Soul Mosaic

I wanted to leave a brief update about the piece I have been working on – Battling Dad. It is a piece that covers about a 12-year period during our kids’ childhood.

It is a period that was incredibly difficult, because it was such a painful layer of life, on top of all the things Ed and I were dealing with in our own lives. In dealing with and confronting Dad, it required wrestling with fear, pulling together courage, and living through the flashbacks and other trauma symptoms. It is the reason I call these years of my life the Warrior Years.

Writing about it also requires much thought and reflection. I am reliving some intense times as I craft the piece. It also requires skill, as that time period involves others. Since I will not speak of them, I need to tell the story well and in a way that is helpful, yet preserve boundaries. Hence, it is taking some time. For now, simply know it is coming. The paintings below will be part of the essay. Thank you for your patience.

Just a momentary reflection as I write this book:

As I go through this process — writing my life story, then moving forward through the questions, answers, insights, and transformations — in the back of my mind, I ponder what the best structure should be going forward.

While it is not quite time for that yet — I need to finish this first draft — I have a pretty good idea of what I want to do.

But one question popped up today:

What is the first thing I want to say to the reader, at the very beginning, to let them know what this is all about?

And this showed up in my brain as an answer:

“It Happens”

After our first night together, Ed, who was then my new boyfriend, said to me,

“So tell me about you! I want to know who you are!”

I answered, “You don’t want to know who I am. Let’s go to breakfast.”

Later, after breaking up, and then finally getting back together, I answered him.

“My father sexually abused me for 28 years.”

It gave him pause. Until a conversation with his mother, who simply said, “It happens.”

This book is the story of the journey back from “It happens,” to what happens next…

So, It happens. At the very least, that will continue to guide me as I keep writing….

Juggling who does what

Like many, we both needed to work. After all his “meat-grinder” jobs in Connecticut, his RTP software support job was much less stressful. So much so, in fact, that he was the one who covered all the daycare “sick calls.” Now, it was my job that was the problem.

I was working first at a university research lab that was supposed to be “mom-friendly.” For many reasons, that turned out to be a fallacy. After several months, it just kept getting worse, so I looked for another job.

Somehow, I landed a very good one at a pharmaceutical research company. Yes, it was high-stress and fast-paced, managing data review and validation for clinical research trials. It was stressful in a different way than the lab was, but at least I was better paid. I had the skills, so I took it even as it would turn out to be the wrong direction for me, and for what our son would need. But one step at a time.

A need for a new path

All through the 4 years of that job, that Pooh song kept reverberating in my mind. Then add in the teacher’s words about our son not being able to read.

Even worse, the evaluation we had done by a psychologist showed learning issues and ADHD. The psychologist told us we’d come in just in time. He noted that if things had gone on any longer, what he usually sees is that the child gives up and doesn’t try anymore. So that was the good news. The rest of the news involved the challenges we were facing in what he would need.

The AIDS project

At work, I was on a high-pressure project for a new AIDS drug. We were using a new, very rapid-paced, reduced-timeline method for the FDA submission. Every time I turned around, another deadline was cut.

Yes, it was for a good reason – people were dying of AIDS. At that point, HIV was a death sentence. Thousands were dying all over the world every day. And the people leading the project had friends who’d already died of it. There were only 2 or 3 drugs available, and at that point, all they did was buy someone a bit more time.

This drug was a new direction, and it was having such promising results that even the FDA was pushing our company to get the submission in faster. It was absolutely the right thing. Unless you were the parent of a young child struggling in school.

The good thing was that my part in this project would finish in the early summer of 1995. AND the company was merging with another…which meant layoffs, and payoffs to leave voluntarily. I chose the latter.

While I was never meant to be a corporate person, and I knew I needed to be home for my son, I will always be grateful for that opportunity to play a small role in the 1995 approval of that drug. It didn’t take very long for the FDA to approve it. And it was the beginning of making AIDS a chronic disease, rather than a death sentence. Even as some thought they deserved it.

Yes. On one of my business trips to audit a contractor whose work I was managing, an older man sitting next to me on the plane declared that if they chose that life, then they deserved to die. I was livid and told him how appalled I was. He was a blustering old fool. His wife, who I think was long-suffering, looked at me with sympathy. I still rage at that attitude. So despite how difficult it was to manage it all, I am grateful to have been a part of turning that disease into a chronic one. But once that was done, I needed to move on.

On to our son and the world of freelancing

Where my son was concerned, NO “career” mattered to me. If I died a successful career woman, but lost my son in the process, I would never consider my life a success. Yes, I had to work, but what always mattered most to me, drove me, was to make sure he never knew what emotional abandonment was.

I set about working with the school, tutors, and therapists for testing and guidance. And…I had to figure out a way to bring in some money. I needed to bring in something, even as there would be no replacing what I’d been earning at the drug company. You never know what you can do when you have to.

It’s like the book I was reading at that time said, “It’s only too late If You Don’t Start Now.” It was written by a therapist named Barbara Sher and was the perfect inspiration. Anytime I felt like “I will never…whatever,” I read her book, and recited that title like a mantra.

I had always wanted to make a living writing. That was my best option. But a LONG shot. No matter how many adult evening and correspondence courses I took in free-lance writing, home businesses, and such, breaking into selling articles or books seemed impossible.

But there are all kinds of writing jobs, and you do what you have to. So I did editing for a local self-publishing company. Until I had to get a lawyer to get them to pay me what they owed.

Next, I parlayed that experience into a copyediting job. I dug down deep for courage, cold-called New York book editors to convince them I could edit for them…and managed to get a couple of jobs. Those led to assignments to write two CliffsNotes books. So it wasn’t riches, but the bills were getting paid. And our son was getting the help he needed

Meanwhile, I kept trying to learn. I took night courses in essay writing, freelance businesses, writing children’s articles and books, and kept submitting. But at that point, I was getting nowhere.

As any freelancer will tell you, while you’re doing the current job you landed, you’re also always hunting for the next one. It’s scary, unpredictable, and exhausting.

That’s when one of the online writing groups I followed posted an ad for a “cultural lexicographer” to “Americanize” dictionary entries for a British publisher.

I had to take a test to see how well I could pick up on cultural and language differences in the definitions. Thanks to growing up in a multicultural town of immigrants, and my work for the British drug company, I passed with flying colors. That job went on for a couple of years and paid well. And I didn’t need to hire an attorney to get paid.

At the same time, a friend from the drug company I’d left started her own “IRB,” an independent review board that protected people in research studies. She wanted me to be on her board.

“Protecting people” appealed to me. And it tapped all my years of hospital and research lab work, my editing and pharmaceutical experiences, and my writing skills. It involved reviewing all the research materials to make sure the documents for any people in the studies were thorough, correct, and protected their rights.

It wasn’t writing the great American novel. It wasn’t the writing I’d dreamed of. But it paid the bills, and it let me mostly work from home before that was even a thing. That way, I could be there for my son. And for the next 10 years, it also gave me the privilege of protecting thousands of people in the hundreds of research studies I reviewed.

A first small, but huge victory

As far as my wish to write the great American novel, I kept trying to get articles published and kept taking correspondence and night courses. Sometimes I despaired of ever seeing my dream of being a writer come true.

But again, that iron rule – the kids come first. So take care of our son. Pay the bills. Work on the dream whenever I could fit it in.

One day, I tapped that well of deep sorrow I had felt while working full-time and having to leave my son in daycare in the mornings. I wrote all the things I felt in my heart. I wasn’t a bad Mom and yes, that was life. We had to work. He needed to be in daycare. But I had still hated it. So I penned a piece that became my first professional “clip” published in a local parenting newspaper.

It was small, but huge to me. It was a start. And it was enough to later get me assignments from Boys’ Life magazine.

I would also end up doing articles for a nature magazine published by the museum I would eventually work in. And somewhere in there, I self-published a book about my fifty years of visits to a place Ed and I loved, Colonial Williamsburg. But more on those two later.

For now, it was enough

For now, all of this was enough to keep paying the bills, helping our son catch up, and to feel like, yes, I was a writer. The “novel” could come later.

And it would have to anyway, because about that time, Ed’s job changed. That’s how the job market rolls. The years of “even-paced” positions came to an end. His new job came about when he took a risk and wrote a software book for the company he discovered. That led to a job offer that would become the next 11 years of drinking from a firehose…until Ed almost died. More on that later.

Hell of a ride

As to the job, Ed described the pressure as, “Working for a startup is like driving full-speed toward a brick wall, hoping that when you get to the wall, it moves.”

To give an idea of how close to the edge those companies ran, at his first startup job, they had only started offering health insurance to employees the month before he was hired.

Yet again, we were taking the gamble and rolling the dice. But that was the work that was available, and we weren’t rich. So again, we shifted who covered what. That’s what our teamwork in Bailey and Company was all about. And we dug in and held on for the next hell of a ride.

To give context

Just to give context, this was the same time we were struggling to hang on to our marriage and had just finished our marriage course. At the same time, we were trying to save our son’s future, look after my husband’s increasingly sick parents back in Connecticut… and wage battles with my father.

I will write more about my father as well, in a short bit.

For now, a bit about my own therapy and healing, especially in two problem areas — friendships with women…and God.

At the same time that we were learning how to save our marriage, the pressures of parenthood and jobs continued.

Know that “We are THERE”

As children, both my husband and I lived in emotional abandonment. We didn’t know that it was called that, but we knew its pain. Only later, in therapy, would we understand what it was. While we had our physical needs provided for us, our parents were emotionally absent or damaging.

So we were both fiercely determined that our son would never experience that. He could grow up to be one of those teens rolling his eyes later on because we were too loving, involved, embarrassing, or whatever. And we would be fine with that. But he would never grow up feeling ALONE.

Somewhere in that first year of parenthood, between the increasing illnesses of Ed’s parents and their needs, our son’s needs, and so many challenges barraging us, we made a permanent decision to only have one child.

While it would have been nice to give our son a sibling he could bond with and not be an only child, there are worse things in life. And having a sibling is no guarantee that they would be close. Sometimes the closest bonds are those we choose, not the ones born with us.

So our decision was, “Let’s try to do one child right.”

Looking back, it was absolutely the correct decision.

Bye-bye!!!

He loved fire trucks. On one of the many times his early daycare sent him home “sick” — which translated to “He was too active and they didn’t want to deal with him” — I sat him down with snacks and put on the old movie, the “Towering Inferno.” With tons of fire trucks everywhere, and Steve McQueen all decked out in fire gear, I figured that would be great.

And it was. Until I saw that scene coming on that I’d forgotten about, where Robert Wagner’s love interest is trapped, crashes out the window, and dives to her death. Horrified that he would see that and be scarred for life, I literally dove across the living room to try to change the channel, but I was too late. However, I shouldn’t have worried. My toddler son just thought she was “leaving the room,” waved his hand, and happily called out, “Bye-Bye!!!”

Another time, I was on the phone with the doctor, worried about my son’s 104-degree temperature. Ironically, as I spoke with the physician, I watched from across the room as my son leaped off the couch, yelling, “I am a fireman!” I rolled my eyes. If I’d had that same temperature, I would have just wanted you to take me out back and shoot me. That was life with my son.

Until I got him into a Montessori-based daycare, which was an absolute godsend, every daycare I used always sent him home with a “fever.” That’s because he was more than they wanted to deal with, and they knew that the law required that any child with a fever had to be sent home immediately. AND that child had to stay home for at least 24 more hours. It didn’t matter that EVERY TIME one of us went to pick him up, he suddenly no longer had the fever. He’d “had one earlier” that disappeared, so he still had to go home.

Of course, that happened the day we were set to move from our apartment in RTP into our new house. First, the movers showed up…with only one old guy and a hand truck. I called my husband at work, who said, “FIRE THEM! We’ll move ourselves!” I will admit, this gave me pause. But we were strong, so I fired them. However, I no sooner hung up from my husband’s call than I got one from the daycare. You guessed it. “He has a fever.”

We did manage it all. A couple of my husband’s co-workers came to help us. And as always, flexibility and creativity helped. I simply put our toddler son “in charge” of watching us carry boxes and furniture and telling us if we were doing it right. He was the “traffic cop.” He loved it. We survived the move.

Those hated “Workday Mornings”

As to “workday mornings,” I’ll share about job pressures next. But simply put, my son hated it when I was working full-time, especially when I worked at the pharmaceutical company. He said I was always grumpy and in a hurry. And he wasn’t wrong. I hated it, too.

At least by then, he was in the Montessori daycare. They took it as a personal challenge to engage and actively work with “kids who were ‘too much’ for regular daycares.” As the director told me, “If I sent him home because he was bored, I’m not doing my job!”

He was in the class with a middle-aged, “veteran” named Karen. I will be grateful to that woman until the day I die. She terrified all of us parents, but boy, could she manage that room full of toddlers with a mastery I am still in awe of. She is no longer with us, and may she be living her best eternity. She deserves it. My son loved her and visited her even through high school. Needless to say, if they sent him home sick, he really was.

But despite that helpful daycare change, I hated the corporate work I was doing. I hated the business trips. And I just couldn’t shake the sense that I was going in the wrong direction. I needed to be home with my son.

It didn’t help that at that time, Kenny Loggins redid a song from his earlier years about Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh. He called it “Return to Pooh Corner,” and the lyrics in that song would reduce me to tears…especially when he sang about watching his young son sleep and then about him choosing to return to Pooh Corner with his son. If EVER there was a message stabbing me in the gut to quit, THAT was the one.

The last straw

The last straw came when his early elementary teacher at the Montessori school came to me one day and said, “He can’t read…” And that was in spite of the fact that we read together every night.

Even worse, our son knew he was failing and was ashamed and depressed. That was it. Something had to change, or we would lose our son.

That damn water bottle

We sat across from the psychologist and waited for him to be ready to start our session.

5, 4, 3…I started counting down in my head. 2, 1, …and…there he went. Right on cue, the therapist reached across his desk, picked up his water bottle, and started fumbling with the top.

I closed my eyes for a moment as I felt my teeth grit and my jaw tighten. EVERY, DAMN, VISIT, it was the same thing. We’d sit there for several minutes, wasting precious time while he played with that damned water bottle. A glance at Ed told me he was equally fed up.

Well. If this was a marital therapy tactic to get us united about something, it was working. That was about the only thing that was working, though, in his therapy approach.

“If he played with that damned water bottle one more time, I was going to wrap it around his neck!”

I’m not sure which of us said it as we walked out the door. Frankly, we may have both said it at the same time. All we knew was that we were united in our conclusion that he was not our answer.

For that matter, neither was his women’s abuse survivors’ group, which he had referred me to. While it was helpful to see and hear the stories of other women who had suffered through sexual abuse or marital issues, something about the dynamic of the group was off.

The leader was “okay,” but not dynamic. And with no offense to anyone, it was a “Christian-based therapy” program. Having been raised Catholic, I didn’t initially consider that an issue, other than that I wasn’t feeling particularly close to God at that moment. So I would have preferred that we stick to psychology-based approaches.

Instead, I lost track of how many times the other members would comment on the value of someone or something based only on whether it was “Christian.” Exasperated, I finally just called them on it one night.

“What is it with all the ‘Christian judgment?’” I asked the group after yet another comment. “I was raised Catholic. That’s Christian. But you seem to have a different meaning for it.”

What I learned that night was that Catholic did not equal “Christian,” in their definition, and that anything or anyone who wasn’t “Christian” was an outsider. And by extension, my comment, which was not well-received, put me in that “outsider category.”

So between the therapist, his water bottle, and his women’s group, I despaired over how any of this was going to help our marriage or my own abuse healing.

The “mystical” choice

Back at work, which was a stressful place in itself as it was a fast-paced, high-pressure pharmaceutical company, I stewed over that meeting.

Turning from my desk, I remember grabbing the phone book – yes, this was the era, still, of printed telephone books. I flipped right to the yellow-page professional listings at the back of the book, to the “psychologist” listings. I had no idea who I was looking for or how in God’s name I would find the right person. I only knew the current ones were wrong for us.

I scanned the listings several times. Some were just a name and a number. Others had a quarter-page ad. How the hell would I find the right person?

I went up and down the list again and again. Suddenly, my eyes landed on a small block ad in the middle of the page. To this day, I have no idea why I stopped there. I just remember literally running my fingers over the ad, as if trying to “extract a gut sense” about that practice, from the page print itself.

It wasn’t a large ad with all kinds of services. Just a small one with a brief description. I looked one more time at the rest of the listings, yet I was still drawn back to that ad.

Shaking my head, I decided that this was one of those “pick-a-nipple” times, like the “bottle and nipple experiments” during my son’s infancy. As our family saying went, when you are confronted with too many choices, just pick one and use it.

That ad seemed inviting. So, that was it. I called them.

And from that “mystical moment” came a 10+ – year association that would be, as my husband describes it, “pivotal” to our marriage.

What I loved about our marriage

As this diagram of our early marriage shows, we had a really solid core of good things that bonded us. To borrow a metaphor from the Apollo 13 movie, we had a LOT on the “spacecraft” that was good.

The differences between us weren’t huge. We worked in different job fields. No biggie there. We had different personalities, approaches to things, natural talents, and acquired skills. Again, while those “could” be a problem for some, for us, those were more often than not “synergies.” Those differences made us stronger because where one of us was weak, the other was strong. We actually had a big selection of skills and abilities if you combined the “menu” from each of us.

The two biggest areas were sex and the MANY issues “outside” of our direct relationship that were bombarding us.

About the sex, that was the symptom or red flag. The real issues were less about the attraction or connection or frequency or whatever, but more about the “polarization.” And the polarization had two components: 1) We didn’t know how to communicate and resolve differences. We were both operating from assumptions instead of from who we were. 2) We were both totally unaware of the existence of something called “Family of Origin Issues” and just how much that was affecting our relationship.

Add to that mix the miscellaneous issues: We had no good relationship tools or role-modeling. We had no idea what was wrong. And no clue about possible solutions.

Then, to finish this stew off, add a hefty dose of the regular life stressors everyone faces – jobs, money, parenting, and no help or support system…and we were beyond stressed, exhausted, and desperate. It’s a wonder we were still as bonded as we were in many areas of our lives.

My “Will Robinson”

For one, faced with the barrage of obstacles, we still tried to come at it as a team. That sense was deeply ingrained in both of us. Marriage was about more than just me, or him, or sex, or any other component. It was about the “whole.”

Unrecognized and unspoken, but definitely there, was a drive to build something bigger than both of us. Our efforts to save our marriage were about the success of “Bailey and Co.,” not just one individual. So no matter whether it was a serious thing or a fun thing, we were always about being a team.

Here’s one example of “fun teamwork,” based on love and the willingness to support each other’s interests. My husband wanted a satellite dish so he could tap into the myriad of satellites out in space that could connect us to hundreds of channels from all over the world. This was before small home satellite dishes were a thing. For us to have a satellite dish meant installing one of those large dishes on a pole, right behind our house.

That required Ed to figure out the exact right angle for the dish to be held at so that it would face all the satellites in space at the correct angle. Once he figured that out, it meant installing an 8-foot pipe to hold the dish, 4 feet of which would be buried in concrete underground. That meant digging a 4-foot hole, then securing the pipe in place one evening after work with over 1000 pounds of concrete.

That involved hauling MANY bags of cement down into the yard, mixing up each one in a wheelbarrow, then pouring it into that hole…all without disturbing the angle of the pole. All of this had to be done after our son was in bed with the monitor outside so we could hear him. And then once that was done, on another day, we had to assemble and mount the dish on the pole.

And when I say “we,” I mean Ed and me. We could just afford the parts and all the electronics. We could not afford to have someone do the installation. But he was deeply excited about this. He was my best friend. And like so many things he was interested in, I found it fascinating. So it never even crossed my mind not to help him. Of course, we would do this together, and then he would teach me the intricacies of running it all.

Or another example is from a rare date night. On the rare occasions we would get a babysitter, we’d go out to dinner. Leaving the restaurant one particular evening, we were strolling back to the car when Ed noticed something about a car near us. The backup lights were unusual. With great excitement, he proceeded to describe to me just why they were different, how they worked, and why they were made that way.

Anyone else might have thought that was a weird way to spend a date. I LOVED it. Frankly, it was such a turn-on. In those moments, I just saw this pure-hearted, best friend of mine, passionately sharing with me something he found fascinating. It was his love of learning, which I shared, and was one of the things that drew me to him right from the start.

I just loved those moments and felt such love for him. And, he reminded me of my childhood crush on the TV character of Will Robinson in the show “Lost in Space.” I was IN LOVE with Billy Mumy, the young boy who played that part. His character, “Will Robinson,” was a young boy stuck on an alien planet in outer space with his family. They were unable to get back to Earth. Will was not only cute, but he was the consummate geek, knowing how to take apart the ray guns and fix all the electronics. And he was brave, adventurous, and honorable.

Ed was that character in spades. In those moments, I knew that aside from being my best friend and soulmate, he was my “Billy Mumy.” I had married my very own “Will Robinson,” and that attraction was heartfelt and powerful.

And he, in turn, loved to tease me about the “12-page typed itineraries” that I would draw up for any vacation we took. I would map out routes and 2 alternates in case of accidents. Again, this was before GPS units. So I would list every rest stop, mileages between things, route and exit numbers, hotels, restaurants, and all the places we would visit. He would just laugh. But he always knew I would have all the logistics covered, so he didn’t have to worry about a thing.

We had a lot we loved and shared. We had synergy and teamwork. So, no, I wasn’t giving up on this. We were going to crack this relationship problem. I refused to fail.

Enter PAIRS

PAIRS. “Practical Application of Intimate Relationship Skills.” It was a set of marriage classes that we took every weekend for 3 months. It was a struggle to arrange for babysitters, and it was expensive, but PAIRS saved our marriage.

It covered so many areas of relationship skills in depth. And over those months, while it would teach everything from how to disagree, tools to resolve issues, how to affirm each other, and personality types, to the ways people fight, and intimacy, it started with the very biggest source of our problems, that whole “Family of Origin” issue.

The class started by having each of us make a map – a multigenerational family tree. But it wasn’t just a list of names, birthdates, kids, parents, or grandparents, but also “issues.” Who was an alcoholic? A gambler. Was there physical abuse? Affairs? Suicides? Premature deaths? …Incest….

It was mind-blowing when we finished that exercise…. stepping back and seeing the level of dysfunction present. And not just in one person here or there, but multiple people…in multiple generations. Seeing the trail of brokenness and dysfunction all over my family map, seeing it THAT clearly, was almost chilling.

I suddenly realized just how deeply rooted those problems were all through my family tree. I saw a CYCLE of dysfunction that just kept playing out over and over and over, without stopping. In that moment, I realized that unless something different was done, it would just continue. And all that pain would reverberate down through future generations. And even if a specific issue didn’t show up in everyone, each person was still affected by what was going on in their family members. You couldn’t escape the effects even if you didn’t display a particular pathology. Is THIS what I wanted for my marriage? To teach my son????

In that moment, I knew I wanted a change….and so did Ed. Because he saw it too. In both of our families. In fact, it explains in some ways why people match up with the spouses they do. Something in the other person is recognized as “familiar,” and so you go to it. That is how people from abusive households sometimes end up in a series of abusive relationships. It’s what they grew up in and what they are familiar with. But unless you know it, it all operates under the surface and starts all over again. Like a parasite you don’t even know is there. Insidious.

For us, somehow, we avoided finding abusive partners. The things we recognized as familiar were the things that strongly bonded us. So that was good. And that exercise became the beginning of a road back to further bonding for Ed and me. All those classes, exercises, and tools were our pathways to healing the rift in our marriage. They gave us a framework for what a healthy relationship looked like and how it could operate. And all of those things saved our marriage.

It helped too that the same practice that offered these classes also had therapy support groups geared specifically for men or for women. It was the beginning of my also becoming aware of just how many issues I had with women, mothering, and friendships. More on that later.

Did it make a difference?

In looking at that early marriage diagram (on the left), and comparing it to one I did now (on the right), there is a big difference.

While we had a lot bonding us early on, we had a lot of challenges. And just an outside hope that therapy would save us.

Now, years later, it feels so much less “cluttered and under siege.” And so much more has been brought into our relationship circle as a strength.

For sure, the regular life stressors remain. And add to them now issues of health and aging.

There are things like “scars of PTSD,” emotional triggers to manage, and the pain from that past that will always be there. But the many Family of Origin issues we had many years ago, and their impacts that we had not been aware of, are gone…addressed by the acquired tools, and continued therapy over the years.

Also, where before there were no tools, no awareness, and no solutions, now the number of positive strengths in the “Bonded Core” circle has grown.

Regarding “differences,” those remain the same. Our personalities, skills, talents, and approaches still have their differences. And yes, that includes sex. But even that one has changed over the years, and so has our handling of them.

The view of using our differences as synergy is even stronger. Better communication has been a godsend. And life itself has played its role.

The demands of jobs, menopause, parent deaths, our own illnesses…life… has altered everything from desire to spirituality. What we do have now is a much more flexible and kind approach. Now those differences can be places for joy, creativity, and even humor. And frankly, humor about many things in life, especially as we age, is a great asset.

The bottom line for both of us now is that life and each of us is never perfect. We are always a work in progress. But it is a work filled with much love, more acceptance, and much gratitude for all we have survived and healed.

As to the healing, it continues, and always will. I still work with a trauma therapist for the things from that past that cause pain. I will write more on this shortly. But therapy has also been especially important as I write this book. And on occasion, we both work together with a therapist if we have questions or want guidance. At this point, we consider it the equivalent of seeing a doctor for an annual checkup to keep us healthy.

I think the Buddhists would call our approach the “Middle Path.” In Buddhism, they teach that often the best solutions to a problem are not with one person or the other, but somewhere in the middle, something that combines the best ideas from both, woven together into personalized answers. So we strive for that.

About Buddhism, I will also return soon to the subjects of God, religion, spirituality, and the journey of my soul through this. But first, coming next: “The Warrior Years – Parenthood.”

Before I resume writing the next entries, I want to share where I am at as I go through this process of digging up my past.

For sure, none of this has been easy. But, in speaking with a friend over coffee this morning, then reading an article that I quote from below, some things came clear to me about why I am glad to be doing this.

The “singing bowl”

Next to my writing desk, I have a Tibetan “singing bowl.” If you strike the bowl with the wooden mallet or run the mallet around the outside of the rim, you can produce various tones of sound. I particularly like to run the mallet around the rim, circling the outside of the bowl with a steady pressure because I love the sound it generates. It’s first subtle, barely heard, then slowly grows in intensity until I can feel it vibrating in my gut.

Why would I bother?

From an AI summary:

“Singing bowls are used to induce deep relaxation, reduce stress, and promote healing through sound and vibration. These metal instruments, with roots in Himalayan, Tibetan, and Nepalese traditions, create sustained, resonant tones that help calm the mind, improve focus during meditation, and lower blood pressure and heart rate.”

Now, whether you believe in this or not, it doesn’t matter. I can tell you that for me, I find that as those tones bore deep into me, they just seem to flush out the tension and stress I may be feeling. It clears my mind and lets me resume working.

What does the singing bowl have in common with my writing? Simply – that I require them for my continued healing.

About my writing, and why it matters

I have a responsibility to tell this story, first for me, but second, for anyone out there who might find help through reading it. AND, just as importantly, to give witness to those who lived in pain and maybe didn’t make it through to tell their own stories.

So, I can’t be afraid to write my story and put it out there.

To that end, if I lived it, I get to write it. If I write it, I get to sign it. If I speak about sharing one’s truths, I cannot run from mine or hide behind a pseudonym.

Others, including any extended family members, have a right to handle this story however they need to.

No one has a right to tell me not to speak mine.

No one has a right to my life story.

And after 70 + years of carrying it within, I’m tired. I just want to be heard, to be free of it, and be whole.

As I’ve written these entries, I could actually feel myself becoming “whole” – FINALLY. I have not been that way my entire life. There were always things “missing,” things hidden, and in the last few years, things screaming to me to listen to them. They gave me no peace.

As I continue to write, each earlier part of me feels relieved and grateful. I literally feel a sense of relief within me. All those parts have been voices screaming to be heard, seen, and honored.

Finally, as I write each part, it’s like each one in turn stops screaming, sits down, relaxes, and says thank you for coming back for me, for hearing me. And the death-grip that each of those parts has had on me all my life has suddenly relaxed and let go. I am free of it. It is like each has been a soldier fighting for recognition and the right to be heard. And as I write about each one, that one in turn, stands down…FINALLY, as if they know that THEIR DUTY IS DONE.

Until now, the need to have things, talismans, objects from my past, out on display in my house has ALWAYS been intense and unquestionable. Now, there is a sense of calm, and an awareness that I can put them away.

Because that part has been written about, because its story is now captured on paper and put into a “coherent” whole, those parts of me feel heard, and know they will not be forgotten anymore.

WHY we need our stories:

Author K.M. Weiland, in her article, “Story as Cosmology: Understanding Story as a Framework for Meaning,” just NAILS the answer. In it, she explores how to write a story that truly resonates with the reader and rings true to life.

She defines “cosmology” as a “theoretical structure about the nature of existence…a framework of meaning, orientation, and context for our lives.”

I was intrigued because this all sounded very mystical to me. Especially as it related to telling a good story. So I read on.

In part of her article, she quoted from Christina Pratt’s seminar on cosmology when telling a story:

Cosmology:

• Is a framework that explains reality
• Defines what matters
• Explains how change happens
• Reveals where meaning comes from
• Shows how a person orients within chaos

She adds that a healthy cosmology is “coherent, relational, and growth-oriented,” while a broken cosmology “produces fragmentation, dissonance, or collapse.”

Fragmentation and dissonance have been with me my whole life. That’s part of what I am striving to heal.

In reading those five bullet points, I realized they ARE the reasons for anyone to write a memoir. And as to that last sentence about needing a healthy cosmology for a sound story, HOW MUCH MORE TRUE IS THIS FOR THE STORY OF YOUR LIFE?!

Weiland goes on to add:

“Any understanding of life is first and foremost a story…Our personal stories…tell us who we are…shape our understanding not just of the world but our own PERSONAL IDENTITIES.”

All my life, I have been searching for who I am, what I am, what the meaning of all that chaos is, and what to do with it. So IDENTITY was something I related to immediately.

She finished with:

“Story…provides the underlying structure required to help us create meaning…the structure of Story itself is nothing more or less than the archetypal recurring of:

• Crisis
• Choice
• Sacrifice
• Transformation

Story…is, by its very nature, a map of transformation.”

And that final word – TRANSFORMATION – is what I seek. It is not enough to tell the story. It is also necessary for me to find its meaning and then, by extension, its directive to me for where to go in the future.

So, just as my “aside” for this moment in my journey, I just wanted to say that I can feel it happening. I am not through the entire draft yet. But I CAN feel it happening already….

Now, back to the story.

The words from then, and now:

For this entry, I will let the words of my journal from that time and observations from now tell the story.

September 5, 1995

We had been seeing a counselor for some time….my husband and I were locked into a struggle we didn’t understand. We sensed there was something going on underneath the obvious issues, but it was elusive and hard to see…

In looking back, the biggest place of conflict usually came up around sex. I wanted it, he didn’t. Which isn’t totally true. I suspect that in most couples, there is no doubt one who is more interested than the other, and they work it out.

But at that point, I just couldn’t understand that. Men were always supposed to want it. After all, looking back, my father was always after me. Here we were, husband and wife, in a healthy place for sex, and yet my husband WASN’T pursuing me. What was wrong? If he didn’t, then that meant he didn’t love me. And by extension, I was no good. So I tried more creative approaches, more focus on methods…everything, and all it did was polarize us more.

What I can understand now is that sex wasn’t the problem. It was the symptom of something else driving it all, and actually driving us apart.

Having been abused all those years, the one message that I had internalized without realizing it was that the most important measure of “love” was sex. And so, by extension, the most important thing in a relationship had to be sex. So I pursued it, reveled in the fact I finally had a “normal,” marital relationship, and I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to always make sure that was paramount in our attention.

To him, it felt obsessive. Where he saw a myriad of ways to be connected emotionally, I was just focused on one. In fact, he complained one time that trying to connect gently and offer a “mothering” love to me was like trying to “mother a porcupine.”

I couldn’t understand. I was offering total sensuality. He wanted that “feminine,” emotional connection. To me, raised to disparage the feminine and honor only the “masculine,” I interpreted his reactions as disinterest and thus, a rejection of me. All I wanted was to finally revel in a regular, appropriate sexual connection. And he wanted…emotion?

This is not to say that all of the problem was on my side. And he will admit that it wasn’t. In any seemingly intractable problem, both bring something to the equation. But it was a knot that just kept binding tighter and tighter. Both of us were hurting, frantic, angry, and clueless as to how to fix things:

The fight was the build-up of several weeks of tensions…we knew we had issues, we were “working” on them, and at some magic time in the future, all would be well, though the “how” it would get well was some mystery shrouded in fog…We just assumed that one morning, it would “happen.”

Instead, one supper time, we nearly parted ways for good. He questioned if we could get through this, and maybe it would be better if he just left. He was angry, frightened, and agonized.

Terror shot through me when I heard him question if we shouldn’t just give it up. It seemed to me we were so close, and if he would just hang in there and chip away at his issues, we would finally get past this…

But right now I was scared to death. The idea of having him actually leave and not come back made my stomach knot, and I was almost nauseated. My insides were literally shaking – I couldn’t conceive of life without him. I knew this was wrong. He was my soulmate.

As an aside, I will note two things before continuing. First, the fact that I considered this all HIS issues demonstrates my own lack of awareness of what MY issues were bringing to this problem. And second, despite that, I *was* deeply committed to making this work. I BELIEVED in us and that we were supposed to be together, even as I had no idea how to fix things. It may have taken me a long time when we first got together to let him in behind my walls. Once I did, once I committed to him, it was for good, and I didn’t want to give up.

To continue with that night:

He was angry at me, angry at himself, ready to give up. He had his men’s therapy group to attend, but as he was leaving, he seemed beaten, ready to quit. At that moment, our son started in on him for something, and that was the last straw. Ed raged out to the car. I followed:

“Are you coming home?”

“I don’t know anymore. I’m not sure.”

With that, he left for his meeting.

Back inside, our son was glued to his TV show. I was crumbling rapidly into a million pieces. I felt terrified, empty, angry, sure it was over, and was consumed by a tremendous wall of dark emotions. I wanted to call someone, but there was no one. Who could help? Not my family. Not any friends. I NEEDED a mom who could hold me, guide me, love me, help me feel safe, and instruct me as to how to proceed. But I had no one. Instead, my insides roiled, terror mounted, and I couldn’t think…it was like mental tetany – so many thoughts going so fast, everything seized up and froze.

I went to my room where I could pound on the bed, and wail, and my son couldn’t hear. As I pounded on the bed, crying, I demanded that the Universe tell me why this was happening. I didn’t want to lose the best friend I had in life, and the best thing that ever happened to me. Our marriage was meant to be, of that I was certain. Yet it was going down the tubes, and I felt helpless to stop it.

I pounded out every last drop of fear and rage until nothing was left but a feeling…a tremendous, empty giant hole in my soul, a horrendous, huge sense of “alone” and sadness, and I started to sob. Wrenching sobs that came from deep within my gut, and just kept pouring out.

Finally, it quieted. I went over to my dresser, where I kept this picture of “God” that I always found gentle and comforting. Don’t ask me why I had it. I was so angry at God. How do you relate to a deity you begged to save you from the abuse, and got no answer? I hadn’t gone to church in a long time. And I rarely ever even spoke to God anymore. Yet I still hung on to this picture. The only one I’d ever seen of God looking caring and soft.

I went over to the picture and just started yelling at God.

“What do I do now, God?! And don’t give me some subtle signal!!! I want a g-ddamn BURNING BUSH!!!!

As a side note, a friend, when I shared my outburst, looked horrified and said “You talked to God like that?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, I answered, “I think that the God of the Universe is strong enough to hear one tiny human yelling at Him.” And I let it all out that day.

I yelled to God about how much I hated Him. And why hadn’t He ever answered my prayers through all those long, lonely, awful years of abuse and humiliation? Why did He let my spirit get killed? And now, when I finally had a good man, and a chance for happiness, WHY WAS HE NOT HELPING?!

That’s when Mary stepped in.

In my sorrow, it finally came clear that all those years, I’d had no mom. I still didn’t. And what I craved more than anything at that very moment was a mom who could hold me in her arms, love me fully, unconditionally, and with strength that would keep me safe. Yes…FEMININE strength, not Dad’s kind, that would make me whole and reassure me that to be soft, vulnerable, feminine, wasn’t weak or stupid, but took guts and strength. ANYONE can be macho. Few have enough guts to feel their feelings and risk being soft.

I sobbed and finally begged Mary to be my mom. To please come hold me, make me safe, like I’d never been safe or loved in my life.

“Please teach me how to change, help me, and love me, and help me save my marriage. I don’t want to lose my husband or our marriage. They are the biggest gifts of my life….PLEASE….”

And she came.

Quietly, softly, probably as she’d always wanted to do, but couldn’t until I asked….she needed to be allowed close. I closed my eyes and saw myself being comforted in her arms, being reassured I was good, I was worth being mothered and cared for. I was filled with a sense of safety and peace. She whispered it would be alright, then told me to get on the phone and call my husband at the men’s group.

I wasn’t sure what to say, but she gave me the words when he came on the line:

“I love you. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. I want to make this work. Please, PLEASE come home.”

I told him how much I’d felt the lack of any female contact or help in my life, but I would join a women’s group, or whatever it took. Bonding weekend, whatever.

It didn’t turn around right away. We had an even worse time the next week when things erupted again, and this time he stormed out of the house, into the car, and peeled out of the yard. This time, I didn’t call his group because this time I knew it was his battle to work out, and he had to make the choice to stay, himself. I couldn’t beg.

But I went back to Mary for help, to hold me, and help me say the right things. I told her I wanted her son’s help, but couldn’t go to Him. God, being male (my view at the time), was just too much for me to approach Him. No more male. So I asked her to help me, and poured out my angers, fears, and terrors to her. She listened, didn’t say much. But I felt her presence and help.

When Ed returned later, he was a transformed man. He had embraced a power within him. He told me he was doing his work at his own pace and wouldn’t tolerate any pressure from me. If I didn’t like that, it was too bad.

He seemed surprised when I congratulated him for standing up for what he wanted. I told him I supported him. We were able to talk things out. That night was finally a turning point.

After that, I joined a women’s therapy group, and… I kept talking to Mary. I even started saying a rosary now and then. It had been years. And where it was always done as an obligation in church or school, now, it was almost a “meditation.” I had a mother again. It was a way to talk to her.

Again, a side note. While I am no longer Catholic, I will note that many spiritual paths have a form of “Mother or Compassion goddess.” For Catholics, that is Mary. And she was the anchoring figure for me, those early years when I would go to Saturday confessions. So it made sense for me to reach out to her in my adult despair. Though I didn’t know it at the time, that image of a compassionate mother would revisit me in a new way, very soon.

For now, we had work to do to bring this crisis back from the edge, and a pivotal way presented itself about this same time.