Ain't Nothin' Like the Real Thing: Stories from my past

Showing posts with label Stories from my past. Show all posts

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

You've Got To Have....

Yes, friends.

And the one I've had the longest is Anne. The attached picture was taken probably around 1962. Anne is still a cute, little cherub and I'm still a....witch. What is most notable in this picture is that not only is Anne still in my life, but so is that piano we are sitting on. It was the first piece of furniture my parents brought new in 1951 and it is still in my living room, below the same picture that adorns the wall behind us. There is something soothing in the constancy, especially when a good part of my adult life was filled with abuse.

For those of you in abusive relationships, although I've gone through it, I simply can not tell you what to do. You need to figure that out on our own, through your own power. Those steps you take to free yourself, whether it's working things out with your mate or divorcing, will give you ultimate strength to deal with what is meeting you down the road. The main thing is to GET HELP and GET IT FAST.

I don't really have bad feelings for my ex, WAM (as he is nicknamed) any longer. After 6 years of being free from him, I traveled to find myself again for my own benefit, as well as my children. But it was a long, hard, tearful road. I consistently took 2 steps forward and 4 backwards, but I slowly made progress. I was lucky to have a close knit group of friends, including Anne, who were there for me all the way. I learned something very, very important from all of them who patiently listened, who comforted, who prayed for me and also who slapped me upside the head when I needed it. I learned from them by example what a truly wonderful and devoted friend is. There is no way I could thank them enough.

I was also lucky to find wonderful, supportive counselors who helped me. To all of them, friends, my cousins, counselors, physicians, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude.

At this point, it might seem strange that as I look back, I feel like a schizophrenic. I laugh at the situations as I feel sorry for who I was then. Here, for example, was normal dinnertime conversation with WAM:

“Are you going to eat that? Why did you make that? You know it’s really not healthy. And why aren’t the kids eating that? You should not let them eat peanut butter sandwiches at dinner. That’s not a meal. It’s unhealthy. They should be made to eat what we are eating. You let them get away with murder. If they turn out undisciplined, that’s gonna be on your head, not mine. I’d make them eat the stuff on the table. (Breath) Didn’t you kind of take a big serving of that stuff? Are you going to exercise to work that off? It’s probably got a lot of calories and god knows how much fat. You should eat off a smaller plate. You know they say if you eat off a smaller plate you get full faster. We should eat more healthy. Fish is good, but I don’t like fish. And I don’t like salads or vegetables, but let's try to eat more healthy. (Breath) Didn’t you say something was wrong with your mother's liver or something before she died? Is that why she got a big belly? You know, your belly is getting big like hers. Did you ever have a blood test to check your liver?”

You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not. I saw Dustin Hoffman in that movie, and I realized I had the perfect name for Mason: Rain-WAM.

I know what you're thinking: why didn't you tell him to shut the f*** up? Because he controlled by threats, by the daily diminishing of my self esteem and confidence, by creating fear, by a horrid and vile temper. It was my job to quiet the waters, shut up, and keep the playing field as clear as possible. Anything could turn him nasty. Baseball team losing. Cut off in traffic. Revisiting some memory from his childhood. Didn't matter. I was the closest thing in his vicinity (because most people -- friends and family included -- had deserted the playing field long ago), and someone had to pay for his misery. That was me.

Now trust me here: all men are NOT like this. My father wasn't. Sam, my significant other, isn't like this. My son is not like this. What makes a man a mean, cruel, vindictive person? I'm not sure. He was just damaged in some way and was totally unable or unwilling to ask for help or accept the help he was offered. Accepting help was a sign of weakness....and weakness just wasn't allowed.

Alcohol was a crutch. Medication was a crutch. Religion was a crutch. Cigarettes were a crutch. Should you use any of these for relief, you were subject to ridicule and berating. As a "man", I guess you were supposed to take "everything" and then go home and beat your wife and scream at your kids. If you were a woman under stress, well, too bad. Life sucks.

I'm not a doctor, only a victim. You need to protect yourself and your children. The problem with victimization is that depression goes along with it and makes you utterly powerless to make any decision in your own behalf. Break the cycle...and get help. Use every resource at your disposal -- friends, family, counselors, physicians.

I can't tell you it'll be easy....but I realized I was worth it with a little help from my friends....and so are you.

Monday, June 18, 2007

Remember These Priceless Gems

My parents weren't really much on sitting me down and lecturing me on the finer points of survival in the world. They showed me what dignity was, they showed me the value of integrity, of honesty, mainly by example. They also imparted on me little chunks of advice that I have never forgotten. The information was never beaten into me, rather it was wrapped around a story or an incident. I remember so vividly sitting in the car with my dad, Frank, when a story came on the radio about the Moral Majority. All my dad said was "The Moral Majority? I don't think they're either." It took me years to get it, but it rolled around my cranium from the time my dad uttered it, to this day.

Now my parents did have other bits of advice that I've lived my life around. Little beauts that I will share with you because of their simplicity, their importance, their relevance. These gems are timeless and I've gotten to 50 fairly intact by remembering them.

So here, for the first time, is all the advice I ever needed from Frank and Rose:

From my Dad:
1. Always pump your brakes;
2. Always balance your checkbook;
3. Always be honest;
4. Always admit when you are wrong or have made a mistake, then take your lumps like a man;
5. When you shake a person’s hand, look them in the eye and shake like you mean it;
6. Always be a good girl.

From my Mom:
1. No matter what you do, where you do it, how you do it or with whom, make sure that when you get up in the morning, you can be proud of who stares back at you in the mirror;
2. If you want to be treated like a lady, act like a lady. No matter what;
3. Always be a good girl.

Done.

Thank you, Frank and Rose.

P.S. -- In my 30+ years of driving a total of 5 different cars, I've never needed a brake job.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Sneak peak into the past

Considering my previous post, you may be asking when I found the time to get to the health club. This decision was part of a 6-month contemplation phase. (Yeah, more like 6 years, but let’s get past that). Do I get up at 6 am and turn on LifeTime television and perky Denise Austin? Oh, dear god. No offense to Denise, but I can’t take that at 6 am. I know my ex-husband had told me that I was an expert in excuses not to exercise…that I was weak, no backbone, no willpower. But truly, it’s not that I have an aversion to exercising in the morning…I just believe in conserving your energy as much as possible before the kids get up and start ruining your day. That, and the fact that I had a heart attack in the morning (I was only 41 at the time...I'll explain later) and have some left-over angst in that area. If my heart rate gets above 80 before 9 am, I’m running for Xanax and Nitrostat.

Perhaps now would be a good time to explain the ex-husband thing.

My ex-husband had a long, long, very long history of bad behavior. I said “I do” and he said “I own her now.” One of my very first memories of being married revolves around car repair. My car needed maintenance. I called the dealership where I normally had taken it and made an appointment to bring the car in for service. I asked Mason (the ex) to meet me at the service department so he could then drive me back home. That was agreeable.

I left the car with the clerk, turned to Mason (aka "WAM", which I'll explain later) and realized something had set him off. I don’t know what it was. It could have been that he was “disrespected” by the service attendant. It could have been that he had been cut off in traffic on the way over. It could have been the woman at work didn’t answer his request in a timely manner. I don’t know. What I also didn’t know at this point is that it had nothing to do with me, but I was a newly-wed and figured this time was supposed to be the golden highlight of my life and our relationship. I mean, when was it gonna get better than newly married?

Anyway, for some unknown reason, an argument started. Back then, I was ….. well, different. More self-protective, more willing to speak up for myself, unafraid and mostly unaware of what anyone could do to me. He started yelling at me and I carried the conversation outside. I, of course, was at first perplexed. Then I realized he was pretty out of control over something that was probably pretty ridiculous, if I could remember what the hell it was.

It was dark outside, there was really no sidewalk, just a path worn in the grass in front of the dealership. When I realized this was going to get ugly, I told him to get away from me; to leave me alone, that I was walking to my parents’ house, which was probably 7 or 8 miles away. I didn’t care. I wanted to get away from him and his rage. However, he had other ideas of which I had no clue at that point. That idea, I came to discover, was that NO ONE LEAVES HIM. NO ONE TURNS THEIR BACK TO HIM. TO DO THESE THINGS UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE IS NOT ALLOWED.

So he started to pull my arm and yell in my face to the point that I was utterly terrified. I was frozen. One section of my brain knew husbands do not treat their wives like this. My father never raised his voice to my mother, ever. WAM was swearing and yelling and I just wasn’t hearing him anymore. I grew more petrified as his rage increased and I knew I had to do something before he hit me.

My brain was spinning and I was more scared of him that I had been of any human being ever……so I urinated on myself and fell in a heap of hysterical crying.

No. This is true. But don’t worry, he apologized. Said it would never happen again, was so, so, so sorry, took me to K-Mart and ran in to get me a pair of sweatpants so I could change out of the wet jeans (size 7) that I was wearing. He was beside himself with horror at what he had done and what had happened. Really. He was so sorry.

Then I made my very first mistake. I believed him.

Let me backpeddle a bit. I was no 19 year old babe in the woods when I met and married WAM. I was 29 when we tied the knot. I was living on my own, very happily, working, going out with friends, taking trips when I could afford it – Hawaii (to hunt down Tom Selleck - hey, it was the 80's), Las Vegas so see the shows. I dated. I enjoyed myself. I met WAM and I don’t know what happened. I thought he was a nice guy. But know you, my Dad never liked him. Didn’t voice it too much, but didn’t like him. My Mom sort of remained quiet on the subject, simply stating if I was happy, she was happy. Here’s another little piece of information: if your parents don’t like your intended, take a VERY LONG look at what you're are doing.

More later ... my psychologist wants lunch.