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