September 28, 2026 – Another Bite of the Apple

Well, believe it or not, I’ve decided to give blogging one more exhaustive try. Why? Well, I’ve still got plenty to say. And even though that’s a fairly valid reason, it’s not the primary reason. The primary reason is that blogging is the next best thing to therapy. When I meet with my therapist, I can get a lot of things out of my system and often leave feeling more hopeful and/or less neurotic. But in-between sessions, when I find I have too much time on my hands, I often ruminate. It is tantamount to listening to a record with a groove in it, and not the kind with a funky beat you can dance to. It’s the kind of groove that the needle keeps getting stuck in and, therefore, plays the same message over and over.

Those are the two biggest reasons but certainly not the only ones. I have also found that blogging offers connection and validation not only for me, but for my readers as well. I see that as a win-win. There’s also the possibility that at some point I’ll have enough material for a book or memoir (a long-held goal of mine). Wouldn’t that be something?!

And this time around, I am choosing to do things slightly different than I have in the past. This time, unless I have something positive to say about my kids, they’re staying on the sidelines and out of the headlines. I carry a lot of shame for some of the things I brought up about my kids in the past and I can’t change that, but I can change what I do moving forward. Things aren’t perfect between us, but they’re so much better than they’ve been in a very long time…and I want to keep it that way.

I also want to use this opportunity to fill in some of the massive holes that developed as a result of stopping and starting my blog numerous times since its Grand Finale. Oddly enough, I realized this evening that it’s been exactly 5 years TO THE DAY that I concluded my year-long goal of writing or posting something every day for an entire year. How time flies!

And speaking of doing things differently, after reviewing a number of my past posts, I realized that I relied far too heavily on apostrophes, quotes and semi-quotes. Good grief! What was that all about?! I’m not even sure how I fell into that trap but I don’t intend to keep that bad habit going if I can help it!

The other thing I have to mention is that in order to get this particular blog back up and running, I had to shut down two others. One I started a couple of years ago and never launched, and the other I launched last month. I found that having 3 different blogs in various stages of development was far too confusing. And I did consider eliminating this one but realized it was best to continue where I left off since it already had a pretty strong foundation, whereas with the others, the cement’s still curing. Alas, I spent quite a bit of time yesterday saving content from both sites that I thought you might appreciate at some point in the future, and deleting everything else that was no longer relevant (email accounts, domains, etc.). As far as I can tell, nearly all evidence that the other two ever existed has been eliminated. And I have to admit, it feels really good just being able to focus on one…and my hope is to stick with it and do it justice this time around.

What does that look like?

Firstly, and one topic we’ve already covered, not getting too heavy handed with the apostrophes, quotes and semi quotes. Although, I’m finding I’m growing rather fond of hyphens so I may need to be mindful of those too.

Secondly, staying consistent with publishing content. I can’t honestly say I have the willpower, mental prowess or stamina to post daily at this stage in my life, but posting a minimum of once a week (and possibly more) is certainly a reasonable expectation. I am also trying to stick to writing no less than 1,500 words and no more than 1,700 per post for no other reason than it’s far too easy to neglect my other responsibilities and spend hours at the computer when I don’t adhere to this guideline.

Thirdly, I am choosing to continue keeping my identity (and those of my family members) anonymous. By doing so, which I didn’t do with the other two blogs, I can be less guarded and much more real. As much as I’d like to stand on a mountaintop and announce who I am to anyone who is interested, especially if they’re willing to offer me a lucrative book deal, I’d rather not. I like having my privacy and the ability to talk about whatever or whomever I see fit without fear of ridicule or judgment.

Fourthly? Hmmm…as far as content or what to discuss, I never know from day to day what’s waiting in the wings. Life is always full of surprises. I wish I could stay consistent with topics but if I base them on what’s happening in my life at any given time, it’s a pretty broad range. In recent weeks, I’ve dealt with matters concerning my brother Turtle, spent some time with my granddaughter, developed a hematoma in the crook of my elbow as a result of a blood draw (which hurts like a son of a gun), battled hard-core depression and anxiety, questioned my marriage more than once, quit yet another volunteer opportunity (which is part of the reason I’ve been battling severe depression rather than just run-of-the-mill depression), and gained back much of the weight I had lost (and kept off for two years) due to my recent reliance on binge eating in order to numb my feelings. Ugh.

So, yes, that’s my plan…to take another bite of the apple and hope this time I have the determination to see it through. Because apart from blogging, I don’t have a Hell of a lot going on. As far as that relates to activities, to give you a window into my world, I presently have one thing on my calendar this week; a dental appointment. Even I have to admit that that’s pretty damn sad.

I had been going twice a week to see various healers at a nearby organization that offers free services (for suicide prevention) to veterans and their spouses. However, after receiving less-than-favorable services on multiple occasions, I don’t intend to return. Everyone there was really lovely and initially I felt what they were doing was helping (Healing Touch Therapy, Acupuncture & Craniosacral Therapy) but after I felt a boundary was crossed after one of the practitioners kept encouraging me to utilize her for massage therapy (something she offered on the side for a sizable sum), my confidence in the program started to wane.

I’ve also made a conscious decision to stop trying to figure out once and for all what my purpose is. I’ve been in dogged pursuit for as long as I can remember and have yet to determine what it is. What I’ve decided to replace that quest with (which is much like being in pursuit of the Holy Grail) is doing what makes me happy. And writing, my friends, is what makes me happy.

I’ve also quit looking for places to volunteer because after countless fails trying to determine where I belong and how I can make a difference, I’m over it. I kid you not, since we relocated 5 years ago, I’ve made so many unsuccessful attempts at trying to fit in somewhere, anywhere…it’s embarrassing! Raptor Rescue? After being relegated to work at the front desk and finding myself bored to tears, I quit in under a week. A gig at a local for-profit art gallery? That one held more promise but I still quit after about 4 months when a decision was made by the powers-that-be that it was necessary to remove all joy from the experience in order to increase their profit margin. And the latest affiliation I had was with an organization which partnered up kids with adults. I won’t go into details about that sh*t show yet, but suffice to say, I lasted a little over 3 weeks before I threw in the towel.

As far as friends go, there’s not much to say. To be quite blunt, I don’t appear to have any.

Goodness! That last statement didn’t paint me in a very positive light! Look, I could be wrong, but what I have found (from my own personal experiences) is that regardless of my efforts to find and keep friends, most people my age simply aren’t interested. They either have a spouse who consumes most of their time and energy, they’re widowed and already have found their ‘Ride or Die’, or they don’t want to be bothered because their lives are full and they’re perfectly content. And, if I’m being completely honest with myself, the fact that I’m a chronic over-sharer certainly doesn’t help. I’m pretty confident that that singular personality flaw plays a large part as to why most folks don’t reach out to schedule a second lunch date. Most are a ‘one and done’! Oh, well.

All that said, I probably should wrap this up. But before I go, I wanted to let those of you know (who stuck around) how much I look forward to continuing my journey with you! And to all you newcomers, WELCOME! I’m so excited to be back!!

April 13, 2024 – A Tale of Two Fathers (Final Chapter)

As a teenager, I found avoidance a workable solution for surviving. Once I was the ‘last man standing’ as it were, I did everything possible to steer clear. Without having my brothers around to deflect the focus, I was the primary target of my stepfather’s wrath. And as I said previously, nothing of any sort happened that was physical or sexual, but there was plenty of mental and emotional abuse to go around. When I wasn’t required to be home, I wasn’t. Being at home to partake in breakfast and dinner was non-negotiable, along with sleeping in my own bed at night; aside from that, I was ‘outta there’! When school was in session, it was easy to find things to do. School provided a respite from home (apart from the bullying I endured in my junior year) and it often gave me valid reasons to stay out late into the evening.

During my high school career, cross country and track swallowed up fall and spring. School dances weren’t mandatory but I went to every single one (unless an invite was required). I even went to dances at schools in other districts (as well as Mormon churches). Outside of school, I worked an assortment of jobs. My first job was as a babysitter but I was lousy at it. Most of the time, I would park myself in front of the TV and completely ignore the youngsters I was hired to look after. I was paid 50 cents per child/per hour, and if the parents wanted me to stay the night, they often stiffed me on payment. I never held a job very long. If I had even the slightest disagreement with a supervisor, I would give my notice and head for the nearest exit. The upside to all of this is that I learned how to perform a variety of tasks and developed a significant amount of skills.

Once I turned 15, a whole new world of possibilities opened up to me in the form of nightclubs. It was the early 80s and getting out and ‘shaking your groove thing’ was in. Because I resided in a big city, I had my pick of places to go. I could hop on the freeway and head north to Buzzy’s if I wanted to dance to a variety of top-40 hits. If the evening called for a sumptuous selection of R&B and hip-hop, Club Broadway offered it up in spades. There was Skoochies and Stallions and a whole host of other venues, including Black Angus. Sometimes I would stay out until the sun came up. One day, I very clearly recall arriving home after sunrise and trying to tiptoe past where my mom and stepfather were seated in the kitchen (eating breakfast). I was caught red-handed. Initially, nothing was said. I scuttled down the stairs, found my way to bed, and slept soundly until the late afternoon. It was after I woke up and ascended the stairs that I learned of the consequences for my actions. My stepfather insisted that I should be taught a lesson, my mom relented, and I was summarily grounded.

Fortunately, the grounding didn’t last long. It stuck for two days until my mom decided I’d been punished enough for my errant ways; whereby, I continued on in the same vein. That’s how things essentially went until I left home for good. The day I left for MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) was another day I very clearly recall. I know my mom meant well, but even today I feel a twinge of anger whenever I think about it. What exactly happened that left such lasting negative emotions? My mom insisted that I hug my stepfather goodbye. Huh? Seriously? I had almost made a clean getaway and crossed the threshold at the front door when she summoned my stepfather and asked this of me. Over the past five years, we hadn’t communicated, let alone embraced, and now I was supposed to give him a f-ing hug? What the hell was that all about?!

I have to tell you, if someone had taken a photo of us at that very moment, it most certainly would have wound up in an edition of ‘Awkward Family Photos’. There are no photos, however; just ever-so-slowly fading memories. So many memories! I truly wish they hadn’t been mostly negative. I’ve racked my brain trying to remember moments in time involving my stepfather that were good or pleasant, and there are a few but not many. Before we stopped communicating altogether, I experienced a handful of happy ones. On a rare occasion, we’d listen to murder mysteries together on the radio (which are much like podcasts today). There were also walks along the beach, countless games of Chinese Checkers, and on one particular Christmas, he gave me a dollhouse he’d built from scratch. At the end of the day, I know he tried but if I had to assign him a grade for his efforts, he’d be lucky to get a D.

And after spending so much time lamenting our relationship, I know I need to move on. I imagine you would appreciate it if I did as well. I did dream about my stepfather a few nights ago and it brought me some much-needed peace. In my dream, we are in a rectangular room with a door and a large picture window. There are two upholstered chairs facing the window which are spaced at least 6-10 feet apart. I am seated in one and he in the other. In my dream, I take the time to relay all the hurt he caused and how it affected my life. There are long pauses in between and it’s clear he’s uncomfortable with having to listen to all of my grievances. He continually squirms in his chair and/or stands up periodically to gaze out the window but he remains in the room until I’ve gotten everything I needed to say out of my system. When it’s all said and done, the anger has left my body and I’m overcome with peace. I guess I just needed to feel heard.

My soul has felt lighter ever since, as if a great weight has been lifted. I didn’t have the courage to face my stepfather when he was alive, but having the ability to do so in a dream appears to be the next best thing. If you find yourself hanging onto pain as I have done for far too long, I wish for you an opportunity to move past it and for joy to replace it. This life is short and time is fleeting. Much love and light to you, my friends.

April 6, 2024 – A Tale of Two Fathers (Part Five)

Before I continue with the narrative about my stepfather, I have to share a bit about my husband. And probably the best way to sum it up is the following quote, “Children learn what they live.” What do I mean by that, you ask? Well, speaking in metaphors, I married my stepfather. Huh? No, not literally because that would be gross and twisted. Yuck! I didn’t get myself into a Woody Allen/Soon Yi situation; however, I did marry a man who possesses many of the characteristics of my stepfather. Far too many. I love him dearly, there is no doubt, but I think I chose him because he was so ‘familiar’. There are significant differences between my husband and father #2, primarily the fact that I chose him and he chose me, we love each other, and he is willing to change his less-than-desirable behaviors when I bring them to his attention. But that doesn’t mean that ‘all is well’ in our household. I’ll get deeper in the weeds regarding that on a later date.

On my last post (Part Four), I brought up my mom and how she essentially ‘checked out’ in order to survive. Physically, she was present but I cannot account for the other unseen parts of her. I know when she’d arrive home after a long day’s work, she’d dutifully prepare dinner, but there wasn’t much ‘engaging’ apart from that. And once her mother moved in, I didn’t think our home life could get any more stressful, but it did…in leaps and bounds. The years 1982-1984 dealt my mother some major blows, and how she got through them, I’ll never know. It was as if the Universe got wind of the quote by Friedrich Nietzsche, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger,” and decided to test it out on my mother. It did not come in the form of earthquakes or tornadoes or hurricanes or typhoons; it came in the form of beyond-difficult personal hardships that far exceeded those she’d already dealt with and overcome.

Hardship #1 involved my sister, Diabolical Debbie (DD). The short version of this very long story is that she got knocked up by a guy she met at a bar and then proceeded to use the child she had (M&M) as a pawn to control and manipulate my mother and stepfather. The year was 1982. Had she put her child’s needs ahead of her own, she would have raised her with love and care. That didn’t happen. DD never completely took to her role as a mother and as a result, my mother and stepfather had to step up and take on the role as secondary caregivers at least 50% of the time. Ultimately, that meant having to be completely responsible for their granddaughter by providing a home, financial support, emotional support (though it did little good) and all other facets of raising a child. My sister would have her daughter for a while, grow tired of the responsibility, hand her off to my parents, and then after a period of weeks or months, demand her back. This went on for years.

Hardship #2 involved my maternal grandmother. During her three year stint as a grumpy houseguest, she gradually lost her mind. I think the final straw for my mother was the day her mother decided to ‘wash the walls’ (aka smear her feces) throughout the main bathroom. Her dementia was so advanced by then that caring for her adequately was no longer possible. Initially, she required very little. She had full use of the facilities, plenty of food to eat, a bed to sleep in, a nightstand to store her accoutrements (‘smokes’, lighter, Kleenex, flashlight, inhaler, a cup to soak her dentures in, etc.), a dresser for all her unmentionables, a closet to store her clothes and shoes in as well as all the items she pilfered, and a room off the kitchen built exclusively so she could enjoy her ‘smokes’ in peace whenever she wanted. In time, however, her needs and abilities changed to the point where my mom had to look at other options. After the bathroom incident, my grandmother was moved into a nursing facility. She died weeks later. The year was 1983.

And what so often happens, when you think life just can’t get any harder, it does. At least, that was the case with my mom. What happened next (Hardship #3) forever changed her and for a time, the light left her eyes. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. It had only been a matter of months since she buried her mother, when the phone rang. I’ll never forget the day because it’s the one affiliated with bad luck, Friday the 13th. The person on the other end of the line, I believe it was a state trooper, called to inform her that her daughter had been killed in a car accident. Her first born, my oldest sister, was gone. After that call, I have to admit, life’s a bit of a blur. My sister lived in another state so my mother went there to retrieve her things and arrange for transport of her body. Shortly thereafter, a funeral was held, followed by a graveside service, whereby my sister’s body was laid to rest at the site originally designated for my mother and stepfather. The year was 1984.

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t much help at the time. I was sixteen, hormonal, and pretty self-consumed. The relationship with my stepfather had actually gotten worse, a moratorium on speaking to one another had taken place a couple of years earlier, so I used every excuse in the book to avoid being ‘home’. My mom was so broken and filled with despair that although she occupied a space within it, she was essentially ‘gone’. It was then that I began a new chapter in my teendom by, as Johnny Lee famously sang, “Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places.” Oh, Johnny, if only you knew! And here is where I must say, “Adieu.” The clock struck midnight a while back and I’m starting to turn into a pumpkin so I’m going to be on my way before I wind up in a pie. As always, thanks for stopping by and reading a bit about my life. After glancing over what I wrote, I can’t help but admire my mom. She wasn’t perfect by any means, but she stayed the course and held her head high. And as she’d often say, she did the best she could. Considering everything, I’d have to agree.

March 31, 2024 – A Tale of Two Fathers (Part Four)

The silence was deafening. Once every speck of dust was vanquished, every smudge obliterated, every cobweb abolished, every surface polished, every plank of the wooden floors swept and wiped down, and every footprint in the carpet erased and replaced with long, parallel lines, the spaces within the walls that formed our ‘home’ became as still and silent as a yet undiscovered tomb. The air was so heavy and thick with tension that it felt difficult to breathe and the ache that would develop in my stomach felt all-consuming. I never knew how long these episodes would last. In my dreams, they’d only last a few minutes or hours, but my reality was far different. In my reality, these episodes lasted days.

I think I would have fared far better if I only had to deal with the silence, but the complete lack of acknowledgement that accompanied the silence just about broke me. There was no eye contact, not even a glance. He would look past me, but never directly at me. The punishment for not completing my chores in a timely manner or not to the standards held by my stepfather was double-layered and surprisingly effective. I yearned for praise from him and yet loathed him at the same time. These feelings remain within me to this day. For some strange reason, he was incapable of giving praise. Once he would finally relent and break his silence, I cannot recall a single time he ever said, “Job well done.” All I managed to get was a whole lot of ‘if only’. It didn’t matter how hard I tried or how much I applied myself or the lengths I went to to achieve anything, it fell on deaf ears.

“If only you had studied more or studied harder,” was the usual, disappointed response whenever I brought my report card home for him to review, “instead of a B+, you could have received an A.” I didn’t think getting a B on my report card was such a terrible thing, but I eventually changed my position on that. Bs weren’t badass. Plain and simple, Bs were just bad. Still, I kept trying to please him. Well, that’s not entirely true. There’s a clear exception. When I wasn’t trying to avoid him altogether, I tried to please him. And as a minor child, avoidance was the name of the game. Avoidance was a means of survival because I always knew that despite how hard I tried to get and stay in his good graces, eventually the other shoe would drop and I would be subjected to the ever-brutal ‘silent treatment’ once again.

In the early years, having my fellow comrades alongside me (siblings/brothers #7 and #8) to ‘fight the good fight’ against ‘the dictator’ made day-to-day life much more bearable. However, just as I was growing in height and years, so too were my brothers. I was the youngest but since my brothers were 3 and 4 years older than me, their opportunity to escape the situation or access the elusive ‘exit’ came much sooner. I envied them for that. Both left shortly after graduation, and eventually enlisted in the military. Not only was it a means to leave behind a chapter of their lives they’d gladly forget, it gave them the eventual option to further their education through use of the G.I. Bill. As I saw no other options once I graduated from high school, I followed in their footsteps. Not surprisingly, after what I experienced during the 10 years I lived in the same household as (and under the rule of) my stepfather, bootcamp was a cakewalk.

Where was my mother in all of this, you ask? I don’t like to speak ill of my mom because I know she did the best she could, but she truly had her head in the sand. I think it was a survival skill she developed while married to my biological father. Had she not developed this ‘skill’, I honestly don’t think she would have survived. At the end of her first marriage, with 8 children and, for all intents and purposes, a useless husband to look after, she put herself through real estate school. She was pregnant with me when she took and passed the final exam. Two years later, once she got her stride in real estate and the confidence to leave my biological father, she filed for divorce. Following that? Six years as a single parent with no emotional or financial support from ANYONE. She then married my stepfather. And not long after, her chain-smoking, alcoholic, foul-mouthed, klepto mother moved in. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Can you blame her for having her head in the sand?

Yep, I’m still not done. I thought I could eke out a conclusion to this ‘saga’ and move onto other topics such as ‘Dearly Departed’ (a discussion about when relationships end) or ‘An Ode to my Microwave’ (a completely unnecessary but humorous take on when my ‘trusty’ microwave decided to flake out and then flat-out refused to reheat one more bag of popcorn, cup of tea, bowl of oatmeal, or plate of Chinese take out. When did microwaves become the ‘go to’ kitchen appliances anyway? Alas, I must go. I need my beauty sleep (desperately) and I have a full day ahead of me tomorrow so bed beckons. Thanks to my readers for the ‘likes’ and welcome ‘spigetter’ and Rick. It’s great to have you aboard! I am always humbled when people take the time to stop by and let me know that they appreciate what I have to share.

March 24, 2024 – A Tale of Two Fathers (Part Three)

Something miraculous has happened! I slept through the night the last two nights in a row!! So why do I feel so angry? I mean, I am pissed! The last post I published helped me significantly as I was able to process so much from my childhood and have a better understanding as to why I became who I am today. Had I been raised in a household like Beaver Cleaver, I would follow that up by saying it’s why I am the confident, upbeat, successful person that I am today. Ha! I wish that were the case. The reality is that I am continually plagued with self hatred, low self esteem, and self doubt. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but as I sit here at my keyboard, staring at a big white screen, that’s my truth. As to why I am so angry, I didn’t wake up that way. I climbed out of bed this morning refreshed and anxiety-free.

After giving it some thought, I have come to realize what was behind the mood shift. My brother Clover (#7) has been digitizing old VHS tapes, and he sent me a few clips early this afternoon. Wouldn’t you know it that my stepfather was included in the footage on the first two he sent? Damnit! Seeing his face and hearing his voice again just sent me reeling! I know getting all riled up isn’t healthy, and I need to forgive him so I can move on, but I’m not there yet. I mentioned in Part Two that shortly after he became part of our family, how family meetings/lectures were introduced. And, no, they didn’t show up at the door and say, “Hello, we’re going to be part of your new normal. Whether or not you like or appreciate us, we’re going to stick around in order to make sure that if you ever experience a bout of self confidence or elevated self esteem, we’ll be sure to snuff it out and in a hurry. Please don’t take it personally. It’s just how we operate. If you’d prefer a different experience, sorry, we cannot help you with that.”

That was the first ‘disciplinary measure’ my stepfather utilized to maintain order in our home. Hands down, the next one was even better! It involved adult temper tantrums followed by days long silent treatments. Now, I have to give him some credit because the circumstances changed significantly in our household. And by that, I mean that my alcoholic, chain-smoking, foul-mouthed, kleptomaniac grandmother moved in. Her presence didn’t help matters, it just seemed to make them far worse. She wasn’t happy to be there and she made sure everyone knew it. I wasn’t exactly thrilled either because, due to lack of anywhere else to put her, she became my roommate. Nonetheless, the atmosphere in our home went from ‘walking on eggshells’ status to ‘living in a pressure cooker’. And it wasn’t long before I think my mom and stepfather realized that the current living quarters were too small to accommodate all of its inhabitants, so a ‘for sale’ sign was placed in/on the front lawn and shortly thereafter, we moved to a newer, slightly larger home.

This is when life as I knew it went in a whole new, completely unexpected direction. If I didn’t think my stepfather could get any more creative with his measured ways of keeping us in line, I was WAY wrong! It made the family meetings/lectures seem like a walk in the park! This new methodology involved throwing a fit worthy of an Oscar, followed by utter silence which would last for days. I never knew when it was coming, but once it did, I just had to run for cover and wait it out. It didn’t take much to set him off. One day, instead of doing my chores as soon as I got home from school, I turned on the TV and started to watch cartoons. Because I was so engrossed in the cartoons, I didn’t notice that shortly thereafter, he had arrived home and made his way up the stairs and to the front door. When that door swung open, as I sat cross legged in front of the TV, I knew I had made a rookie mistake. And I was going to pay for it. Boy, was I ever!

My stepfather didn’t acknowledge me at all. After opening the door and scanning the room, he walked straight over to the TV and shut it off forcefully with the palm of his hand. I cowered momentarily, and then after he stomped down the hallway, heading for the broom closet, I sought shelter in my bedroom. The only occupants in the house at the time were the two of us. Had there been other adults in the house, he never would have behaved this way. This went on for years and my mom never knew because he wouldn’t dare act that way if she were home. Bastard. Anyway, as I said, his ‘performances’ were worthy of an Oscar, or at least a Screen Actors Guild Award. The first part of his performance would involve retrieving all of the necessary cleaning items. My chore that week was to clean the living and dining room, so the first thing he hauled out of the closet was a Kirby vacuum, which was made with die-cast aluminum and weighed a ton. Along with that came the furniture polish, dust rags, broom and mop, window cleaner and newspapers.

The items were removed from the broom closet with anything but grace and ease. In an effort to let me know how angry he was, he ordinarily would thrash about and carry on like an angry gorilla. Along with the incessant cussing he would make under his breath, there would be a great deal of grunting, loud sighing, slamming and banging. It’s really quite amazing how much noise you can make with cleaning implements when you put your mind to it! Sorry, I couldn’t help but be sarcastic but the opportunity presented itself and I didn’t want to waste it. Oh, crap! I just looked at the time and noticed that it’s getting away from me and I still have so much more to say. I’m beginning to think this might turn into a book. That wasn’t my intention but this topic is becoming less like a post and more like a novel. I really do need to wrap this up though. But before I go, I do want to acknowledge Jack (davisbrotherlylove) and Janet (janetdthomas77). It means a lot that you appreciate what I write. Truly. Thank you.

March 21, 2024 – A Tale of Two Fathers (Part Two)

I really didn’t think it was possible to feel worse than I did while writing my previous post, but I do. I’m so sad that it’s nearly unbearable. What I can’t understand is why is this happening NOW? Why has the Universe decided that NOW is the time for me to face this ‘thing’ that I’ve been running from my entire adult life and most of my childhood? It’s as if I’m at a crossroads and the only two options at this point are to either fight or give up altogether. I’m inclined to give up. As I said in Part One, I’m so weary. I desperately want to sleep but I can’t. Every time I attempt to, my brain decides to ‘take a walk down memory lane’. I wouldn’t mind if they were joyful memories, but they never are. Lately, I keep replaying scenes which involve my stepfather, and try as I might, I can genuinely say that I rarely, if ever, experienced ‘joy’ whenever he was part of the equation. However, as far as shame and guilt were concerned, there was always plenty to go around.

I’m not a ‘silver lining’ type of person, but if ever there was one, it was the fact that there was never any physical or sexual abuse. Not ever. Having said that, my stepfather did seem to have a monopoly on emotional and mental abuse. Before he was in the picture, I truly was a happy, carefree child. I looked forward to each day and what it may bring. But that ended abruptly at age eight, when my mom decided to give marriage another shot. I cannot say I necessarily blame her. I’ve thought about the pressure she was under, trying to raise nine children without any support whatsoever. After divorcing my father and being excommunicated by the Catholic church, she ‘survived’ six long years completely on her own. There were no grandparents around to lend a hand. My maternal grandparents lived several states away and my paternal grandparents wrote us off as soon as the ink dried on the divorce decree. But even if there had been grandparents willing to help, I doubt that would have mattered because my mom didn’t like to ask for or accept help from anyone.

Needless to say, even though I was initially ecstatic to welcome ‘Father Number Two’ into our family because times were exceptionally hard with a single parent running the show, the honeymoon didn’t last long. He didn’t waste any time putting together a very concise set of rules and regulations that seemed designed to trip us up. And after devoting all that energy into creating strict guidelines by which everyone was ‘encouraged’ to conform, he still had plenty of energy afterwards to ‘discourage’ anyone who didn’t. Fortunately, the first 4 of the 9 of us had already left home (although not necessarily under the best of circumstances), so they weren’t required to ‘toe the line’. That left the five of us at the bottom. It didn’t take long to weed out numbers 5 & 6; they both embraced the idea of juvenile delinquency and were ‘shown the door’ in short order. If I remember correctly, it took less than two years to eliminate the troublemakers. And then there were three, the three of us at the bottom.

I think my stepfather got some kind of sick high whenever he got a chance to put us in our place(s), because he did it often…and usually with a smug look on his face. Part of the rules and regulations he implemented centered around that f-ing chore chart, and we never could catch a break. If we didn’t do things when he thought they should be done or how he thought they should be done, a lecture was guaranteed. At least, that’s how it started. If we did anything he found unacceptable, within a matter of minutes or hours, a ‘family meeting’ would be called. The first memory I have of one of those family meetings/lectures was when I was around 8 or 9 years old. I was on kitchen duty, and when I was handed the blender to place onto a shelf in the pantry, apparently I didn’t push it far back enough so when someone opened the pantry door afterwards, the blender fell off the shelf and broke. You’d have thought I murdered someone.

We were advised to assemble in the master bedroom, and when he was done with me and my brothers, I can tell you that I felt utterly destroyed. That lecture was nearly two hours long, and I don’t even know how it’s possible, but he was not only able to reduce me to tears, he made me feel like one incredibly useless, careless, thoughtless piece of shit. I’ll never forget that day. And I wish I could say that’s the only time it happened, an isolated incident, but it was only the beginning. My stepfather seemed to relish having us all gather ’round while he berated us for yet another infraction. ‘Home’, which should be a sacred space, felt like being in the pit of hell. I did everything to avoid it. The air was always thick with tension and I felt like I had to always walk on eggshells. If I had been out playing and noticed that things were too quiet as I approached the house, I’d peek in the front window before proceeding to the door. If I spotted my two brothers seated on the couch with wounded looks on their faces, as my mother and stepfather faced them from across the room, I’d turn tail and not come back until I knew the coast was finally clear.

With all that said, I had hoped that I could tell you everything in two parts but I still have several more years of ‘fun’ to discuss with you, and don’t feel good about leaving all of that out, so I’m going to have to make this a three-parter. Hopefully, I can express everything in my next post and move onto something new, but if I can’t, please don’t hold it against me.

March 18, 2024 – A Tale of Two Fathers (Part One)

I’m really struggling with some hard core depression. And to be honest, if I knew my actions wouldn’t have a ripple effect, inflicting ongoing, excruciating emotional pain for years to come to those who I dearly love, I would check out permanently. I just cannot seem to shake the sadness, it’s all consuming, and I’m so weary. I’ve experienced night after sleepless night, staying up all hours and shoveling food into my mouth to numb out the feelings that seem determined to extricate themselves. It’s almost as if my body is trying to exorcise them but I don’t want to deal with the pain so I eat until I can’t stuff another thing into my mouth. I eat until there’s literally no more room in my stomach. And it isn’t until I’ve mindlessly consumed brownies and cookies and ice cream and cereal and tortilla chips and whatever else I can find to satiate my ‘hunger’, that my eyelids grow heavy and I am finally able to make my way to bed.

Tonight was no different. I emptied the cabinets of most of the carbs and some of the items in the freezer too, and despite an aching belly and utter exhaustion, I found no solace once I climbed into bed. I attempted to read a book on my Kindle but it didn’t help, so I then tried slowly inhaling and exhaling. “Breathe through the pain,” I told myself. But it was of no use either. Oddly enough, as I tried to soothe myself by taking deep breaths, memories of my childhood flooded my brain, but not ones I expected. I actually had been thinking about my mom because her birthday’s tomorrow and even though she’s no longer here (she passed away in 2022), I still want to honor that milestone. But it wasn’t memories of my mom that I had, it was memories of my ‘fathers’. To be precise, I had two; but if you added them both together, they didn’t even amount to one good one.

My first father, the one responsible for me being here because of his sperm contribution, was a lousy husband and a lousy father. In addition to his inability to keep a job and provide for his family, his behavior towards others was often twisted and cruel. But not to everyone, just a few select family members. My mom and oldest sister were at the top of the list. Sadly, my sister was dealt the worst hand and my father was relentless in making her life a living hell. There were others in my family who were also included on this ‘list’ but his insidious actions weren’t nearly as calculating or obvious. And for some strange reason which is unknown to me, I never got on that particular list. I was placed on a different one, the ‘put on a pedestal’ list. At first glance, it seems like a great list to be on. You, and only you, get to go on countless outings. You cannot help but feel special.

One week it might be swimming at the Elks Club followed by supper at Skipper’s which included a heaping helping of fish and chips and a large soda. Another week it might be a movie or bowling, followed by a visit to Colonel Sanders for some fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, coleslaw and a biscuit. This ‘treatment’ also includes having your photo, and only yours, enlarged and taped to the dashboard of your father’s car for all his other children to view, all eight of them. Suffice to say, it made things ‘awkward’ between me and my siblings. I was so little that I didn’t understand how he was using me to create dissension and hostility within our family unit. My mom had kicked him to the curb and officially divorced him when I was two, but despite never paying a nickel towards child support, he continued to show up on a regular basis and ‘lavish’ me with attention until she remarried six years later. And then ‘poof’, just like that, he disappeared.

Enter ‘Father Number Two’. I can’t help but think, no, I can’t help but know that this is where things went terribly wrong. My mom had finally found someone who loved her and was a good provider. And, most notably, someone who married her despite her ‘baggage’. The problem was, this guy didn’t know how to be a father. When she met him, he was a bachelor in his mid-forties, with no prior experience of how to deal with children to speak of. Once he entered our lives, his sole focus seemed to be making sure that everything was ‘ship-shape’, in other words, ensuring that everything on the chore chart (something he introduced shortly after their nuptials) was executed per his precise instructions. I hated that damn chore chart! Since most of my older siblings didn’t stick around once my stepfather entered the picture, the chores were left to the three of us at the bottom, the three of us who were far too young to ‘escape’.

And with that, I’m going to take a pause. I just realized that I’ve hardly scratched the surface and won’t be able to adequately convey everything in one post, so this is going to be a two-parter. Anyway, since I’ve been able to get some of this off my chest, I’m going to make another attempt at sleeping. Thank you for ‘humoring’ me while I’ve tried to make sense of some of this stuff.

March 13, 2024 – On second thought.

I feel really silly right now because after what I thought was a successful launch of a ‘new and improved’ website, which I proudly discussed in my previous post, I have decided to remove it altogether. Why? I guess it has a lot to do with what one considers ‘success’. I honestly thought I had formulated something that would generate interest and appeal to the masses. Alas, I was wrong. After several weeks ‘on the air’, I managed to drum up a total of 56 views. In fact, that was the highest number on my stats list. The other number was a big fat ‘0’. Yep, zero likes and zero subscribers. I have to tell you, that doesn’t make the writer part of me feel terribly proud, it just makes me feel terrible. I’ve been asking myself over and over, “Where did I go wrong?”

To that question, I’ve come up with several answers. I’ll share a few…

  • I’ve lost my touch.
  • I’m not funny anymore.
  • People would rather read about honest, often emotionally gut-wrenching experiences instead of poor attempts at humor.
  • More people identify with mental illness than I’d care to admit.
  • As much as I’d like to emulate Erma Bombeck, I just can’t cut the mustard.

Of course, there were a lot more, dozens more, answers (or excuses) I came up with to explain away the lack of interest in my new site. At the end of the day, however, as much it pains me to admit it, I guess rather than trying to start anew and ‘file away’ the parts of my life that I’d rather leave behind, I have to accept them. Because even though I tried to branch off and write about topics which were more light-hearted and easier to digest, I struggled. Talking about mental illness is easy because it’s part of my past, present, and what I strongly foresee as my future. Talking about humor is do-able but it’s more difficult to access, unless I’m at the doctor’s office. For some reason, whenever I see my family physician, I pull out all the stops, especially when he brings up my annual mammogram.

I wish life were easier and I wish I didn’t continuously think about how lonely I am or how I cannot seem to connect with people. I moved across several states thinking that it would ‘fix’ so many things I had issues with and the only thing that really changed was the view. I still feel sad and disconnected but now when I open the front door, instead of seeing a giant hospital across the street, I see the neighbor’s house and the glut of ‘stuff’ they have stored in their triple car garage. I’ve tried to ‘put myself out there’ in order to find people who I can relate to and maybe eventually consider as friends but it’s been like trying to give a cat a bath. If you’ve never tried that before, it’s not natural and the cat is none too pleased about it. I’ve gone to several Meetup events and each time I do, I leave feeling even more alone and disconnected. What the hell?! I show up with what I consider to be reasonable expectations and never fail to be disappointed.

It all just feels like a big waste of time. Actually, I think that’s going to be my motto from here on out. I would really like to be more positive and uplifting but life has been a serious struggle. I was doing really well until I wasn’t, and I cannot seem to find the motivation or wherewithal any longer to keep trying to get ‘better’. Therapy helped somewhat but I discontinued my sessions once money became an issue. What it all boiled down to was that after receiving yet another bill for services rendered (bringing my overall charges in excess of $800), I requested an itemized statement. I needed to see for myself what monies were charged and what monies were paid over the handful of months I’d gone in for counseling. After a lot of back and forth with my therapist and the billing department, things got undeniably weird and awkward.

Months later, once everything finally got sorted out, I returned for one more session but when the hour was up, instead of what she ordinarily did (penciling me into her black schedule book for my next session), she said, “We’ll keep in touch.” That was over two months ago. I haven’t heard from her since. It felt a lot like back-in-the-day when I was still swimming in the dating pool. Oftentimes, at the end of the date, even when it was clear there would never be a second or a third, I’d get the, “I’ll call you.” And we’d both know full well that that call was never going to happen but it was kinder than, “You suck and I don’t ever want to see you again!” I suspect that’s what happened with my therapist. She didn’t want to officially break up with me so she did the next best thing, if you could call it that. Sigh.

Suffice to say, I’ve decided to resuscitate My Entire Family Is Insane. I was going to let it dry up and drift away but for my own selfish reasons, I’m going to keep it around. Since I no longer have a therapist to vent all my frustrations to, it’s the next best thing. As much as I’d like to impart my dark thoughts upon my husband, they don’t resonate with him. He’s designed very differently and doesn’t really understand the mental gymnastics my brain goes through with all the highs and lows and ups and downs. I guess that’s a good thing because one of us needs to be of sound mind. Anyway, I need to call it a night. I’m grateful for those of you who have stuck around and will hopefully continue to do so. I wish all the best to you and yours.

September 16, 2023 – Just a brief ‘hello’

I just wanted to drop in for an ever-so-brief ‘hello’. Life has been really challenging lately and I’ve experienced some drastic highs and lows. On the low side of things, I lost my mom. No, I didn’t lose her as one might lose a jacket or a wallet or even a set of keys, she’s gone for good and she’s not coming back. There’s absolutely no possibility that I’ll ever be able to check with ‘lost and found’ and find her amongst the slew of jackets, stray sets of keys, random mittens, and countless BPA-free water bottles. Alzheimer’s and old age finally caught up with her and after putting up one hell of a fight, she relented and crossed over to the ‘other side’. As much as she drove me bananas, I didn’t realize how much she mattered to me until she wasn’t around any longer. Sigh.

In addition to that, I sort of lost my way. Long story short, I got a job that I thought was the ‘end-all, be-all’ and learned in three weeks’ time that it wasn’t. I really believed that it was my purpose and that I finally had life all figured out. Yes, I’m still searching for my purpose…although I think I’m closer to discovering what it is than I’ve ever been. If I ever do find it, you’ll be the first to know. Ok, hang on a minute, that’s really not an accurate statement. After I tell my husband, my kids, a few friends, my therapist, my brother Clover and possibly one of my neighbors, I will definitely advise you as to what it is. Geesh, I thought I was doing the ‘long story short’ version but here I go again…blah, blah, blah. So, LSS (for real, this time), I gave my notice after only working 9 days (due to continual health issues) and after giving my notice, I fell into a really deep rut. And maybe ‘rut’ isn’t the best noun to use. It was more like I fell off a cliff, rolled into a ravine (upon landing), and then once I clawed my way out of the ravine, somehow found myself at the bottom of an abandoned mine shaft.

The best way to sum up where I ultimately ended up was my own version of hell. On a soul level, I was ‘this close’ to throwing in the towel and joining my mom. The message I told myself on a daily basis was, “I don’t matter.” It’s amazing what you can do to sabotage all the good things in your life when you feel this way, and how much weight you can gain! And I went on for several months in this fashion until I simply couldn’t stand how much I loathed myself. Ok, this is where I get to the ‘high’ part of the highs and lows, and I mean that literally and figuratively. Out of desperation, I sought out a therapist to see if she could help me find my way back to the land of the living. I have to say, she has done wonders. But beyond that, I have resorted to micro-dosing psilocybin mushrooms. Not to worry! I live in one of the very few states where it’s actually legal or at least decriminalized. Thank goodness!

Of all the people in this world, I’m the last person who would ever consider using psychedelics to achieve ‘wellness’; I’m about as ‘square’ as they come. Seriously, I’ve never even smoked a joint! But desperate times call for desperate measures. Believe me, I did not make this decision without fully educating myself and knowing all the ins and outs beforehand (reading How to Change Your Mind by Michael Pollan was a gamechanger). And I can honestly tell you that it’s helping. I’m not 100% cured, however, I am completely off Prozac for the first time in 16 years and feel much more human. What I found astonishing was how easy it was to grow mushrooms. I’ve killed essentially every plant that’s ever been in my care, but I’m quite ‘the Wiz’ when it comes to growing mushrooms. Little effort = big results, at least in my case…or maybe I just got lucky (see photo).

Anyway, I just wanted to share all of this so that if you happened to be curious about where I’d disappeared to, now you know. No, it doesn’t account for the rest of the time I’ve been ‘absent’ and neglecting my blog, and there’s simply no way I can explain away that apart from writer’s burnout and life got in the way. Does that mean I’m going to resume writing daily or weekly or monthly? I wish I could make that promise but I don’t want to set myself up for failure. All I can muster for the time being is a brief ‘hello’ and hope that in time, I can return on a regular basis to cheer you up or distract you or entertain you with a tale or two. Until we meet again, much joy to you and yours. AND thank you to those folks who have recently liked some of my previous posts. I truly thought my blog was long forgotten so it gives me a real boost to see that folks still enjoy what I’ve had to share.

If I knew how to make a heart emoji, I’d put it right here.