Cycle of Abuse: Out of Wedlock

There are a sundry of reasons we ourselves from neglect.  Pretend to face the violence but turn a deaf ear….Reasons and excuses, self proclaimed…about abuse and, therefore, life wasn’t that bad.  That during the most prolific and cognitive years.  Verbal, emotional and physical abuse appeared…but ‘things could have been worse.’

As a victim of child abuse, I often wanted to believe that my mother was loving.  My father responsive and caring.  That in the 70’s and 80’s when I played softball or sang in folk group…my friend’s parents were akin to my own.

wedlock 1

That the love and comfort, other parents, provided in the split ranch homes up on the hill…rang true and similar to our little white house on South Main street.

As previously written my father’s incarceration at New Hampshire Hospital…held little recourse for him.  That he (in many ways) lived, interacted and became one,  with life, society…outside the fences of a psychiatric facility for the criminally insane.  His psychologist, Mr. Hawkins, with little regard for the future, allowed my father to farm the land, sow the row, and make acquaintances…during weekend passes in Warner.  Even though my father had just savagely killed his first wife.

Mr. Hawkins had been my father’s new best friend, and roommate.  As well as, Mr. Hawkin’s family and his farmhouse being his only form of punishment.  That a certain, Mrs. Elizabeth Tynan Bowley’s death; In some ways, seemed unimportant.  Harold, in all his abusive, compulsive, violent ways, had been allowed to walk free.

Had this been the only untruth I had to discover on my own…age, 45?  Had this been a good enough explanation for the beatings with a belt, the smack down with wire brushes and the constant threat of ‘there’s more where that came from…’  Perhaps, I could learn to let go.  To forgive.  To live in the bubble that my sister lives in.

However, Sybil is my half-sister, and her story is not mine.  My story is not simple.  Being the product of two severely challenged state hospital patients.  Being conceived behind the walls of lobotomies, deep down in the tunnels of regret, down in the depths of the water treatment passages.  Passages that many psych patients found and, used for one nightstands.

Being in the constant state of…not being. Harold and Janice, rendevousing with white coated workers politely looking the other way. Had this been the only deception…I could relent.

So, I had been born out-of-wedlock!  Indeed, who really cares?

So, my parents needed a weekend pass from the hospital to wed.  So, Harold and Janice, stole away one Saturday to Vermont…under the watchful eye of Mr. Hawkins, to make my up coming birth seem more or less…innocent.  Innocent and free of sin.

But exemption on my part as an adult…had begun to turn to bitterness.wedlock 3

I could understand my mother’s wanting to pay homage to the catholic church.  After all, not more than four years before, she had been studying to be a nun.  And, though, their wedding was more shotgun and less bible…Janice could at least say, she was married at the moment of my conception.  Which of course…is a complete fabrication!

Understand, forgive, forget….Come on.

Sitting in the dark, current day 2012, fuming over ancestry.com.  Knowing the next day, I would return to the log cabin house in Canterbury.  Return and care for aging parents.  Return to the child I was decades before.  Return and watch the abuse and the despondency.  Knowing more…understanding less…

The long and sordid tale just kept rolling on.

My mother once told me of how frightened my father had been when I had been born.

You see…I had been deathly ill at birth.  Born with many extra parts that were dysfunctional, I had emergency exploratory surgery, one month after being hatched.  One month of ICU.  One month of knocking on, in an infantile manner, heaven’s door.  Many of my intestines were rebuked.  Had been rescinded.  Should have been returned to…sender.  Bile clogged my veins and my blood.

Doctors in and out of desperation, and, quite ahead of their time, could make only one provocative decision.   I received a nephrectomy!  Born with 3 kidneys, 1 3/4 were silently…killing me.  The little bile buggers were removed!

The scars, physically, remain with me to this day.  From the sternum to the pubic area.  But the story of an emotional Harold.  Lingering over me.  Not wanting me to die in his arms?  All lies!  He, in matter of fact, had not been released from New Hampshire Hospital.  He, indeed, had been weaving in and out of psychosis.  While I lay not three blocks away…dying!

Why lie?  Why tell me that my strong parents accompanied my every procedure?

When, in truth…in 1967, my mother was out of the hospital trying to get her other two children out of a orphange.  While my father was fulfilling his narcissism!

Born out-of-wedlock.  Conceived on state hospital grounds.  No parents around during near death experience!

What next?  Nevermind the murderous rampage my father conducted on his first wife.  Excusing the idea that I have a half-sister out there.  Someone unfortunate enough to have my father’s blood.  Excluding my mother’s numerous attempts at suicide.  And, her willingness to offer her children into the hands of a violent man.wedlock 2

What next?  Would my parents try to pull off the greatest trick of all?  Would they rush my father through catholic class?  Have his Baptist upbringing baptized in catholic waters?  Would they really think that by having Harold converted to Catholicism and therefore, baptized, he could change!  Rinsed of sin.  Cleansed of murder!  That being going through the motions in the eyes of ‘their God’…All lies, killings, abuse, would be absolved!

But of course!  For that matter, I am my father’s godmother.  My brother, Bud, is his godfather.  And, all in the eyes of Jesus Christ Superstar…is forgiven!

Cycle of Abuse: Extreme Psychosis

In the early, raw days of March, I had been conceived…within a stone soaked, with no remorse, tunnel.  Both parents were state hospital patients.  My father on the criminally insane ward.  My mother…severely depressed in the Brown building.

Deep within the bowels of the catacombs Janice and Harold sucombed to passion in a girth under the earth, idyllically termed, Lover’s Lane.

Had this been this first and only deceit handed down to me?  Had this been the only piece of fiction…I discovered via my own research?  If push came to shove…as it always did during my childhood; Could or would I have forgiven the shame?

I would like to believe I was stable enough in my mid forties, to allot for the transgression.brown building 3

But divides and lies run far and wide.  From the moment I descended to the earth in my belligerent glory, nothing would be normal.

My brother and sister, had had their own demons to share.  A demon and horned devil that came in the shape of my mother’s first husband.

Where had the New Hampshire State Hospital staff been?  Why wasn’t my father, a criminal and murderer, been more closely monitored?

I can say that is typical of state run facilities.  As is the truth about warehousing those with severe mental illness, things get out of hand.  And, people with minimum wage incomes…just don’t care.

On January 4th, 1963, this court being of the opinion that it will be dangerous that the said, Harold Bowley, should go at large.  Ordered that he be committed to the New Hampshire Hospital and there he shall remain until he is discharged by due course of law.

Due course of law?…

On October, 25th, 1965, the said Acting Superintendent requests the court’s permission for the said, Harold Bowley, make off ground visits to include one overnight visit on weekends.

From there on out, after two short years, my father was allowed to stay, overnight, in the house of his psychologist; Mr. John Hawkins.

How did a man, who continues to this day to be a threat to himself and others, get away with murder?  Court evidence revealed a man that observation and study suggests…

‘suffering from a psychotic depression and a danger to the population.  A disease so profound it affects his mind and judgment…’

elizabeth laughlin 2

HE fuckin’ stabbed his wife 35 times!

Indeed he had conned his way into the psychologist’s home life.  It was in Warner, New Hampshire, where my father would spend his weekends before his release in late 1967.

Mr. Hawkins not only allowed my father into his home.  He led him by the hand.  Introducing him to his wife…and, eventually, his two children, Naomi and Channing.  This is in my educated opinion the utmost defining characteristic of a narcissist.

Psychologist Stephen Johnson writes that the narcissist is someone who has “buried his true self-expression in response to early injuries and replaced it with a highly developed, compensatory false self.

And, my mother, who held very little esteem.  Held no opinion of self, other than relation to abusive men…My mother fell into the callous and killing hands of my father.  This all took place under the not watchful eye of case workers, psychologists, psychiatrists, district attorneys, judges, etc., etc.

I personally hold Mr. Hawkins, responsible..  And, currently, forty plus years later, refuse to call him a doctor.

Not only did my father enjoy the pleasant views, farm life, non restrictions of living in the wild of Warner…He introduced his whole family to Mr. Hawkins.

I had been taken back.  When first reading Mr. Hawkins name in the court papers.  How he spoke with high recommendation on my father’s behalf.  The name seemed familiar.  How had I known it?

Then a connection…Our families were joined.  Joined at the psychotic hip.

As a child, I could not quite connect, why my parents had been befriended by the Hawkins.  Who were they?  Where did they come from?

The Hawkins family appeared to me, earthy, educated, not mean or aggressive.  Quite different than relatives and others, my family had known.

For that matter, the Hawkin’s and Bowley’s spent many holidays together.  We spent weekends working in John’s small family farm.  Learning of nature.  Speaking on things of importance, politics, religion, life, deep stuff.

Again, I still ask, how does this shit happen?

Mr. Hawkins was later needed to assist my sister, Sybil, in her own ‘breakdown.’

Breech of contract!  Conflict of interest!

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I have long since stopped crying, shaking my head, beating myself up…Over the injustice served to my siblings and I, via the New Hampshire State Hospital.

Course, none of the above could be considered a ‘lie’ per-say.  For in my mother’s chaotic, catholic and dim eyes…Avoiding the truth is not the same as…lying.

Where had my grandparents been?  Wasn’t it strange my mother…was released from the hospital…pregnant?

And, of course, years later, when I asked Janice, my mother, about Harold’s murderous rage…

‘I knew he had killed her.  I didn’t ask him questions.  He seemed upset every time I brought it up…’

 

brown building

the Contempt of a Father

A promising death is only for the descent.  In the dwelling of youth…it can transpire as…heaven sent.

No words can portray…Faded figures of dismay.  Knives wielded and the blood of innocents only pictorial for display.

Desolate in the scene of a heart.  A woman, a man, a child…within a nowhere land.  Endings, that begin with no start.

On the sunlit days.  Where one would speculate on times past.  Increments of incidents…That go on for generations who live near to a darkened cast.

The young are isolated, upon rare moments of ill will.  Subjects to unknown origin’s jagged pills.

To die a difficult and disturbing demise.  Over and over, a child’s reprise.

 

Concord State

Concord State

I cannot be your eyes if you unwilling to see.
I cannot be your eyes if you unwilling to see.
Shame: a wasteland of guilt erected upon a plateau of ignorance.
Shame: a wasteland of guilt erected upon a plateau of ignorance.

 

In 1962 you made a stab at the becoming…

of unglued.

Fifty years later the animal will not be

sub dued.

Your illness is only espousing the

indifference to medicate.

A soul infested with halitosis

Negligence vs. obligation are the words

to be uttered when we…

finsih with each other.

Truth be dared

Trespassing the hospital grounds

Mind and body declared not sound.

50’s dianostic materials of lobotomies

in reverse.

Midgets and giants…

a calgary of baptists playing god

in a

fallen church.

What was she to you?

I am sure not an M.C. Laughin’.

The pen will keep writing

until you are gone.

105 Pleasant…

Thorazine’s swan song.