Bruised

Not battered, not broken, just bruised

A deep bruise that doesn't show

Touch and the pain awakens deep down

You keep poking and poking

So that I'll never heal

When is enough enough?

Twenty years of being blamed for everything that has gone wrong. Twenty years of having to judge how much he's had to drink, what mood is he in, how much will he remember, catching hell when you guess wrong. I'm not perfect. I'm a lousy housewife. I can't cook. I can't handle money well. I thought I was paying my dues by being denied real affection, never a unsolicited hug or kiss.

He claims we are supposed to be a team when all he wants is for me to agree with whatever crazy drunken lecture he decides to deliver after hours in his workshop. I do my best to agree when I see that his intentions are good but his method is ineffective. I tell the kids the abbreviated version later and assure them that their father is not a raving lunatic.

Sometimes I guess wrong. Sometimes he is more aware and that's when he gets angry. His idle threats are almost laughable now and rarely upset me. Sometimes, when he is more coherent, his screaming and name calling can really hurt. What hurts the most is that the kids are more aware now. This hurts because I wonder how my son will learn to treat women; how will my daughter allow the men in her life to treat her? I kid myself into thinking that they are learning conflict resolution. Tomorrow he won't remember half of what he said, and I am really good at letting things slide. By the weekend we will be civil and the argument will be all but forgotten. Sure Mommy and Daddy yell and scream, but when the dust settles they are still there for each other. I learned at an early age about "keeping up appearances" and it has served me well.

Why do I put up with it? There are a couple of reasons. Most importantly is that he loves his children. He would do anything for them. Apparently this means sticking with me through this miserable existence. I guess that's also the biggest thing we have in common. The second reason is mainly financial. I think we would both agree that if we could afford to live in separate households we would. Since there is no infidelity and no abuse there is really no reason pushing us to live apart.

We get along sometimes. Mainly when we are enjoying the accomplishments of the children. With the exception of our son's involvement in the Young Marines they are usually achievements he hears about second hand. I don't fault him for that. He makes it to the important ones if work responsibilities don't interfere. This is the curse of being a daddy.

I gladly sacrifice my happiness to give my children everything I never had, a two parent household with parents that hold their children's interests above their own. I've made it this far and through far worse than this. They are the greater good and I will honor my vow of "through good times and in bad". I've been through worse.

Bottomless Pit

Things are bad. Things are really bad. I keep waiting for things to turn around and start improving, but I don't think there is a bottom. What's the problem? Money.

We are broke. We are broker than broke. I'm not really sure how it got this bad. I know it has to do with the mismanagement of my severance package and the 6 months it took me to find a job with a comparable salary.

All of our credit cards are out of commission so it's paycheck to paycheck. Well, we are actually a few paychecks behind. I live in fear of the repo man because I'm scared to find out how far we are behind on the car notes. The transmission might be going out on one and the other needs new tires.

Twenty years ago, at pre-martial counseling, the minister shook his head upon discovering that neither of us was good with money. Strangely enough that's not what we really fight about. Come to think of it we never really talk about money. I guess that's because it doesn't ever a discussion about what to do, but of whose to blame. He still has the his and hers mentality. After almost 20 years you would think somethings would be ours.

We are both really bad about not denying the kids a lot of things. Not necessarily material things, but also opportunities. That's mostly my fault. I was never given any opportunities to do things and experience things. If they have an interest in a sport or activity I can't say no.

I don't pay bills....I pay cut-off notices and reconnect fees. The really sad thing is we only owe about $25,ooo and that includes a few credit cards and the balances on both car notes. It's like drowning within site of the shore.

A warning to all parents

Once you make the decision to be open and honest with your kids about sex you need to understand it encompasses more than just the basic birds and bees talk. I thought the hard part was over once we covered the penis and vagina part. We even got through menstruation fairly unscathed. Little did we know the flood gates were yet to open.

OK, so we freaked a tiny bit when our 5th grade daughter asked us what a hand job was, but true to our promise we explained as honestly as we could. We even survived almost daily "pube"checks with our son as neared puberty. I was naive enough to think the boy would be the easy one. I guess that's because I'm not one and I didn't understand all they go through in becoming men.

Like most little boys he has been fascinated by his penis since he was little. Running around naked has been his favorite pastime since he could walk. When he was about 5 we were on vacation, and he was drying himself after his bath. He had dried that area so thoroughly that he was amazed when he got it to stand at attention. He yelled for everyone to look. "Look what I made it do."

More recently it has taken to achieving full mast status because the wind blew a certain way. This was something I expected with a little boy. This I wasn't surprised about. But when your son comes to you and says "Mom, can you look at my junk. It's all red and swollen." you need to steel yourself for the task. I went into full-on nurse mode expecting poison ivy from peeing in the woods. I quickly realized this was not something that mommy needed to address. I referred him to his father, who, after the prerequisite jokes about where he may or may not have been putting it, quickly determined the cause.

No mother should be included in the conversation with her 13 year old son about acceptable lubricants for "rubbing one out". It's times like these that I wish my husband and son enjoyed fishing or hunting or any activity that would offer them the opportunity to discuss these sorts of things.

I will say this for my husband, he held true to our pact of discussing anything and everything openly and honestly. I held up my end by sitting catatonic on the couch and trying to pretend I wasn't hearing everything I was hearing.

What's that at the end of the tunnel, a light? Nope, just a train.

I've got this jumped up feeling like I'm about to explode out of my skin. I imagine it's what people who spontaneously combust feel like right before they burst into flames. I have a nervous stomach which feels like it's full of butterflies only, in keeping with my mood, I'm sure it's more like flying cockroaches. I'm swinging from feeling generally pretty good about things to feeling much more than my usual doom and gloom.

I had issues when I was younger of wishing something bad would happen to me, a terrible illness or a horrible accident. For the most part, and mostly for my kids sake, I've put these sort of feelings behind me. But lately I've been feeling something similar to those old feelings. I would never, I repeat, NEVER do anything to take myself away from my kids.

I have sacrificed my own happiness to make sure they have a relatively normal childhood. Sure their father is an alcoholic, but he isn't a violent drunk. The worst they've had to endure is unending lectures that either ramble aimlessly or go around in circles. Plus the sight of him shaking with the d.t.'s on weekend mornings is enough to scare them straight.

The last thing they need is a mother who's gone off the deep end. I'm sure I'll be able to pull it together. It just feels a little like riding your bike too fast down a steep hill. You know you've got everything under control, but you still can't help feel like you are going to lose your balance. Let's hope I get to the bottom of this hill unscathed and soon!

Emotional Bulimia

I've decided to give my personal issues the name "emotional bulimia". I gorge myself on low self-esteem, self doubt and self loathing. Then, once I've internalized all the crap I can stand I find a way to purge in the most unhealthy way possible.
When I was younger it was self-mutilation. Yes, I was a "cutter" before it was cool. Today I can usually judge my stress level by the number of fingernails that have had their cuticles ripped out down to the knuckle.
When I got older it was promiscuous sex. I let guys treat me like a doormat because I felt like a doormat. I would seek out dangerous situations in the hopes that I would be one of those girls you hear about on the news. In high school I let a guy pick me up from the bus stop. He claimed to be a new student who needed directions. It turns out he was, but he still hit the "easy chick" jackpot. I met a Marine at a bar and left with him and his friend.
I haven't purged in a long time. I'm either feeling better about myself, found a better way to deal with my pent up emotions or I'm due to blow like Mount St. Helens. For the record I hope it is one of the first two.

Dear You,

I am going to warn you. This is going to sound like it was written by a love-sick teenager. I can't help it. In my memories of you this is how I will always be, an overgrown love-sick teenager.
I know why you mean so much to me even after all these years. You were the first person to show me unconditional love. Sure, I've always known that my family loved me in their own way. It always seemed to be because they had to, familial ties and all that junk. You were the first person to love me because you wanted to, and sometimes even when you didn't want to. And I was myself with you. I wasn't playing my usual game of being who I need to be to fit in.
It's been over 20 years since that summer we spent together and leaving things the way I did has been my biggest regret. I was scared. No, I was terrified. The cliche' has always been that it is so much better to be with someone you love, but most cliche's are based on fact.
I was no angel before we were together, but those escapades were more about acting out than real emotions. I was totally unprepared for the feelings I had when I was with you. I felt the depth of your feelings for me and suddenly felt inadequate and unworthy. I wanted nothing more than to be worthy of that level of love.
I wouldn't have left town with you because I was still afraid to rock the boat when it came to dealing with my family. I like to believe that this was a good thing for you. I see your life now and I am immensely happy for you. You have grown into an amazing man with a great family.

I wish you continued happiness, and I will always love you for showing me what real love is.

I'm not a pessimist; I'm a cynic!

I'm really sorry that my first few posts have been such soul-sucking downers. I just felt that a little background is needed to help understand my perspective on things.

My G-ma, the one I lived with for 7 years, once said that for everything I've been through I've turned out pretty good, but she also said I was the only 3 year old cynic she ever met. My G-ma never knew what happened with my step-father. She may have suspected because she asked me once if there was anything going on other than excessive corporal punishment. I lied. When you are the obvious "mistake" in the family you learn not to make waves. I did everything I could not to call attention to myself and be a further burden on the family.

In some ways I like the fact that I felt ignored by my parents. This is the main reason that I do so much with and for my own children. Some people say that I put too much focus on them, but my time with them is so short in the grand scheme of things I don't think I can do enough to make the most of it. Sure there will be a void in my life when they leave home, but I'll figure out how to fill it when the time comes.

Unfortunately that time is coming a lot quicker than I thought it would.

My life becomes an after-school special

When I was 10 years old my mother remarried. I knew nothing about him and had only seen him a few times. He was a scruffy red-head that worked on a towboat that travelled up and down the Mississippi River. I was terrified of the changes my life was about to undergo.

My mom worked nights as a convienence store clerk/manager and my step-father was gone for weeks at a time on the boat. I was in charge when they were both gone which was fine with me. I wasn't used to my mom being around at all, but I didn't care for being left with some strange man when my step-father was off the boat.

My brother and I weren't bad kids. We had been sent to our rooms for the usual childhood transgressions. My step-father seemed to have different ideas about how children should behave and how they should be punished. I went from never being spanked in my life to refusing to dress out in P.E. so noone would see the bruises on the backs of my thighs. We were accused of lying and beaten until we could figure out what truth he wanted to hear. I was better at this game than my little brother so I would often take the more severe beating.

A few years later my step-father would have me keep him company while my mom was at work. This usually involved watching porn with him late at night. He would also leave various magazines around, and not the classy kind like Playboy or Penthouse. These had grainy low-resolution pictures with no airbrushing. Scary pictures for a 12 year old.

One night he woke me up and had me go to his room and get into bed with him. He told me to face the wall while he got undressed and got into bed. I lay there terrified out of my mind. I wanted to cry, I wanted to run, I wanted to kill him right then and there. By some miracle he came to his senses and told me to leave. I was shaking so bad I thought I wouldn't be able to walk down the hall back to my room.

I spent the rest of the next day or two trying to work up the courage to tell my mom. I brought it up in a general way at a rare family dinner. He gave me a very threatening look and told me to drop it. She never came to me and asked what it was all about and I have no idea if she ever suspected or what story he told her. After that I was spared from the beatings, but I was never the same.

Things didn't get any better. He quit working, or got fired from the boat so he was around more. When I was 14 he moved us to Arkansas. I hated it. I hated him. I hated her. I suffered a year there until he knocked my brother out cold for something stupid and minor. I started plotting his death. I started planning my suicide. That's when I decided to leave.

I was 15 when I asked to go live with my dad. I really didn't know him that well and used some lame bullshit excuse about getting to know him better now that he wasn't in the military and was back living stateside. My mom was furious. She agreed to let me go, but she said she hoped I had a daughter that would leave me so I would know how it felt. Whatever.

I believe my brother resents me still. He didn't have anywhere to go. He was stuck and I was leaving him to fend for himself. I'm sorry for that, but it was my step-father or me and he was winning.

How's that for a depressing Monday post?

Chapter 1...I am born.

My mother had the misfortune of being a pregnant teenager before Roe v. Wade. Or you could say I had the misfortune of being the product of a pregnant teenager before Roe v. Wade.

Here are the cliff notes on my early years. My mom and dad dated in high school. They partied a little too much on graduation night and had a quick wedding a few months later. Dad did what any fresh out of high school husband and father does, he joined the military and got shipped off to Vietnam.

While he was away he was undoubtedly "loved long time" by many Vietnamese ladies while my mom was stateside screwing around with a married ex-con. Yes, my mother had the audacity to be seen in my dad's car with this guy, me on her lap, by none other than her in-laws.

Shortly after he returned from Vietnam they were divorced and 6 months later my mom had my little brother. Dad stayed in the military and quickly remarried. Mom took my brother and I and hid from the rest of the family by shacking up with the married boyfriend.

I don't know much about the boyfriend, but I've heard that I would hide under the bed and in closets when he was around. I also heard that he almost broke her arm while she was pregnant with my brother. Drugs were rumored to be involved as well. No wonder she wouldn't list him on my brother's birth certificate.

Dad was able to force visitation. Once he got his hands on me he left town and refused to return until she left this loser. In my mind that is the only decent thing my dad has done for me, but more about him later. Mom came to her senses and left her boyfriend. She went to live with her parents, my g-ma and poppa.

The next several years were as near to perfect as my life has ever been. G-ma was an amazing woman and raised my brother and I as if we were her own kids. Mom was around, but she was more like a much older sibling than a parent.

The thing I hated the most during this period was the visitation situation, every other weekend with my dad's parents. Since he was stationed out of state they got the privilege of babysitting their son's kid. Trust me, that's how they felt and they weren't always good at hiding their resentment.

Now, my paternal grandparents were loud and obnoxious people. They loved to gossip and put people down. The best way to survive was to throw someone else in front of the bus. As a kid I quickly learned the rule, but I didn't learn to turn it off before returning home. My life became a cycle of being picked on for being too much like my mother's family to be being punished for my attitude and behavior when returning from a visit with my father's family.

As I grew older I became better at being one way here and one way there. This is a skill that served me well in my customer service jobs. I can assimilate into any crowd. The biggest drawback to living like this is you never really get to develop your own identity.

This seems like your pretty standard run-of-the-mill dysfunction. Nothing too spectacular or therapy inducing until...

Be gentle...this is my first time.

Wow! I did it, facebook, myspace and now my very own blog.

I'm not really sure why I wanted a blog. I used to write a lot, mostly random thoughts on notepads. I've always found that better out than in is a good rule of thumb. But the thought of anyone actually reading what I'd written scared the bejesus out of me. Still does.

I would like to warn anyone who knows me as a happy-go-lucky yet somewhat cynical person may be shocked by what they read here. Like many others I am plagued by horrible demons, and cursed with the near compulsion to be honest about them. If I have no secrets then there is nothing you can use against me. Can you say "victim of emotional blackmail"?

You've been warned. Posts will be unbelievably honest, but they are in no means a cry for help or plea for sympathy.

Read at your own risk.