Cycle of Abuse: Isn’t It Ironic?

Irony is such a strange word.  I never fully understood it.  Until, I found myself uncovering the trash bin of history that covers my blood.  And, until, I found myself needing to look long and hard at my own ‘hate crimes.’

The irony of my parent’s sharing the same psychiatrist…Dr. Koutras, the hand who filled the bottles.  Until the, irony of shared psychosis…Forty five minutes with my father (the wife killer.)  Forty five minutes with my mother (depressed ex nun looking for abusive father figure.)

Until, until, until…

Dr. Koutras became a stone pillar within a graveyard.  Not until, the doctor’s death, did I  understand how the sharing of time together…can become a pebble that lay the pavement.  The pavement that cover the path…to their children’s own bouts with depression, anger…addiction.

My mother had told me shortly before she passed away.  Informed me that both she, and my father did not reside well.  Did not perform well, as parents should, after Dr. Koutras passed away.

Gee!  Do you think so?

After all, the good Dr Koutras and Mr. John Hawkins, had lay the ground work for my father’s quick dismissal from murder.  After all, both psychiatrist and psychologist, along with many of those with power, knew Janice and Harold had created a child…under the hospital’s not…watchful eye.

The irony that struck me?sps-5

It had not been my mother’s discourse on loosing a psychiatrist of good faith.  The irony struck me that…many abuses of doctor/patient professional relationship…had occurred.

My father, essentially, lived weekends, at John Hawkin’s home.  Lived not as the killer he had been…less than two years before.  My parents shared the same confidant for over twenty years, Dr. Koutras.  He had allowed them to visit, have sex, get married and give birth.  Give birth…to me.  Give birth to an addict with OCD and generalized anxiety disorder.

The humor?  Years later…had been that I became a counselor.  Receiving a degree and psychology and working as, a mental health worker.  Going even further than that…a master’s degree in social work.

Paradoxically, I had worked with adults, dual diagnosed, at a private psych hospital.  Still, I found the bowel’s of addiction held me close at night.  Still, I had bouts of anger that would only be semi controlled by destructive and risky sexual behavior.  Still, with papered degree in hand…I did not know of my history.  A history that possibly could have helped explain my abhorrent…after work…behavior.

Nothing from my childhood to my thirties seemed cohesive!  Would it have helped to know?  Could I have changed?

I took so many friends, lovers hostage…as they say, in AA.  I ran and hid.  Ran and hid.  Ran and hid.

If I took the time, depression would set in.

Being gay appeared to be yet, another personal flaw to be ashamed of.  Growing up catholic, living among adults who did not hold the tools to console and reflect.  Having siblings much older, I found no comfort there.

I lay no blame on my own homophobia.  Lay it nowhere and it no one’s feet.

However, when dressed in my best gray wool skirt, green polyester blazer and pastel button down shirt.  Reading of family values…one man, one woman, two and a half children.  Beholding a ceramic blood infused man hanging from a cross.  And, being scolded for inquiring about a couple, two women (Maryanne and Dawn), that seemed closer to one another than most…

It, the Bible, the Scriptures, distances placed between myself and two, possible role models…  IT all instilled in me feelings of insecurity, remorse, guilt.  And, the unspoken words of

being gay…was not okay!

…fear…resonated.  stand alone 4

When I did eventually come out.  Come out… and running with ‘freak’ flag, flying.  Closet doors not only splintered but knocked off it’s hinges.

My mother spoke few words…

‘I am ashamed of your choice.  But I’ll get over it.’

Criticism began my adolescence.  My mother and father did not want me to have anything to do with Maryanne and Dawn, the not gay, but gay couple.  I had been told to pray for them.  My sister with baggage of her own, slipped birth control pamphlets under my bedroom door.  I had been dressed in gray wool skirts with pastel button down shirts and green blazers.  I had been dressed in the Good News Bible!

Whether any of us knew it or had the ability to understand!?  Slowly, the encouragement to shun gays…rooted and grew in my subconscious.

In school, I used with frequency the words…

fag, dyke, queer…

With friends, I did not confide my inner turmoil.   My wanting to play with GI Joe and not, Barbie.

I hid deep within me, self abusive and risky sexual behavior with men (starting at the age of 14.)   Hurtful scars for my teenage mind to own.  And, own alone.

A sore that was deeper than a chasm of  my leftover souls.  Souls that held no reality.  Or, at least, in my young mind…a life I could live not live with any certainty.

That is…until, irony brought me to a woman with her own demons.  Another graduate of New Hampshire Hospital.  A woman whom… with her innocence and love, rescued me from all the turmoil that stir inside my defunct and dysfunctional persona.

busnote

 

 

 

Cycle of Abuse: 15 in 1982

I have read many, many, despondent writers, poets, etc.  Persons who, now in adulthood, have come through some depressing, harrowing, childhood situations.  On occasion, I have run across documentaries, news item, etc.  About pre-teen, teen, and young adult suicide.  All due to having lived at the violent hands and words of parents that outwardly appeared ‘normal.’  That inwardly, were the devil’s hand puppets.

Back in or around the early 80’s: Our house had burned down.  Down to the ground.  Standing stoic were the scant charred…2 by 4’s, abandoned ashen table ware and counters.  For all intensive purposes, my fifteen year old eyes witnessed nothing but a shell.

As I have said before, some memories blare at me such like the horn of an irritated driver.  Loud, clear, vibrant.  Other memories, due to my need to persevere, are faded and clouded.  Such like a watercolor painting you once adored but can, now, barely remember.

My siblings had long since been kicked out of the house.  It seemed to be a rite of passage.

You’re eighteen.  You did something to piss me off.  You are now no longer allowed on the land of misfits.”

Generally speaking, both, Bud and Sybil,  were conversatinally gone…Way before being physically excommunicated.  My sister enjoyed the company of questionable boyfriends.  A habit I firmly believe was thrown upon her by my father’s physical abuse.  And, my mother’s lack of emotional attachment.

My brother had his friends.  He partied.  He defied.  He had tired of protecting his mother.  And, at one point or another, during a physical altercation with my father.  There had been threats of guns and severe violence.  Best guess would be that was the point of no return.

After our house became a  photo source for neighbors.  After the smoke cleared, clothes of creosote were tossed and generations of knick knacks were tossed into the trash.  After the chaos of destruction became nothing more than local gossip…I was assigned the task of cleaning pennies, dimes, nickels and quarters.

In other words, our small but precious gallon jug of empty Riunite…that had been filled to the max with change; had succumbed to being spare change among broken glass.  And, it had been my assigned duty to clean each and every piece of  current currency…metal.  imageedit_8_8297636672

“Scrub it clean!  Here’s the toothbrush!  Now get at it.”

Had been the order barked out by both my father and my mother.

Sitting there between the lilac bushes and partially singed grass,  a stool, a toothbrush and pounds of  spare change… lay an endless fall.

With September sun beaming down.  I can still recall how sweat would douse the corners of my mouth and then, splash upon the tainted dime or penny.

My depression ran deep.  And, I had been fully aware of it.  Not knowing at the time about my father’s thirst for killing or psychosis.  Not being fully aware of the how and why of my mother’s terminal sadness.  Not being aware of much.  I knew that life in the Bowley household was not like the pretty white houses with laughter…that dotted the rest of the street.

My brother had since joined the Air Force.  And, my sister had married.  Still there had not been much connection between us.  It seems to me, that had been a scenario my parent had derived.  Either consciously or not.

Indeed, I had been my father’s favorite.  Which meant sports, sports and more sports.  Which meant teaching CCD, being active in youth group and singing in the church folk group.  Which meant I received far more than my share of…

“You can do better than that!  Are you stupid?  I don’t give a flying fuck what other parents do!”imageedit_4_3845432106

Either way, I was a lost budding young adult woman.  In a lost land.  With a bit of house insurance money left over.  My mother begged my father to take her to visit her favorite child, Bud!  Bud, my half-brother, had begun the pursuit of his second marriage in two years.  He had, also been affluent in the use of cocaine.  He had joined the Air-force!

Bud had been stationed in Florida.  And, my parents believed they deserved a break.  A break from the hustle and bustle of rebuilding life after a house fire.

Therefore, it was only reasonable that I should remain behind.  Only reasonable to think my best friend, Michael and, most importantly, his mother, would take me in.

This is where Black Beauties, booze, bad behavior and LSD come into play.  I had indulged at a very young age in Yukon Jack.  But my current course of plaid catholic school skirts, smoke and dope and sex…was in over drive.

Mimi, Michael’s mother, had seen this.  She had known what was about to come.  My intention had been death by over indulgence.  Dropping blotter, smoking weed, playing both sides of addiction against each other.

Mimi in her own hippie way, felt the only need for a deep, profound, change in my behavior…Would be therapy!

It had worked.  I met a wonderful woman named, Eileen.  We met once a week on the second floor above S n W sports.  Her office was filled with Buddha, warm thoughts and reflective flowing waters from an over sized fish tank.

My renewal was instant.  The remorse, guilt and shame that was felt became something talked about in open conversation.  I had not started the house fire.  But my intention on that fateful weekend…was to stay home.

Could I have stopped it?imageedit_11_5911877311

A kind woman in pastel flowing skirt…told me…

“No!”

My relief and new-found comfort within my own skin…Quickly dissipated.  For as soon as my parents returned.  And, even with Mimi’s glowing recommendation.  It was apparent that I would not longer be allowed to see Eileen.

My father ranted and raved over and over again…

“No daughter of mine is going to see a shrink…”

And, my mother…

“You heard your father!”

Funny, I was conceived in the tunnels underneath the New Hampshire State Hospital.  Or, that my father was once deemed insane.  And, my mother a manic-depressive with suicidal tendencies.  Yet, snipping possible self harm in the buttocks, while I was still young.  Seemed out of the question.

Looking back on my vivid with gray strands of depression, as a child and teen.  I think how fortunate I am to have survived.  To be able to function.

Course, there is much more to my parent’s love story.  Much more to the dysfunction.  Starting a few years before my birth and flourishing years after…My disowning the ‘family.’imageedit_14_9427699938

 

 

Cycle of Abuse: Family of Lies

 

Cycle of Abuse: the Matriarch/Part Two

harold 2

How odd, it seems to me, that the frigidly, Irish, sardonic, and catholic…persons, seem to die in the winter.  While their bodies can lay above the ground, in wonder…for what seems like years.

My unpleasant grandfather died in a month filled with snowstorms.  My grandmother paid homage to the Saints in similar weather.

Ground stiff, solid and uncaring.  Winds chaffing and abusive.  Oak trees from centuries pass…dotting the graveyard.  All that surrounds… had become gray.  No better word to describe it.  Gray!

I will say, discovering Irish names, among the filler in a Massachusetts’s catholic cemetery, is not an easy affair.

Along the holding lines of remorse and disarray: January and February, I felt a renewed need to find something.

My only certainty had been my Irish blood.  Thick and swollen as a, dark red liquid pulsing through a bottle of Jack.  Yukon Jack, that is.

Eventually, after my grandmother’s funeral,  family dispersed.  My brother and his wife took flight.  As they often do, when push comes to shove.  And, anger is no longer needed.

My sister?  Well, most likely she too moved on.  Moved on to her grandchildren, her daughter, her son.  Clinging, minus the Good Book, to all that a solemn mother should be.

My parents?  They walk about distilled in the dysfunction of daily tasks.  My daily tasks. .  Encouraging me to come inside and visit in between…shoveling, snow blowing, changing out light sockets, walking dogs, doing laundry, monitoring mother’s medications…etc.

I clung on to my lack of history until mid February.  Perhaps, such like other writers, or most likely, overwhelmed by the lack of daylight; I fail at finding anything gregarious to pen about…in the depths of a New Hampshire winter.  Still, I sat myself down, between almost daily visits to the parents.  Sat myself in front of needed research.

Needed research into the fine lines that held the prongs of my blood relations, upright.

Turning to ancestry.com.  It had been midnight, Marlboro Red blaring and soundless, I dug the depths of lies.

To my ‘not’ credit.  I have many degrees.  None of wish require much adding, subtraction, researching, digging and/or metallic depth.  I am not a scientist.  I am not a researcher.  I am blessed not wanting any further knowledge than 1 plus 1 equals…2.

Or, at least, the last I looked, that had been simple math.

However, when one delves into what is, what was, how long ago, names, dates, etc.; It is a handy trait.  Concentration, that is.

‘Round or about two in the morning.  I discovered a name!  My father’s mother was called, LuLu.  She was a full-fledged Cherokee Indian.

LuLu Bowley.  Lulu Rebel.  Lulu Rebel Hammond.  Lulu!

She passed in 1964.  I can only assume she died of the rumors spoken about behind clasped hands.  Gambling, drinking, infidelity, teaching school.

Bits and pieces of the Bowley past were just that.  Bits, segments, discarded notions handed down from angry relation to angry relation.  How much reigned true?  I never knew for certain.

I had been…set up in what is known in my home as the, game room (though there are no games.)  Set up I had been, with laptop in lap, burning cigarette in hand.  Set up!  Or, so I thought.  Living in the merry world of the unknown.

I gave up quickly on weeding through the death certificates, census data, phonebook information.  As I have already stated, concentration is not my strong suit.

Finding Lulu’s eulogy and obituary in the Portsmouth Herald seemed the easiest route.  Less digging, fewer files and photographs!  Right up my alley!

blood 2

I would like to think, my anger has lessened.  That over decades of reminders, I became a person with some depth…Hoping that the not so gentle up bringing of flippant, aggressive, discourse…would bleed out.  Well, not bleed out but seed, flower and eventually, become something more artistic.

My father beat us with leather belts, wire hair brushes, words, hands, punches, etc.  And, had he not been available.  Due to work constraints…my mother would abide.  Though, Janice had been a martyr.  She carried the torch when father was not available.

Growing up, not soundly, but with many horrific sounds, I had been referred to as…

You are just like your father!  Angry!

Daily fist fights with drunken and sober turns of fate, I  hope to have amassed what I believe to be the opposite.  I currently hide from outbursts, pointing of the finger and lastly, degradation of others for my betterment.  This has taken time.  Yet, I know that there is no great prize in having abused others.

I could linger for pages on the black sheep, spoiled brat, angry little girl, scenario.  I am not my father.  I know that in my heart of hearts.  However, that was not an easy road of self-reflection to travel.

As previously stated, my siblings are quite different from I.  Living in a world of conservatism, do as I say, not as I do, judge ye’ first, attitude.  It appears to work for them.  We are completely indifferent to each other.

I often wonder what life could have been like?  Had a much older half-brother and sister listened to themselves, other than elders lacking pride.

But that is another story…Perhaps, for another time.

Oddly enough.  Or, better said, not odd at all, reading of my clan at work on the pages of police logs.  I eventually found, at 3 in the morning…Lulu’s newspaper clipping.

No real information on her ‘true’ demise.  No delegation on her physical illness.  However…a few lines on Harold Bowley needing to be released from care to oblige the funeral processions in Kingston.

Aghast!  What more can one say?imageedit_62_9747238982

Again, in slow, sometimes, untrue, verbal releases from my mother.  I had been very uncertain of Harold’s whereabouts…before my birth.

Had he been in the Korean war?  Probably not

Had he been born along the northern coast of Massachusetts?  Close but not really!

Had he really been married before?

To a young child, terrified of this man with a worn, brown belt.  A daughter reminded daily of her father’s genes infiltrated hers!  Genes, crumpled and filled with hate.  To my toddler self, I could not fathom, this horrific, infrequently caring, man, married to anyone other than…Other than, my mother, a woman who seemed to fill his dented persona with her own depressions.

What I thought I knew?

Perhaps, he had been married before.  Perhaps, his first wife had been a harlot?  Perhaps, he had bred another child!  Perhaps, all had passed away in an automobile accident…along with the first wife’s lover!

Nothing could have prepared me for the anger unleashed in deluded ink.

Yet, there it sat.

Harold Bowley, local man stabs estranged wife…35 times!  That is a killing of love with hate.  That is the taking of someone’s life in such a way that there is meaning.  It was not a drive by shooting.  It had not been a robbery.  It had been an act of vulgar, closeness.

Actions so false.  Romance tied with a lack of emotion, a culvert for the fallen to hide.

This had been the man who raised me.  

cycle of abuse 1

However, only the beginning has come to life.

So much hung in the balance.  In a trance like state, finding it difficult to breath; I wept for the first time in many years.  Wept for my life.  How it had been so easily discarded with lies!

 

 

 

 

Cycle of Abuse: the Matriarch/Part One

 

Cycle of Abuse: Chapter 1

The treasures of my yute!

I had begun to wonder.  What would it be like to have been born into a different family?  Would the rules have changed?  Would I have still become an addict?  For that matter, would I have lived long enough to make to recovery?

So many questions…So little time.

It is not shame that has brought me into this need.  This longing to write out exactly what happened in my family’s little cycle/circle of abuse.  I caressed that wound years ago.  Adamant that more needed to be done.  Actions needed to be taken against my abusive father and emotionally distant mother.

I stewed over the pains and aches…like leftover beef on a hot outdoor grill in the New Hampshire summer humidity.

Yet, something began to turn inside of me.  There had been less pointing of the finger at those I felt were culprits in the boiling blood of my family legacy.  And, more of a need to understand my own paranoia, anger, compulsiveness and…unfortunately, physical ailments.

As I write this, there have been several orthopedic surgeries within the last five years.  More than ten…Less than fifteen.  I say, unfortunately about my disability…for I will never know for sure.  Never to know the exact background to illnesses that have taken the lives of relatives from the past.  For I do not know the exact reason for the ills that have befallen many on my family tree.

I do know this for certain…joe poe

My grandfather, who had been born in Worcester, Ma., was unpleasant.  As unpleasant and outwardly angry, as most any man, I have ever met.  His scowl and belittling undertone statements struck fear in any person…unlucky enough to have met him.

He had been a Massachusetts State Policeman.  He had been a chain smoking, heavy drinking, Irishman, who took no prisoners…Took no prisoners when he worked.  Or, when he came home.

Somehow through the course of the 1960’s Joseph developed a knack for photography.  One thing, led to another…And, not only did he carry a gun to the scene of a crime.  He also took pictures of all the deadly, beyond a good imagination, crash sites.  He became the go to man when it came to homicide, suicide, and accidental death, by motor vehicle.

I still remember vividly the many occasions in Waltham, on Cedar Circle.  The obligating ride down route 128 to an obligating visit…to pictures strewn about the dinning room table.  Vivid black and whites of the latest victim of death upon the Massachusetts’s turnpike.

If anything…my grandfather’s glorious response to how…beautiful and engaging the photos were.  Only truly depicts his personality.  The idea that someone could get so much satisfaction out of another’s untimely demise…stirs the depth’s of my soul.

Guns, guts and glory!

To this stoic man whose employment photo in full uniform, reminded me of one of Hitler’s henchmen:  My grandmother was a dumb Pollock and my mother a, stupid cow.

So often my grandmother found herself the butt-end of polish jokes.  And, my mother, forever, reminded of a youth speckled in bullying.  Bullying by her own flesh and blood.  Over her size and weight.

There had been the slaps, the belt, the insults, the pushing and shoving…by my grandfather towards both Grams and my mother.

I recall riding home from my great aunt’s funeral.  Passing the homeless, the burned out buildings, the graffiti and the desolation of  streets in Waltham.  I never cared for the city in which my mother grew up.  Having been born in Concord, New Hampshire.  The definition of city envisioned itself quite different.  Concord being the bright sunlight of day.  Waltham being the wet and dripping stonewalls of night.

Riding home in the backseat with my mother.  I spent my time in a blank state of mind.  Avoiding eye contact with those on the street.  Pretending to enjoy the gray of the city.  Passing a rundown watch factory, and just over a set of forlorn rail-tracks…we came up on a bridge.

My mother said something to me…Something, I will always remember.  She also spoke in a familiar tone.  A tone that I can only associate with childhood.  Very, very, hush, hush.  As though, her words had no air.

“This is the bridge where I almost jumped!”

For a moment.  I thought maybe she had misspoken.  But it took little time for me to realize who was speaking to me.  My mother had a vast history of suicidal thoughts, tendencies and suicide attempts.

Quickly and with what meek energy she could summon…

She spoke a few words more.

“Your grandfather sent me out to get him cigarettes in the middle of a snowstorm.  He had a few patrolmen over, he’d been drinking and…he didn’t feel like getting out of the Lazy Boy.

He didn’t give me enough money.  I couldn’t get the cigarettes.  When I got home, he asked me…

‘What good are you?  You’re as stupid as your Pollock mother!’

…fucking kid!

With more money in hand and crying.  I slipped on my goulashes and left.  He had such a way of making me feel so small.”

joe 2

My mother had a unique way of starting a feel good family story…and, just ending it.  Just like that.  As if the story didn’t begin in the first place.

The most of I got out of her?  Had been a simple, non-comedic,  punchline…

“Anyway, I felt so horrible.  I stopped at that bridge.  Climbed on the bricks.  Slipped and fell, back onto the sidewalk.  A patrol-car passed by.  Recognized me as, Joe’s kid.  And, gave me a ride back home.  Completely oblivious to what I had just tried to do.”

Grabbing my mother’s hand gently.  I looked ahead to my grandmother, who was still alive at the time.  And, my father, who had been complaining about my grandmother’s use of the car window.

That is all I have to say, at least for now, about dear old granddad.  A man we the children called, affectionately, Joe Poe.

Whoops!  Untrue.  I will introduce the Matriarch of the family, by giving one more nod to Joe Poe.

In my mid twenties, I had come out.  Not full blown.  I’m not a full blown…anything.  I just am not a wearing the rainbow flag like a poncho, leather wallet with chains, lesbian.  Do not get me wrong.  That image works for many.  It just has never been my style.  I have done the marches, the sit-ins, the demonstrations and the volunteering.  Yet, for many reasons, I remain private but open.

My grandfather disowned me…when I had been 24 or 25.  Nothing spectacular.  I had moved to North Carolina.  My grandfather was beginning to slowly die, grow blind and talk gibberish.  Though, to me he had been sick all his life.

I sent him audiotapes of Sherlock Holmes detective series and a sundry of other murder mysteries, on tape.  They were all sent back.  Very little communication occurred.  And, in the same hushed voice my mother always used.  I had been told…Joe Poe was not pleased with my sexual orientation.

Five years later, upon my return to New Hampshire.  My grandfather died not two months into my return.

With some coaxing by my partner and my mother, I renewed a relationship with the Matriarch.

Ruth Quinn had once been…Ruth Stukonis!  The Pollock joke is on you Joe Poe.  It turns out my grandmother is actually, Lithuanian and Russian!

Raised by bad ass nuns and foster families from hell, Ruth came of age before and during the depression…The depression in Boston being raised by an already uncaring and violent family, could not have been easy.

It could be said, that my grandmother had the mouth of a truck driver, the drinking ability of a sailor and the prowl-ness of a well handled knife.

She worked in factories, restaurants, college cafeterias, etc., only to come home to a belt wielding, gun totting hard-ass, husband.  But she was married!  And, for a woman of the 1940’s, catholic and fat (her words, not mine) that was everything.

There are times where I know I did not love her.  Yet, I respected her.  My grandmother and mother both dealt with severe weight issues.  All their lives.  Even when they were below a good weight.  In their minds, and due directly to my grandfather’s belittling, both were forever on a diet.grams 1

Ruth told you, daily: How stupid you were, how fat you were, how you could do better, what was wrong with your wardrobe and many other things she deemed your personal flaws.  Her abuse came verbally.

Emotionally distant, not one for the friendly feeling of a hug, and/or telling you she ‘loved you.’…That had been my grandmother.  Along with telling you dirty jokes, pointing out your latest cold sore and listening to Jimmy Buffet’s

Let’s Get Drunk and Screw

Indeed, she accused me of stealing, lying, drinking and drugging, on more occasions than I can count.  And, much to her now deceased… chagrin, she typically pronounced these indiscretions when I hadn’t done anything.

Do not get me wrong.  I did steal, lie, do drugs and drink.  Just now when she wished upon me the Scarlet A.

I actually tried to make an amends to her, early in sobriety: For taking a paperboy’s tip, from decades before.  She refused to believe me.

Looking back, I know in the deep part of my heart.  The part only my wife and animals are allowed to see.  I know…Ruth and Joe Poe did not care for me.  I had been the product of my father’s blood.  And, my father was a heathen, a heretic, a non-catholic.

My siblings did not share my father’s heritage.  And, though they had been prime examples of abuse, from my mother’s first marriage…They still did not belong to ‘that man.’  That man who had been my father.

 

 

To Be Continued…the Dying of a Matriarch 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cycle of Abuse: Chapter 1

I have thought long and hard…On how to begin this.

Should I talk about the Juncos that grace my deck?

The snowstorm that so much reminds me of my later teenage years?

How instinctively I understand those with mental health disabilities?

Photography?harold bowley

Poems?

Writing?

Or…

Should I stay on track grammatically?  For if you listened to my wife.  You would be led to believe I have no education…when it comes to the English language.  I am sure she spouts this dent in my armor… with joking gesture.

For that matter, I began a book on family history.  I had not be certain on how to title it or scan for punctuation error.  So, I asked, the best editor, I know (my wife) to find all the punctuation faults.

I began to write…Over a hundred pages long.  But I kept my blog…

randomwordbyruth.com,

active, while writing.

Staying up late.  Sleeping fitfully.  Something hindered my progress.

It had not been the threat of a lawsuit.  Or, the civil suit my sister would impose if I were to use her name.  Physical and mental and legal proceedings, I am almost certain, my brother would assert.  That is if I spoke a word…about family secrets.

I do not have much.  Thus, my sister can have what is considered ‘owned.’  If my brother wishes to begin his own form of threat…so be it.

Simply put, other memories came and went.  Bad thoughts.  Personal decisions…that could have and should have, been made differently?

No, none of the above servitude explanations, rang true.

I love having a love for nature.  The beauty it encompasses.  The life it breeds.  Four legged creatures who pay for their own…with their life or threat of harm.  Intrinsic beauty that is somehow remiss today.

With good fortune, I had been born in New Hampshire.  And, currently, I live in Central New Hampshire.  Thus, it is important for me to display not only the abuse.  But the innocence to which I found myself.  And, find myself.

I could only give this need for betterment and recourse.  As well as, art, creativity, clever manners in which to find entertainment…

I could only offer this upbringing to my parents.

Therefore,  I will be writing a journal.  Daily reflections.  Daily misdirection.  Profound bad judgments made in my adult life.  Along with flashbacks of: How abuse happens?  Where it starts?  Family ties?  Dysfunctional behavior!  Mental illness!  Most importantly, how to tuck blood secrets…aside!  Under the polyester fabric of a 1970’s pink blanket.  Underneath the leather belt, well-worn and loose fitting…by my father.

And…

the curled inward chronic frown of a mother!

This is a preface.  Or, I suppose a journal’s beginning.  You may find journal entries far from each other.  Weeks and weeks apart.  Often, I can find my talent for exposing the raw and red abrasion of hurt…lacking.

My father killed his first wife.  And, though I wish to not quote someone else, it was done, in…

Cold Blood.

My mother?  A major depressive with grand suicidal tendencies.  She held such low self-esteem to her marriage to my father…that it would be the second of two abusive (in every sense of the word) unions.

My father is still living.

My mother is dead.

Much against my need to right a wrong.  My brother’s name will be, Bud.  My sister’s name will be, Sylvia!

My sister has accused me of stealing from my parents.  Taking not only pride…but money, from my parents.  If they had or were financially, well off, I suppose that could hold some water.

In honesty, I had been a paid servant the last five plus years, of my mother’s life.  In retrospect…I have made many mistakes.  Infidelity, addiction, driving my adopted children while drunk and much, much more.

I made those mistakes.  And, in the simplest of gestures, I have moved on.  No saint will be found in the pages of my journal entries.  However, with the love of another…I sincere, honest, love, not known by many, I cannot convince myself of the wrongs…I’ve been accused.

There is no need for reward on my part; financially, romantically, physically.  After long drawn out thought.  I just believe it necessary to uncover the myth of family secrets, physical and domestic abuse.  Along with the need to bring mental health, mental illness out of the closet.

In ending, to grab the reader, or perhaps, more to let the pain loose.  I wish to unleash ache, as though, it were the one-eyed demon…it is.

I come with a fistful of facts.  Bad incidents.  And, a desecration of the real ‘family values‘ society should be concerned with.

 

Ancestry.com

I got to the wound.

Before, it came to me.

Bred to never heal, fully.

With a father of murderous rage.

A mother saddened by her own shadow.

And, participants willing to unleash blood upon a family page.

How long to decline insight into this doctrine of open fists?

How can I abstain from the insight into this…

such as those behind would wish?

With the trees shaken to their roots with…

murder, treachery, infidelity…

My sister’s tarnished halo.

My brother’s fictitious heroic shield.

a mocking playwright would ask,

‘How much more piety could one a bloodline conceal?’

And, myself, with a prosaic title of lapsed catholic.

Dressed in the black of a sheep.

Play the antagonist…I have been slated to be.

I offer forth… this mad secret that…is not mine to keep.

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