Cycle of Abuse: Be Brave

There is no discernment of right or wrong…When you discover your father to be a murder.

There is no discernment of right or wrong…When you come to the realisation…your mother wittingly placed you in harm’s way.

Year upon year, decade atop of decade…Arguments, fist fights, fetal positions, suicide attempts, closed doors, lack of intimacy, hurt beyond anything a blood-letting can condone.

Was it all necessary?  Where were the professional adults that could have changed our lives?  Did my parents and their lack of mental health…slip through the cracks?

Oddly enough, for my own needs.  For the basic urge to see others grow.  I have been a staunch advocate for mental health reform.

I cannot divulge much of my mother’s previous marriage.  Other than it had been abusive.  Other than it placed my brother and sister in harm’s way…before, my father came into the picture.

Somewhere between January 4th, 1963:  After my father had been placed into the care of New Hampshire State Hospital.  On to the ward for the criminally insane.  After Elizabeth Laughlin’s family seemed to give up on further prosecution.




After I discovered the following…

Wilfred (Jack) Sanders, assistant district attorney for Rockingham County, New Hampshire…had been still practicing law in the new century.

All others related to the case, in legal terms, had died.

Would Mr. Sanders offer anything of importance?

Would Mr. Sander’s expunge my father?

Would there be reason enough to fathom a person stabbing someone…35 times?

These had been questions for another time.  Another day.

Currently, I needed to feel love.

My wife consoled me.  Petting me with compliments.  Compliments such as, you aren’t your father.  You’re not violent!  All you’ve ever done for me…is care!

In my paranoid mind?

Could I believe this?

Was I as insane as him?  Was I capable of killing someone?  Am I so fucked up that I don’t even know that…I am indeed crazy!

I walked through the day following my discovery of a horrible past with cement blocks on my feet.  Trudging through all the misdeeds I performed in relationships.  Digging out the props that kept my door to intimacy closed.  Hiding behind drugs, booze, sex…

Could I have been different…Had I known?

For that matter, on dark, dreary, days, I still hold true to the impeachment of my persona.  Could my discovery and the lies that fill the pool of a child’s history, changed me?  Made me nicer?  Made me more aware?

In the end, was anything I found in the blood lines, worth it?

The only true diagnosis is psychosis coupled for narcissism and obsessive compulsive disorder…At least, that is what the court records show.

But in some respects…had this not been my own description…to a lesser degree?

As early as, 1965, two years after a horrific crime, my father had petitioned the court for the following…

On June 23, 1965, the acting superintendent of the New Hampshire, Dr. G. Donald Niswander, requested this court’s permission for said, Harold Bowley, to be allowed off hospital ground visits and one overnight visit on weekends.

aura 3

What the fuck?

My father, in cold, warm blood killed his wife, left his daughter to watch…not two years earlier…And, now, as is typically the case, Harold (and conned his doctors) into believing that he was a much improved man.

The more I read the court transcripts.  The further into disgust…I fell.  This man who in later reports, became a model patient.  This man who had an arrest record before the actual murder.  This man who kept his family captive.  Captive years after his release from the State Hospital.

This man  had worked his usual magic.  This to me, his borderline narcissistic daughter, had been the beginning point, of my father’s ability to put rose-colored glasses on abuse.

Harold Bowley, if nothing else, had been a calculating, intelligent and personable man…That is when he needed to be.

The court in 1965 denied his attempt to partial release.

Yet, in 1965, had he found his way out of the dungeon of New Hampshire State Hospital.  Perhaps, he would not have met my mother.

My mother who had a nervous breakdown.  My mother having pledged her children(my siblings) to an orphanage…My mother who had studied to become a nun.  My mother who never seemed truly happy.

My mother, Janice Bowley, became a patient of New Hampshire State Hospital.  In or around the year, 1965.

Currently, 2017, my family of origin, is torn asunder.

But at the time of discovery, 2012, there had been some assemblage of a bond.

The next few mornings in February of 2012.  I lay semi curled in.  Appalled.  Dismayed.  Harboring inner hatred.

I did not immediately call, Jack Sanders.  I was not prepared for what little information…he may disclose.

My wife knew.  She was aware.  She didn’t pack her shit.  She stayed.  I know, to Megan, I may not have been what she asked for.  Yet, to this day, I seem to be what she needs.

And, though I spoke to both my brother, Bud.  And, my sister, Sybil.  I never felt comfortable giving them inside information.  Inside information about myself or my thoughts.

Lilith, my sister-in-law, would be the only choice.  The only person other than my mother and father, who may have further information.



I’m going to try to not make this long but it probably will be quite a few pages..
Not long ago, I received something from  A free membership for a month or something like that. My family is so full of secrets…I suppose all are.  Long story short, Lee had told me many years ago that my father had been married before and had a child with that woman.  Of course, my father has never mentioned any of this to me. And, my mother, only partially tells me stuff!
I decided what the hell?  I’m going to see where my other half-sister is and take advantage of this Ancestry thing.
It took some snooping but I found her.  I also found out many things I wish, on occasion, that I didn’t.  Sybil, and this is only from my memory which isn’t great around my drinking years, told me that Dad had a wife who fooled around on him often.  I believe she told me that my Father’s first wife, the child and the boyfriend were in a car accident. The boyfriend and wife died and the child got shipped off somewhere.
I have recently discovered otherwise.  And, from what I know of my father’s side of our family; where he lived before I had been born, what he did for a living, his religious affiliation (which was Baptist), all correspond with the new’s clippings I found.
I had hoped to God that what I had read wasn’t true.  So my only other confidant in this, Megan, set me straight with “there is too much evidence to the contrary, Ruth, it’s your Dad.”
My father back in 1962 killed his first wife.  Stabbed her 35 times! Went to a nearby river and stabbed himself in the chest and abdomen with the same kitchen knife he used on his wife.  He did not resist arrest and was brought to Exeter Hospital. His self-inflicted wounds were bad enough that he needed surgery. He pleaded not guilty to the crime of which he was obviously guilty.  Some shrink somewhere deemed him insane at the time of the event. My father did no prison time for the killing. He spent, from what I could figure out, 2+ years at Concord State Hospital and was released.  This all corresponds with my mother having had a nervous breakdown and meeting him at the hospital. Of course, I am the end result of that whole thing.
I do not know where his first daughter is.  Her name is Marcella. I do not know if Sybil knows the truth.  I would highly doubt it. And, I do not know if Bud does. Again, I highly doubt it.  I don’t even know if my mother does. I’m pretty sure she was told the car accident story.
I’m not really sure where to go with this.  My father, as I’m sure Bud and Sybil have told you, was never a nice man.  Particularly when growing up. He no longer takes medication for his ‘issues’ and is often volatile and depressed and angry.
The fifty year anniversary of his killing his first wife, from what I can figure, is 9/30/2012!  He has been very depressed lately and sometimes I worry for my mother.
I even toyed with the idea that maybe the officials told him the car accident story.  But I can’t image that while in the state hospital someone didn’t address the event with him.  So I don’t think that he’s blocked it out or whatever.
Honestly, I don’t know if I should tell someone or anyone at all.  Particularly, mom, Bud and Sybil. Yet, if something were to happen I would never forgive myself.
There it is in a nutshell.  Sorry to dump it on you. But Sybil would want to address the situation from an over the top approach.  And, I know Lewis and Father do not mix well…
Love You-
I’m assuming everyone else does not know.  I suppose it would be worse if they did!



Dear Ruth:

First, I want to tell you how sorry I am that you’ve experienced the pain of learning of your Dad’s horrendous & troubled past….. especially in the manner in which you did.  To learn that your father has done unspeakable things must be a forever life-altering moment and I’m deeply saddened for all of you. For all of us. Now, I must tell you something.

Your mom is aware of his crime and so is Sybil.  And, I was just recently brought into the loop when Sybil came to visit 2 weeks ago.  Bud is NOT aware—-as of yet.
This is how it was told to me:  Your mom discovered the facts and started hinting to Sybil about a year and a half ago to do some research online regarding Harold.  Lee couldn’t find anything & begged your mother for more details.
Your mom reluctantly gave some very scant information and confided to Sybil that she is afraid to leave Harold because of this event.  Sybil has been carrying this knowledge for the past 1 1/2 year in fear of your mother’s life & like you, didn’t know what to do with the information.  Fast forward a year and a half……….

While Lee was here, I started relaying my hurt feelings to Sybil that Harold was so cold & unloving to Bud & I when we were all gathered for Gram’s last day of life.  I explained that
he’s the closest thing that I have left for a Dad now that my father has passed and he didn’t even hug me when he saw us.  I told her that I was especially hurt for Bud because that’s his father, and he hadn’t seen him
for a year and Harold just sat in his truck and wouldn’t even get out to hug us.  He just rolled his window down to talk to us. I was absolutely appalled and broken-hearted.

I was also sharing with Lee that Harold hurt Kent’s feelings at Gram’s funeral…..because instead of thanking Justin for taking the day off from work to come to the funeral OR congratulating him on the impending birth of his first child, the
only thing Harold had to say after not seeing his grandson for a year was “Wow!  You got fat!” Kent was angry, hurt, and when he shared this exchange with me, I was furious too.  My kids have been nothing but kind, courteous and well-mannered and for 25 years have always taken the high road and gone out of their way to try to make conversation with Harold even when he’s been rude, dismissive, and uninterested in them.  So, as I was sharing all of this with Lee, how hurt I feel that he’s missing this opportunity to be there for me with the loss of my own Dad, and how sad it is that he’s so cold to Bud and how mean-spirited he is towards my children………Lee tells me there’s more to the story.  And then she tells me the story about Elizabeth. My jaw dropped and I was mortified. And I wept. For your Mom. For you kids. To learn as an adult that you were raised by a murderer is beyond comprehension.
That he fabricated a whole story about a cheating wife dying in a car crash with a boyfriend so he’s the VICTIM is unforgivable for me……..lest we not forget, that my uncle was murdered, stabbed in fact, hacked to death in Concord, NH not that long ago.   It actually turns my stomach.

Sybil & I discussed whether we should tell Bud while she was still here and we ultimately decided that it wasn’t the right time.  I don’t know when the “right” time will ever be, but it will have to be soon, I suppose. We also
talked about disclosing this dreadful news to you.  We both thought for right now, you have much going on, and it probably wasn’t a good time to dump it on you either.  That may have been wrong, and Lee even said she
knows how much I despise FAMILY SECRETS.  It’s one of my greatest pet peeves. But, we were truly trying to protect you at least for the time being.
I’m very sorry Ruth if it feels like anything other than a loving. caring, decision at the time.

Sybil is VERY concerned about your mom’s safety.  She thinks that if Harold finds out that any of us knows about this, that your mom’s life will be in danger.  That’s the primary reason we didn’t tell Bud. We are afraid
of him whispering “murderer” under his breath every time he sees Harold if he knows about this.

I have searched the internet extensively for Marcella.  I’ve had no luck. Although I didn’t open your attachments, I’m sure I’ve read them.  I’ve read tons of articles relating to the crime—-Sybil & I searched while she was here and we
found lots of newspaper clippings on the internet.  

We should let Sybil know that you know.  It would give her such great relief. It’s your decision how best to do that…….I can tell her or you can.  Let me know ASAP.
I was kinda thinking this might be the topic when you originally wrote.  I’m glad you know.
I haven’t had a conversation, nor email with your mom discussing any of it.  I don’t know how private her emails are. And our goal is to keep her alive.    
Love you,



Me and You, My dog and Your cat!

Licking has been known to improve…motor function!’

a smile on a dog/
a smile on a dog/

So, what gives?  ‘You say, tomato…I say, toma-toe…let’s call the whole thing off!’

My spouse and 73.6% of all partnered white lesbian households where there is one Capricorn and one Pisces, neither having similar hair color or synchronicity in musically taste: Show that cat and dog households can co-mingle.

Yes, cats have more neuro transmitters per snobby capita.  However, dogs are larger in size and therefore, most likely just spreading their intelligence too thin.

Indeed cats seem to know that grooming is not just a last-minute ditch to be invited to sleep in the big bed.  Cats just seem to know that bathing is not something you do in a sinkhole.

Known fact?

Help I've mixed my personality disorder with OCD...I named her, CAT!
Help I’ve mixed my personality disorder with OCD…I named her, CAT!

All licensed and hoped to be licensed lesbian, transgender, bi-sexual, homosexual and heterosexual couples are aware that you cannot co-exist as a dog meet dog and/or cat meet cat household.  Most enter into their perspectives relationships in the following manner:

‘Barley is my cat…I’ve had him since I was two years old…he is now 35 and I won’t give him up.  He doesn’t bark, shit himself, eat his own vomit or request my presence while he cleans his pecker.’

‘No, you don’t understand, Mattie saved me when I almost fell into the fire pit while drinking Tequila and hunting crows…she ran over and threw herself down on top of me and smothered me with love.  She was there when Ellen came out and barked with joy when Rosie went off the air.’

For Fact Sake:

Let’s examine the evidence

Cats have a sense of superiority akin to the cheerleader you hated in High School.  They are aloof and generally travel to the beat of a psychotic introvert drummer.  Felines no matter how you cut it, they are just pretending to be obtuse to who is smarter, better and/or above reproach…for that kind of behavior is below them.

Dogs on the other hand

Cats & Dogs (Evidence album)
Cats & Dogs (Evidence album) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

have a superior sense of smell and sniff other dog’s asses in order to understand them better.

Something we humans could learn from!

I’m not aware of too many things I know what I know, if you know what I mean, d-doo yeah

What I Am

  1. Marriage is a bond between two persons.  A bond that allows for growth, conditional and unconditional love.  Marriage is learning to pick your battles.  Marriage is my dog will have to live in the same household as your  overly fed, narcissistic, anti-social, CAT!

Therefore, the ‘real’ facts between unionizing cats and dogs and marriage:

  1. Allow for your spouse to have a cat that will live in the basement…for eternity!  This cat has never aged, never set a paw on the first floor, does not accept your presence and is currently plotting your dogs demise!
  2. Believe your wife when she states the following:

‘I honestly think that my cat sees dead people!  She stares at the wall for infinite periods of time.  And, she will occasionally, raise a paw to a shadow…as if she were greeting someone!’

**Also believe, there is now psychotropic medication for neurotic cats!

  1. Do not argue with your partner…ever, ever, ever, about the fact that cats do not seem to know the notion of fun.  Do not come home from a long enlightened walk in the woods with the dogs and say:

‘Honey, you should have seen them playing tag with the Gopher!  Throwing it up in the air.  Playing catch with it!  Maiming it!’

Your long-term best friend with benefits, will look at your with disgust in her eyes and dread in her voice.  She will tell you what a heathen you and your dogs are.  She will also tell you…her cats play better, have more fun and enjoy life…far better than any canine.  She will than bring up the story of how Prince, the pedigree pompous ass Persian, learned to use the toilet!

Feline fur-lined estrogen
Feline fur-lined estrogen

Dumbed Down Ambien

homophobia (Photo credit: the|G|™)

The generation I belong to seems to really understand just how shitty it is out there. The generation I have created within myself, doesn’t give a rat’s ass who gets hurt, as long as, I don’t get tainted in the process.
Let me explain a few things about Personality Disorders. I am a walking and talking example of not caring about the difference between right or wrong.
The clozapine and trazadone and anti-depressants, the melatonin and the two other pills I take are only small roadblocks in route to my destruction.
As a pretend photographer, I have attempted to find the homeless in NH. I have attempted to find out their inner workings, yet that is very difficult when standing in the womb of my parent’s checkbook. I have no clue; hence, the photos are without point and meaning.
When asked by my mother, Theresa, ‘Ambien, have you decided who you’re voting for?’
My uneducated and ignorant response was, Romney. Why? Because that is who I thought my mother wanted me to vote for.
I had found myself interviewed once for an online newspaper. Well, in all honesty, I pushed my so called girlfriend into letting me come along on the interview. I did not want her alone with my best friend Zoey! She would discover that Zoey had far more depth and originality than I. I cut that liaison off at the pass.
I had been asked three easy questions. No right or wrong answer.
Do you believe in God?
No, my parents don’t so neither do I.
Who would you want with you after doomsday has struck and there were only a handful of people alive?
Olivia Wilde!
What is global warming?
That means the seasons are going to be hotter. Wouldn’t that be cool? I hate cold weather.
So, let me put this all in perspective for my followers:
I cannot stand someone not liking me; therefore, I go out of my way to make their lives miserable.
I self-mutilate on a regular basis.
My mother and I have a weird almost sexual relationship and I somewhat enjoy that.
I live in an attic of my parent’s home, I do not pay for anything and I am the way the country is going. Dumbed down young adults.
I come from Concord NH and my bi-line is this; live-laugh-love!
Shit, I can’t even be original with my social media profile.
I am not gay! And, don’t ever accuse me of being so.
I drink like a sailor just in town from five months at sea. I, fuck, like a sailor just in town from five months at sea.
I’d rather you take a picture of me with my clothes off and I am a professional masturbator.
Ambien Grace is my name. My dog’s name is Beckett Couvilllion the third. I have tons of friends on the internet, drop me a line, I could always use one more.

Homophobia’s Love Story

I have always wanted someone to be proud of me. Of what I’ve accomplished. Being adopted that is? Being a little intellectually inept? Just being, Ambien Grace.
Poising in front of the Art Class for Slow Learners down at the local Technical School; I have nothing but time to think. I see my naked body lay in front of me like a of slab of meat laid down for the slaughter. My body is nothing to me. The nude modeling endorses that lack of self-respect I have for the physical and spiritual Ambien Grace. In plain English, neither the soul nor the sum of its parts has a distinction. The body Ambien and the spirit of Grace, just are!
Pretty deep thoughts for me; usually I don’t graze beyond what should I watch tonight, Buffy or sit down with a marathon of Harry Potter?
As I watch my breasts sag further into the region of my belly button. As I glance over at the Art Instructor who missed her calling as a pole dancer, I am filled with homophobic fears. I am scared to death of the hex laid upon me by my mother, Theresa.
The curse had not been subtle. Yet, it was very poignant for that particular time in my life.
I had somehow or another managed to strip away the ugliness of the off campus apartment I had shared with two other large and confused drunken going nowhere fast UNH starlets. The housing had been a dump but we liked it that way. It represented what the lot of us wished to portray to the outside campus ‘in crowd’; it was a waste heap of smoke stained walls, bad art, poor decorating skills and mountains of Corona bottles piled next to whatever electronic devices our rich parents would buy for us.
The days before the incident of homophobia’s evil cousin, bi-curious, I had taken handfuls of every prescription drug known to the free world. I had been on a roll of booze, bad hygiene and pig piles of overstuffed roommates and repeats of blackouts I could not shake.
Losing my will for another night of bisexual romps with above mentioned roommates, I found myself at the Stone Church. A lovely little dive just east of Durham where the music was sour, the spirits were cheap and one night stands were always available.
As I sat at the bar, drinking a high end Ale, I had noticed a dark figure slightly to my left. She seemed lonely, tired and drunk. If asked now what she looked like I would only be able to say that she had two legs and was able to hold a drink.
I got up and did my usual pick up line, ‘My vagina has a name, does yours?’
That was it. She smiled. I smiled. I began to think, hey, this isn’t going to have to qualify as a gay encounter, it’s only going to be a blackout encounter.’
As I recall, the liaison did not last long. We made out. We made a public place into a palace of bi-curious bad behavior. I felt her up. She pushed me away. She begged me to leave her alone. I ordered many more drinks and ignored her plea.
That, however,  is how the Ambien Grace version goes.

The storyteller that works with my mother in the same department at the very same college. The professor who shouldn’t have been there in the first place because he was married. Explained the tale much differently. And, as luck would have it, he explained it to Mother Theresa the very next day during a faculty meeting.
Rumor has it that I would not let up on the undergrad who insisted she wasn’t gay. Rumor has it that I dis-Graced my good Mother’s name by being such a derelict and wonton sexual predator. Rumor has it I received my hex the very next day from Mother Theresa.
“Ambien Grace, you are nothing but an embarrassment to this family. You are lucky no one else I know saw you at that dive. Picking up anything that was breathing.” Spurred Mother Theresa.
“Ambien Grace you will never, ever, find anyone to love you. You are a loss cause. And, for Christ’s sake get over that ‘homosexual’ phase will you.” Spat Theresa.
Sitting somewhere in Manchester, a half a year later, I still hear those words of wisdom from my mother. The disdain and contempt that she held for my needing to explore my sexuality. I get up off the floor from modeling. Put the white robe on Theresa bought me for occasions such as these. My thundering calves have been held in the same Yoga still-life position for the last three hours and I just want to go home and cry.
I feel the ache of lack of movement shoot up the back of my legs to my lower back. I shove the robe and some more dirty underwear in the backseat of the Honda. I am wet for some reason. Turned on by the fact the I don’t have to worry about love. I am endorsed with the idea that a good massage would do me some good.
Maybe when I get home Theresa can give me a good rub down. She always offers but she has such weak hands.  She and I are a homophobic’s best friend.

We are our own love story.

Bad Pennys & Ambien

Mother Theresa was hospitalized today for not taking care of her diabetes.  Who does she call?  Me!  Not Father Floyd.  Me!

We sit together in the hospital wing.  Wait for the levels to level out.  She speaks down to me but in a professional tone.  Must be the academic in her.  I am wearing men’s jeans and a Cart hart Jacket.  That is the first reprimand.

Ambien Grace, can’t you just be a little bit more feminine?  Why must you go out of your way to upset me?”

As I stare beyond her and her Lily Tomlin haircut.  I look out into the grayness that has descended Concord and the perpetual cloud of illiteracy and ignorance that wanders just above my head.  The room that houses Adopt-A-Mom and her less than perfect daughter.

I wonder how it could have been; living near Penny down in the arm pit of the south.  Somewhere north of Tyler, Texas.  Somewhere where there may be a graduate school for photographers with a personality disorder and poor learning schools.  Penny had been my not for real girlfriend for we both aren’t gay.

Mother Theresa hated Penny.  She represented a threat to her control over Ambien and all of my side effects.

I look at the scars on my wrists.  The attempts at asking for help that fell short of completion.

I met Penny, pudgy and filled with pork rinds, while visiting my birthmother and sisters.  It was a white trash trip all the way around.  Penny no more wanted me then she wanted someone to fill the vacancy in her Cowgirl Up ego.

She was for me, dirty, decadent and deliciously dumb.  We held quite a bit in common.  Texting.  Poor language skills and a thirst for drinking.  Indeed she turned out to be a bad Penny.

Fucking every two bit stud that came into the barn.  Dressing like Annie Oakley on Crack.  Taunting me occasionally with, ‘honey, I miss you, we’ll be together soon.’

But I one upped her.  Just when she had strapped a young wrangler onto her backside; I had found a married Kate.

I sliced and diced for Penny.  She never even called me her girlfriend.  She wasn’t attempting to be a lesbian.  Well, for that matter, I had hid my fears of homosexuality like a well guarded sin!

Penny, being all like I’m sorry honey I haven’t texted or called in a while I’ve been busy at work

And trying to be cute and forgiving!

I didn’t like how she treated me and then suddenly she’d text me and I’d just miss her and I’d hate it.

And how I don’t want to be here.  I just wanted to cry.  I still do.

I look at Mother Theresa, who happens to have the middle name of Penny; she is glossed over in indignation.  She holds my hand suddenly and tells me, ‘you must go home and take care of your father.  He isn’t well and can’t do anything on his own.’

Father Floyd has some testicular situation going on.  He may have to lose his manhood.  I don’t ask questions.

Of course, I’ll go home to Floyd, the 2,500 dollar pedigree dog with separation anxiety.  I know however, where I won’t be going.  I won’t be going anywhere without money.  I won’t get into AmeriCorps.  The Peace corps or grad school.  I will not win.  There was no coming out of the closet with Penny.

She texted me not too long ago.  Months after I bid her good-bye.  Not knowing she had already wrote me off as a bad bet a long time ago.  I refriended her on Facebook.  I thought, well, she isn’t gay and my mother says, neither am I.  Could it be that possibly we were really made for each other?

As I turn to leave Mother Theresa.  I glance over to the darkness the shrouds our relationship.  She doesn’t smile at me.  She focuses on my losing my hair and my slouching.  She points out the stains that dribble down the front of my US Open sweatshirt.

As typical for me, I agree that I am a bi-polar mess waiting for the next depression disaster to come.  My hands shake and I hurry down the hall to the public bathroom to throw up.

A used Penny is not without its value.   It promises nothing and gives nothing in return.  But then again, Ambien, if not taken in small doses will leave you tarnished and Ambien Gracewith an attic room in your parent’s house, sex toys galore and pockets of homophobia.