Silent Footsteps Crowding Me

No Sugar Tonight/ New Mother Nature

Ultimately, the meaning of music lyrics, like poetry, does not come from the author. The author can tell us his/her inspiration for the piece, yet the reader is the one who determines meaning based on our life experiences.


The following song is said to be inspired by Randy Bachman’s encounter with some men who he felt were threatening. As he crossed the street to get away from them, a woman pulled up in a car, and loudly confronted the men. She told one of the men that he wouldn’t get any sugar tonight.

The song is a mixture of two songs – each one is better with the other than when it stands alone.

I like this song because it represents the drug years of my childhood and the many hours I spent hiding from the bag of goodies and the bottle of wine. It also tells about the silent footsteps that often crowd me. That line alone makes me feel that someone else gets it – whatever it is.

A person in my life chose to present me with a book for Christmas about how important marijuana is to the future of our world. He attempted to talk me into his way of thinking – that marijuana should be legalized. He asked, “Will you at least read the book?”

“I can’t even get past the cover,” I responded as I tried to visually avoid the large green leafy cover.

“I’ll rip it off for you.”

Of course the next page was a black and white leaf with two old hippy men. “You don’t understand," I said. “My childhood was hell. My father was a drug dealer. He had us smoke pot from a water bong. He told us it was good for us. Everything that book represents is a huge trigger for me.”

“You don’t think anything could change your mind? You don’t think you could get past your childhood?” he asked.

I just chuckled because the other option was tears. He jumped up, put his arms around me, and said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you sad. I didn’t realize.”

I thought I was so good at hiding the scared little girl, but for an instant, through the chuckle, he spotted her peering out from my eyes.

I told him that I couldn’t risk smelling pot. If it was legal, that would be a real obstacle. Even with pot being illegal, I’ve still encountered it more than I ever wanted to. The smell triggers horrible flashbacks for me. I quietly left the conversation and went to interact with my 3D child. Inside, the feelings of the scared little girl with the hard knot in her center remained, and I quietly wondered in what dimension a book that glorifies any drug would be considered a suitable gift to give to me. No child should be exposed to drugs the way we were.

The Guess Who

No Sugar Tonight/ New Mother Nature

Lonely feelin' deep inside
Find a corner where I can hide
Silent footsteps crowdin' me
Sudden darkness, but I can see

No sugar tonight in my coffee
No sugar tonight in my tea
No sugar to stand beside me
No sugar to run with me

In the silence of her mind
Quiet movements, well, I can find
Grabbin' for me with her eyes
Now I'm fallin' from her skies

No sugar tonight in my coffee
No sugar tonight in my tea
No sugar to stand beside me
No sugar to run with me

Jocko says yes and I believe him
When we talk about the things I say
She hasn't got the faith or the guts to leave him
When they're standin' in each other's way

You're driven back now to places you've been to
You're wonderin' what you're gonna find
You know you've been wrong but it won't be long
Before you leave 'em all far behind

'Cause it's the new Mother Nature takin' over
It's the new splendid lady come to call
It's the new Mother Nature takin' over
She's gettin' us all
She's gettin' us all

Jocko said no when I came back last time
It's lookin' like I lost a friend
No use callin' 'cause the sky is fallin'
And I'm gettin' pretty near the end
A smoke-filled room in a corner basement
The situation must be right
A bag o' goodies and a bottle o' wine
We're gonna get it on right tonight

'Cause it's the new Mother Nature takin' over
It's the new splendid lady come to call
It's the new Mother Nature takin' over
She's gettin' us all
She's gettin' us all

Lonely feelin'
(Jocko says yes and I believe him)
Deep inside
(When we talk about the things I say)
Find a corner
(She hasn't got the faith or the guts to leave him)
Where I can hide
(When they're standin' in each other's way)
Silent footsteps
(You're driven back now to places you've been to)
Crowdin' me
(You're wonderin' what you're gonna find)
Sudden darkness
(You know you've been wrong and it won't be long)
But I can see
(Before you leave 'em all far behind)

'Cause it's the new Mother Nature takin' over
It's the new splendid lady come to call
It's the new Mother Nature takin' over

She's gettin' us all

She's gettin' us all

Sometimes I feel that drugs crawl out like the vines of the bindweed and strangle so many of those I love.

The Gift

This week at school, a student brought me a gift and laid it at my feet. He gave me the gift of his trust. He trusted me with his story of abuse. I knew this gift was coming because since the first of the school year, he has been dropping little hints of what was to come in his writing. He first trusted me enough to tell me that sometimes he felt like his brain was a series of little rooms and that sometimes he just went into another room in his head. He said, “It is hard to explain, but it happens.”


Inside, I thought, “You don’t need to explain. I understand perfectly.”

He asked a few weeks ago, “If I tell you about abuse that happened a long time ago, do you have to report it?”

“Has it been resolved?” I answered.

“Yes, the person went to jail.”

“No, I don’t have to report it.”

In his written assignment that day, instead of writing the sentences I asked for, he told his story of abuse. In one paragraph, he told me things that I already knew he had been through because in my classroom he is a chameleon.
I am not a doctor or a psychologist. My experiences with DID are only my own, a few other people I love, and a lot of personal research. I can’t diagnose this beautiful child, but he certainly displays many signs of DID.

When I gave his paragraph back to him, I said, “I’m sorry this happened to you. Are things good in your life now?”

“Yes, I am safe now.”

“I’m glad you are safe.”

“When the abuse happened, I did some things I regret,” he said.

“Have you ever talked to a counselor about those things?”

“Yes, but I always forget to tell them the things I am so ashamed of. Can I talk to you after class?” he asked.

“Of course you can.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he would tell me. I didn’t have to worry about it because by the time class ended, he had already forgotten and hurried to his next class.

I knew it was time to talk to the school counselor. I told him what I knew about this child’s situation. I asked if he could call the student in and let him know that he had a safe place to talk about things.

During class today, I pulled my student aside and told him that I had spoken to the counselor.

He said, “He called me in today.”

“How did it go? Did you feel okay talking to him?”

“Yes,” he answered and added, “I really opened up to him. I think he was surprised about all the things I told him. Thank you for having him talk to me.”

“I’m glad you have a place here where you can go and talk to someone. It helps to have someone tell you that you are reacting normally to a bad situation.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “when I am watching T.V. with my dad, my mind goes somewhere else. I come back and time has passed, but I don’t know where the time has gone.”

I listen, but I know this is his journey. I also know it would be completely unsafe and unwise to discuss my DID with a student.

He asked, “Do you know any good books about time travel.”

I can see his mind trying to figure out what is happening to him when he loses time. I hope the counselor knows about DID and will help him through this.

I help him find a book about time travel and send him to his next class. Inside, I feel sorrow that this beautiful child was put on this path by an adult who should have kept him safe but instead chose to abuse him. I feel rage that someone hurt this child – this child who brightens the room with every smile. I am thankful that our school district understands how important school counselors are.

I wish I had a few moments to cry or rage or break things, but thirty-three more children are walking through the door.

My rage scares me. I know that if I had a gun and the person who hurt this child in front of me, I could gladly pull the trigger and send him/her straight to hell, and I think, “Am I any better? If I could gladly kill an offender; am I any better?”

Names of Alters/Parts

I recently had a friend ask me how I knew the names of my parts. Generally, they tell me who they are and what their purpose is.


The first part I became aware of was Cat. I didn’t like her name at all, but she insisted that Cat is her name, so her name stands.

I went through a time when most of my parts were pretty quiet, so I took an internal roll call. I found everyone and said, “I think that is everyone.”

Cat and Laura said, “Don’t forget Little One.”

They let me know that there was another part. They have done this twice: first when they introduced me to Joy, and second when they told me about Little One. When Little One became brave enough, she told me that her name is really Annie, but the other parts call her Little One.

I have only named one part. She was given horrible names by the people who abused our system. I could not let her keep names that were detrimental to her and to us. She had to agree on the name we chose. I called her Angel for a while, but she hated that name. She said it made her feel dead and that she was no angel. She had a sarcastic comment about every name I offered her. The name we agreed on was Glory. It really fits her.

I know that each person with DID has a system unique to them. Another person’s process of discovering their parts/alters may be completely different than my experience. Feel free to share your experience with discovering your alternate names with us in the comments section.

Words from My Father

I’ve said before that it would be easier to deal with the bad memories if I didn’t have any good memories of my dad. The good memories make me wish that Dad could be okay, or worse, they make me doubt that things were really as bad as I remember. I appreciate having sisters who can verify my memories – it makes me feel not so crazy.


Today, I thought I’d share some of the memories and words of my dad that weren’t horrible.

When I get in the car with my kids I hear (in my head) my dad say, “Here we go with a ball on our nose – look at it twirling around.” This phrase makes me smile because whenever he said this, he was in a good mood.

“You can’t put old heads on young shoulders.” It took me until I was older to understand that he wasn’t being literal with this phrase. I had seen his pictures of dissected women, so this one troubled me until I realized he meant it figuratively.

“Get one for each hand,” said whenever a grandchild wanted a cookie, candy, or other goodie. He was a much better grandparent than he was a parent – that is until the day he made sexual comments to my thirteen year old daughter.

“Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,” was his favorite saying when he was heavily involved in AA. I liked who he was during this time of his life. Another saying he had during his AA years (although crude) was, “If you have one foot in yesterday and one foot in tomorrow, you will piss all over today.”

During the time that I formed a functioning relationship with him, he said many kind things to me. He understood that I needed peace in my life. When things in my life would begin getting out of control, he would say, “Watch out; my Libra is going to balance the scale – anyone on the other side is going to get smacked with it as it comes into balance.” He often told me that I was a good mother and a good wife to my husband. He would quote scripture that backed up his opinion. Shortly before he hit bottom again and beat Grandma, he offered me the advice of staying close to my church because it would make me rich in all things. He didn’t believe in my church, but I think he could see it was good for me.

It is hard to have a parent who, although brilliant, makes choices that isolate him. I wish he could be what he is not. At times I feel sad for him and wonder if he is lonely. As Thanksgiving approaches, I think of him often. For many years during the time I had a relationship with him, he ate Thanksgiving with my family. He even taught me how to cook a turkey. He loved good food, and he always made me feel like I was the best cook in the world. There are still times that I mourn for the father I wish I had – the father that he sometimes presented himself as.

I am thankful for the good men in my life – my husband, my father-in-law, and my wonderful sons (including sons-in-law). Knowing them has been healing for me. They show me that there are men in the world who can function without being sexually inappropriate with their daughters and grandchildren. They are men who are stable in their moods and behaviors. They are dependable and kind. I need men like this in my life.

The Scream

A reader (Cynthia) asked me how many alters I have. I have ten alters that I know of, so counting me (the host), there are eleven of us.


Today, when I went to pick up dinner (because Trina can’t cook her way out of a paper bag), Annie surfaced. Annie is a child of about four years old. She is slight with thin blond hair. She surfaces at times when I am in a car headed north. I’m not sure why that brings her out.

I know when she is near because she comes with the feeling of a tear tightened throat and the burn of tears right behind my eyes. The scream she contains lodges in my chest and feels that it will nearly choke me. Sometimes I wonder if I were to let go of that scream if she would start to heal. I’ve tried to let go of her scream, but I can’t bring myself to scream with the intensity that I feel is there – it comes out as a choke and a whimper. I worry that the neighbors would call the police because they would think someone was killing me. :) So the scream stays inside with Annie.

Annie never surfaces all the way. She doesn’t even have a safe place that is separate from me. She dwells inside – close to my heart - where she feels protected. Her scream today reminded me of a time when I did let out the scream to end all screams.

I was fourteen at the time and walking to the Mall. My hometown was still pretty small and quiet. As I went by a house, the moron lady who dwelt inside let a large black dog outside. Because of her exceptional smartness, she of course turned right around, went back inside her house, and left the dog outside with me. First of all, I am afraid of dogs. Secondly, I believe dogs can smell fear – they are like middle school students sensing the fear of the substitute teacher and then turning that fear against them.

The dog ran for me.

I froze.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t think.

The dog began to leap.

I watched in slow motion as he/she (Hey, I was scared – I wasn’t checking out dog genitalia) began to leap for my face, and my life flashed before my eyes.

The ultimate scream tore from my lungs.

The big black dog seemed to stop in midair; it turned, and ran all the way back to its porch.

I stood there for a minute wondering if that horrible sound had really emanated from my body. I was shaking. I quickly looked around to see if I had embarrassed myself in front of any people, but I was still all alone except for the dog. I was surprised the woman hadn’t come back out, but then again maybe she really hated people and hoped I was one less person in the world. The dog crouched on the porch. I slowly walked away from the house – I wasn’t taking a chance by moving too quickly. When I got to the mall, and tried to talk to a clerk, I found that I had no voice. I had screamed myself hoarse – with only one scream.

I wonder if I screamed another ultimate scream again – as Annie – if she would feel safe enough to leave the inside.

Being Trina

Being Trina nearly all the time has its drawbacks. Being her almost all the time has made me think that integration would not be such a bad thing. I am feeling unbalanced. When it is summer and other parts have a chance to be out, I won’t feel the need for integration because everyone will get their turn to shine. Right now, Trina is trying to do it all, but she isn’t very good at anything other than teaching.


Trina cannot find her way around the house if the lights are off. Many of my alters love the dark, but if I’ve been doing school work, and try to get from one part of my house to another part at night with the lights off – Trina bumps into everything. Many of my other alters can travel the house as well in the dark as they can in the daylight.

Trina cannot focus on anything other than school. Because she has to be out so much right now, school is all we think and dream about. People who call and try to converse about other things are probably disappointed in her continual steering of the conversation back to school.

Trina cannot cook very well. I used to think that if a person could read and follow a recipe, they could cook. However, things I’ve made many times in the past are not turning out while Trina is out. Things taste off and don’t look as good as when Laura and Dot are out. I apologize to anyone I’ve ever scoffed at for not being able to cook. Trina can’t even think up what to cook. It may be while before I share a recipe – maybe in the summer.

School, School, School

School - I feel like it is all I think, dream, eat, and sleep.

I am six weeks into my first year. I have graded thousands of papers, survived parent teacher conferences, and will shortly, hopefully, survive my first evaluations.

I spotted a child who was labeled as lazy and gave him a new label - English Language Learner. Unfortunately, this means I don't get to keep him in my class - even though he is doing well and trying hard - because the law states he has to have a teacher who is ESL certified. I cried when I discovered his problem because I kept hearing that he was the laziest kid in the world from his other teachers. I kept saying, "I know I haven't been here long, but I don't think he is lazy. I see him trying to process. He is trying in my class."

He speaks English without an accent. He had a test score on his record that was extremely high. The test score wasn't his, but it led his teachers to brand him as lazy. It took me four weeks, countless prayers on his behalf, and research to figure out what was going on with this kid. I treated him like a language learner because his process was so similar to what I saw when I was a student teacher. After I found out why he struggled, I said to him, “I didn’t know you spoke two languages – you must be really smart.” He smiled and told me that they don’t speak English at home. I am sad to see him leave my classroom, but at least now he can thrive - he proved this in my classroom. I am proud of him. I hope he keeps progressing.

I struggle with having Trina out so much. She is a good teacher, but because she has to be out so much right now, the other parts are not getting their time. I know that next year will be easier because I will have my curriculum developed (as long as they don’t change the grade I teach). I spend countless hours creating the lesson plans for my students each day and then grading their work each night.

I love teaching, but at times I feel overwhelmed and tired. Now that my computer is working again, I will try to update the blog more often. I feel I’ve been sucked into the school vortex and can’t quite make my way out of it. Because so much of my time is spent at school or doing things related to school, I feel the rest of my life is being viewed from Trina’s eyes. She is emotionally detached from all other aspects. Often I feel I am watching my life outside of school from outside of my body. I look forward to summer when all the other parts of me can come out to play. I haven’t cooked a real meal for long time. I am planning – energy permitting – on making a real dinner tomorrow. If all goes well, I’ll have a good recipe for you soon.

Thanks for visiting my blog even when I am not here.

Sunshine

School Days

I’ve been busy getting my classroom ready for the first day of school. My room is organized and I've experienced two days with students so far. I’ve done a bit of tweaking, but my organizational plan is functioning well.


Mentally, I am in a fog. They say the first year of teaching is always the hardest. I know I will get my bearings, but for now, I am a bit overwhelmed with everything. There is just so much information to process. The work load is unbelievable. A sweet friend brought us dinner on my first day teaching. I hope she got a lot of brownie points with God for doing so.

I haven’t wanted to talk to anyone now that it is the weekend. My parts that need quiet, alone time are out in force today. I guess they deserve to have peacefulness after two days of 225+ students, crowds, being on all the time, and bells.
I haven’t gone back to see my childhood home. I called the lady back, but she wasn’t home, and she hasn’t returned my call. Now that I’ve dared ask if I can go inside, I really don’t have the desire to do so. Now that I’ve faced that fear it has lost its power over me. Fears are like that – most of them anyway.

A Picture is Worth . . .

This morning while looking at the few old pictures that exist of us at the last house we lived in with my father, I feel confusion. One picture shows me and two of my sisters looking like ragamuffins. Because the picture is black and white, it is hard to tell if it is late fall or early spring. I think it may be spring because it almost looks like there is a tulip in the back ground – or it could be trash – it is hard to tell with old grainy black and white pictures.

One sister is dressed in long pants and a warm sweater. Her hair is done in braids. The rarity here is that her hair is done. I am dressed in a warm sweater and short shorts. My hair is all over the place. My little sister is dressed in a short sleeve summer shirt and shorts. Her hair has been cut into a short pixie cut – so done or not, she looks adorable. We all look happy because we are smiling for the camera. I wonder which one of us is dressed appropriately for the weather because our outfits are all over the place weather-wise.

I’m sure most of us could produce pictures from our childhoods where we look like we dressed ourselves in the dark. I have many memories of being embarrassed by my clothing and hair. I do have a few pictures where I look nice. We (my sisters and I) joke when we look at old pictures: “It must have been your day to have your hair done.”

I have another picture of this house that shows mostly the house. Two of my sisters and I look like we were included in the picture as an afterthought. All three of us are wearing cute dresses, and all of us have our hair done. We must have been going somewhere important. We are smiling for the camera. We look like a “normal” family.

Another picture shows my beautiful parents. This one must have been taken by my oldest sister because the composition is pretty good. She shows the house, but my parents are the focus of the picture. They are quite the dashing pair. Dad is tall, slim, and very distinguished looking. Mom is slender, tiny, and blond in this picture. They look happy and in love. My how the camera lies. I believe they were in love, but I know they were not happy.

Dad looks so normal, that his image betrays the horror I remember. He tells us we (my sisters and me) that we are crazy. That the things we remember never happened – yet if they never happened why do all of us remember these horrible things. He doesn’t deny the drug and alcohol abuse – in fact he brags about it, but he denies being sexually and physically abusive to us. By the looks of this picture one could believe him. He doesn’t look like a man that hangs out with hippies or abuses his daughters. He is clean cut in his neatly buttoned collared shirt that is tucked into belted slacks. One could believe he is the sane one and the rest of us are trash.

I’ve heard it said that pictures don’t lie, but I think they do. A picture is only one tiny millisecond of a person or thing. It doesn’t show what is going on inside the mind. The phrase, “Smile for the camera,” takes that truth and sugar coats it for our posterity. No one looking at these pictures would guess at the truth that happened inside that house.

Gardening

Part of gardening is pulling weeds. They seem to grow better than the desirable plants at times. I know about weed blockers, but they get in the way of my style of gardening. We have good dirt, so the weed seeds can take hold quite easily. Besides, if I have weed blocker in my garden, I can’t have nice surprises either.


We (collective we as gardeners) are not surprised by the appearance of weeds, yet we are surprised when a desirable plant grows that we did not plant. If weed seeds can come up willy-nilly where they please, why are we surprised when an unexpected flower pops up? In the mountains and meadows we see wildflowers that no hand has planted. Perhaps I don’t see as many nice surprises in my garden because unknowingly, I pull them up thinking they are weeds. I’m learning to let plants be and see what they turn into to. I can always pull them out later if they are harmful.

Here are two my nice surprises this year. If you know what they are, please leave me a comment.

This first one has flowers about 2 ½ inches in diameter. The leaves are very pretty. The plant is 10 to 12 inches tall.

This one has soft silvery leaves. The plant is about three feet high and has a spray of purple flowers.

I love them both, so they get to stay. I need to let down my own defenses and allow more good surprises into my life.

Kitchen Sink Cookies

A year or so ago, I went to an estate sale and bought three old cookbooks for 50 cents each. I have found some amazing recipes inside with many more that I want to try.

This cookie recipe makes a ton of cookies; I usually freeze half of them to eat later.

Kitchen Sink Cookies
2 ½ cubes butter or margarine - softened
2 cups sugar
2 cups brown sugar
4 eggs
3 teaspoons vanilla

4 cups flour
1 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking soda
2 teaspoons baking power

2 cups oatmeal
2 cups coconut
2 cups crushed corn flakes
12 ounces chocolate chips (or more if you like a lot of chips)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Cream butter and sugars.

Add eggs and vanilla and mix well.
This is when the ingredients start to look creamy to me:

Stir together flour, salt, baking soda, and baking powder.

Add to creamed ingredients and mix well. Stir in oatmeal, coconut, corn flakes, and chocolate chips. This part is a workout - in a perfect world the energy expended by hand stirring would equal or exceed the calories of consuming them.

Drop by spoonfuls onto an ungreased baking sheet.

Bake for 15 minutes. Remove from oven. Cool five minutes before removing them from the baking sheet. These cookies freeze well which is good because if they weren't in the freezer, I'd keep eating them. I think I'll go grab a bag now.

Going Home Again

I’ve written before about the house I consider my childhood home after my parents divorced, but there is another house that holds many memories for me. We lived in a few houses during the years Mom and Dad were married. I only vaguely remember the home we lived in when I was three years old. I do remember the homes we lived in when I was four and five, but the last home we lived in before the divorce holds feelings of ambiguity for me. I feel drawn to it, but unable to approach it.

The house was beautiful. Next door was another house that was nearly identical – only the porch steps and the shade of bricks were different. The house had a beautiful marble fireplace, built in appliances in the kitchen – along with a sweet little breakfast nook. An additional kitchen was located in the basement. The yard was large and the patio was glassed in. I can still remember sitting under the dining room table while Dad played Malaguena on the piano.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiAxwFdPZg0&feature=related

Listening to this song now makes me feel things I can not describe. I feel teary, stressed, and fearful,  and a strange sort of normalcy.

For years, I have wanted to stop by the house and walk around it and maybe (if I dared) asked the owners if I could step inside. My mind has run through this scenario many times over the years. I would drive by often; for several years, I even lived a few short miles away, but I could never get myself to stop my car and approach the house. I was a big chicken. I thought about the possible outcome. The people may feel afraid to have a stranger come into their home, or they may be nice, but what if I had a flashback inside the house and had to rush out? Parts of me (real actual parts – alters) have a desire to see the house and put things in our minds to rest. Other real parts of me are scared to death to ever go back inside. But still, the desire remained. I wanted to walk into that house and prove that it was no more than a house. A lovely house that holds haunted memories, but still just a house.

This week, I had my two daughters with me. They asked, “What do you want to go do?”

I said, “I want to go see the house. I want to go knock on the door and talk to the people who live there. Will you go with me?”

They both said, “Yes.” One daughter said she would go to the door with me. I was scared but really excited. Forty years is a long time to wait to go back home. The house has been changed. At first I wondered if the one on the right or the one on the left was the correct house because my childhood home had changed so much. My father’s beloved rose garden was torn out to make room for a small road. Houses were built behind the house and a new garage filled the driveway. The shades were drawn, so I walked to the house next door to look into the vacant windows. The house on the left now looked more like my childhood home than my childhood home did.

I was sure it was the house on the right though, so I walked back over and my daughter and I bravely knocked on the door. We waited. I knocked again. No answer. I stood there thinking that the steps seemed much smaller than they did forty years ago. The current owners had swept out all the spider webs from the cat-faced spiders that dwelled near the front door when we were small. Dad wouldn’t move them – they were his friends. We were scared to death of them. The stone burro and cart no longer graced the front yard. I was sad that no one had answered, but proud that I had dared climb the steps and knock. We walked over to the vacant left house and peeked through the bare windows.

I had forgotten that both houses had leaded glass with pretty colored glass pieces strategically placed. I pointed out to my girls where my bedroom would have been and the front closet where I spent many hours hidden from dad and his friends– the floor plans were the same. While we were there a woman drove up and asked if she could help us. Her family owned the homes – both of them. She didn’t have time that day, but she gave me her number. She said if I could come back, she would let me walk through the left house. She said it was probably more like what I remembered than the other house. She said my house had been completely gutted and remodeled, but that she would see if she could still take me through it.

During the drive back to my present day home, I felt very happy and strong. I was thankful my girls were willing to indulge their mother and be my armor that day.

I wonder how long I should wait to call. I think I will call next week. I need the house to just be a house. I need it to lose its power over me. I need to be unafraid - or if there is something I need to remember, I need go back inside and remember and work through and process it.

Pavlova

This is one of my family's favorite dessert recipes. It tastes as good as it looks.

Pavlova
3 egg whites
1 1/4 cups sugar
2 tablespoons water
3 teaspoons corn starch
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1 teaspoon white vinegar
1/8 teaspoon salt

Preheat oven to 275 degrees. Line a cookie sheet or pizza pan with parchment paper. Make sure you use parchment paper. Oil will destroy the Pavlova.

In a large glass or metal mixing bowl, beat egg whites until foamy. Gradually add sugar, continuing to beat until stiff peaks form. Beat in water, then mix in cornstarch, vanilla, vinegar, and salt.

Spoon meringue mixture into a circle on the parchment lined baking sheet. Form it into a nest with the edges about 1 1/2 inches high. It will bake into the exact shape you form it into - so make it pretty. I forgot to take a picture of the completed circle until after I baked it. Sorry.

Bake in preheated oven for 45 minutes. Turn oven off and leave Pavlova in the oven until cold. Place on a serving plate.

Topping
You can top it with pudding, or whipped cream, or anything you like. I top it with:

A combination of:

8 ounces of extra creamy Cool Whip

8 ounces of vanilla yogurt

1/2 teaspoon coconut extract

Stir together:

Spread over Pavlova and decorate with fresh fruit.

Cut into slices and enjoy. The Pavlova melts in your mouth. My husband says it reminds him of cotton candy - only better.

Rewarded with Lilies

Do you remember back in April when I planted three lily bulbs? Only two of the bulbs came up, and here is a picture of the one that has bloomed.

I hope the other one will be pink as well. I love bulbs because they reward me year after year.

Bats in the Attic

In the future, I will write more about how we dealt with my daughter’s situation because I think it is important for people to see how we processed everything. I feel we handled things as well as could be expected, but today I think we need something a little lighter.

In my childhood home that I’ve posted about before, there was an attic. Although, I dared to traverse the tunnels underneath the house, I never dared go into the attic. We knew the attic housed bats and while I am very afraid of mice, bats are even scarier to me – mice with wings – yikes! The entrance to the attic was located in the ceiling of the upstairs bathroom. I dared to look into the attic from the opening, but I never entered it. Now as an adult, I wish I had. We could see an old typewriter that some previous owner had left and the remnants of old wall paper on the walls when we poked our head through the square hole in the ceiling. The hole was covered with a board – much like you would see in homes today.

One day a bat flew down from the attic and landed in the bathtub. We were a house of full of girls – all of us deathly afraid of anything creepy, crawly, or that flew in the night. The bat just sat in the tub in a stupor of sorts. Mom closed the door and stuffed a towel under the door to keep the bat in the bathroom until our stepfather came home in the morning from his other wife’s house. Sometime in the middle of the night, the bat got out of the bathroom and flew around inside the house. I don’t know if a child got up to use the bathroom and forgot about the bat in the tub or if the bat somehow squeezed through under the door – but anyway the bat was loose and was no longer in a stupor.

The bat flew around making a clicking noise that all bats make. Mom called to us to get up and help her catch this bat. Of course Ann being the obedient oldest child got right up to help her. I am not ashamed to say that not only did I not get up, but I pulled the covers up over my head and tucked them neatly around my head and body and held them tightly so that the bat could not get into bed with me. The thought of a bat anywhere near my hair of skin made my fear far outweigh Mom’s need for help.

I listened to Mom and Ann fight the bat from the safety of my cocoon. They chased the bat with brooms trying to get it to leave the house. At one point the bat landed on Ann’s back. I was cringing in my bed for her, but there was no way in hell those covers were coming off me until the bat was out of the house. Mom took her broom and hit the bat off Ann’s back knocking it into the wall where it fell senseless to the floor. She put it into a bucket and put a heavy object over the top of the bucket. It soon regained its senses and tried to fly in the small bucket. It was about 4 a.m. or so.

Although the story was incredibly creepy, it was funny to hear Mom and Ann tell about frantically chasing the bat through the house, Mom hitting it off her back, and it dropping like a rock – knocked out from hitting the wall. I know some you may be bat lovers and think they were awful for hurting the poor little creature, but their fear was pretty intense that night. Yes, it was probably just as afraid as they were, but at least it didn’t have to worry about catching rabies from them.

When my step-dad arrived home, he let the poor creature go. It flew off into the dark of the early morning. We had no idea that medical professionals recommend getting the bat tested for rabies if it has been in the same room with sleeping children. We had no idea that we may have unknowingly been bitten by the bat and probably should have undergone the rabies vaccine, but we were lucky once again. No one contracted rabies from the bat that evening, but we will all remember the clicking as it flew and the creepy feeling of knowing a bat was loose in the house.

Telling Jay - Elizabeth's Independence Day Continued

The next day we went to see my mother. We told her what happened to Elizabeth, and she wept with us. She cried, “I never wanted my children or grandchildren to go through what I went through.” We sat and held each other on bed - three generations of little girls shattered by child sexual abuse.


One of the good things that came from Elizabeth’s bravery was that several family members who had been abused in their youth (some of them a half century or more earlier) now felt courageous enough to tell their own stories. One person said, “I’ve never told anyone about this before, but . . .” and she disclosed how an adult cousin had abused her over sixty years earlier. There were three cases very similar to this. Her telling gave them the freedom to tell. Unlike those earlier generations it didn’t have to stay a secret. They saw her innocence, and now knew that they too were as innocent of this as she was – no longer did they have to bury their shame. They now saw that the only guilty parties were the people who did the abusing.

I talked to the neighbor and had her ask her children if Dewayne had abused them because he spent a lot of time with them as well. The Stake President called me that Sunday and said that Dewayne was on his way home. Elizabeth told on Friday and they had him home by Sunday night. He lawyered up and went into hiding, so the police were not able to talk to him for at least a week while they worked out a process for him to turn himself in. That part was frustrating. In the meantime, I had to call my son.

The Sunday after she told, President S talked to me. I was still trying to figure out a way to let Jay continue his mission unaware of the horror we were going through. I didn’t think I could form my mouth around the words I would have to say to him and not be with him in person to help hold him up. I called his mission president Monday morning and pleaded with him to help me figure out a way to keep this a secret from my son. He was right there with the Stake President in feeling I needed to tell him - now - so I made the phone call.

For those who do not know how phone calls on missions work, let me explain. Missionaries are allowed to call home twice a year – once on Mother’s day and once on Christmas. Parents do not have phone numbers for their missionary children. We write every week, but missionaries need to keep their minds on their missions. That can be hard to do if mommy is calling everyday because she misses him so much. So, if a missionary gets a phone call from home, he knows it is bad news.

Monday evening I called my son. One of his companions answered the phone. I asked for Elder Jay. I tried to keep my voice light – that lasted through me saying, “Happy Birthday, Jay. What did you do for your birthday?” His birthday had been two days before this phone call. He said his companions had made him a cake from the cake mix I had sent, and they were going to sing to him. He said the cake looked pretty sad. Usually a missionary has one companion, but he was in Nauvoo just before the temple was rebuilt, so he had seven companions. With the exception of being home to hear this news, he couldn’t have been in a better situation.

He said, “Let me go into the other room.” When he got into the other room, he said, “What’s up Ma. I know you wouldn’t call unless something happened.”

My voice shook, “I don’t know how to tell you this. First of all, we will all be okay, but Dewayne molested Elizabeth before he left on his mission. I didn’t want you to hear about this from the news or from another source.” I don’t remember much else of the conversation – only the sounds of his painful sobs as he processed what his best friend had done to his baby sister and our family. The feelings of betrayal cut deeply into his soul. His best friend, who he had trusted, who he was exchanging letters with as they served in different parts of the country, had done this horrible thing.

I was thankful he had supportive people around him, but I wished I could be there with him. He wanted to stay and finish his mission. He had only been in the mission field for a little over three months. He felt the was just getting started.

He and his companions were clearing brush at the temple site. The physical labor was good for him. He said he took his rage out on the trees and brush. He, like his brother, found a tree branch and carved it into a club. A few months later he sent it home. He said he didn’t need a club while he was on a mission for the Lord.

I still cry when I think about that telephone conversation. I longed to put my arms around him, hold him, and comfort him. Even though he was a man of twenty years, in those awful moments, he was my little boy – my first born child. I called his mission president and said, “I am trusting you with my son’s mental health. Please keep an eye on him. Don’t hesitate to get him into a counselor.” The President promised me that he would watch over my son. He assured me that Jay’s companions would also watch over him. It would have to be enough.

We had survived one more hard thing in this process. This was only day four – we had a long, long way to go.

St. Patrick’s/Elizabeth’s Independence Day Continued

Our Bishop was true to his word – he called back at the ten minute mark. By this time, I had stopped trying to keep the tears at bay. I didn’t know a person could cry so much. Bishop P told me to call and make an appointment with a counselor. He said that by law they would then contact the police, but it was important that before the police were called, that Elizabeth had a support system in place. He asked if I had insurance because if not, he would help me with the cost. I did have insurance and a process for calling for mental health assistance.

“But what about Dewayne? What if he hurts someone while he is in the mission field?” I asked. I had been abused, but never in the name of God. I worried that he could destroy a child’s personal relationship with God and Jesus Christ. It is hard enough to deal with the emotional damage that comes from being molested without having to deal with a shattered relationship with God.

“President S is calling the Mission President now. They will have him pulled immediately.”

“What about Jay? What do I tell him? Do I have to tell him? This is so awful. Jay and Dewayne have been writing each other. How do I tell my son that his best friend has violated our family in this way?”

“You do need to call him. He needs to know why the letters have stopped from Dewayne. He also needs to hear it from you and not from another source. I’ll have President S call you with the number for Jay’s Mission President. Call me if you need anything.”

The thought of calling Jay was almost too much to bear. He was serving a mission, doing the work of the Lord – how would this affect him. Would he get so depressed that he would need to come home? Would he have support in place in the mission field to deal the emotional mess this would create in him? My mind kept trying to think of a way to not have to tell him, but I knew Bishop P was right. He had to know and it had to come from me.

It was now 8:30 a.m. It was going to be a long, long day. I called the number for the counselor, but they didn’t open until 10:00 a.m. I called my fiancé of one week to tell him that we probably wouldn’t be going to the movies with him and his children that evening. Of course he could immediately tell that I was an emotional mess. I told him what had happened. He said, “Do you need me to come over?”

“Would you?”

“I don’t know what I can do, but I can be with you,” he answered.

By the time he arrived, I had contacted the counselor. Each phone call brought a new rush of tears as I brought the horrible words to life once more. We snuggled on the couch – him holding me – me holding her - watching Mr. Roger’s and Barney and Sesame Street. She was ten years old, but I can’t express to you how comforting Mr. Roger’s was that day. Thank your Fred Rogers. Our appointment was scheduled for 4:30 – the earliest they could get us in. We spent the entire day just holding each other – bearing one another up. I didn’t realize the human body contained so many tears.

Andrew left to pick up his children from school. My two other children arrived home from school. I don’t remember eating that day – food is such a big part of my life, but I am unsure if we even ate. We must have, but I have no memory of food. My Daughter, Rose, arrived first. We sat her down and told her what had happened. She cried and felt enormous guilt – guilt that didn’t belong to her, but she still felt it. She had been in the house when Dewayne had abused her baby sister. At this point we still didn’t know the extent of the abuse and we wouldn’t for some time, but she was brokenhearted. Michael arrived home next. He was so angry. He cried angry tears of rage and betrayal, went outside, found a tree limb, and made a club to kill Dewayne with if he ever tried to step foot through our door again.

I don’t remember if I called Elizabeth’s dad before or after our appointment. He was mad. He wanted to kill Dewayne. He blamed me. He said, “If you hadn’t divorced me this wouldn’t have happened. If I were still in the home, this wouldn’t have happened.”

I felt guilty. I felt it was my fault. I felt I should have protected her. His words hurt and in my anger I responded, “Even if we were still married, would you have even been here – were you ever here?” The anger didn’t ease my guilt or make me feel better.

I drove our broken family to see the counselor. She interviewed each of us and then called the police. We were on our way into the next phase of the process. We had survived the first day – the telling. Elizabeth was free of the horrible secret, but it was still horrible. Our pain was raw and as fresh as all the days he had abused her. Now I found my abuse and her abuse getting all tangled up inside my head. I was unsure where mine ended and hers began.

To be continued

St. Patricks Day - Independence Day for My Daughter

The following may be triggering for some. Proceed with caution.

On St. Patrick’s Day morning, in the year 2000, my little daughter came into my bedroom and said, “Mom, I need to talk to you.” Something about her tone and body language told me that this wasn’t a conversation that could take place with me putting my make-up on while I listened to the news. I walked over and turned off the television and sat down next to her. She said, “We watched a video at school about a girl whose uncle touched her in special ways, and our teacher said we should tell our parents if that ever happened to us. You told me I could tell you if anyone touched me in my private places and someone did, so I wanted to tell you.”


I felt at that moment like my brain was a tablecloth that had been shaken out and folded back up. The first words out of my mouth were, “Grandpa got to you.”

“No, not Grandpa; it was Dwayne. I didn’t want to tell you, but I knew I needed to. Can I still go to school today?”

I put my arms around her and pulled her close to me, pulled her into my lap and held her while I tried to wrap my brain around this information. I was both relieved and saddened that it wasn’t my dad that had done this awful thing - relieved that she had been safe from dad but saddened that another person had thrown his life away. I knew it was important for me to not ask too many questions and to refrain completely from leading questions. She didn’t need anymore junk in her head than what was there. I asked, “Where did he touch you?” She put her hand on her groin. “Over or under your clothing?” I asked.

“Under.”

I hugged her closer. I had to engage my brain. I couldn’t think clearly. I knew I couldn’t go to work and that until I figured this out, she would not be going to school. As I struggled to maintain a hysteria free demeanor, I called our friend and told her that Elizabeth would not be over that morning. She asked, “Is she sick?”

“No, but I can’t really talk about right now. Something has happened. I’ll call you and let you know when I can.” I answered.

I called work and told my co-worker that I wouldn’t be in. She asked, “Is everything okay?”

“No,” I said as my surface cracked and a ragged sob came out.

“What happened?”

“Someone hurt Elizabeth. I don’t know what to do.”

“Call your Bishop,” she replied. “Don’t worry about anything here. Call us if you need anything. We will keep you both in our prayers.”

I had to pull it back together. I felt like I could cry for a million years and the pain would still be there. I was shaking so badly. I called the Bishop. His sweet wife answered the phone and informed me that he was at work. “Do you know if he has any openings this Tuesday (I knew Tuesdays were the days he met with people from our ward)?” As I said this I wondered how we would survive until Tuesday.

“Let me give you his work number,” she said. I think she could hear the distress in my voice. I will always be thankful for her discreet handling of our trauma that day. She didn’t ask any questions, but somehow she knew that I needed to speak to her husband right then.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I call him at work?”

“Yes,” she answered.

When our Bishop answered his phone, he was greeted by a mother in full despair and near hysteria. I told him what Elizabeth had told me. He was a new Bishop and hadn’t dealt with this type of situation yet. He said, “Give me ten minutes. I will find out exactly what you need to do. Will you be okay for ten minutes?”

“Yes,” I sobbed.

Elizabeth and I cuddled and cried on the couch while we waited for his call. I made sure she knew that I loved her and that none of this was her fault. I also told her that I would never let him hurt her again. I still didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t know what the extent of the abuse had been - I just knew from my own experience that I would do everything in my power to handle this situation the right way. I wanted her well. I didn’t want her to make the same mistakes I had made because of what had happened to her. Before this morning, I thought that living through my own abuse was the worst thing, but I was wrong. Knowing my daughter had been molested was the worst thing. I thought back to the night when I had come from seeing Grandma at the hospital. I had walked into Elizabeth’s room and felt thankful she was untouched by this horror, but I was wrong – even then she had already been abused, and I felt sick to the depths of my soul. I felt sorrow for her and sorrow for the young man whose choices had put us in this situation. He was my son’s best friend. He had eaten dinner more often at my house than at his own house. We had trusted him. He had kept my son safe when our home was burglarized. He was the same age as my son – even born during the same month. He had just turned twenty years old. Both he and my son were serving missions for our church. We had to get Dewayne out of the mission field before he hurt anyone else.

There may be some that say, “You shouldn’t have gotten so upset. You should have kept it together. I would have been less traumatic for her if you had stayed calm.”

To those I say, “You try looking into the face of your beautiful child who has just revealed to you that she has been molested and not weep. Even Jesus wept.”

To be continued.

A Teaching Job

I have officially been hired to teach school this fall. This is a good thing, yet I worry about how this job will affect my system. I had hoped to find a part time teaching job because the alter that is in charge of being a teacher has a tendency to take over the system when she is out for long periods of time. I thought that a part time position would give her the time she needed and still allow the rest of my system time to shine. Because this is a full time position and my first year teaching this curriculum, I will need to spend many hours outside of the classroom developing lesson plans, which means that Trina will need to be out – a lot.

I hope when my 3D children and family call me, they will be understanding towards me and not take it personally if they reach Trina instead of me. When she is lesson planning she prefers not to be disturbed and can be a bit abrupt. I hope that when I run into people from school when Trina is not out that I will somehow remember who they are. This has been a problem in the past. And finally, I hope that when Trina is out, I will recognize people who are important to me.

I know that these are probably not the “normal” worries that most first year teachers have, but this is my normal. I know Trina is a capable teacher – above average. She loves the children she teaches and loves her content area. She is excited to be in the classroom helping students gain a love for knowledge. She has good classroom management skills, and her procedures are firmly in place. Although we will work harder than we ever have before, this will be a good year - if we can somehow figure out how to balance our system.

It feels strange posting about a job. Although most of you don't know who I am, I worry that people will think, 'I hope my kid isn't in her class.' I understand the stigma of mental illness, but I reassure you that my students will be safe, loved, and well taught. Trina is really good at what she does.

Father's Day

We had a nice Father’s day today. My 3D child  made a card for his daddy. My child wrote to his dad, “You are crowned king of this day, and I will do whatever you say – today.” My little buddy is one independent child. He really doesn’t like being obedient – at home. At school he is always well behaved and does just what the teacher asks. It cracked me up how he added “today” at the end of that sentence. He didn’t want his daddy to think he would be obedient always.


We attended church and then went to visit my amazing in-laws. I have been truly blessed in the husband and in-law department. I love these people. My husband is adorable with our child. He is an involved parent. He attends everything that our child does. Parent Teacher Conferences, ball games, music recitals – if my child has something – his daddy is there. Seeing their relationship has been very healing for me. I would have loved to have a daddy like him.

Father’s day used to be a tough day for me. When I still had a relationship with my dad, this day was awkward. Hallmark does not create a card that expresses the proper sentiment for a completely dysfunctional relationship. During the many years that I haven't had a relationship with my father, this day was sad. At church the talks were based on honoring our fathers and hearing about the glorious vanilla ice cream relationships that other people had with their ideal fathers. The children sing songs about running to greet daddy when he comes homes, yet my memories were of hiding when my dad came home. It all hurt – a lot. Sometimes the hurt was so big that I had to feign needing to use the restroom. Then I would stay out of the chapel until the speeches and songs that glorified fatherhood ended.

However, now that I have positive examples of wonderful fathers in my life, Father’s day is much better. I think of the relationship my child has with my husband and how he runs to greet his daddy each day, and I can hear the songs and smile. I can relate the talks to my husband and sweet father- in-law and smile thinking of these two great men that bless my life.

Yes, I still think of my father. I wonder how he is. Yes, it would be nice if he were someone he isn’t, but the reality of our situation is that I have a father who is still abusive. Because I love my Heavenly Father and I know how much he loves me, I can not in good conscience allow my earthly father to hurt me anymore, so I stay away from him.

I forgave my father several years ago. I still remember the day that forgiveness for him came. I was sitting in a college class when the feeling of forgiveness swept over me. I wondered what my responsibility to my father was now that I had forgiven him. Did I need to call or write? If he got sick was I morally bound to care for him? When I got home that evening from college, I asked my husband, “What do I do with this knowledge? What is my responsibility to him?”

My husband answered, “You don’t have a responsibility to him. You do nothing. You enjoy the feeling of peace that forgiveness brings, but you do not allow him to hurt you again. You need to stay safe.”

I felt comfortable with what my husband said. He has been a trouper throughout my healing process. I know that his life is better when my life is stable. He has never met my father and has no desire to ever meet him. If I chose to go see my father, my husband would not understand why, but he would support me in what ever I decided to do. I understand his desire to keep me safe and mentally sound – as mentally sound as a person with ten alters can be. I love and appreciate his willingness to allow this to be my journey. He trusts and allows the process to happen as it needs to. He doesn’t try to push the process along. He doesn’t get scared when I am struggling. He backs off from me when I need my space, but he is there when I need his closeness. He is exactly the man I asked God to send into my life.

This Father’s day, I am thankful to have him in my life. He is the best.

DID, PTSD, or Both

Sometimes I am not sure if what I experience is from DID or PTSD – or if my experience is both disorders blending together. Today started out well. My 3D child wanted to go get his very first set of new scriptures. He has hand me downs, but he wanted a set with his name on them. He was so excited. It was fun to watch him shop for scriptures. He chose scriptures that are black leather bound with gold edged pages, and we had his name embossed on the front in gold script. We even got a little carrying case to keep them protected. He could hardly wait the fifteen minutes it took to emboss them. He has carried them everywhere today.


Because we were in the area, I wanted to stop at an outlet store that is near the scripture store – big mistake. I hadn’t been to this outlet store for years. I had a little trouble finding it in the industrial area – one metal building with chain link fence looks pretty much like the next, but we found it, parked, and went inside. I was immediately nervous about being there. I’m not sure what set me off, but I was anxious as all get out. The building was old, and crowded with product, and in need of repair, and it smelled like I don’t know what – a combination of sour moisture, cement, dust, and darkness. I couldn’t get the darkness out of my head. In one area the smell was pervasive, and I couldn’t bring myself to touch anything for fear of getting the smell on me.

I looked around – were other people smelling or feeling what I was feeling. The other customers looked okay browsing the overwhelming selection of product. I could feel myself starting to shut down. I was beginning to block out the sights – trying not to look at what was around me – trying to shut out the smells and sounds of the place. Everything seemed so dark and crowded and lacking air. My chest felt heavy and I could feel pressure and weight on my neck. I reached up, but of course nothing was there restricting me. I could feel one of my littles, Annie, struggling to stay calm. I could sense Cat and Laura trying to hush her. I could feel her panic rising into terror.

People who shop at this store usually come out of there with a full cartload, but I had to get out of there. I only had a few things in my cart and that was only because my 3D child had put things in it. I continually told my 3D child, “Don’t touch anything. Please don’t touch the counter. Everything is dirty. You are going to get sick.” I felt like my skin was crawling. I quickly paid my thirteen dollar total and left the store.

I knew I needed to be careful when I backed out of the parking lot. I was in complete a hyper-alert state. Every car seemed too close. People seemed too close. I struggled to get my bearings. It took me a minute to even remember how to turn my radio on. My 3D child was hungry and wanted to stop at McDonalds – which was fine – but I couldn’t remember where the McDonald’s was in that area, so I drove to one close to our house. I had been sweating in the outlet store, but now the McDonalds felt freezing cold. We didn’t stay long because I was exhausted and felt like crying and breaking things – but one has to keep it together to appear normal to the 3D child who doesn’t yet know that mommy has DID and PTSD. At times like this my throat hurts from the pressure of unshed anguish.

When we got home, I fell asleep on the couch next to my child while he played a video game. I am still feeling high strung, hyper-alert, and near tears twelve hours later. I do feel more of a sense of Annie – what she looks like and who she is. She is one that I am just getting to know. I used to call her Little One. It took her a long time to even dare reveal her name. She is slight, and blond, and has pale skin, and pale green eyes. The terror she feels is nearly too much to bear. I wonder if she could ever feel safe enough to share what she has been through – if so maybe she could find healing and peace. Or maybe what she knows and has seen is too black to ever share. Maybe if Cat and Laura would stop shushing her . . . but maybe their shushing protects the system. Maybe what Annie knows would destroy us all.

It is one o'clock in the morning. I need to try to sleep. I think I will take a page from my child and try to find peace in my scriptures.

I’m Grateful

Today I have a song to share with you. The artist, Paul Cardall, has an amazing story. If you need inspiration today, read about him here. He was born with half a heart - he says that God made up the difference. He was fortunate to survive not only his childhood but also a heart transplant a year ago. A few days ago he climbed a mountain in his state to honor his brother who died a year ago. See video of his climb here. He has faced many trials, yet he still finds the good in life, gives thanks to Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father, and uses his amazing musical ability to bring peace into the lives of many people.

Here is the song I want to share with you today. I hope you will both listen to the song and watch the video as it contains many beautiful images.

Grateful by Paul Cardall

Paul – I am grateful for your positive example.

In this music video, the words “Be willing to forgive” jump out at me. I like this phrase. As survivors we are sometimes commanded by well meaning people to forgive. “You have to forgive,” they say. But until we work through our grief and really understand what happened to us, forgiveness seems like one more burden we carry. I often felt like a failure – like I had let God down because I couldn’t reach forgiveness. In a few days, I will tell you more about my journey to find forgiveness for my father, but today, I want the words, “Be willing to forgive,” to be in your mind. I love that Paul Cardall used that phrase because it makes finding forgiveness a gift instead of a burden.

Today I am grateful for:

My life and good health

My family and friends

My beautiful home

All the beautiful things in our world

And of course, Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.

Cat's Apricot Tree

The old house we moved into after the divorce had a giant apple tree with a tree hut built into the branches. We played there often. The little kids could not climb up until they were no longer toddlers. I enjoyed playing there with my sisters, but I had another tree that I liked even better.


Toward the back of our yard was a huge, old apricot tree. It was covered with thick branches and green foliage. Because this tree was so big, I could climb up the sturdy branches and perch where no one could see me. I spent many hours in that tree. I felt safe – like no person could see me, touch me, or hear me when I was tucked into the leafy branches. I was free from the pestering of siblings and parents. The tree was my calm and quiet friend.

Mom would come outside and call, “Jane, Jane.” But I wouldn’t answer her. No person, not even my mom could know about my secret safe place. I felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to answer, “Here I am.” I would wait until she went back into the house, climb down quickly, and run inside to see what she wanted. My tree stayed safe for about two years.

One late spring after the tree had leafed out, we had a horrible blizzard. Between the wind and the weight of the snow on the leafed out branches, my safe place was torn out by the roots and flattened to the ground. I mourned my tree. I wanted my step-dad to be able to right it and put the roots back into the ground. He said it wouldn’t work because too many of the roots had been broken off – only a few remained. I knew he was right, but I wanted him to try to save its life. I kept thinking, ‘He won’t even try.’ My young mind didn’t even consider the size of the tree – it would have taken a crane to lift it.

I felt horrible as the tree was cut into pieces small enough to take away. Mom had taught us that if we sinned there was a price that had to be paid. If we didn’t pay the price for our sin then someone else would have to pay the price for us – meaning that someone we loved may get hurt or sick. I knew I was guilty. I had killed my tree – my safe spot – because I hadn’t answered Mom when she called out to me. My tree paid the price for my sin. I cried for my tree; I missed it so much. I was nervous again because I had no safe place to go anymore. There was no place for me to hide so that I could recharge.

Now that I am older, I realize that the tree didn’t die because I was naughty; it died because of the snow storm. God wasn’t punishing me. I did learn that quite often I prefer my plant friends to humans; trees never lie to me or make up stories to scare me into being good. I mourned more for that tree than for some of my friendships and relationships that have ended. Trees give – they never take. That tree belonged to Cat. It was her safe place. In her emotional safe place that tree still exists – only now it has a house in it so that she doesn’t have to come down unless she wants to.

One time I lived in a house that had no trees, I thought I would die for want of them. As I drove down streets, I would imagine a giant machine that could dig a tree and put it in my yard. The house was a rental, so we couldn’t even plant a tree in the yard. Luckily I didn’t live there very long.

If you are having a tough day, go out and meet a tree. If you can’t climb it, sit and let it support your back. Feel the strength and power in the tree. Listen to the breeze ruffle the leaves – they often sound like wind chimes. I swear trees have a life force that helps recharge a person’s batteries. I am grateful for trees.

When We were Black

As I mentioned before, the polygamist cult members believed my dad was black because he answered, “Yes,” when mom’s cousins asked if he was. From that day on, this rumor grew legs and ran around the cult. One person said they went to my grandfather’s funeral and he was as black as black. One person said you could tell my dad was black because he had such a dark spirit. They were correct in saying he had a dark (evil) spirit. I personally would not mind being black. In fact, I often tease my kids about future spouses and encourage them to bring some color into our family. When I was teen, a boy told me that I looked like an albino with dark hair. If I didn’t have dark hair, I would blend right into the walls. Yes, I am pasty. I make Casper look like he has a tan.

When my older sisters and I were beginning to be viewed as potential mates by the young men in the cult, the rumor resurfaced in an attempt to keep them from being interested in us. Mom was devastated. She knew that if the people of the cult believed we had black blood then our chances for a future there were next to none. The people of this cult are incredibly prejudiced against all races but white.

During the time this rumor surfaced, Alex Haley’s story, Roots, was a television mini-series sensation. We loved Roots and watched every single episode. Kunta Kinte, played by LeVar Burton, was our hero. Being teens, we thought this rumor was wonderfully funny. We went along with it, just as dad had, and owned the accusations with all the tenacity that we – being as white as snow – could muster. Mom was appalled by our behavior, but we said, “What is so bad about being black? If Dad was black, there is nothing we can do to change it. We are still the same people.” Much to our mother’s dismay, we tried to mimic the African dialect we heard on Roots and continued to laugh and joke about our “black blood.”

At the next cult dance, my boyfriend ignored me – completely. After several frustrating attempts to get him to talk to me, I went outside to cool off. I found out that his parents (his father was the cult’s leader – my great uncle) had told him that he could not see me anymore. I was crushed – not so much with the loss of the boyfriend, but by the fact that he didn’t have the courage to tell me this himself. He sent his half brother – my cousin and best friend (one person) - to deliver the news. I felt disgusted with him for being such a lamb. He wasn’t particularly strong minded – which bothered me. He was intelligent, but he was a follower – all the way. I was fourteen years old at the time.

Some of my sisters married into the cult, but their men were not considered inner circle men. Years later, the rumor of us having black blood kept my little nieces safe from the abusive inner circle. Every single one of my sisters, nieces, and nephews with the supposed “black blood” made it out of the cult. Mom was right – there was no future for us in the cult. I was thankful for the small minds that started the rumor. Sometimes bigotry and prejudice can work in a person’s favor.

Edited to add:
I in no way wish to make light of prejudice or bigotry.  In my situation bigotry kept my family safe. I understand that bigotry is almost always a hateful and hurtful thing. As a teen (and as an adult) I often wished for skin of a darker hue. I am thankful that I was at least blessed with dark hair. I  do not wish to demean  the fight for rights that people who are not white have endured throughout the history of our world. In my perfect world, it wouldn't matter what color a person is, what religion a person belongs to, or what mental illness a person suffers from - we would all be treated with respect.

Spicy Spinach Artichoke Dip and a Message to My Sister

I was craving this yesterday, so I made it. My son loves to use it as a sandwich spread. I just love to eat it on bread. It always tastes better after being in the refrigerator overnight.


Spicy Spinach Artichoke Dip

1 – 12 ounce package of spinach (fresh or frozen)
1 – can artichoke bottoms (not marinated) - chopped
12 ounces sour cream
1 jalapeño pepper – finely diced
4 green onions - sliced
2 tsp fresh chives – chopped (or ½ tsp dried)
½ tsp salt
1/8 tsp black pepper
¼ cup sliced almonds
Hard rolls, baguettes, or crackers

I prepare the other ingredients while the spinach is cooking.

Make sure to cover your hand with a glove or with a baggie when you chop the hot pepper, or you will regret it later.

Steam spinach until tender, drain on paper towels – use paper towels to remove most of the water from the spinach. Chop spinach.

In medium bowl combine first nine ingredients – stir well.

Refrigerate for several hours or over night.

Serve on thin slices of hard rolls, baguettes, or crackers.

My dear sweet little sister has been going through her own personal Gethsemane lately. I want to tell her how proud I am of her being able to set healthy boundaries. I know it has been hard on her because many people in our family are not used to seeing her stand up, make her own choices, and refuse to allow others to step on her or tear her down. I want her to know that she is incredibly strong. She may get tired of always needing to be strong, but we come from tough stock.

A message to my sister: “Remember our cousin who left the polygamist cult several years ago? She left with no support from her family. Our family was even disgusted with her mother for not being more supportive of her. But you know what, she left, she even fought off cancer, and she is happy and strong. You will find strength you never knew you had – just as our cousin did. When she left the cult and hid out at my house she was an emotional mess. She is now one of the strongest people I know. I admire her for her tenacity. You have come such a long way. I am glad you don’t allow people to use emotional blackmail against you anymore. I’m glad you are being treated like a person instead of an object. I know you are tired from working two jobs to support your children. I know you are frustrated with dealing with people who don’t seem to hear you, but it will get better. Although some in our family are not supportive of the choices you have made to improve your life, I want you to know that I will always have your back, and that I will always love you. I am thankful that you are my sister.”

Buffalo Wings

This is my family's favorite wing recipe.

Buffalo Wings

24 chicken wing pieces
¼ cup melted butter or light olive oil
¼ cup hot pepper sauce
3 tablespoons vinegar
3 tablespoons hot pepper jelly (optional)
1 package dry ranch dressing mix
½ tsp paprika

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray baking pan with non-stick cooking spray. Dip chicken in mixture of butter or olive oil, hot pepper sauce, vinegar, and hot pepper jelly.

The recipe for Hot Pepper Jelly is posted below. I make it every fall. It adds sweetness to the recipe.

Ready for coating

Put chicken in baking pan. Sprinkle chicken with dry dressing mix and paprika.

Bake for 40 minutes. Broil for a few minutes to brown.

Hot Pepper Jelly
2 Medium red or green bell peppers, cut into eighths - The color of the pepper will determine the color of the finished jelly. I do both green and red because it makes a wonderful plate of festive crackers at Christmas time.

6 Jalapeno peppers, cut in half, 4 with seeds, 2 without - I use red jalapeno pepper for the red jelly.
8 Cups sugar
2 Cups cider vinegar
2 - 3 ounce pouches of liquid pectin

Combine peppers in processor or blender; pulse until chopped fine or pureed. In large pan stir together peppers, sugar, and vinegar. Boil over high heat for 5 minutes. Add pectin. Return to boil for one minute. Skim foam.

Ladle into 9 sterilized ½ pint jars, wipe tops, put on lids and rings. Process in water bath for 15 minutes. Store in a cool dark place.

Serve over crackers spread with cream cheese.
I don't have pictures of this recipe being made because I haven't made it yet this year. I'll post pictures later this fall.