The boy with no laces in his shoes.

Over the last few weeks I have had this need to write this story.  I haven't ever stopped thinking about the boy with no laces in his shoes, but lately I have felt the need to speak about him, share my feeling about him, and remember him. This is my story about the boy with no laces in his shoes.

I grew up in a small town, one with less than 5000 people.  You didn't know everyone, but you knew of most.  This can be a blessing and a curse, depending on the situation, and your situation.  I personally enjoyed the fact that I knew of most people, it created a feeling of community to me.  The knowledge that there was someone on every street that you knew was a good one, in my opinion.  Knowing of everyone did not make it safer, or easier, it just made it feel like we were all in it together.

This small town was divided up into four area's.  The north, south, west and east wards.  It depended on where you lived as to where you went to public school.  When I started school there were two public schools, and I attended both.

I started off in kindergarten at Central school.  I did not live in the area, but it was the only public school that offered kindergarten.  After kindergarten I attended West Ward school, as I lived in the west ward.  This school had three grades taught in it.  Grades one through three.  Grades one and two were in one classroom, and grade three was in it's own room.  The two teachers who taught there had taught since the beginning of time I think, they were old grandma types.  There were many a day that I would fall asleep at my desk to wake up with my teachers sweater on my shoulders that's what kind of class it was, and that's what kind of teacher she was.  I went to first and second grade in this school.

At the end of grade two, the school board decided they no longer needed West Ward school.  It had become obsolete, and the classroom sizes had dropped dramatically, so they were moving the students to Central school.  There they would offer grades kindergarten thru the forth grade.  I was not happy about this move one bit.  I liked where I went to school, I liked that I only had to walk less than a block, and I liked how little it was.  Central school was big, full of kinds I didn't know, and I wouldn't know any of the teachers.  Non the less, I went off the Central for grade three.

The first day was a little scary, I remember taking my time getting ready in the morning.  I did not like this at all, I was sure I wouldn't know anyone and I would have to play alone at recess. There was one good thing, and that was that I was going to be able to eat lunch with my Grandmother, as she lived right across the street.  I remember thinking while I walked in that first day, if I don't like it I can just tell my Grandmother at lunch and she wont send me back. 

That first day went fine.  I knew lots of the kids, at least the ones that were with me at West Ward, and my teacher seemed nice.  Her name was Mrs. Dolhanyk.  I was a little afraid of the teacher, she was a little louder than I was used to, and she seemed pretty crazy.  She had lots of energy, and seemed to run from one side of the room to the other all day long.  I loved having my lunch with my Grandmother.  She made yummy things and I like the time with her.  I thought this year was going to be pretty good.

It wasn't too long until I felt differently about school.  Soon after the first day I started to have trouble with everything.  It all seemed so confusing, at least to me.  I couldn't understand what the teacher was teaching, and I seemed to get yelled at alot.  I also seemed to have a hard time concentrating and getting my work done, this would be something that followed me the rest of my school career.  I was embarrassed by the fact that I was always being talked to, and after a few weeks I started playing away from the other kids in my class.

One day, after I was done eating lunch with my Grandmother I headed off back to school.  This day was different, as on this day I decided to discover what was behind the school.  This was one place I had never gone, and thought I will see if there are any interesting things back there.  I walked back, and saw a couple of green garbage dumpsters, but nothing much else except there was a little boy playing by himself.

At first he and I played back there separately.  I would glance over his way, and he mine but we never spoke or got too close.  I was shy, and I think he was too.  But this didn't last long.  I decided to play back there during the afternoon recess and when I got back there he was there.  This time we both looked at each other and then I walked over to him.  I knew who he was, but I had never spoke to him at least not that I could remember.  When I reached him I said "hi, do you want to play?" and he said "yes'.  We played together that day, and everyday after that.



I liked my new friend.  That friendship started to become so important to me.  School got harder, home wasn't much better, but playing with him made me feel better.  We didn't do anything exciting, we hardly ever talked, but I felt like I belonged with him and that as long as we were playing together nothing else much mattered.

One weekend that all shattered. 

In a small town not only did you know of everyone, but you also heard everything about everyone.  Information spread like wildfire in our town, and this day was no exception.  I heard my mom and dad talking one afternoon about an car accident.  I heard them say my friends name and my heart stopped beating....it was as if I was no longer taking any air into my lungs.  My feet were planted and my body froze.  I needed to hear what they were saying, but I couldn't bring myself to get close enough to hear very well.  I heard them say that my friend and his sister were in a car accident and it was serious.  How serious I had no idea, until the evening news.  The story started the top of the news that night.

"Today a family in St. Marys is morning the loss of two young souls.  While driving down county road" something or other, "the car which was driven by" someone, but I knew it was my friends dad, "swerved off the road and hit the side of a bridge.  The car was quickly engulfed in flames and the two young children, who were in the back seat of the vehicle were unable to escape."  It went on to say that the other passenger in the car was the wife of the driver and was seriously burned on the arms and face. Then the news moved onto something else. 

I went down into the basement where no one else would be and I cried.  I hit the cement walls with my hands, I stomped my feet, but most of all I asked why.  Why did this have to happen to my only friend, why couldn't it have happened to someone else.  I was down there a long time, I cried for a long time, then I came upstairs and went about the night as normal.

This back in the 70's. No one did anything to help the kids back then, there were no grief counselors waiting to help.  The school mentioned the passing of my friend, but that was the end of it. 

I was so sad, so shaken up by it, so alone.  School just wasn't the same after that.  I missed him day after day after day.  I wished he would come back, I prayed to God to send him back.  He was never very far from my thoughts.   It was such a sad time for me, and no one seemed to care about me, about the fact that a little boy died, that I was lonely, hurting, crying.  That something bad happened that day and we all needed to talk about it, to understand it, to turn to each other for support.  All of that just didn't happen back then.

A few weeks later we discovered that not only had these two children died in that car accident that day, but they actually died at the hands of their father.  What had happened that Sunday afternoon is that my friends Dad gave his wife and  kids medicine that would slowly put them to sleep.  He then took both my friend and his little sister out to the car and placed them in the back seat, where he tied the seat belts together instead of using the latches.  He then told his wife they were going for a country drive.  After driving a bit, and the kids falling asleep he did what he had planned all along.  He drove their car full force into the side of a cement bridge.  He drove that car so that the bridge would hit the center of the car, and at a force to start a fire.  He had soaked the back seat with gasoline.  It took no time for the car to be entirely engulfed in flames.  His wife tried to release her babies from the back seat, but she was groggy from the drugs and couldn't undo the knots.  She burned her arms and face trying to save them, but she just couldn't.  He did all of this for the insurance money!!

My friend has stayed with me all of my life.  I can't say I think of him daily, but I think of him often.  I still feel the pain when I think of his last day, I still have a hard time with why, but what I do know is that he is in a far better place now then he ever was on earth!!  This was when I learned how serious child abuse is, how much it can cost someone, how much it hurts everyone involved.  I learned that every life is precious, and they deserve to be talked about, remembered and honored for who they were, and what they brought to us still living.

My friends name was Ralph Droste, and he was my best friend in the third grade.  He came to school everyday without laces in his shoes.  He made me feel important!!  I wonder what he would have become, what things he would have done, if we would still be friends today.

We've come a long way baby!!!

Holding a kid back in school is a very curious thing.  It may have helped academically, however I find that hard to believe.   I lost my friends, mainly because in the third grade you are really only starting to make solid friendships.  I lost my focus as instead of focusing on what was happening in the class I focused on trying to fit into the class.  I felt stupid, and was reminded of just how stupid I was on a regular basis.  Kids don't understand all the complexities of life, and think it's just because you are dumb that they held you back and you can't argue anything different because that's exactly how you  feel as well.  I lost the little pride I had when my desk was moved from the classroom and into the cloakroom.  This was done so that I could do all my assignments using a cassette recorder, and they did not want to distract from the rest of the class.....certainly not considering my dignity or what that might mean for me.   The education system in the 70 sure had a lot to be desired. 

At home my world was miserable.  Daily I was reminded of how stupid I was, in fact my brother started using stupid as my name.  If a friend called me on the phone and he answered he would yell up the stairs for me by saying "hay Stup....phone's for you" or if my mom wanted me, he would yell, "hey stup, mom wants you."  This went on for as long as he lived in the house.  My parents would tell me whenever I would have difficulty, or was struggling with something that I was lazy, I didn't work hard enough, I didn't pay attention etc etc.  I felt very alone !

The stigma follows you forever, even when you are doing better with grades and attention.  Not one teacher treated me right, almost all of them felt I was less than and I felt it.  I did run into a teacher from time to time who found good things about me.  The second year of grade 3 I was lucky to have one of those teachers.  I was placed in a class where the teacher was expecting a baby and left the class to have that baby at Christmas break.  For the second half I had a teacher who made me feel special, who spent more time with me, and encouraged me to be the best I could be.  I remember how she would let me sit beside her at the side of the room while she marked papers and graded work books.  Sometimes she would make funny comments about this students work or that students work, which made me feel like we were close.  I finally felt like I mattered to someone, and that she saw the best in me.  This was a very kind woman, and I have never forgotten her.  I have never told her how she influenced me, and how much she meant to me.  I should do that.

I was never  a good student, even though I felt like I tried it never really showed in the marks.  By the time I entered high school I had just resolved to get through this the best way I knew how.  I did just that.  No one looked at me as anything special, no one really cared about the burden on my shoulders, just that they felt I didn't care.  I am sure that is exactly how I came across, that I didn't really have a vested interest in success in school.  I do wish someone had taken notice and gave me a little push in the right direction or saw in me what I could not see, but no one did.

I am sure I am not the only one that endured this experience, I am not unique in this.  Education was not what it is today, teachers didn't understand the types of difficulties faced by students then that they do now.  Educators were new with the conditions of ADHD, most learning difficulties as well as other conditions like dyslexia and alike.   I am grateful that education has changed since then, for my son's benefit.  I am grateful everyday that his difficulties in school are recognized and they know so much more about how to deal with ADHD and alike. 

As a parent I work very hard to learn as much as I can about ADHD and how to help my son succeed.  I work very hard at helping him recognized his various difficulties and how to work with them, and also at educating his educators on how to deal with him as an individual, keeping his gifts and strengths in mind and keeping his self esteem intact.  I am very mindful of what types of things that I do not want to have happen with him, as I never want him to feel that because he has ADHD that he in not intelligent, as he is one of the most intelligent persons I have ever met.  His strengths far outweigh his difficulties, and his attitude towards others and life itself is just amazing.  There are times I find myself looking at him interact with others and think, this boy sure has a way with people.  I am so proud of him, and I so look forward to who he will become.  This little boy has such a way with people that he could truly change the world.  I can't wait to see how he will do that!!

Rain, televisions and smells!!

When I was a little girl I spent a lot of time with my Grandmother Fulcher.  She was my favourite
person, and I hers.  She was never afraid to let me know how she felt about me.

I would go to her house in the morning and she and I would sit out in her covered porch and talk while she ate her breakfast.  That was always a nice time for me, as I loved hearing her stories and laughing about all the silly things she had done.  I also enjoyed watching her eat her breakfast.  It always consisted of a cup of coffee and one shredded wheat. She would take her shredded wheat and dunk it in her coffee and take a bit.  I loved that. 

On that porch she told me stories about how her life was when she was younger.  She drew
pictures in my mind with those stories. I felt like I knew the people she talked about, or was there when the tornado ripped through town and twisted the old oak in her front yard.  I loved those laze days of summer, and loved spending time with her.

Usually she had some errands to do each morning, so we would travel all over St. Marys doing this or that.  Lots of times those errands included one or more friends.  She had an assortment of friends that ran the gamut.  St. Marys is a town where the filthy rich live next door to the not so filthy rich, where the poor man picks up his mail right next to his boss, and no one seems to notice the differences.  I find it funny when professionals, like medical professionals say to me, if I should see you out in public I will not let on we know each other.  I came from a town where you can see your doctor in the morning and babysit for him in the evening.  There just wasn’t that distance where I grew up.

We would go pick up parcels for this friend or that friend, or we would drop into Dorothy’s donut shop and visit with Mrs. Eddy.  On these visits I would get to pick out a donut and take it to the back room and eat it while my grandmother talked with her friend.  I loved going there.  I always picked out the 10 cent strawberry filled powdered donut, it was my favourite.  I am sure it was not my grandmother’s favourite as it would make a big mess, but no matter she let me have it ever time.  I loved sitting there eating my donut listening to these two lifelong friends catching up on the gossip and checking in with each other.  For a long time now these two women no longer had husbands at home. Mrs. Eddy had been widowed for several years, and my grandmother had long since lost her estranged husband.  These women took care of each other, watched out for each other in a way that I am not sure exist now.   We never spent much time there, just long enough for me to eat my donut and then off we went to do another job that needed doing.

Not all of our days were filled doing errand and alike, most afternoons were spent at the museum. 

My grandmother along with her closest friend Mrs.Ball started the St. Marys museum.  They
both worked hard filling an old home that was donated to the town for this very purpose, with treasures from the past.  There were rooms filled with WW1 and WW2 items such as bayonets and
helmets and canteens.  I didn’t much like that room, mainly because there was a mask in it that looked very scary.  It was one of those gas masks from WW1.  It had orange glass and this hose that come out of the center of it with what looked like an elephant trunk.  Boy did that scare me to death.  There was also a room that was just like an old school house.  I loved this room.  My grandmother would let me sit in the seats and pretend to do school work. The desks were made of real wood and iron connecting it all together.  The desk tops lifted up, revealing a large space to put your books and other materials.  Also in that room was an original blackboard out of a school that had long since disappeared.  I was not allowed to write on it, but I would sit in my desk for hours it seemed imagining what it must have been like to go to school back then.

My grandmother usually brought our lunch with us to the museum and we would sit in the old kitchen at the back of the building and eat it.  Just before lunch my grandmother would make a big pitcher of really cold lemonade, and put out two glasses for us.  This was not just for our enjoyment
but was also there for the visitors that might come later that afternoon. Then shortly after lunch I would go get changed into my swimming suit and head down the hill to the cadzow swimming pool.  My grandmother could sit on the porch of the museum and watch me if she wanted to, but often she would get busy putting new old stuff into the inventory or dealing with a visitor.  Usually I would swim the rest of the afternoon away, unless it started to rain.

One of those rainy days took us from the museum and back to her house.  It was a pretty bad
storm and there was going to be no swimming and no visitors to the museum.  I was sort of excited about the storm, but most importantly I was excited about watching it from the comfort of my
grandmothers covered porch.

The afternoon grew darker as time passed, and the two of us sat patiently waiting the rain. While we waited my grandmother has a nice cup of tea and sat in her favourite comfy chair, while I sat with my elbow and the sill watching and waiting. We talked to pass the time, and of course I listened but maybe not as closely as usual as I was excited.   Finally there was a very loud clap and down came the water, running all over the hot streets.  The smell of rain on a hot summer day, when it hits the pavement and starts to evaporate has been etched into my memory since childhood.  There really isn’t anything like it.  We watched as the sky lit up here and there, and listened to loud rumbles and cracks shaking the house and all its contents.  I loved it, we were both electric with excitement.  We were both enjoying the light show so much that we weren’t paying attention to anything but what was happening outside.  All of a sudden I smelled smoke!!  I said to my grandma, “there’s smoke coming from somewhere” at which point she jumped from her chair and hurried into the house, me right on her heals. We both ended up at the living room doorway at the same time and watched smoke come out from the back of the television set.  She quickly went to the phone and called the fire department and within a couple of minutes the house was surrounded by countless volunteer firemen.  They searched the house and discovered that the meter on the outside of the house had been hit by lightning and that led to the television catching fire.  It was small, thankfully, but very exciting.  To this day I still smell the fumes coming from that old black and white set, along with the smell of hot summer rain.  It’s funny how those things stay with you forever.

That day will always be in my memory, not just because of the excitement, but because it represents what I had with my grandmother.  She cared for me in a way that I just totally trusted her, anything could happen on her watch and I knew she would always keep me safe.  I am so lucky to have had such a wonderful woman in my court back then.  She moulded me in a way that no one other person has, until Zeb.

In 1979 a month after returning from a 6 week trip to England and the Isle of Man my grandmother was crossing the main street of St. Marys doing some more of those errands I had mentioned earlier, only this bright sunny Oct. day was different than any other day had been or would ever be again.  On this sunny day, while hurrying across the street a cube truck came down the street and struck my grandmother, knocking her off her feet and into the air landing 8 feet away.  Three weeks later, after her brain swelled and she lay in a hospital bed with tubes and breathing machines, my grandmother walked from this world into the arms of God and physically left me forever.  I miss her as much today as I did than, and will always have an empty spot in my heart.

2011 is going to be Heaven (compared to the last two years!!)

So we are now into 2011, and so far so good. 

I have been thinking about my blog, and if it is turning out to be what I intended it to be.  I originally decided to start a blog so that I could write down some thoughts and feelings I was having, and also to keep a sort of record of what is happening in my life, where I am, and where I end up.  I never anticipated that it would really go in the direction it has gone, but life changed that.  I never really wanted the blog to be a forum in which to share all the negative things that have happened to me, I actually thought it would be an excellent way to watch the progression of my life and that of my families.  I also have realized that things don’t always turn out the way you think they will.  I have blogged when I felt the need, and when I had something I needed to get off my chest.  I cannot question the direction if I am open to whatever, and where ever I let it take me.

Over the course of the last few weeks several things have come to my attention, which makes me feel the need to share a bit more of my story. I feel that I need to share this, as it is just as important to who I am as anything else, even more so in some respects.  I wish this book was closed in my life, but until all the pages are turned it will never be finished.  I have some more pages to turn.

When I was a child I was abused.  You name the abuse, and I had it done to me.  When I was very young I suffered physical abuse.  As I got older it was not only physical but mental, and sexual.  Most of it happened in my own home, or in homes of family friends.  I suffered things that no child should have to suffer through, and those memories are as clear to me as they would be if they were yesterday.

Okay, so now it is out there.  You know my secret.  When I was in my twenties I began the road to recovery.  I took the steps to find help with all my demons, after being coached by a dear friend whom had just gone through a terrible attack on a train.  With her help and support I entered the scary world of therapy.  During the following two years I learned a great deal about myself, and about what had happened to me.  The overwhelming message was that none of it was my fault, I did nothing wrong, and I had no one to blame but the abusers.  This helped me with the guilt and shame that I felt.  It also allowed me to take back part of my life.  I stopped therapy when I felt I had achieved all the goals I had set, and that that was as far as I could go at the time.  During this time I spent so much of my time dealing with how others felt about my abuse.   Everyone in my life discovered what had happened to me for the first time early on in my therapy, and then I used up so much of my energy dealing with how they felt about it.  I was constantly trying to get people to see what I was going through and that it had nothing to do with them, but for some reason that is not how they saw it.  For the past 20 yrs I have continued to deal with how they feel, leaving my feeling on the shelf.  I tried so hard to explain my position, and how this all affected me, but they wanted nothing to do with that part of it.  This has lead to trying to please others, when I should have been keeping myself safe.  Now that I have my own child I see things differently.

Since having Zeb I have realized things about my abuse that I would never have realized before.  When I look at my innocent child, with endless love and affection to give, I see myself at that age.  I look at him and wonder how anyone could want to knowingly hurt him?  How could anyone want to hit him, call him names and make him suffer daily?  I look at Zeb and I see this spirit that soars into the sky.  He sees the world in wonderment, thinking everyone he meets is his friend, afraid of no one and nothing.  I see him dreaming big dreams, feeling safe from morning to night, and knowing that he is loved and is secure in that.  In so many ways I am jealous of him, he has everything I wanted when I was his age.  He has unconditional love and adoration.  He has a safe place to fall when he has had a difficult day.  He has two very adamant champions that would walk on water to defend him.  He knows he is wanted!  He wakes up in the morning to two people who will be there no matter what, and will make sure he knows it.  He goes to bed feeling safe and secure and with the knowledge that he will be watched out for during his sleep.  He is a lucky boy, a very lucky boy.

There is another side to what I have experienced since having Zeb.  I have come to realize I am not finished with what I have to learn.  I feel afraid for Zeb, everyday!  Things that most parents are comfortable with, I worry endlessly about.  Can I let Zeb go to friend’s homes without going with him?  Can I let Zeb join the cubs, knowing that I will not be there to watch his every move or being one of those mom’s who won’t let him do anything without her doing it to?  When I first put him in daycare I worried endlessly about feeling comfortable leaving him with others for such a long period, so I found one that had one way glass so that I could go and watch what was happening in the room without anyone knowing that I was there.  Sending him off to school was amazingly difficult.  He would be out of my sight for 6 hours and in a school where he would be walking the halls with 8^th graders.  Could I trust strangers to watch him the way I do.  Can I go to a friend’s home and let Zeb play in an area where I am not?  Will someone come into his life, which in a split second can change who he is forever?  These are the things that challenge me daily.  These are the remnants of childhood abuse.  These are the demons that haunt me today.

The other thing that I have learned over the past 20 yrs is that I have a very difficult time making friends and keeping them.  My entire childhood was spent trying to find a safe place to go, where I could spend a lot of time, and not share my secret or have anyone guess.  I had friends mom’s say to my friends, out of what they thought was my ear shot, “why is she here all the time”?  Or “why is no one ever home at her house”?  I was a clingy friend.  I needed to be somewhere all the time, and needed that to feel safe.  That was my security.  I never truly trusted anyone, because so many I had turned out to be abusers.  I kept my distance, not always physically, but definitely emotionally. Later I found that gaining weight kept unwanted people away.  I could go into most places and not be noticed.  I kept myself out of the spotlight as much as I could, and if there was going to be a time when that was not possible I would decline the opportunity.  I loved going to camp every summer.  I went to Forest Cliff camp.  This was a wonderful Baptist camp that through the love of God and good fellowship brought a peace to my life, at least for those two weeks.  Going away for two weeks became my salvation.  I loved every minute I spent there.  The counsellors loved you from the day you arrived, and became your closest ally during those two weeks.  I felt supported, cared for, and truly accepted.  I cried when I had to leave.  The other thing that happened when I was a kid was that I was always looking for a mother.  I would try to find one in every friend’s mothers.  I tried to find one in my pathfinder leader.  I still look for one today.  These were all coping mechanisms; however none of them work when you are 43.  Adults don’t want clingy friends; however I have no idea how to be close friends without smothering.  Adults have their own children; they are not looking for anymore. 

So now the journey begins again.  This year is turning out to be a turning point in my life.  I am going to make some significant changes in my life that may make me feel insecure a bit as it will take me out of my comfort zone, but none the less I must do.  I am going to go back into therapy and learn new coping skills where it pertains to Zeb, so that I don’t pass on my fears to him, but also so that I can cope with what he needs to do to be a well rounded person.  I am going to alter my body, and see what if feels like to not have this physical barrier to keep me safe.  I am going to learn new ways to accept myself and love myself, and how to be a good friend.  I am going to learn what it’s like to be independent of people who enjoy bringing me down, rather than lifting me up.  And I am going to learn that I don’t have to be afraid and worried so much.

I want to make this the beginning point.  In 6 months or 12 months from now I want to look back at this and see where I started.  I will need this reminder so that when I think that I haven’t changed I can see that I have.  I want to be all that I can be; I want to be who I was intended to be the day I was created.

This journey is not going to be easy, and I am afraid of it, but not enough to not do it.  I know I will have to work really hard to achieve my goals, and to see a difference.  I know that I am going to need all the support I can get.  I know that there may be times when I will need the strength of others when I can’t find it in myself.  But most of all I know I can do it, and that I am worth it, and that Zeb needs his whole mom!

I welcome you to join me on the ride.

Change can be as good as a rest.....

It’s Christmas!  Or at least it will be in a couple of days. 

This year my family will be starting what we hope will become a new tradition.  Instead of spending it with a lot of extended family, we are going to enjoy Christmas with just the three of us.  I was afraid of this at first.  I thought we will be all alone, with no family.  I thought we will be so sad.  But something amazing happened. Instead of crying, I felt this amazing weight lift from my shoulders.  I felt for the first time in my life that I was going to be alright.  I realized that I am excited about this.  Having a stress free Christmas is what is should be all about.  I love the idea of the three of us sitting around playing with Zeb’s new toys, staying in our PJ’s for days and bonding.  I love the idea of not fighting with anyone, or feeling that you have everyone else to please, and never really satisfying anyone.  I love the idea that I only have two people to worry about, and they are so easily pleased.  I hope in time we will be able to add some more to this tradition, maybe including others that might be without family during this time of year.  I hope that we can raise Zeb with the idea that this is a warm, loving time of year.  I hope that Zeb will grow up with only happy thoughts about his Christmas celebrations. 

So much has changed, and so quickly.  Once again I am faced with family that can’t recognize how they hurt others, and would rather die than admit to what they do to others.  Why is saying you’re sorry is so hard. 

I remember reading in the “Final Lecture” that there are three stages to saying you are sorry.  Imagine that, it is never as simple as just saying you are sorry!!  The first is to say you are sorry “I am sorry I pushed your child out of anger”.  The second is to take responsibly, “I am sorry I pushed your child in anger, I was tired and needed to go to bed and he didn’t deserve that from me”.  Third, try to make up to the injured party, “What can I do to make this up to you?  What can I do so that you feel safe with me around your child again”?  This three step procedure can be used with any action that you may need to apologize for.  We all do things we are sorry for, that should not have happened, or that we wish we could take back.  I know I have many times, but you know what. I am the first to say I have done wrong.  I couldn’t sleep if I had hurt someone and did not make a sincere apology to them.  I am blessed to have the people in my life, and I would never want to lose them over a mistake.

I did not get an apology for what happened to Zeb, or for what happened to me after I yelled at the person who hurt Zeb.  What I got was the responsible party telling me it didn’t happen.  I was told that I did not actually see this adult (my father) push my son so hard that he landed 3 to 4 feet away from where he was.  I was told that Zeb was not telling the truth, and that the fact of the matter is that Zeb slipped on his socks and fell.  I was also told that I owed my father an apology for writing what I did in my blog, as it was not true and that I only remember the bad.  I am not saying anymore about this, as I know any reasonable person will understand that I do not need to.

What I have realized during all of this is that I need to stop going back to those who do things like this.  I am way too old to deal with abusive people, and I for one am not interested in supporting the abuser by overlooking it.  My whole life the abuser has been defended, and the victim left out to dry.  Why is that?  Seems our society needs to find fault with those who complain or want to shake the boat.  That boat was built and driven by abusers, and we need to just shut up and take it, or get off the boat!  I have heard more than one story recently about people who have done good things and been rewarded for that with bad behaviour!

 

Oprah makes a great point about childhood sexual assault.  She says that society can’t decide if it’s wrong or right.  Seems as a society it is wrong, as long as it happens to your child by a stranger......hang him!!  If it is between your daughter and your husband, well slap his wrist cause I need him to bring home the bacon.  If it happened 30 yrs ago, and you never mentioned it until you were an adult, well let’s just forget about it, because it’s been too long.  Oh and if it happens between a brother and a sister, well I can’t choose one child over the other, so let’s forget it even happened, and if she can’t be in the same room as him, well she can just stay at home.  This is why Oprah says we can’t decide if it’s wrong or right (or at least not as bad as the victim makes it sound).  For me, someone who has been abused since I was a little girl, in so many ways, it’s all wrong.  There is no grey area, and anyone who hurts someone else should be punished.  Simple!!  I didn’t do that for myself over the past 20 yrs.  I keep going back for more, out of obligation, out of guilt.  Seeing it happen to your child changes everything.  You realize just how sick it is, and how none of it can be tolerated.

I am 43 yrs old.  I have tried for 18 yrs to try to fix me, and my family.  I have tried to get those who say they love me to actually put that word into action.  I have tried to bring us closer by acknowledging our problems, and work together to fix them.  I did not succeed.  My brother won.  He wanted my parents to himself since he was 5 yrs old (when I was born) and now he has it his way.  I don’t want to fix it anymore.  There is too much to fix.  What I want to do is fix me, to do the work to move past all the garbage and be happy.  I live with two people who love me, and put that word into action daily.  I am lucky as so many people like me go out of the frying pan and into the fire.  I was able to go from the frying pan into loving arms.

I am happy to stay here!  I am happy, soon to be healthy and for the first time in my life I feel a weight off my shoulders.  Everything happens for a reason, and although it was painful for Zeb to get pushed across the room, we are so much better off, and I am not sure I would have realized it if that didn’t happen.  Thank you!!

Merry Christmas all!!  May your days be merry and bright, and may the love in your life surround you like a blanket and keep you warm and safe!!  Squeeze those you love, and don't let go!

Women Food and God

Weight........drives me crazy!! I can't seem to get past this lifelong problem.

I was alone a lot when I was a kid. Both parents worked, and when I would come home from school I would get some food and hide out in my bedroom. That was the safest thing for me to do, I needed to stay away from Mr evil!! (Someday I will explain Mr evil, but not now).

Food became my friend and I got a really good payout.....the heavier I got the less attention came my way. Yes it meant that I might be teased, bullied or ignored, but that was so much better than the alternative. Was this a conscious choice, no, I had no idea what I was doing back then, but after years of trying to figure it all out, that is the why and how of it. Why is it that I can't stop now that I know??

Anyone with a weight problem knows this is something that picks at you everyday. It eats away parts of you, and you know this is happening but it just seems to be a cycle that goes around and around. I gain weight, I get depressed, I eat to make myself feel better, I get even more depressed and on and on and on.

Since Zeb was born I have had periods of life where I got a handle on it. I could manage to control what went in and what went out. I have watched the scale go down, and then right back up. This is the story of my life. I don't need food to keep me safe anymore, I have lots of things that make me happier than eating, yet I am still doing this to myself. I don't think I have a desire to die, but that is exactly where I am heading if I can't take control of this. I want to look and feel good, but yet the food still goes in my mouth. I don't want Zeb's friends to tease him because his Mom is fat, but yet I still feed it. I have no idea why I can't give this thing up?

I was never one of those people who could have some of something. If it was donuts, I needed two or three, if it were chocolate bars, I needed more than one. If it were cake, well I would eat until it was gone if I could. So many times my mother would buy these things, and so many times I would just keep going back until it was all gone. It would call my name, literally. I would be in my bedroom, knowing that there were donuts in the cupboard, and I would just fixate myself on them. It was my drug of choice, still is. I am always chasing my first high, and no matter how much I eat I am never satisfied.

This year I feel is the year to change things. Up until now I have always done the exact same things and expected a different outcome each time. This year that is changing. Instead of dieting I am going to figure out my triggers, what makes me eat, and why I am so fixated on it. I am going to walk down paths I have not tried, study more, learn what I can about my addiction and see if I can get a handle on why I do the things I do. Part of that process is reading the book Women Food and God.

I heard on an episode of Oprah that this book changed the way Oprah felt about food. That it gave her an understanding on why she eats what she does, and shows her how to eat to stay alive, rather for just enjoyment.

I started reading it last night, and I have hope that this just might open my eyes to why I do what I do. I am going to post about this throughout this journey and I hope you will follow it with me. Your drug of choice my not be food, but what might help me, might help you too.

Here's to the journey!!

Run for the Cure

I am in no way a really big fan of Dr. Phil. I used to watch him when he was on Oprah, but I have never actually sat through one of his own shows. Having said that I have found a couple of the things he has said in the past has made me think. One of those things is that there are five pivotal points in your life that form who you become. I have thought about that statement for several years, and I do know that he might be right. I have discovered some of those points, but I can't say for sure I have discovered all five.

One of my pivotal points happened when I was pretty young, maybe 10 or 11. I was out and about with my Grandmother, as we usually did whenever we were together. She was a very active member of the St. Marys Friendship Center. She enjoyed the people there and she spent a great deal of her time driving members to and from the center as it was full of senior citizens who didn't drive, or no longer drove. On this particular day I remember walking into the center with her for my first time. It was a big plan building that I had seen my whole life and never been in, and I was surprised at how nice it was inside. They had spent lots of time decorating and making that ugly cement building look homely and comfortable. There were places to sit with a group and play cards, there was a piano for a impromptu sing-song, there were games and couches and it all looked very welcoming. After being in the building a few minutes out came this friendly woman who had a look of busy on her face, but was eager to wrap her arms around my Grandmother in welcome. My Grandmother introduced us, and I remember thinking what a nice lady, my Grandmother knows so many really nice woman. I did not know what impact this woman was going to have on my life at the time, but this meeting would mark one of the pivotal points in my life.

A few years later, just before my Grandmother was in her accident that would take her life, a friend of mine asked if I might be interested in joining a group. She explained it was a group called Pathfinders, and that I might enjoy it. I thought why not, my Monday nights were free, and it did sound like some fun, so I agreed.

I remember the first time I went to a Pathfinder meeting, I was a little nervous but excited and was glad to be doing something fun with my friend. I remember walking into the hall at the Church where the meetings took place and seeing alot of familiar faces milling around. It was fun knowing I was going to belong to such a group and I instantly felt welcome. As I was glancing around the room I discover a face that I had seen a few years earlier, that being the woman who ran the Friendship Center. I didn't remember her name, but I recognized her. She smiled when we walked in, and quickly came towards us welcoming us. She quickly called the group to order, and introduced herself. She started by saying "My name is Elizabeth Pearson, and you may call me Elizabeth or Mrs. P, whichever you prefer." She than had us go around the table introducing ourselves. I always hate this part of any new group, as I don't really like the spotlight, but I know it's what is expected so I always go along. I introduced myself and she followed that with, "oh any relation to Edna Fulcher?" I said "yes, my Grandmother" when she quickly responded with, "oh I do hope she recovers quickly and is back to herself soon, as she is a dear friend." She then told the group what had happened to my Grandmother, and gave me their very best. The meeting went on as planned and I had a great time. A couple of weeks later, after my Grandmother died, the talk around that table was so different. Elizabeth explained to the group what my Grandmother meant to her, and how she was going to very missed by her, and the whole community. This brought tears to my eyes, as I was still getting used to the idea of never having her in my life again. But at the same time those tears came, I also felt such pride that that was my Grandmother Elizabeth was talking about, and knew I came from greatness.

Over the course of the next four years this lady was going impact my life like no one had since my Grandmother.

One Monday night we arrived at the Pathfinder's meeting and were all asked to sit at the table for a talk. The other leader was there that night alone, Elizabeth was absent. Mrs. Davis explained to us that Elizabeth had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was going to have to endure many painful weeks of chemo and radiation and since her daughter was away at University and her son was home alone with her she was going to need helpers to come in once a week and help her with the tasks that she was not going to be able to do. I immediately volunteered as well as another girl named Sheri. I knew by volunteering I was going to have to make sure I was there every week, and I also knew that this was something really scary for me, but I did it anyway. Sheri and I decided that we would go by every Thursday night after school together and work until we finished what she needed done.

At first this was scary, but after a couple of weeks things calmed down and I settled into the weekly visits. Sometimes we would arrive and she would have a list of thing for us to do. We would get busy vacuuming or ironing or whatever else she might want us to do and then we would be on our way, but other times all she wanted us to do was sit and talk. I enjoyed these nights the most. Those nights that we sat and talked were like no talks I had ever had with anyone up until that point in my life. Elizabeth was going through a great deal physically, and also mentally. It was a hard thing to look death in the eye and keep fighting. There were days I'm sure that she was not sure she was going to win, and it was those days that she needed to get some of that out in the open, just to take them off her shoulders. She would talk about how scared she was, how she was afraid of what would happen to her children, to their life, how she had had great plans and needed the time to do the things on her list, how she felt that she was running out of time. She also talked about how precious life is, and how we should never take one day for granted. How we should cherish the people in our lives and not let time go by without them knowing how we felt about them. She shared how a hug can change any situation, and a kind word could change the outcome for some people. She loved life, she was going to fight, and she was planning on having a long and very fulfilling one. She was in a great deal of pain, and felt very unsettled most of the time, but no matter how she felt she was always welcoming and glad to see us. I know it must have been difficult for her some days to even get up off the couch, but she always walked us to the door and wrapped her arms around us before we left. Each week we all became closer and closer to each other, Sheri and I even became close friends in the process. Some nights after leaving Elizabeth's home Sheri and I would talk all the way home, and stand on the street corner for another hour talking endlessly about ourselves, or dreams, our feelings. I really made two very close friends through this process.

Eventually Elizabeth got better and no longer needed those weekly visits to do work, but she wanted to continue seeing us so we all promised that we would come by often and have some tea and catch up. And we did. The years that followed were like any other years, filled with good things and bad and Elizabeth walked along with us through it all. She had become my second mother, and I valued her so much in my life. My relationship with my own mother had been a less than perfect one, something I may touch on in another entry, she and I had never been close. Elizabeth filled in the gaps for me, she gave me the encouragement I lacked, she cared for me like only a mother can do and she supported my dreams without judgement. She took a very active role in my life and would until I was well into my 20's. I don't know what I would have done without her.

I am not sure if anyone really knows fully what we bring to others, even if those speak of it often. I am not sure if Elizabeth ever knew what she was to me. Her presence in my life certainly made me a better person, I wanted to be better for her. Her words of wisdom directed me down roads I would not have likely travelled if it weren't for her guidance and support. Her positive attitude and desire to achieve made me want to do the same with my life, and her devoted, caring heart made me a better friend.

We helped each other thought the death of her son, through my college years, through the breakup of her relationship with her boyfriend of almost twenty years, through countless disappointments, celebrations, birthdays and Christmas'. I remember on her 48 birthday filling my bedroom with more than 60 balloons and in the middle of the night attaching them to her front porch. The next morning I showed up on her doorstep to all those balloons and she said, it was you that did this. I told her I had and she said "it's not a special birthday, I am only 48" and I said every birthday is special after what you have had to endure. These were the things that built the foundation of one of the most meaningful relationships I ever had or ever will have. She was my foundation.

14 yrs after being diagnosed with breast cancer, cancer came back to call her name. This time it was in the lungs, and this time it was going to be a harder battle. She tried her very best, but did not win this time. She was never alone for one minute in that battle as I was just one of hundreds of women who battled right along with her, praying daily for her to be successful, praying that she would come back to the life she loved, but that was not what was in store for her.

Her name is Elizabeth Person, but I will always call her my friend.

For all of those who ran in the Run for the Cure today, I applaud you. For all those who struggle through this terrible, unforgiving disease, my heart and prayers are with you. For those of you who have loved ones enduring this disease, I ask that you be with them, support them, and give them a hug from me and Elizabeth.