Spinach Stuffed Jumbo Shells

With our cool spring weather, my spinach (that came up on its own) has gone crazy. I've never had spinach do this before. It went to seed last fall, and this spring it decided to get started without me.  I made this recipe when we had all the kids over for dinner so that I could use up a bunch of spinach.

Spinach Stuffed Jumbo Shells

12 ounces jumbo shells
12 ounces fresh spinach
2 cloves garlic – minced
2 tablespoons light olive oil
15 ounces ricotta cheese
1 cup fresh parmesan cheese
1 cup mozzarella cheese
1 teaspoon dried parsley
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon black pepper
¼ teaspoon nutmeg (yes, nutmeg. Trust me - it is good)
½ teaspoon oregano
1 egg – slightly beaten
40 ounces spaghetti sauce

Cook jumbo shells according to package instructions. In large skillet heat oil on medium heat, add garlic and spinach and cover.

 Stir and turn spinach with spatula every few minutes. Cook until spinach is tender and can be easily cut with the spatula. Cut spinach and set aside.

Heat oven to 375 degrees

In medium mixing bowl combine the cheeses, spices, and egg; stir well.

Add spinach to cheese mixture – stir well. Spread one cup of spaghetti sauce in the bottom of a 10X15 pan. Fill shells with cheese/spinach mixture and place in a single layer in the baking dish. Pour remaining spaghetti sauce over shells. Cover with foil and bake at 375 degrees for 35 minutes. Remove from oven, let shells rest for 10 minutes and then serve – great with garlic bread and green salad – yummy!

I didn't have a lot of sauce on this serving because the person eating it doesn't like a lot of sauce. I also added a little shredded mozzarella cheese on this individual serving.

Cream Cheese Cookie Bars

I'll warn you right now that these are addicting and oh so yummy.

Cheesecake Cookies
1 cup flour
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
6 tablespoons butter or margarine - softened
8 ounces cream cheese - softened
1/4 cup sugar
1 egg
2 Tablespoons milk
2 Tablespoons lemon juice
½ teaspoon vanilla
1/4 cup chopped peanuts or almonds
Stir together flour and brown sugar. Cut in butter till mixture forms fine crumbs. Reserve 1 cup of the crumb mixture for topping. Press remainder over bottom of a 8 X 8 X2 inch baking pan that has been sprayed with non-stick cooking spray. Bake at 350 for 12 to 15 minutes.

In mixer bowl cream the cream cheese and sugar. Add egg, milk, lemon juice, and vanilla; beat well. Spread over partially baked crust.

Combine nuts with reserved crumbs; sprinkle over the top.

Bake at 350 for 20 to 25 minutes. Cool for 10 minutes.

Cut and remove from the pan. Refrigerate over night before eating.

Confusion

I always knew that my dad was not a good person. I knew he drank, did drugs, had anger management problems, was a womanizer, and was sexually inappropriate with people, but until I was 35 years old, I didn’t remember much of the abuse I suffered at his hands. I know that so far on this blog I have painted my dad with only one color on the brush – the color bad, but that isn’t the entire picture.

I think the mind of a child paints people as either good or bad – they can’t be both. As adults we realize that people have both good and bad inside of them. We base friendships on the balance of those qualities. When I started having flashbacks after Dad beat Grandma, I felt really confused. He had often told me that I was his favorite, so it made sense to me that I remembered the abuse he heaped on my sisters but not the abuse he heaped on me. When I did start remembering, I felt like my entire foundation was broken. I felt that I had loved him even when he didn’t deserve my love. I felt betrayed.

My mind could not reconcile the good I remembered in him with the horror that I was remembering now. I couldn’t understand that the man who could sit down with a six year old child and patiently teach her how to play chess could be the same man who exchanged her for money. It couldn’t be right – I must be crazy. I wanted to be crazy. The alternative was just too awful.

I remembered Dad playing in the community pool with me. He could be so much fun. He did everything large: laughed large, talked large, loved large, and had large anger. He loved to take us to the mountains. He taught us how to build a campfire by gathering pine needles and small branches to use as kindling and then putting larger pieces of wood on the fire. He always brought a watermelon and placed in the creek so that it would be cold, crisp, and ready to eat after we finished roasting hotdogs and marshmallows. On the days he came home singing, he was a bucket of fun. Granted – many of his songs were completely inappropriate for little girls’ ears, but none the less, he was fun. I loved those days of being safely on his lap with him calling me his little Bambino. One day I even faked being asleep in the car just so he would carry me inside and tenderly tuck me into bed.

I wasn’t sure what to do with the flashbacks of abuse that terrorized my life. Usually, I thought about them for a week or so before calling my older sister and saying, “You are going to think I’m crazy, but do you remember Dad ever French kissing us (or which ever other memory had surfaced)?”

“Oh, I hated it when he did that,” she replied.

"Damn, I was hoping I was just crazy. I didn’t want that to be true.”

When pregnant with my third child, I suffered complications and was on bed rest for six weeks. During that time Dad was clean and sober. He came to my house. He brought crab legs and watermelon for me to eat because one: he remembered that watermelon was my favorite food when I was little, and two: he felt like crab legs would be really good for a baby in jeopardy. I couldn’t reconcile this man with the father who didn’t care that we were starving as children, or with the man who did all the other things I have posted about on this blog.

As humans we try to classify things. We sort – we make patterns. My dad doesn’t fit a category. He is both good and bad. He is charming and anti-social. He is mean and kind. He is compassionate and narcissistic. He is generous and selfish. He defies all that I know about people. When I studied British Literature, I found characters and authors who embodied him. In my dad I see Shakespeare’s Iago—a man who orchestrates those around him to cause hurt, and then sits back, smiling with a deep dimple in his cheek, chuckling at his own cleverness. I see Mary Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein—a man who gives life but then abuses and abandons the very lives he helped create. I see Lord Byron’s Byronic hero—a soul that is selflessly selfish. When good, he would give his last dollar, but when bad, his cutting words flay his victim’s heart, and then his hatred burns anything good that is left.

Every child (at least this one) longs for a father. My father was the man who did all those good, kind things, and I am thankful for those memories. My father was also the man who did all those horrible things, and I feel sorrow for what he did. Because of the horrible things, the good things are tainted and make me feel confused. Yes, I understand that people are not perfect. We all fall at times, but the extremes in his behavior confuse my mind and thoughts. I am both thankful and ungrateful for the good things because it would be easier if I could say, “He is a horrible person; there is no good in him.” But there is good in him. At least there was good in him at one time. I don’t feel there is enough good left in him for anyone to be subjected to the man he is now.

I hope that when my life is done, the good I leave behind will far outshine anything I have done that has hurt others. I know that we are asked to not judge, but I am a proponent for healthy boundaries, and there is not any possible way to have a relationship with a rabid human. I know that God does not expect me to subject myself to more abuse.

In future posts I want to talk about forgiveness because forgiveness is possible – even in cases like mine.

Mud Pies, Green Peaches, and Oh My!

When I was a little girl we went hungry often. One day, my sisters (I can’t remember which ones) and I made mud pies. We worked hard and put artistic style into our mud pies. They looked good enough to eat. That day I learned that no matter how hungry one is and how good a mud pie looks, it still tastes like mud.


We tried eating what we could find. One neighbor had a peach tree, but because it was summer the peaches were still hard and green. We ate some of them – or attempted to eat them. Green peaches are really hard – and fuzzy. That day I learned that green peaches probably don’t qualify as a food source.

I don’t know if our mother was completely overwhelmed, didn’t notice, or didn’t care, but often our pants had the crotch ripped out. Mom could sew, so I don’t know why she didn’t fix them. Now normally ripped pants aren’t a problem as long as one has underpants to wear. Unfortunately in our house, underpants were as hard to find as pants with an intact crotch. I remember not being able to find underpants and knowing my pants were crotchless, but I thought that I would remember that I didn’t have underwear on, make sure to play carefully, and keep my legs together or crossed all day. That year I learned that no matter how well intentioned a child of five is - she will always forget that she is going commando with crotchless pants until she feels the breeze on her bare butt.

Because of my experiences with food and ripped clothing, my house is never without food, and my children were not allowed to wear ripped clothing to school. My boys always felt like it was badge of honor to get holes in their jeans. I would patch them which made the boys sad. I learned that if you make the patches look cool they don’t mind so much. Did you know that everyone wears jeans with holes in them? I’ve been hearing that for the last twenty years from my boys (even before holes were in style). I can’t bring myself to buy jeans that are already torn – I don’t care what style dictates. I have no desire to feel the wind on bits and pieces that are supposed to be covered with fabric.

Lettuce Wraps

I wanted to share a recipe with you yesterday, but I had a rough day at school and was completely spent when I got home. So without further ado, here is yesterday’s recipe for your viewing and eating pleasure.


Lettuce Wraps

1 tablespoon olive, peanut, or sesame oil (the sesame oil gives such a good flavor)
1 pound chicken breast cut into bite sized pieces
2 tablespoons minced garlic (or less if you don't have vampires in your neck of the woods)
2 tablespoons minced ginger (or two teaspoons dried ground ginger)
2 teaspoons sesame seeds
2/3 cup teriyaki sauce

Vegetables for filling: grated carrots and cucumbers, bean sprouts, sliced radishes, etc.
Large lettuce leaves – rinsed and drained.

Hoisin sauce – found in the isle with the Asian seasoning and food. My little boy thought it was poison sauce. He said, “Mom why do you want to poison us? Don’t you like us anymore?”

Heat oil in large skillet and brown chicken. Add garlic and ginger and sauté briefly. Add sesame seeds and teriyaki sauce and simmer for 10 minutes.

Prepare the vegetables.

Put chicken and vegetables in lettuce leaves, top with hoisin sauce, wrap, and enjoy.

This is light and quickly prepared meal - ideal for warm weather. I know sometimes the stories on my blog are painful to read. To reward you for your perseverance, I give you good food – well, good recipes.

Did You Pick in my Cake?

The following may be triggering for some. Please proceed with caution.

Dad was a good cook. He taught Mom how to cook because the people in her family can not cook. Trust me, if you get invited to a potluck with Mom’s family, don’t eat anything. Dad loved chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting and he made one often. Like I said before, sometimes Dad was nice and sometimes Dad was scary. We never knew when his mood would suddenly change or what would prompt that change from happy and playful to scary and violent.

One night when I was four years old, Dad made a beautiful two layer chocolate cake with chocolate fudge frosting. Like most little children will do, I picked in the cake (took several finger swipes of frosting). It was so yummy that I took several more swipes of frosting. My little sister, Danielle who was two years old, also picked in the cake – probably because of my bad example. We were happy and laughing – thoroughly enjoying licking the frosting off our fingers.

Dad came in the kitchen, took one look at the finger marked cake, and went into a rage. He bellowed at me, “Did you pick in my cake?” I was scared. Experience had taught me that right now, he was dangerous. I quickly shook my head, “No.”

Next he approached Danielle, “Did you pick in my cake?”

She of course was happy that she picked in the cake and cheerfully said, “Yes.” She didn’t know enough to be scared. Dad picked her up and hell entered our kitchen. I watched in shock. I don’t remember her cries of pain, but I do remember the sound of the blows hitting her body and seeing her body swing as she hung from his other hand as each blow landed. My soul felt each strike. I knew I had sinned and sinned badly. I knew that someday I would stand before God and he would condemn me to hell for lying and causing my little sister this beating. My hatred for self grew. My shame and guilt consumed me. No one stopped the beating of my little sister: not Mom, not my sisters, and not me. I didn’t speak out. I didn’t tell the truth, and I would have to live with the guilt.

I was surprised that Danielle didn’t die that night. I thought he would never stop hitting her, that she would die, and that I would be responsible for her murder – because I was a liar. But she didn’t die.

The nightmares started shortly afterwards and lasted for the next twenty five years. In the dream, Danielle and I would be walking through our neighborhood. On one lot would be a giant Clorox bottle instead of a house. The bottle had door and window openings cut into it. In our excitement we would enter the house and begin exploring, but then be overcome by Clorox fumes. I would try to get her out of the house but would be too overcome by the fumes to help her and we would both lose consciousness and die on the smooth white floor of the Clorox bottle. Over the years the dream changed. It got to where I would enter the bottle with her and immediately try to get her out, but in the dream I could get myself out, but I wasn’t strong enough to get her out too. Finally the dream changed to where she would enter the bottle on her own because I wouldn’t step foot inside. I would call from the window opening for her to come out, but she would ignore me because the house sized Clorox bottle was so appealing to a little girl. I would watch from the window as she succumbed to fumes and died on the floor.

When I was twenty-nine years old, my youngest daughter turned four. I don’t know why it didn’t hit me when my oldest daughter turned four, but it didn’t. Anyway, as I was snuggling this sweet little girl who was full of mischief and sparkles, I realized how small and innocent she was. I realized that she was little more than a baby. I thought, “You son of a bitch.” All these years I had taken responsibility for my sister’s beating as if I had been the one dropping the blows on her little body. I had reacted the way nearly any four-year-old would have reacted when faced with intense fear. I sought self preservation. I didn’t know he was going to nearly destroy a two year old child. He was the one responsible for beating my sister. He was the one who lost his temper and over reacted to children enjoying frosting. There never should have been anger or a beating.

My nightmares stopped. I never dreamed about Danielle dying in a giant Clorox bottle again. I knew that when I faced God he would probably take me on his lap and hug me. He wouldn’t condemn a child for the sins of an adult. I think God sent me my little sparkler girl because he knew she would teach me how much He loves us even when we are a little bit naughty.

At my house little fingerprints on cakes are never punished. I may say, “Let’s get you a spoon full of frosting instead.” When I say this, the little child at my house looks at me with all the joy my sister and I felt before Dad lost his temper. Children adore frosting. Go to any occasion with cake and children and look at the table after they get finished. You will see cake left on their plates but never the frosting. I have spent the last forty-two years scraping the frosting off my cake – convinced myself that I didn't like frosting. No longer will I do this. I will have my cake and enjoy my frosting too! Life is too short to deprive ourselves of the good stuff.

Everything Affects Everything

I recently read the novel, Thirteen Reasons Why, by Jay Asher. The main reason I read it is because Sherman Alexie, one of my favorite authors, gave it a good review. The story is about a teen girl who commits suicide. She records the reasons she decided to kill herself and then mails the tapes to the people she felt were connected to her decision. My experience with suicide was different than how this novel describes it. When I stood on the edge of the edge of the cliff that day, I didn’t think about all the people who had wronged me. I thought about going home to God. I thought about ending the intense emotional pain I felt, but I didn’t create a laundry list of those in my life who were mean or hurtful. My decision was not about them – it was about me wanting to end my pain.


Even though my thought process was different than what is portrayed in this novel, I love how thought provoking and compelling the story is. This story shows the impact we have on others, and I do believe that we affect the lives of those around us in ways we may not even realize. Students have written me notes telling me how I have changed their lives when I had not even realized that what I said made a difference to them. Hopefully when I’ve been in the classroom, I haven’t made any students feel badly about themselves. If I have it was not my intent, but this novel shows how even when we don’t intend to hurt someone we often still do hurt them.

Asher writes, (this is the dead girl speaking) “Yes, there are some major gaps in my story. Some parts I just couldn’t figure out how to tell. Or couldn’t bring myself to say out loud. Events I haven’t come to grips with . . . that I’ll never come to grips with. And if I never have to say them out loud, then I never have to think them all the way through” (page 201).

As a person with DID, I feel this way so much of the time. I can’t really tell my story in chronological order because my mind doesn’t work that way. I also sense parts (alters) who are still struggling with their knowledge and memories. I can feel that silent scream that is caught in my chest, and I feel other alters trying to silence that scream because they too are afraid of that knowledge.

Asher continues, “You don’t know what went on in the rest of my life. At home. Even at school. You don’t know what goes on in anyone’s life but your own. And when you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re not messing with just that part. Unfortunately, you can’t be that precise and selective. When you mess with one part of a person’s life, you’re messing with their entire life. Everything . . . affects everything” (pages 201-202).

It is easy to make a snap judgment of anther person without knowing their whole story. I am guilty of this at times. This quote makes me want to be a better person; to seek first for understanding, show kindness, and to try to bring goodness into the lives of others instead of dealing with them in frustration. I tell my students that it doesn’t cost anything to be kind. Yes, I understand that we need to set boundaries and keep unsafe and toxic people out of our lives, or at times we have to be assertive in order to keep from being hurt, but we don’t have to be unnecessarily unkind when we do so.

Jay Asher's quotes were used with his permission. (Thank you!) He very kindly answered my e-mail the same day I sent it to him and said many people miss the first quote but often quote the second one. The first quote really speaks to my heart. He must have been channeling a multiple or an adult survivor of childhood abuse when he wrote that. :)

Tomorrow, if I am able, I will try to share the story of the chocolate cake and show you just how much one event can impact the lives of those who witness it. Everything affects everything.

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother

Exodus 20:12 says, “Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."

This is a pretty straightforward scripture – one of the Ten Commandments given during the time of Moses. Many people have no problem with this scripture, but for those of us who are adult survivors of childhood physical and sexual abuse that was carried out by our parents, this scripture becomes a yoke too heavy to carry. We are tied by that yoke to a parent who cannot or will not honor their child. How does one honor a parent who is undeserving of honor?

I struggled with this scripture for many years. My dad even threw this scripture in my face when he felt I didn’t come visit often enough. After I started remembering all the abuse he and his friends had inflicted upon my childhood, I prayed about this and studied my scriptures for an answer. I found it in St. Matthew 22:9 And call no man your father upon the Earth; for one is your Father, which is in heaven. Here was my answer and my freedom from needing to honor a wretch of a man. Now that I felt free to call on Heavenly Father to be my father, I understood how I could honor my dad.

By honoring my Heavenly Father, I was honoring my earthly father. If I spent time with my dad, he would without a doubt re-offend against me or my children. By allowing him to sin against us, I was giving him more sins that he would have to answer to God. How is that honoring him? By staying away from him, he is no longer able to sin against me which means less that he will be held accountable for. I choose to live the best life I can. I choose to be happy and have joy and purpose in my life. By making these choices I can honor both my Heavenly Father and my earthly father.

I am a firm believer that those who have suffered childhood abuse should not be re-victimized by the scriptures. When I struggle with a scripture, I pray about it, read the scriptures, and invariably the answer will come. If we understand how much our Heavenly Father loves us, we will know that his words were not written to cause us more distress – they are there to comfort and lift us.

A Hard Week

The following will be triggering for some; please proceed with caution.

This has been a very hard week. On Tuesday I read a bout a little boy in Utah who was murdered by his mother and step father. Ethan Stacy, a darling little four year-old, was visiting his mother for the summer. He arrived in Utah on May 1st, and on May 11th they found his body. He was murdered on Mother’s day. I won’t go into all the details because they are truly horrific, but if you click on Ethan’s name up above, it will take you the news story.

I weep for this dear little boy and his father who loved him and didn’t want to send him to Utah. I weep for all the dear little children who are still being abused. Often, unless the child is hospitalized or killed, their plight is not revealed until they are old enough and strong enough to talk about it. I think I could kill both of the people who murdered Ethan and not blink an eye. At some level I know how scared he must have been. It is hard for a child who is being abused to understand why the people who are supposed to protect him would harm him. I couldn’t understand this as child, nor do I understand it now. If the people who are supposed to love us, hurt us, there is no where to turn for help – when we are little. I hope that when the day comes for these murderers to meet God they will somehow get to experience the fear that Ethan felt because then will understand the horror of what they did to him. When I say this, I don’t mean that I want them to feel their own fear; I want them to know and feel what Ethan felt – his experience.

The news is now reporting that the step father was diagnosed with multiple personality disorders. I’m not sure if that means he had several disorders or if the newspaper had a typo and they mean he had Dissociative Identity Disorder – or that he had DID and other personality disorders as well. If the defense tries to blame this murder on DID, I will be angry. As a person with DID, I recognize that I am responsible for everything that any of my alters do. My mind created these alters as a way of survive horrifying conditions when I was a child. They are all me and I accept responsibility for them. I wonder what the mother’s excuse will be for the murder of her child – she does not have DID.

My heart breaks for this little one and his father. I pray that his father can find peace somehow. He must miss this little guy so much. My mind prays for justice for Ethan. I pray that laws protecting children will be strengthened so that child killers don’t get off with a five or ten year sentence. I do hope the prosecution can seek the death penalty in this case – it won’t bring Ethan back – but it will assure that neither of these two people will ever hurt another child.

Names, Planes, and Remote Controls

I tried to write the letters small and neat like mom, but my little hands lacked the needed motor skills to form the letters precisely. The permanent maker bled through the back of my dress where I had tried so carefully to claim my belongings with my name. It was ruined. Once, when we lived in our old house, I’d written my name inside of a cupboard. At least in that cupboard one couldn’t see the misshapen slanted downward letters unless they looked inside and underneath. Would I ever get it right? Would my writing ever be nice and neat? Or would I be forever doomed to see my mark – ugly, large, and always going downhill? I practiced writing on the back of my dresser, but although the first letter started out nice, I couldn’t keep them lined up and by the time I came to the last letter it was several inches lower than the first.

Even before the advent of the internet and blogs I longed to leave my mark – to have something show that I existed even if it was just my name written on something that belonged to me. I mattered and I wanted to prove that by showing my name written nice and neat by me. I think all children like seeing their name. The severely disabled students I work with can’t read the word cat, but they can recognize their own name and that of every other student in the class. There is something about seeing our names in print that tells us we are someone.

While I practiced writing my name in big black letters that bled through my clothing, my dad built airplanes. He decided to build an airplane for each of his daughters and put our names on them. I was so excited to have him build an airplane with my name on it. These airplanes were going to have motors and remote controls. He said we would go fly them when he finished. As he finished each plane, he set in the freezer room. He had two of them done. I loved going in the freezer room just to look at them. I was careful not to touch or bump them. When my plane was finished and placed alongside those of my sisters’, I carefully ran my finger along the letters of my name on the beautiful yellow plane. My name would go up in the sky with the plane. I was so excited to go fly it.

When we went to fly the planes we didn’t take all of them at once. I was so happy that mine was chosen by Dad to go that day. Dad operated the remote control (which were not nearly as sophisticated as they are now days). My plane was up – I squealed with excitement to see it in the sky. It was fun to watch it soar through the air, and I ran around trying to follow it. Dad said, “Be careful; don’t let it crash.” But it did fall from the sky and landed with a crash of splintering balsa and torn tissue. “G** D*****, you let your plane crash.” His tirade lasted for several minutes. I felt awful. My beautiful yellow plane with my name on it was broken and torn. “S***, it’s ruined. I can’t trust you with anything.” I felt confused. He had been the one operating the remote, but he blamed me for the crash because it was my plane. I was sad but I didn’t cry. I didn’t want him to really give me something to cry about.

The day was no longer bright or exciting. It wasn’t fun to have my name on a plane. He fixed the plane, but each time we went to fly them, I hoped mine would be left at home. On the days mine was in the air, I held my breath hoping it wouldn’t crash and praying that when it did crash (because Dad always crashed them) that it wouldn’t be too damaged. The more damage the plane sustained, the meaner the words were that flew from Dad’s mouth. I didn’t like seeing my name on things anymore. Having my name on things just got me into trouble. If my name was on it, I couldn’t be invisible, and when you live with an abusive person, being invisible is important.

Several years ago, my baby sister asked me why dad had let her operate the remote control when she was a toddler. I looked at her with a confused look. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

She said, “I remember the planes crashing and him being really mad at me and yelling because I crashed the plane. I can’t understand why he would have handed the remote to a baby.”

“He didn’t let you fly the planes. He flew them and if he crashed your plane – the one with your name on it -  then you were the one in trouble.”

Her baby mind had assumed that she was the one flying the plane because he made us feel so responsible for the crashes. He operated the controller – always – but his actions and harsh words made us feel shame and guilt for something we had no control over. This is one of the reasons it is hard for me to display the Lancer that I wrote about before. The planes evoke conflicting emotions in me – not as badly as they used to, but those twinges of shame and guilt still pop up now and then.

On to brighter things.
Although these tulips come up every year, I'm always surprised by how big they get. The stems are over two feet tall and the flowers are over six inches tall. They are lovely. they grow near the bird's nest, and the momma bird was not happy to have me working so close to her eggs. She was yelling at me pretty good today. At one point she swooped down near my head - gave me visions of Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds.

 I better go get my plants into the garden. Happy Spring!

The Funeral

Several weeks before Grandma died, I received a summons for jury duty. I had received several through the years but had never had to serve. Just like the times before, I was to call each day after 5:30 p.m. and a recording would say if I needed to show up or not. I thought it would be interesting to serve on a jury, but so far every time I called the recording said, “You do not need to report. Call back after 5:30 tomorrow for further instructions.” (Or something to that effect)

Of course after Grandma died, the recording said, “Please report on Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. Failure to report will result in legal action against you.” (Or something to that effect)

I thought that if I called the nice people who worked for the court system, they would immediately take pity on my predicament and grief process and say, “Oh, I’m so sorry about the loss of your grandmother. We will excuse you from jury duty this week.” Boy was I wrong. When I called them bright and early Monday morning, they said, “That is not a valid reason for being excused from jury duty. You still need to report.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“No.” click.

Okay, I thought, I’ll just go down there, take her obituary and certainly they will understand that I am not emotionally fit for jury duty this week. Sadly, I found out that everyone who worked at the courthouse was terminally jaded from being subjected to criminals.

Me: I was told to report for jury duty, but my grandmother died on Saturday, so may I be excused?

Them: Take a seat over there with the other jurors.

Me: But her funeral is on Wednesday. I have the obituary right here. I can’t be here on Wednesday.

Them: You can be jailed if you don’t appear. The trial starts on Wednesday morning. Go sit down.

Me: But . . .

Them: no words – just a hard glare.

I sat with the other jurors thinking that these government workers reminded me of the government workers on Beetlejuice. They were hard.

I contemplated what would happen if I didn’t show up on Wednesday. Would police come to the funeral to arrest me? How long would I have to stay in jail for failure to report for jury duty? Would I have a criminal record if I didn’t show up? All I knew was that I was not going to miss my Grandma’s funeral – no matter what happened that day.

After waiting for an hour, we were herded into a courtroom to be questioned by the prosecution and defense attorneys. All I could do was answer their questions honestly and hope they wouldn’t pick me for the jury.

First question: If you’ve ever been the victim of a violent crime raise your hand.

I raised my hand along with another woman. They asked her to tell them about it. She says, “I will be happy to tell you in the privacy of the judge’s chambers.” I was so glad they called on her first. I did not want to go into my family history in front of a courtroom full of people, so I repeated what she had said.

Second question: This case involved illegal drug use, raise your hand if you feel you can not be an objective juror. (or something like that)

I raised my hand but was not asked to expound on it. They asked several more questions most of which I could honestly raise my hand to. After about an hour of questioning, they lawyers left the room to conference or do whatever it is lawyers do at this point. They came back in and excused several prospective jurors. I think – are you kidding me – I’m still here. They then excuse the women who had been the victim of a violent crime and they excuse me. I was so relieved. When I left, I asked a clerk if I still needed to call in each day that week. She said, “No.”

It took half a day of stress at the courthouse, but I was happy to know that I could go to Grandma’s funeral without the fear of being arrested.

When the kids got home from school that day, my youngest daughter had some papers that her teacher had sent for me. Her note said, “This was a writing assignment in our reading class. Students were to choose a person, place, or thing and write a descriptive paragraph about their topic. I was saving these papers for SEPs in March, but Elizabeth’s is very touching and most appropriate to share with you now.”

Elizabeth’s paragraph: My great-grandma smells like makeup. She is old. She is 92. I love going there and she is beautiful. When I go there she says, “I love you.” She had drawn a picture of my grandmother to go with her paragraph. We had Elizabeth read this and show the picture at the funeral. Teachers are wonderful people; I was so thankful to get this now instead of waiting. When Elizabeth was a baby, she was very colicky. Grandma was one of the few people who could quiet her when she was distressed. All of my children adored their great-grandmother; all of them struggled to deal with her passing.

We didn’t know if Dad would show up at the funeral. If he did show up – would he be violent? The court sent plainclothes officers to guard us – just in case of trouble. Dad did not show up. He sent a friend to take pictures of everything. It was kind of creepy – this yucky man taking pictures of all the grandkids, but it was better than having Dad there. Still, we were all on edge.

Mom was another story. She always professed her undying love for Grandma – the woman who treated her like a daughter and took her under her wing after Mom’s mother had died, but when push came to shove, she put the polygamist cult ahead of Grandma. She said she had to go on a buying trip. She could have sent someone in her place, but she did not. Then she complained and said, “I wish I could have been there.” I said, “You could have been there.” Just as always, my sisters and I were there by ourselves without the love and care of either parent. We were burying the person I loved most in the world and neither of them could be grown up enough to be there to support us. I was glad Dad stayed away but hurt that Mom made the choice she did. We needed her that day, and she once again let us down.

Even with all the trauma and pain that surrounded Grandma’s death, the funeral was beautiful. My aunt did such a good job on planning everything. She ordered two dozen red roses for the top of the casket. She even made sure to put a Kleenex in Grandma’s sleeve – just like Grandma had always done in life. Grandma was buried next to her husband in a cemetery that overlooks the city.

Several months after Grandma’s death, my aunt was looking at the red roses she saved from the funeral and discovered that about half of them had turned a lovely shade of yellow. Yellow roses mean joy and happiness; we took this as a sign that Grandma was happy. Knowing Grandma, she isn't wasting any time in heaven. She told me once that she helped plan all the events in her little town when she was a young woman. I'm sure she is giving God and the angels a run for their money with all her activity and planning.

Green Soup with Little Bits of Chicken

I found the cookbook, Lose Weight the Smart Low-Carb Way, at the book swap yesterday, so of course I had to try a new recipe. I need to lose about 20 pounds, but I don’t put any effort into actually losing weight. Because it was a rainy day and I wanted to make bread, I thought the Creamy Broccoli Soup with Chicken would be the perfect recipe to try. Yes, I know that bread is not low carb, but is sure does taste good with soup.

I put two tablespoons of butter in a skillet and sautéed one sliced onion and one sliced clove of garlic until they were tender. The recipe calls for one chicken breast –cut into bite sized pieces – to be put in the soup at the end of the cooking time, but I wanted my chicken seasoned with the garlic and onions so I cooked it with them.

I removed the chicken from the onion mixture and set it aside. I added three tablespoons of flour to the onions and let it cook for one minute. Then I added three cans of chicken broth, 1 ½ pounds of cut up broccoli florets, 2 bay leaves, ¾ teaspoons of ground sage (yes, sage in broccoli soup – I couldn’t believe it either), and ¼ teaspoon black pepper. I cooked this until the broccoli was tender, discarded the bay leaves, took out about a cup of broccoli florets for the soup, and then did a very stupid thing.

The recipe says, “Ladle the soup into a blender, process until smooth, and return to pot.” They are evil I tell you. What they didn’t say is, “Make sure you use the actual blender lid (not just some random lid) for this step, or the combination of heat and whirling blades will create broccoli soup projectile all over your arm and kitchen.” They also didn’t say, “When blending hot soup, put no more than two cups of soup into blender at one time, or even with the right lid, the combination of hot soup and whirling blades will send broccoli soup shooting out of the top of the blender lid.” They also should have a warning that says, “When blending hot soup, please clear your kitchen of small children and animals. Wear eye protection and arm protection. Maker of recipe is not liable for burns or damage to kitchen resulting from exploding hot soup.”

Because I learned the hard way, you don’t have to. Aren’t you glad? I didn’t get pictures of this step because, well, my arm was submerged in cold water while I intermittently wiped broccoli soup off the walls, counter top, cabinet fronts, and floor. There was still enough soup left to finish the recipe. I was lucky.

The recipe also doesn’t tell you that at this point your soup is going to be really green – I mean really green – like if you blended Kermit the Frog in your blender green. I was getting concerned at how ugly this soup looked. I added the one chicken breast (it really needed two breasts – and more unblended broccoli florets), the reserved broccoli florets, and 1/3 cup of half and half. I thought it needed more half and half, so I increased the 1/3 cup to ½ cup. The half and half diluted the green just a bit. I also added a shake or two of cayenne pepper to my personal bowl of soup.

Husband came in and before tasting it said, “I wouldn’t make this for company. It is really ugly.” Little son said, “Oh yuck. I’m not tasting that.” Little son did taste the soup and ate two bowls of it. Husband tasted and said, “The flavor is good,” and ate at least two bowls it. Sage in broccoli soup works – who would have thought it.

I liked the flavor but was disappointed in the title of the recipe. The title is “Creamy Broccoli Soup with Chicken.” For one thing, this soup is not creamy. Blending broccoli and chicken broth does not create creamy. One chicken breast for six servings does not make chicken soup. If they called it, Green, I mean Really Green, Broccoli Soup with Little Bits of Chicken, I would have been okay with it – as it was, I was disappointed that it didn’t have the creamy texture of a true cream soup. I did, however, feel really good after eating it. It only has 177 calories per serving (unless you pump up the half and half like I did) and 16 grams of protein. It is super healthy and something I may make again now that my arm is no longer red.

Grandma

I took the kids to see Grandma frequently. After she had been away from dad for about three weeks, she started to gain clarity of thought and be more wakeful which made us wonder if he had been drugging her. When she was with dad she would often fall asleep in the middle of a conversation, but now it was like we had turned back the hands of time and she was getting younger. She missed dad and she missed her old apartment. My aunt arranged to have Meals on Wheels come each day just so Grandma would have a lunch time visitor. Grandma hated the food, but she would drink the milk and eat the roll they brought each day. I asked, “So what is wrong with the food?”

“They bring casserole all the time. I don't like things that are all mixed together. If they bring vegetables they are overcooked and mushy. I like fresh vegetables.”

One evening the kids and I took her out to dinner. The only thing she would order was a fresh tomato. I had to go back and ask the waiter if the cook could find a tomato that was not too ripe and slice it for her. She was so happy with her plate of tomatoes. Taking her out to dinner was time consuming because she had to stop and talk to every child she saw. She was a life long teacher. We loved seeing how well she related with children.

She enjoyed playing bingo with the other residents and was adjusting to her new life. One morning as she was getting ready for a funeral, she felt a terrific pain in her hip, her leg gave out, and she fell to the floor. Thankfully, she was in a place where the staff checked up on the residents and was soon found. She was transported to the hospital and diagnosed with a broken hip.

She had surgery to repair her hip. The doctors informed us that she had an aortic aneurysm. They felt she was too old to survive the surgery to repair it. They said that eventually it would rupture and she would die quickly. We worried about this, but since there was nothing that could be done to repair it, it fell into the category of “help us accept the things we can not change.”

One night after I’d returned home late from the hospital, I went up to check on my youngest daughter. The teenagers had gotten the little ones to bed. My eight year old daughter had kicked off her covers. The moonlight through the window spilled over her golden hair, her slender legs, feet, arms, and delicate hands; the sight brought out a feeling of intense protectiveness for this child I so adored. She was eight years old – older than I had been when I was sexually abused and beaten. I looked at her tiny limbs and wondered how anyone could look at the body of a small child and see anything but a dear sweet child. How could anyone look at what I was seeing and feel sexual arousal? I couldn’t understand it. I carefully tucked her covers around her and said a silent prayer of thanks that she was unscathed by the evil of sexual abuse. I talked to my kids on a regular basis about good touch/bad touch. I felt confident that they could and would come to me if anyone touched them inappropriately.

Mentally, I was still dealing with the trauma of my own abuse, but still lacked time to get into counseling. Grandma was soon moved back to the assisted care center where her apartment was located. One side of the complex was a hospital – which was where she was moved. I called her one day to ask what they had brought her for dinner. She said, I don’t know what it is, but it looks like cooked grass.”

“Do you want me to bring you a chicken breast with steamed vegetables and a sliced tomato?”

“Oh would you? I’d love that.”

When I got there, I asked, “What do you eat on the nights I don’t bring dinner?”

“I just ask them for another can of ensure.”

“Grandma, you look so pretty today.” She was in a lovely pink nightgown and had just had her hair done.

“Mary was up earlier; she took me to get my hair done. Did you know they have a salon in the hospital?”

“I didn’t know that. I’m glad she took you. I know how much you love to get your hair done.”

I helped Grandma into a wheelchair and we (my two youngest 3D childen and I) took her for a walk. She wanted to go see her neighbors. We walked over to that wing of the building and joined her neighbors in the great room and watched the news. There was a story that the schools were facing a substitute teacher shortage. Grandma who taught school until she was 86 years old said, “I am going to get out of here and go sign up.” I chuckled because I didn’t doubt that she would do it. Her mind seemed as sharp as ever now that she was a way from dad. “What do you think your dad is doing?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, “He got so mean, and what he said to Rose was so awful that I can’t go see him again. You know he was violent to us when we were kids. I guess he just got mean again.”

“I want to see him,” she said.

“I know you do, but he said he doesn’t want to see any of us.”

“I guess you are right. Did you know that I am going home tomorrow?” she asked.

“No, you are going home on Sunday. Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, “because I think I am going home tomorrow.”

“Sunday, Grandma; I promise.”

“Well, okay.”

We wheeled her back to her room. I helped her into bed, gave her a kiss goodnight, and said, “I love you Grandma. I’ll be back up on Sunday to see you.”

“I love you too. Thanks for coming up.”

The next morning my cousin called me, “Grandma died early this morning.”

“No! I was just up there. She looked so good. She can't be gone.”

She had awoken with a terrific pain in her chest. She called out to her room mate. Help arrived quickly, but the aneurism had ruptured. They gave her morphine, called my uncle to come quickly, and she died within fifteen minutes.

She was right when she said she was going home tomorrow. She died only a few days before what would have been her 65th wedding anniversary. I know she was old. I know her body had issues, but her mind was sharp and I wanted her to stay. I missed her so badly. I couldn’t believe the beautiful, bright grandmother I had put my arms around only hours before was gone. She was the most important adult in my life. She helped me be a better mother and a better person. She was the best role model, and I was thankful I got to have her for as many years as I did. She had said she was going to get out of there and go sign up to teach. I hope there are children for her to teach in heaven.

I still miss her everyday. So often, I long to pick up the phone and say, "Grandma." I send her messages in thoughts and prayers every day. I hope she gets them.

Happy Mother's Day

My day has been wonderful so far and it isn’t even 9:00 a.m. My little son gave me the cutest card with a heart formed from his fingerprints and a picture of him in the center. I love the elementary school teachers for coming up with these wonderful ideas. I will be sad when the day comes that I no longer get these little bits of love from a young child.

Yesterday I found the piece of jewelry that I wanted to buy with my graduation money. The stones are mystic topaz. They are fragile because it is normal topaz coated with a film and heated to bring out different colors. They need the same care as pearls. The coating and heat process create a rainbow effect in the stone so different colors appear at the same time. I find this stone very appealing.

My children gave me the sweetest graduation gift that shows me just how in touch they are with me. My daughter found figurines that include flowers, gardening, birds, and nests – and she did all this before she read my story about birds, nests, and trees. When she emailed a picture of the gift to her sister, her sister asked if she had read my blog yet that day; she had not. I love my kids and how they know just the right gifts to bring into my life.

I hope you all have a lovely day. I know that Mother’s day is hard for many of you: some are missing their mothers, some are missing the children they were unable to have, some are missing their angel babies, and still others gave birth and then made the great sacrifice of allowing another women to become a mother. My thoughts and well wishes are upon each one of you this day. To those who still have their mothers but struggle with the relationship – I understand because that is where I am. I love my mother but sometimes distance is a good thing. To those who still have their mothers and have good solid relationships with them – you are truly blessed.

Momma bird is still doing well. She got mad at me the other day when I got too close. Today she sits waiting for her babies to hatch.

Taking Control of the Nightmares

During the time I suffered from intense PTSD, I found it nearly impossible to sleep at night. I avoided sleep because it was usually interrupted by horrible nightmares or by me jolting awake because of being hyper alert even in sleep. I was afraid of sleep. I found some comfort in the scriptures. I read each night before I went to sleep, but still the nightmares came. One night, I happened upon Proverbs 3. I found a lot of wonderful things written there, but the parts the helped me the most were verses 23 to 26.

Proverbs 23 – 26: Then shalt thou walk in thy way safely, and thy foot shall not stumble. When thou liest down, thou shalt not be afraid: yea, thou shalt lie down, and thy sleep shall be sweet. Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked, when it cometh. For the LORD shall be thy confidence, and shall keep thy foot from being taken.

I probably read this twenty times before I went to sleep. When I awakened in the night, my heart pounding, I thought of these verses and went back to sleep. My dreams started to change. Instead of waking up with no memory of the dreams, I started to remember them. I started to take control of situations in my dreams. If Dad was in a dream causing problems, I was strong enough to tell him to get away from me. If he wouldn’t, I was strong enough to pick him up and throw him away from me. In one dream I held him by the throat up against a wall and said, “Don’t call me, and don’t come see me; you have no concept of boundaries, and I can’t deal with you anymore.” I dropped him to the floor and walked away from him.

I felt like God put these verses in the Bible just for me. Did people centuries ago suffer from nightmares too? Perhaps they did and God knew that those of us who needed these verses would either find them on our own or have them pointed out to us. I am thankful for these four verses. They saved me during a very difficult time. I still had a long way to go to find forgiveness, but at least I could sleep. Yes, once in a while a bad dream would get me, but not at the level they did before.

My garden is full of surprises this year. I love tulips. With the help of the bees, my tulips are beginning to create offspring that is unique to my garden. Here are some examples of the beauty they are creating.

I often have plants come up in my garden that I didn't plant. I think they want to come join our flower party. I welcome them. I do have a boundary issue - so they have to behave and not try to choke out any other plants - if they are good, I let them stay.

Dinner - Stir Fry

Broccoli Chicken Stir Fry
1 package rice sticks
1 ½ pounds chicken - cut into bite sized pieces
1 cup chicken broth
4 tablespoons soy sauce
2 teaspoons basil
4 teaspoons corn starch
¼ to ½ teaspoon cayenne pepper
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 carrots sliced
4 cups broccoli florets
1 bundle green onions - sliced
½ cup peanuts or almonds - optional

Sauce: Stir together basil, cornstarch, cayenne; add broth and soy sauce - set aside. I double the sauce recipe.

Preheat oil in wok or large skillet over medium high heat. Stir fry carrots for about 1 minute. As you can see, I used baby carrots - so I used more than two :)

Add broccoli. Stir fry 2 minutes.

Add green onions - stir fry for another 2 minutes. Yes, I know I used purple onions, but it is what I had on hand - it was still delicious.

Remove vegetables from pan.
While chicken is cooking cook rice sticks. Place in pan of boiling water (yes, you need to take them out of the package first), turn off heat, cover, and let sit for 10 minutes. Drain, return to pan, and keep warm until ready to serve.

Stir fry chicken till done.

Add nuts.

 

Pour sauce over meat and nuts. Cook and stir till thick and bubbly. I made double the amount of sauce because I like sauce.

Return vegetables to pan; stir to coat.

 Serve immediately over hot rice sticks or rice.

One thing I love about making this recipe is taking the leftovers to work the next day. The flavor is even better.

Strawberry Cream Cheese Pie

After two days of sad posts, I thought I better post something happy so I don't scare all my readers away. Happy for me is food and what says "Happy," better than fresh strawberries and cream cheese? I will share tonight's dinner recipe later today so that I can get pictures for you.

Strawberry Cream Cheese Pie
1 – 9 inch baked pie shell - cooled
1 pint fresh strawberries (I always add more because can you ever really have too many strawberries?)
1 package strawberry Danish Dessert
8 ounces cream cheese - softened
3 Tablespoons powdered sugar

Prepare Danish Dessert following directions on package for pie glaze.

Chill in sink of ice water - but don't get the ice water in the dessert mixture.

With electric mixer, combine cream cheese and powdered sugar. Beat until smooth. Spread in the bottom of cooled pie shell.

Clean, remove caps, and slice strawberries. Add to cooled Danish Dessert.

Pour filling/strawberry mixture over cream cheese mixture in pie shell. Chill for several hours before serving.

This pie is so good that even my son who doesn’t eat sweets loves it. I make my pie shell using the standard oil pastry recipe. You can use any pie shell you want – even pre-made.

The Trial

PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) became an everyday thing in my life. Flash backs were a normal occurrence. At night, I struggled to go to sleep because I was in a constant state of hyper-alertness; sometimes I could feel the hair on my arms. Once I went to sleep, my dreams were interrupted by horrible nightmares that I usually could not remember. One night, I cried out in my sleep. My teen daughter came in and said, “Mom, are you okay?” I felt so badly that I had caused her a bad night’s sleep. I knew I needed to get into see a counselor, but there didn’t seem to be time.


We wanted to move all of Grandma’s things out of her apartment before Dad was released from jail, and we had no idea when that would be. The day I went up there with my Aunt was very stressful. My two younger children acted as lookouts. One watched out the front window and one watched out the back window. We were so afraid he would show up and become violent.

We packed the apartment in a hurry, taking her furniture and clothing. Anything of Dad’s that was on her furniture we placed on his bed. I called Mom and asked her if she wanted her dresser back – the one Dad had taken from her so many years before. She did, so I dumped the contents of the drawers on his bed. We left him quite the mess to clean up before he could use his bed – the only piece of furniture we didn’t take. The bed belonged to Grandma, but we connected it too much to him and left it. We forgot to go down to her basement storage locker and get the leaves to her table, but those are just things and we were in a hurry. We left the apartment relieved that he had not shown up.

Grandma missed Dad. She wanted to bail him out of jail, but we wouldn’t take her to do so. My aunt had a restraining order taken out against him which meant he couldn’t come to Grandma’s new apartment. My aunt found her an apartment in an assisted living center. She had her own studio apartment and had people around her. She had lived in her old building for over twenty years, so this was an adjustment for her. She was so cute one night. She commented on an elderly gentleman who lived in the center. She said, “Isn't he a fine looking man. Look at how straight his shoulders are.” I guess when a woman is ninety one things like straight shoulders are pretty important. One day she tried to escape with another resident. This other woman had a car and they snuck out and tried to leave. She said, “We almost got made it.” The other lady was not supposed to drive anymore.

We went to see her often, but she still worried about Dad. I told her what he had said to my daughter about her breasts. I reminded her that Dad was violent and that we wanted to keep her safe. She would call me at work and tell me she didn’t have any food. I would leave work to take her shopping, and while putting her groceries away find that everything she bought had a duplicate in the cupboard. I said, “Grandma, if you want me to come visit, I will. You don’t need to say you are out of food.”

“Well, I was worried you wouldn’t come," she said.

Dad spent sixty-two day in jail before they released him. The trial was still to come. I had been subpoenaed. We didn’t want Grandma to testify because she was so frail. The first court date would decide if we would be allowed to testify on her behalf. I was scared to death to testify, but I mustered up my courage – I didn’t want to be put in jail for not showing up. I was mentally prepared to see Dad in a courtroom with bailiffs and officers as protection. When I stepped off the elevator at the courthouse, there stood Dad. I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach; I actually lost my breath. I stepped back into the elevator, closed the doors and went to a different floor. I was shaking and crying. I hurried to a bathroom to try to compose myself. My plan was to leave the bathroom, see if my cousin had arrived – if she was there, I would stay and testify. If she wasn’t there, I would leave the courthouse and go home. I was not strong enough to do this on my own. Damn the consequences – I couldn’t face him by myself.

When I left the restroom, the first person I ran into was my cousin. We were not allowed to be in the courtroom while other testimony was being given. At one point as we sat in the hall waiting to be called, Dad walked out to have a cigarette. His beautiful white hair was shaved off – he looked like an old cancer survivor. He did not make eye contact with either of us. She testified, and then I was called in. I was shaking so badly and trying not to cry. They asked me what Grandma had told me. Then they asked if this was hard for me to do. “Yes,” I answered. I told them that I had always tried to give Dad the benefit of the doubt. I had previously tried to maintain a relationship with him. I had thought my love for him would be enough, so yes it was hard. I didn’t tell the court about my memories, but the nightmares and flashbacks made me feel like a small child again – scared and wanting to hide from him.

The judge asked Dad’s attorney if he had any questions for me. The attorney began to speak, but Dad pulled on his hand, whispered something in his ear, and the attorney said, “Not at this time.”

The judge ruled that we would be able to testify on Grandma’s behalf. We were thankful. I received another summons to appear to testify. The only way I wouldn’t have to testify again would be if he entered an Alford plea which meant without pleading guilt, he acknowledged that there was enough evidence for the prosecution to convict him. We arrived at the courthouse ready to testify. I was a nervous wreck, but I didn’t want to see him get away with another crime. The jury was there. Dad was in a room with his attorney. At the last minute he took the plea deal. The jury was dismissed and we were allowed to go home. He only served the original sixty-two days for beating Grandma. He had to behave for eighteen months. I thought he should have served more time. He deserved more time. He quietly left the courthouse, went back to the apartment he had previously shared with Grandma, and did only God knows what.

I have not spoken to him since he called me from the jail. I wrote him a letter before I testified against him. I told him what I remembered about my abuse. I asked for clarification about his sickening friend. He wrote a letter professing his love for me, but peppered it with how mad he was that he had to spend sixty-two days in jail. After I testified against him, he wrote me a horrible letter cursing me and hoping for my demise. I think he wrote the nice letter hoping that I wouldn’t testify against him. The second letter contained his true feelings.

I talked to the DA about my memories. He said I had three years to press charges. He was very kind and allowed me to cry, but he said the chance of a conviction so many years after the fact was next to nothing. I opted to let it go. I wasn’t strong enough to face him in court again and watch him get away with everything he had done.

The Flashbacks Begin

The following may be triggering for some. Please proceed with caution.

The memories of my abuse came back in flashes when all the right elements came together to act as triggers. Trigger one is that I was dating a man who had dark eyes (like my dad), was very controlling, and struggled with healthy boundaries. I always felt a little on edge with him. Trigger two was when my Dad made a sexual comment toward my daughter. Trigger three was the night my father was arrested for beating up his 91 year old mother.


I got the phone call while at the boyfriend’s house. My son said, “Grandpa’s been trying to get a hold of you. He is in jail and he wants you to come pick him up.”

“Why is he in jail?” I asked thinking he had been picked up for drunk driving.

“He beat up Grandma; she is in the hospital.”

“I’ll be right home,” I said.

I gave my boyfriend a kiss goodbye. He put his arms around me and said, “Maybe I’ll just keep you here,” and at that point I had a horrible flashback about one of my dad’s drug friends. Those who have endured abuse know what happened; they don’t need me to go into gory detail. For those of you who do not know, I’ll explain the part I always remembered and you can imagine the rest. Right before Mom divorced dad, he had drug parties at our house on a frequent basis while Mom was at work trying to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. Dad had a friend (I don’t recall his name) who was about 20 years old. Keep in mind he could have been older or younger, but my six year old mind thought he was about 20. He had greasy dish-water blond hair, a scraggly beard that couldn’t grow in properly, and severely pock marked skin from acne scars. His white t-shirt was spotted with dirt and sweat. He stunk. He would grab a hold of me and try to kiss me. One day he offered Dad $20 for me. Dad took the money. My flashback was about this horror of a human being and what happened after the money exchanged hands.

I felt like I was suffocating - like I was still locked close to the yucky man. I looked at my boyfriend and said, “I have to go.”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I’m fine; I’ll call you later,” I said as I hurried out the door.

I wasn’t fine. I was a mess. When I arrived home, I called my sister Mary and asked, “What happened?”

Apparently Dad was standing over Grandma and screaming in her face. She told him to back off, but he kept screaming at her. Grandma tiny and frail; she stood less than five feet tall. Dad was larger and very loud. Grandma lost her temper and slapped him in the face. Dad hit her back, knocking her to the floor, breaking her ribs and tearing open her arm. He left her there. He didn't even try to help her. He unplugged all the phones and hid them, and then left the apartment in order to raid her bank account.

Over the course of three days, he let her suffer while each day he withdrew the maximum amount from her account. On the third day, Grandma was able to find a phone and call for help. An ambulance and the police were dispatched and the family was notified. It was hard for Grandma to admit that her dear sweet child, who she loved more than anything, had hurt her. The police took Dad to jail. He handed his wallet to Mary when he was arrested. She put his wallet on his dresser and didn’t even think to look inside. All of the money from Grandma’s account was in that wallet.

Dad began calling from the jail. He wanted me or Mary to come bail him out. He said, “Mary has my money. Call her and get it to bail me out. This place is horrible. I know I’ll have another heart attack if I stay here.”

I said, “I can’t come get you. I am sick and my van has broken down. Besides, Mary said she doesn't have your money.”

“That lying bitch. I handed it to her when the police took me. Take a taxi and come get me out!” he said as hiis anger escalated because I refused to come and get him.

“You need to learn to control your temper.”

“I hope you die with a rat in your mouth!” he shouted. "I'll just call someone else to come get me."

“Good luck finding someone,” I said as I hung up the phone.

I could not forgive him for hurting Grandma. I loved her more than I loved either one of my parents. Grandma was my everything. She was my normal – the person I tried to be like – my pattern of how to be an okay person. She was regal, royal, and completely undeserving of being hurt. Besides, now I was processing flashbacks that were coming more and more frequently. I remembered the abuse I had suffered at his hands and in my mind the only thing worse than hitting a child was hitting an elderly person. A child’s bones are more flexible whereas a person in their nineties has brittle bones and fragile skin. He finally stopped calling me after about a week. He said there were rats at the jail, and although I didn't express it to him, I thought it was fitting for him to be with rats so that he could be the one to die with a rat in his mouth.

Rage filled every fiber of my being. The things I remembered combined with what he did to Grandma and had done to my sisters were too much for me to take in. When I walked the halls at work – at the store – anywhere I went, I wanted to smash things to pieces. I wanted to break windows, break walls, break everything. I felt a scream deep inside me that made me afraid that if I let it out, it would never stop. I longed to go to Dad, take a razor, and X out his face – make him not real anymore. The violence I felt toward him was staggering. I am not a violent person, but I visualized going to his apartment and bashing his head against the brick wall with a giant log. I thought, “If I had a rabid dog, I would kill it, yet I know my dad is rabid and here we sit waiting for him to hurt someone else. I knew I needed help. I didn’t feel big enough to contain all the rage that boiled within me.

Yet at work, I continued to do a good job and acted completely unaffected by all the turmoil in my life. As soon as I got in my car to go home, the tears and anger would surface and remain out until the car reached my street at which point I would again compose myself so that I could appear normal to my children.

To be continued.