The Time I Almost Killed Myself…

Talkin’ to myself and feelin’ old
Sometimes I’d like to quit
Nothin’ ever seems to fit
Hangin’ around
Nothin’ to do but frown
Rainy days and Mondays always get me down
~Carpenters, 1971

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Two weeks ago, give or take a day, I had a really a no good, really bad day.  For that day and the next I struggled with life and death, and the importance of my life as it intersects with other lives.  The short version of the story is that a lot of pain that I try very hard to ignore on a day to day basis hit me all at once.  I described it later, like a stack pancakes, one on top of another, until the stack became so big that it just fell apart.

At the base of the pain, one might call the biggest and heaviest pancake was the pain that came from a perceived rejection of my want to help my (mentally challenged) son.  In my mind, I had to choose one over the other:  my partner or my son.  I told my friends that if I wanted a really real divorce all I had to do was invite my son to stay on this property again.  That is STILL the reality that I contend with.  The truth is though, that this was not at the base, this was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  The pancake stack was probably leaning, and someone threw this big, heavy pancake on the stack—and what we got was this big emotional train wreck.

My son, is currently 26 years old, and has a laundry list of diagnoses now.   Bipolar with psychosis which by definition includes depression and mania, Autistic Spectrum Disorder (not long ago referred to as Asperger’s Syndrome or High Functioning Autism), PTSD, borderline personality disorder …..But wait, there’s more…. (Learning disabilities galore also are on the list)

And it is certainly no laughing matter.  He’ll probably need professional help the rest of his life.  And there is no amount of denial or turning one’s back on him that will change what he is, who he is, and what he needs.  Keeping this mind, knowing that I DID bring this kid into the world, there is absolutely NO chance in hell, that I will EVER turn my back on him.

One of his older sisters flat out told me I needed to “cut him loose.”  A judgement made from a person who can very easily distance herself from someone she perceives as a “looser”.  In her mother’s mind however, there is a difference between a ‘looser’ and someone with a condition that came built in with the package.  One never ‘cuts loose’ their children, if they can help it.  To be able to “cut loose” even a grown child, the emotional price tag has to become bigger than the perceived ‘worth’ of the child.  There has to be some mighty painful situations come up to force a good mother to let go of even ‘grown’ children.

I could not understand how someone who supposedly loved me could not understand my dilemma.  In order to keep the man around that I loved, I had to “CHOOSE” to not help my son (again).  I felt about as misunderstood as a person could feel.  I felt let down, as if the world’s biggest rug had been torn out from under me.  The one person in the world that I had chosen to throw all my trust into (after deciding he was pretty healthy-emotionally) basically let me know my son was not going to live on his property.

He let me know by showing his anger.  He doesn’t stomp around the house. He just makes the household know by the way he carries himself, and with this huge frown that shows he is very unhappy.  His body language, his lack of conversation, it is all made quite clear.  And it’s not like I didn’t know what was wrong. I did.  I didn’t need his “passive aggressive” messages.

But he sent them anyway….

The more I tried to figure out what to do for my son, without letting him come back to this property, the more this ‘partner’ of mine sent out the signals that he was pushed out of shape.  Over and over again—as my son’s situation led to him becoming more mentally unstable, so it pushed me more and more into a feeling of helplessness.  I had no realistic way to help him except to listen to him and try to help ground him.  Even that wasn’t working very well.  I told my son he could not come and live on this property; else I’d be divorced for real.  He asked me if it was really that bad.  I could only answer him honestly.  “Yes, it is really that bad.”

On the heels of this, came, the news that my 2nd eldest daughter would not be attending my 18 year old’s high school graduation.  Take into account, that this 2nd eldest daughter is adopted.  Her own biological mother did not show up at her graduation.  I did.  She has made it clear over the years how much that meant to her.  I simply could not fathom how she could not show up at her younger sister’s graduation considering how important her own was to her.

My two oldest daughters do not speak to me.  Each has their own reasons.  To be honest, I don’t see the reason in either of their stories.  They are both in their own way and for their own individual reasons laying an awful lot of blame onto me for things that may or may not be going right in their own life.  And so they have the right to treat me like shit.  It doesn’t mean I’m going to give into whatever it is.  It’s just what they think they want from me.  It doesn’t mean I’m going to change a thing I do in my life.  Not for them.  Not anymore.

That Saturday morning, my “partner” and I had had a major argument.  He offered to leave.  I told him to just go then.  I have to say here and now, that living under his cover of anger is too much for me to take.  I have informed him more than once that we need professional help.  If I don’t leave this time, I sure will leave another time, if he continues to ‘rule his roost’ in this manner.

Nevertheless, feeling that perhaps the 2nd eldest was staying away from the graduation so that she’d not have to confront her feelings about our non-communication, and in essence making her little sister pay for anger that she feels towards me, I offered to not go to the graduation so that she would go.

Almost instantaneously, though it may seem silly to those who read this, I felt absolutely the failure and unneeded, unworthy, and unloved.  I was suddenly moving, at least in my mind in slow motion.  I felt like I’d been run over by a Mack Truck.   My reality at that moment, suddenly, and too my great surprise, IN MY FACE:

1 Mother: Not speaking to me
2 of 4 Children: Not speaking to me
1 adult (mentally challenged) child: In need, I cannot help.
1 partner, whom I considered the love of my life: Offering to leave, and obviously angry.
1 child, who I’d just offered to not go to her graduation, a once in a lifetime ceremony, and rightfully should be the happiest time of her life at least for now.  I gave that up.
= It all came to be ONE MASSIVE FAILURE in my mind.

If anyone knows me, they know that I have worked very hard to be where I am in this life.  There has been nothing come without struggle in one form or another.  Either I literally worked hard physically (as in providing for my family as a single mother), or literally trying to learn enough about people, psychology, and myself to FORCE myself to be the best that I can be: to be a very good person, who takes everyone’s feelings into account, to give without the need to receive.  I have lived it: “The children always come first.”  I did not and do not want to be accused of ever abusing another person…. Well except perhaps a rapist or molester.

Everyone always came first. I wonder now, if anyone even considers what I might want or need when they make their final determinations about me and who I am, and why they think they are so damn angry with me.

Consider my EGO-growing from a little girl to a young woman:

I am a daughter
I am a granddaughter
I am a mother
I am a wife
I am a domestic engineer
I am a worker
I am a volunteer
I am a writer
I am a student
I am a gardener
I am a genealogist
I am a photographer
I am a lover of music

These are written in the order of priority in my life, at least to a certain point.

I have noticed the past couple of years that my boundaries and priorities are changing. It is my understanding that this is a natural outgrowth of a woman who is coming face to face with the ageing processes.  She feels her body beginning to fall apart.  She is losing her physical strength and endurance.   She is coming to terms with mortality and the time limits of life come screeching to the consciousness.  In my case, the thought that I am actually pushing 60 years of age, is just mind bending.  I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d live to see the age that I am let alone anything beyond it.  And while I am grateful for every day that I live, I also know beyond a shadow of doubt that my days are now most certainly limited.

And so over the past year or so, my priorities have changed:

I am a lover of music
I am a photographer
I am a genealogist
I am a gardener
I am a student
I am a writer
I am a volunteer
I am a worker (no longer realistic)
I am a wife (Retired?!)
I am a mother (Retired?!)
I am a granddaughter (no longer realistic)
I am a daughter  (no longer realistic)

But these turn overs in priorities do not come painlessly.  They do send ripples out on what can often times be perceived by others and myself as a very calm sea of needs, wants, desires, —and demands from those all around me.    I hope their children never treat them the way they have treated me.  They are blind if they truly do not see, just how hurt I really am.

So, that Saturday morning, feeling like I had been run over by the world’s largest vehicle, I determined to have my very own last supper, and to go by the local ER and ask for my pacemaker to be turned off so that when I found the wall of snow that I was determined to find, I could plow into it, and die quickly.  I had no desire for my pacemaker to keep me alive while the 911 crew raced to save my life.  I was going to drive out of state in a quiet and determined manner.  I had a plan, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do.

This is how seriously I felt my failures.  That I just wasn’t worth the air that I breathed. There was nothing left to give.  I suddenly had no reason to live.  It was time to just go away, disappear—eventually, it would be taken for granted that I was dead.  That is how far up a mountain I was willing to go.

But, I realized that if I asked for my pacer to be turned off that I’d more than likely be put into a 72 hour hold.  I had no reason to let anyone force me to want to live.  So, I chose not to ask for my pacer to be turned off.

I began my long drive. And even in my dark mood some things about me are truly consistent.  “I always wanted to see if I could find that little town, maybe today is the day,” and so I took of the exit to Anluf.  I wound under I-5 and wondered at the scenery.  How in the world had I missed this road!  It is my curiosity that feeds me and keeps me utterly alive.  I have always, as long as I can remember, wanted to see it all, feel it all, hear it all, taste it all, know it all.  Suddenly, as I realized I was on part of the Applegate Trail, I began to form photos in my mind.  I also began conversations with my ‘partner’ about encouraging him to take this drive with this camera.  But, it was also a good bye conversation: Find yourself a good woman, enjoy and celebrate life, but tell her that I have dibs in heaven.  After a little drive I ended up in Venetta, and first thing I saw was an FCR office.  One of my kids works for that company, or at least did.  I thought perhaps she should transfer there; she’d be closer to the big city, and lots of fun things to do.  I got myself a chocolate, chocolate, chocolate blizzard.  I bought paper, envelopes and stamps.  I wrote two letters: one letter to the man that I thought was my beloved.  To him, I put down in words my conversation with his perception.  One letter to my youngest, letting her know that I loved her so much, and that I knew she was going to be ok.  That I was glad that she was growing up to be a really good person.  I ate my blizzard, I wrote, stuffed, stamped, and mailed the notes.

I headed towards the driveway and took notice of a sign that pointed to Eugene going one way, and to Florence going the other way.  I was very much away from my original plan of ‘visiting’ my great grandfather in Springfield, my great great grandparents in Eugene and the rest of the family in Silverton at Miller’s cemetery.  I’d already had a conversation with my father.  I’d let him know that I’d see him really soon.  It was and still is hard not to see it as a reunion, when the time really comes.  I turned away from my plan and towards Florence.  I decided that it would be ok to see one last sunset from the beach.  In my own quiet way, I was throwing myself a good bye party.

Where I made my mistake, and it’s one I will not make again.  Is that I called Clyde to just let him know that I was ok.  Except that I was not ok. During the conversation he let me know that my youngest was worried about me. I had not given my plan away, at least not blatantly, until now.  Without any forethought to it at all, I told him to tell her that my dad died when I was 21 years old, and my sister was 18 at the time.  The message was that we both survived it and are doing ok.  His response almost sounded unreal, “wait, what are you thinking? What are you going to do?”  I told him I loved him, I hung up, and I turned off the phone.  (My battery was getting very low, and I had no charger, and I did not want to be deterred from my goal)

Either way, from that moment on, no matter how badly I did not want to face the next day I knew that my kid now knew what I wanted to do, and I could not live with her “knowing” this.  Looking back on it, I really don’t why this bothered me so much.  But, it did.

You know, it’s two weeks later, and I still am rather flat feeling about the whole mess.  I do not feel like a successful person, I am fairly sure that soon I’ll be looking for my own space, and will begin to end my life—spend the last days, weeks, month, or years on my own terms.  No matter how much I love someone, there is nothing left in me that says, “I must change him.”  It is just not happening.  If you love someone, you love them as they are.  If one cannot accept his/her other as they are, then it’s just time to move on.  It boils down to, “to thine self be true…”

I got to Florence.  I found a battery charger.  I found a road along a jetty where I could watch the sunset.   I watched a bird literally surf the water.  I saw at least two seals.  I saw a small fish jump.  Florence has a great radio station. The sound is just high quality.  I wallowed in the music, I wallowed in the sea breeze, I absorbed the flight of the seagulls, I took photos with my eyes of the clouds that were breaking up the light from the golden setting sun.  The tide was raising, and I noted that the water was coming closer to me.

What do I do to make you love me?
What do I have to do to be heard?
What do I do when lighting strikes me?
Sorry seems to be the hardest word…..   ~Elton John

It was getting dark and it was time for me to get somewhere.  I thought maybe a room.  I could always kill myself tomorrow.

I turned my key, and the engine did not respond.
I was in Florence, but don’t ask me what road I am on!
I turned my key – now, who do I call for help?

I called Clyde.  I told him my predicament.
The long story short, he drove three hours to jump the car
and then he chaperoned me into town, offered me a room.
And that I took.

I absolutely tried to make the best of the situation.
I invited him into the shower where he let me know how attractive I am to him.
Where his soft and loving words turned almost instantly into another pancake-
“I can’t wait for you to lose weight, so that I can ”   -You know… do this, or do that.
We got clean with hotel provided toiletries.
He made love the best he could.  I knew he was tired.
We went to sleep on a huge kingsized bed.
I was not and had not been sleeping well.
Tears kept interrupting my sleep.  No matter how much I wanted to be with him the truth was in those moments, it was terribly painful to be there, knowing that separation was probably inevitable.  I ended moving to a chair in the room, to cry, trying not to wake him.

I tried to contain the tears, and to keep them quiet.  But the pain was really, really big.  And somewhere in there I turned to a little girl….  Who was just fighting to stay alive, who just did not want to be trampled by someone else’s anger…

No matter who they were and who they are…  I’m tired of dealing with all the anger.

He woke and came to me.  He tried to comfort me.  By this time, I could tell him how specifically I was feeling pressured, and I let it all out except the remark made in the shower…. I realized that I had again attached myself to people who were going away, I missed my friends who were not really gone.. yet.

While my children hurt me, and it had become quite obvious that I needed to stop the bleeding on an emotional level, the biggest hurt that I  am still not sure is recoverable is the hurt of lack of understanding, along with lack of love and support once he decided to show his anger.  It still really hurts. I can wake up tomorrow, and swallow it, and pretend it never happened.

Except that it did

I agreed to go home the next morning.  Every mile was a fight.  I had absolutely NO interest in going home.

My plan at the moment, is to go on, at least until my youngest is graduated.  Her plan is to live with her dad. He is closer to the college and jobs.  I think that is a smart way for her to go.  I cannot in good conscious discourage her from that choice.  She graduates in two weeks.

Nine school days left.

Then the wait for her to move.  Helping her move… and coming back to a house where I get to pretend everything is ok, until the next time he gets angry, and I can’t live with it.

I have reminded him that we need professional help.

He has not answered me.  I think that he disagrees.

With no kids to keep me tethered to a certain place,

It’s about guaranteed that the next time I leave,

It will be for good.

 

 

 

 

 

The Nightmare: “When Trump Stole the Election”

  • I’m in a group for Women w/ PTSD. Our assignment (aka commitment) this week was to say something about a gift that our trauma caused us to have.  This past week has been mostly about waking up from a nightmare called, “The nightmare: The Day Trump Stole the Election.”   Maybe it’s an unending movie, think, “Groundhog Day.”

    I’ve been ranting, and raving… writing half hearted poetry, unending essays,
    integrating the trauma that caused the trigger (I hate that word) that Trump
    managed to set off.  I’ve been posting like some posting robosomething to this
    blog and my Facebook page…  Down with Trump, who by chance will NEVER,
    EVER be my President.

    For my homework the 1/2 done poem:

    To those of you who say I am sick, I say…

    I am sweet, I am honest,
    I am up front
    and in your face.
    I can be brutal,
    I am brave.
    I have courage,
    to talk about things
    you consider stupid.

    What you see as sickness in me,
    I see as a social malady
    After all consider this,
    It is America
    that created me (1962-??)

    All you see
    in the reflection of me
    is YOUR truth
    & you’d rather deny that be.

    I am strong,
    I shine brightly,
    I do not choose my battles lightly.

    I would not count myself
    As holier than thou
    I challenge your thought,
    Do you think of circumstance
    that cannot be bought?

    I’d like to think
    that you are closer
    to feeling the tear
    that fell down your cheek.

    I will scream
    I will shout
    I will do what it takes
    to get the message out.

    That people need to think again,
    If they think “The Don” is going to win.
    I have grit
    I’m willing to fight
    Any man willing to grope
    and grin.

    It’s not funny
    Please do not laugh
    I’ve got gifts a plenty
    they’ve helped me down my path.

     

    Gifts my abuse gave to me

    • Strength
    • A particularly big mouth
    • The gift of the poet?
    • A love of reading & writing
    • A lot of empathy
      Imagination
      Sometimes, Patience

    11/09/2016 © Peggy  Ann Rowe, All Rights Reserved

You are special to me

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Graphic, “I AM…” ©2016, Peggy Ann Rowe, All Rights Reserved.
DO NOT Copy without the author’s written permission. 
Thank you very much for the respect. Peg

Poetry in Motion

Tygh Valley, Oregon (Hwy. 197)

Tygh Valley, Oregon (Hwy. 197)

Wanted,
A Human
A Friend
Someone who dances
Who is free
Who will wait and see
Tomorrow, Today, whatever day
Seizes the moment,
Sings happily-
Cries when they need to,
Does it with honesty.
Remembers their friendships
Treasures them all,
Bereft of the moments
that need to be thrown to the atoll.
Human to touch,
Human to feel,
One that loves,
One or many.
Makes no excuses
Won’t live a lie
Harmful to no one
Loyal to goodness
Mirror thyself
Walk on the beach
Take a book
Answer to no one
Except yourself
Innocence gone
Nevermore Naive
An Equal to this Mess
A Friend to the end.

Copyright 2016, Peggy Ann Rowe, Duplication/Modification with permission only.
for what it’s worth: written on the 33rd anniversary of my father’s death.

Forgiveness

What I’m learning at my CHIP class

Tonights CHIP class was probably the hardest so far. This class doesn’t just address diet or perhaps an easier to swallow (Pun intended) word, “nutrition.” It also addresses dealing with stress, and self care. Tonight, class dealt specially with forgiveness. This is not a new idea for me. I’ve been working on that for a long, long time. I had no intentions of sharing my past–or any of my experiences… but others opened up, and there was this chain reaction, and suddenly I felt I really had some insight that *might* help another person. Basically–the subject of sexual assault was brought up, and the woman who brought it up said she would NEVER forgive the perp. I guess for me the most healing part of the class is when a man made it quite clear that he was sorry he’d said some things to his kids and that he could never take it back. You could soooo feel his pain. Later he shared that he and wife, had lost two kids, one at 18 and one at 23. The 18 was killed by a drunk driver. How in the world do you forgive that? And I could feel that because when the police picked up my step father, he was all packed up and ready for his trip. He had only called and asked if he could pick up my child from school. I had no idea that he was planning on going out of town with her. My guess is that she would not have come back alive. How do you forgive that?! Fast forward 24 years, or something close to that. If you have a hurt, that is hurting you so bad that it affects your present life with a girlfriend, wife, husband, boyfriend, your kids… then forgiveness is essential. I don’t like using the term forgiveness–it is a little bit misleading, but I know of no other word in our language that covers the process any better. It’s not about forgiving and forgetting. It’s not about condoning the actions of the perp. It’s not about letting a bad guy or gal off the hook for their actions. It’s about you–the person with the hurt. What it boils down to is that by forgiving them– you release yourself emotionally from their power. Depending on the hurt you may do this several times over the years…someone like me… will be doing it the rest of her/his life. But, it is necessary because it helps to soften the anger and it helps to take away the pain. I made a conscious decision a long time ago, after I watched my mother’s reaction to the whole mess– I was not going to go my grave bitter and angry. My number one reason for this is that I wanted to set an example for my kids that there are better, more productive ways to handle our situation than what I had chosen in the past. Basically, I just wanted to be a good example, and kind of light the way for them, and show them it could be done. Have I stumbled? Oh yes…. does it hurt? Of course… to heal from these things, one must look the devil square in the face and say, “be gone…” so to speak. I was in tears during tonight’s class.. listening to all these folks share their biggest hurts. And a few of them had no interest in the exercise associated with class, writing a letter to the person we are forgiving. It is a letter that never has to be mailed, it is not for the perp– logically, if letter would have an impact on a perp, then they would NOT be a perp. That letter is for you, because it is the beginning of the end, something tangible that you can let go of when you are ready to help yourself, let go…. and move on.. and live! That letter is you taking back your life, your liberty, your freedom, and your power… I’ve written many such letters, and I can tell you that the very first time I was sure that I was wasting my energy–but many moons later, I can look back and I know it helped. And it was free… I’ve had several really great therapists who have helped in many ways. But no therapist can do the letter writing for you, nor can they light the candle that you use to set the letter aflame…. and only you can use this letter as a tool to bring the hurt and anger to your consciousness, decide let go of the anger and pain… do it for you. Take back your life, and your health. You deserve it.

CHIP for Your Health

CHIP Class.. We March Onward Towards the Great (UN)Known!!

We started a CHIP class about 14 weeks ago. My husband had already lost 40 lbs or so on the Sugar Buster diet. Problem is that he let that diet rationalize that it was ok to eat stuff like Salami, lunch meat, .. well you can picture it, if it had a hoof, or ate grass…and it was a protein source, he pretty much ate it with relish. (not sweet pickle relish.. just relish!) I did not even begin to ‘diet’ until we started CHIP. CHIP is, in our course at least, Complete Health Improvement Plan. It is a course about Lifestyle and how a lifestyle can affect your health. The founders, and other knowledgeable experts simply present you with the science, and they let you make up your mind. In Roseburg, Oregon–so far, the class is 18 weeks. Spread over time, it lets the ideas sink into your mind and penetrate our awareness. And it keeps us coming back so that if we decide to ‘buy in’ to what we are learning we also have a built in support system. Our class didn’t officially start until after the first two weeks had gone by–we will have the advantage of 20 weeks of CHIP guided by Dr. Charles Ross, a local doctor who teaches with flare, with heart, and with sincere energy.

I was warned by friends and even another doctor in my life. One friend, a retired nutritionist, who once worked for the VA heard about our class, and she said, “…it’s not that Ross guy teaching is it?…” She’d come to the conclusion that he was a fanatic on the edge pushing people into unhealthiness. One of my many doctors questioned the usefulness of this class. I had to admit (only 2 weeks into the class) that Dr. Ross did come close to what one might describe as the preacher at the pulpit. I told the doctor, probably all he needed was the pulpit and the image would be complete. But, you know, Dr. Ross has been very clear from the very beginning, to let us know what were his ideas, and what were CHIPs. And the more time I spend with him in class, the more I appreciate his health, his vigor, his sincerity, his wealth of knowledge, and his sincere drive to see us succeed. He is simply a man with a vision, one he has committed to, and how many of us can say that?

The class is about lifestyle. It’s about nutrition, it’s about treating yourself kindly, it’s about making good choices (you know, like: thou shalt not smoke ANYTHING.) It’s about encouraging each of us on along our journey so that we can restore our health via proper nutrition, and self-care.

My husband has lost 30 more lbs. A total of 70. In less than 20 lbs, he’ll be at his ideal weight. He was on FIVE high blood pressure pills, and now he is on one. He was on 70 units of Lantus Insulin every night. He now takes NONE. Don’t want to get too personal, but, men… it works again! My are we having fun!! If that doesn’t impress you– let me tell you, less than a year ago, we were literally waiting for him to die. His cardiologist had told him to put his house in order. There was nothing more that could be done. At 39 years of age he had his first stent. Two years later, another. At age 43, he had open heart surgery and had four grafts (by passes) on six blockages. During all his life, they found upon opening up, he’d already grown one by pass himself. At age 6, he and his older brother were found to have high cholesterol–450 was his number at 6 years old. He spent his entire youth on many experimental drugs given via UC Medical Center in San Francisco. Keep in mind this is genetic his father was dead at 34 of heart attack, his older brother died at 46 years of age, an older sister has heart issues as well. These Snyder’s in general just don’t live that long. Talk about feeling doomed.

While my husband was playing guinea pig in San Francisco, my father had his first heart attack at age 32. It was massive and killed 1/2 his heart. That was around 1970–give or take a few. A couple years later he had open heart surgery, and it was one of the first. His team at Stanford had Dr. Debakey (I hope I didn’t just really misspell his name horribly) on board as a consultant, the surgery was just that new. My dad healed very well from surgery and he went on with is life. He quit smoking, mom fed him only egg whites, but you know a lot of damage was done. Ten years later, at age 43 he had his third, and final heart attack. He was on the heart transplant list when he died. All I can tell you from this little girl perspective–is that I was an awful lot like dad, every one said I looked just like him. That must have meant that I had it too, this dreaded heart problem. I took it so seriously, that I have written each of my children goodbye letters to remind them that I love them with all my heart, and that I want them to be happy and healthy, and to have a very, very good life. I took it so seriously that when I was diagnosed with high blood pressure in my 20’s… I just knew I was doomed.. it was inevitable, and because I am of the female persuasion–I figured I’d probably be dead by 32 years of age. 32–it came and went. 43–came and went, but I did get a pacemaker to confirm my diagnosis. The doctors didn’t explain things too well, like the pacemaker pretty much fixed my problem, and that I was not in any danger of dying anytime soon. And my cath came out clean! Today, I am 53, and I have outlived all my goals, so here I set alive and looking for new goals. Maybe I should go back to school!!

So many things simply were not talked about in my house growing up. As far as I knew…. most people quit having sex by at least 32 years of age. How is that I got to 53 and still wanted a life?? Into this CHIP class we marched. The more I learned the more I recognized, the more I became afraid. This program is basically health reform as prescribed by Ellen G. White, a Seventh Day Adventist Prophet, in the mid, and late 1800’s. I know this why?? Because dad’s side of the family was 7th Dayers, and I wanted to be one too. When I tried to go on a healthy diet when much younger.. I was pretty much ridiculed by my ex husband, and bullied into giving it up. With no support from family–there is no success. My fear, I later realized was fear of failure…again (you know… I’m on a diet AGAIN).

But, I have lost 30 lbs so far. My dosage of my diabetes (type 2) medication metformin has been halved to 500 mg. 2x per day. My thyroid which has lain dormant for 16 years has suddenly started functioning again–that’s a story in and of itself let me tell you. The only thing I have to blame that on is this Lifestyle Change. Time will tell of course… OH, I forgot to mention, about 10 years ago I was diagnosed with two forms of arthritis. Both have been very painful. I have not been in pain for weeks!!!! This is NOT NORMAL. 😉 In a good sort of way, of course!

With the success I have had in about 18 weeks (total), I set myself a goal of losing another 20 lbs by class end. And I know I won’t make it because of my thyroid throwing a monkey wrench in there, but I won’t consider myself a failure because now I have the proper tools, and the support system I need to succeed. You see, Dr. Ross, has made it abundantly clear that we have joined the CHIP Lifer’s club and as long as he’s alive and kicking and facilitating a class, we can go back in with the front lines and get the shot in the arm so to speak that we need. And so, at 51 years of age, my husband is alive and LIVING. He is not sitting in a chair waiting to die. He still has blockages, he still has chest pain, but he can take a break from activities and rest and then go back to it. And at 53 years of age–I feel like– well, I just feel like I have more than a few really healthy years left to live. Sex included! Who knew!?!?

Does anyone ever stop and think, and realize… “OH, My Goodness.. Prayer answered…”

To those who have already passed judgement without experiencing it yourself, my suggestion to you is to come to a class. I can assure that you that Charlie Ross won’t mind. None of us will. Our story really isn’t a lot different from others in the class, and as long as we continue to eat our ‘rainbow’ for our meals, and stay away from that which has a face or a mother –then we will be healthy enough to tell you that we have succeeded at last–at living a very HEALTHY LIFE.

🙂 In the words of my dad… “So, how do you like them apples?”

History bites us in the a**

I’ve come to the conclusion that our own personal history does indeed come back to bite us in the a**.    And because it’s our own personal history it can hit us in many different & unique ways.  To be honest, it’s not all bad, but it’s the bad that hits us between the eyes, knocks us down, and has us wishing we were never born!

Part of my own personal history is that I am a mother.   A mother of four.  Most women are mom’s so that part of it is not so special.  I am the mother of three survivors of sexual abuse. I also am a survivor.  What I have learned over the years is that it “runs in the family” so to speak.  So, considering the history of my clan (which again is not unique), it was just our turn.  I guess…

I was once given a statistic by a therapist.  Really, it was a very sad statistic, and incredibly horrible thing that is a truth about women on a whole. The vast majority of mothers sweep the news of a child being sexually abused under the rug.  They do not protect the child, they do not fight the perpetrator, in fact, some of them blame the child.   I’m no where near the majority on that one– I fought.

I fought and I lost.  And I’ll explain, because it’s all real debatable if I lost or not.  But, from a legal standpoint, I lost– I lost for my child.  I just lost.

Now before I go on,  let me just explain, one of those three kids is adopted, and her abuse happened before I had any power to do anything for her.  The perpetrator is a teacher in San Jose, California.  If I had the name,  I would STILL turn him in.  But, she did not see it as a bad thing, and has never given me any information.  Just the same, that teacher needs to walk on tip toe, and watch his back.  One day she’ll realize she wasn’t as grown up as she thought she was.

And for my son– it’s all a big question mark.  He’s made accusations, the perp denies.  There is no proof except in behaviors, and if that were to settle a case, then the perp lies.
Mom acts accordingly.  It is an ongoing situation.

And perps do lie.  In my step-father’s confession to police, he claimed that he was given permission to molest my oldest child.  Permission from myself and my husband (at the time, now an ex).   He was given no such permission from me.  I doubt if he was given permission from my ex, but then with him, who the hell knows… My ex actually asked me to sleep with his sister….

A sick situation every way you turn it ’round.

But, it’s been over 20  years now.  The perpetrator, step-father is six feet under.  And two days ago I ‘heard’ for the first time that my mother (a retired school district employee) actually announced herself before going upstairs where my step father was with my daughter, so as not to intrude, or maybe not to see, knowing her, so that when she said she didn’t know… she could rationalize it all in her mind.  The bottom line is that she failed to protect her grand daughter.

You know, it’s hard to forget all the facts..the hurt is just so huge.  My life was shattered in one day.  I cried because I felt I’d lost something, a girlfriend suggest that I’d lost my daughters innocence.  I don’t know, I think I just cried because it was such a big hurt.

That morning, after dropping my seven  year old daughter off at school, I went over to my mothers house so we could take our daily walk.  It was a time that I enjoyed, my mother and I actually talked…  I thought we had a good relationship. I thought I had a mom.

The morning kind of started out normally.  Except that mom had to say something.  Very quietly so as to not wake my step-father who was at that time a  hard working AC Transit bus driver.  He worked late.  The had a nice life together. A two story, three bedroom, 1 1/2 bath and two car garage.  On the outside it looked comfortable, peaceful, maybe even upper middle class.  She drove an Olds, and he drove the Cad.

So mom needed to talk.  She started out by telling me that my daughter could not go on their trip with them that summer.  Ok!! Not an issue, every couple is entitled to time alone. But I have to admit I was over 20 years younger then too.  I had to ask why.  The more that was said, the more I questioned sometimes aloud, and sometimes not. But, all in all, my mother sounded jealous of my daughter, and I flat out told her that she was making me think that my step father was molesting my child.  Her response to that was to throw her arms up in the air and walk away from me up the stairs.

We took no walk, I left, I went on with my day on that cold, cloudy January day in 1991.

That afternoon, the fog lifted as it did most days in the San Fransisco Bay Area.  And the phone rang. Mom was on the other end.  She whispered because she did not want her husband to hear–
“there is an after school special on TV today. Have Pammy watch it.”
“Why are you whispering mom?”…
“So Jack won’t hear.”
“Why can’t Jack hear?  What is so special about this show, mom?”
“Just have Pammy watch the show.”

So, I picked up my girl from school. We went to  McDonald’s and picked up dinner so that I didn’t have to cook during the show. My husband, myself, and my daughter at down on the couch to watch the after school special with dinner right there.  And I literally watched my daughter try to literally climb the walls to get away from the information coming through–the after school special was about a little girl being molested.

“Mommy, I have something to tell you”

That is how our journey started. And everyone defending my mother listens to her denials,  and assersions that she knew nothing, when in fact, she knew it all, and even made a deal with the devil so that she could continue to live her nice life in suburbia.

I called the police immediately.  Later, I went to my mothers job to talk to her.  Don’t tell Jack what is going on, I’ve called the police.  My mother looked me straight in the eye and wanted to know why I had called the police.

My mother’s job at that time was as an attendance aide for Newark Unified School District. An underpaid person to keep track of student attendance and to threaten them back to school if that what was needed.  Part of her job was to go into homes and talk to parents about student attendance.  She was by law a mandated reporter.  If she saw abuse it was her job to report it to the authorities.  I’m sure she failed at that more than once.

It took months to get the full story from my daughter, though I’m sure I never got the full story.  She was seven at the time. No one could blame her for not remembering, not wanting to talk about it although once she opened up, she seemed very open.  It took months for it to hit me full force and realize what ALL had happened.  Though the truth is, that I’ll never know what ALL happened, because the perpetrator and his wife, I’m sure are taking plenty to their grave with them.

It was a holiday weekend, and I had to wait for the detectives to interview us, to do their work, and to apprehend my step-father.  They finally got him on Tuesday that next week. He called me and asked me if he could pick my daughter up from school.  I said yes, and I called the  detective.  I did not want to tip off my step-father so I had acted naturally.  I got off the phone with the police and went and pulled my daughter out of school, took her home, and locked the front door.  The police found him on campus, and played good cop/bad cop with him; basically playing with his mind and letting him leave, following him. He headed towards our house, it turns out he wanted to know where my daughter was. They stopped him, and searched his car and the home.  The car was packed up for a trip.
I’ve lived my life wondering, if my daughter would have lived through that trip. The house was clean except for video’s that the police found.  My daughter at her dance recitals.  The detective told me that  my step-father watched them to “get off.”  I found it all just unbelievable.

My step-confessed.  He was charged with four mistomeaner accounts, although the detective later told me that there was enough evidence to charge him with over a dozen felony counts.  He was sent to Alameda County Jail to wait his arraignment.  That night we asked my mother to spend the night with us, so she felt safe, so we felt safe.

As she and I talked about what happened.  One remark came from her mouth that caught me utterly by surprise.  Keeping in mind that my mother was in her early 50’s at the time, and my step-father was 57 years of age.  My mother said, “I was afraid that Jack would divorce me and marry her, so I had to protect myself.”  The other ‘woman’ was all of seven years old on that day!

I got up and walked out to the front porch of our home to get some air…and I took deep breaths.  My husband followed me and I asked him if I had really heard what I had just heard.  He affirmed it.  How does a woman who doesn’t know anything know to protect herself? How??

The reader may wish to believe as do many of my mothers friends do, that I made this all up. That is what my mother told them. I made it all up, and I put the ideas in my daughters head.  She quietly supported my actions as a mother until I called her on these facts, and then I became a liar, a bad mother, a bad person…somehow, I became the bad guy.

“Mom, where is the gun? I want the gun.”

“How do you know about the gun? What are you going to do with it?”

“Pammy told me about it, and I’m taking it to the police.”  That monster threatened my child with a gun.

“Mom, where is the vibrator… I want the vibrator.”

“How do you know about the vibrator, and what are you going to do with it?”

“Pammy told me, mom, and I’m taking it to the police.”  The monster used a vibrator on my child.

My mother did not know?

My mother once told me, about how she and Jack had fought over my daughters school photograph.  He would sit at the table in the mornings eating his oatmeal and stare at the photo the whole time.  She made it sound as if he were totally addicted to my child.  She would hide the photograph.  He would find it, put it back, and go on back to his staring.  This “fight” apparently went on for weeks…

She did not know?

She knew….

She still knows… she is still waiting for me to apologize.  It is she who needs to apologize.  My daughter was never meant to be blood money for her to use as her own.  My daughter was and is a gift from the universe to be treasured, and taught, and loved, and protected.

Patricia Lorine Coop Rowe Doyal of Newark, California: You owe my daughter an apology!

You don’t protect yourself from a seven year old.  You protect the seven year old from the monster!!!!!!