Just Built Different

There is a mantra that those in their late teens, and early twenties like to currently throw around. It is, "Nah. I'm just built different." This last week and maybe for the last couple of decades, this seems to be a pretty good description of me, my life, and my view of the world. When I compare myself, from my beliefs to how I do things, sometimes even in my own home, I legitimately feel like I am a completely different being from most of those around me. 

Okay, maybe this sounds a bit dramatic, but the fact is, anymore when I give my opinion (solicited or otherwise), share my beliefs, or even when I just converse with others, it is very hard to wrap my head around the vast differences that become glaringly evident. Even when I really try to understand the thought processes of others, and how they might possibly get from point A to point Z in their beliefs, I am often left baffled and wondering if we are even living on the same planet. 

A perfect example of my "built different" theory is never more plain than when I see a "Karen" video or really any video where someone's first thought is to video rather than take action. I have no understanding of any person who makes it their mission in life to dominate, overtalk, or demand that others cater to their wants without regard for anyone else, or for those who just wish to dictate, direct, and decimate when things don't go their way. What is more, Karens are not limited nor is any one sex, ethnicity, country, or age group free from this diseased personality. My only question though is why? 

When did we as a world decide that we would allow another human being to stand in front of us and cuss us or anyone else out and do nothing more than pull out our phones and videotape? When did disrespect over a business's rules, a messed up fast food order, or someone taking a parking space, become acceptable behavior? When did businesses, airlines, and fast food workers decide that they can discriminate on any level for any reason and belittle, deny service, and spew hate to customers, not for business reasons such as theft or true abuse, but merely for personal reasons, such as complaining about bad service or a wrong order? Did we all lose our minds and forget that we are all human, we are all going through something, and that kindness goes a lot further than nastiness and egging on an already volatile situation? Also have businesses big and small, forgotten that customer service is a real thing and without customers, you have no business? 

When it comes to people who feel entitled to discriminate without reason, scream obscenities without a filter, and try to push their will and agenda ahead of others, I simply don't get it and I certainly don't get that to many, the first reaction to viewing one of these situations is to be pulling out a phone and capturing the moment on video. I am definitely built different. 

This also goes for seeing someone hurting someone else, either physically or verbally. My first reaction in such a situation is certainly not going to be to pull out my phone. My first reaction would be to step in and say or do something. In my humble opinion, many people who are the aggressors in these situations do it so openly for one basic reason. Because they can! They know that most people aren't going to do anything more than watch and record and they don't give two figs if their picture is posted all over YouTube and TikTok. In fact, for many of these narcissistic personalities, this is modern-day street cred. However, if someone steps up and steps in, often like most bullies, they will at the very least back off a bit, and sometimes, because they are confronted, will stop altogether. 

In this weird world and time we live in, we seem to forget the power that we actually hold in these situations. In many cases, all it takes is for one person to step up and that alone will break the grab my phone and video societal trance we seem to gravitate towards, and others too may follow suit and step up. There is strength in numbers, but even one person taking a stand against a bully or an abuser, can change the course of events and maybe even save someone. 

Here is the sad thing though. I said this exact same thing to someone the other day and they looked at me as if  I might need committal papers. I was told that you can't get involved with situations like this. It's too dangerous and it's not my business anyway. WTF??? First of all, it's no more dangerous for me than it is for the person being abused, and two, my involvement was forced the moment the abuse happened in front of me. What is wrong with people? Have we lost our sense of right and wrong and most of all, our humanity? Yep. I'm built different. 

Recently a poll was taken, asking moms if they would put their lives on the line for their kids and even willingly die for their kids in a desperate situation. Do you know that an astounding number of mothers had to think about this question before answering, and some even openly stated that they would not in fact put their children's lives above their own in a desperate situation. I was literally stunned. Now of course, none of us knows how we would actually react in a situation where life, death, and seconds counted, but I would really like to think that if my children, or any child for that matter, were involved,  I would put their lives above my own and do my best to make sure that they came out of the situation safely. To even question whether I would do everything I could to save them or not, is unbelievable to me.....so again.....built different. 

This last week, I had several people question my beliefs on and my handling of death. As many of you know, my brother passed away last week after a long battle with cancer. What I learned, or maybe already knew but the point was driven home further is that all deaths and grieving processes are not created equal. It is different losing a parent from a spouse or a child from a sibling. How they die, whether it is sudden or a prolonged process also affects how it is handled and processed, but one thing is definite, regardless of preparation, you never know how it will hit you until the moment it happens. 

The absolute sadness I felt as I stood there knowing that my brother was gone and that our last conversation, was indeed our last conversation and where we had left our relationship is where it would stay, hit me so profoundly that it was like getting sucker punched and having all the air leave my body. 

As siblings we had spent a lifetime of both closeness and estrangement and to my disbelief, my grief was questioned by a couple of people who were simply mere acquaintances and really didn't know either my brother or I. Luckily I am of an age that I felt no need to justify or explain my emotions, nor I am sure, could I, even if I had wanted to. My question though, who is so bereft of human compassion that they would feel that my grief was their business or their right to judge?

To further cause me to create an impassible boundary with non-essential humans in my life, my actions and reactions following my brother's death and about death, in general, were brought into question. The fact that I chose to remember humorous and funny moments and share them with a smile and even laughter was found suspect, as well as my belief that my brother and I have not said good-bye, but merely until we see each other again. This seems to have caused a bit of a stir among those who strongly believe that death is the end. It has even been suggested that I live in a delusional world of fairytales where I see death as a beginning and very much plan on seeing not only my brother but all I have lost, at some point in the future. 

To all of this though, I have to wonder, why does anyone care about my grief and how I handle it or my belief system where death is concerned? How does this become anyone else's business and why would anyone feel the need to chime in their unsolicited opinions about any of it? Why does any of it matter to anyone but me? I would never think it my business or my place to tell anyone how to grieve, how to process or how to believe in such a situation, and yet apparently people have gotten so comfortable in judging and throwing their opinions wherever they choose, that they feel it is their right and privilege to do so. NO! I am apparently just built different. 

Okay, so this was a bit all over the place, not unlike my emotions and the activity of this last week. Perhaps you will have to cut me some rather generous slack this week and try really hard to follow the dots that connect my own point A to point Z. I guess this is part of the joy of coming along for the ride in this blog. You are apparently going to get all the feels and messiness that go with it all. 

I have been in a weird place this last week and this is where I come to dump it all. Next time we will head back to the past again where I am a little more sure-footed and more pragmatic than emotional, but for today, the here and now is where my emotional wounds are oozing (sorry for the visual), and hopefully, the healing is just beginning.  And....if you have stuck with me through this entire ride, maybe like me, you are just built different too. 

Until next time........

Andy

 

On March 14, 1969, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby boy fought his way into this world. I say fought because that is exactly what he did. During the epidural before his birth, it malfunctioned medically, and instead of numbing where it was supposed to numb Mom, it numbed her all the way to her neck. This situation put both Mom and baby in danger. Once this was corrected, the baby came into this world blue with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. Soon though, after some quick and diligent work, the sounds of the baby's cry could be heard throughout the delivery room to the great relief of my mother. This baby was Andrew (Andy) Robert Jacques....my little brother. 

What none of us could have known that day is that coming into this world was just one of the many battles Andy would fight in his life and how he would affect the world and change lives in the years to come. 

Andy's first year of life was not an easy one. He was born at a time when the medical community felt breastfeeding was not a benefit to the mother or child. Thus, he was thrown into a world of formula and none of it could his body handle. He was literally allergic to every formula that was on the market which put his ability to gain weight and thrive at great risk. Luckily, Mom, after much trial and error came up with a homemade formula that Andy's tiny body would tolerate and soon his battle to thrive and survive was won. 

After Andy learned to walk, Mom soon discovered that Andy began tripping and falling as his right foot began to turn in. For whatever reason, on taking him to the doctor, the first conclusion jumped to was the possibility of bone cancer. Mom had many sleepless nights as Andy was tested for the dreaded "C" word, but soon it was believed that Andy's foot just turned in and he was then put into a pair of heavy brown corrective shoes. They helped some, but Andy hated them and cried every time he had to wear them. 

About this time, we went to live with my aunt for a while who was a nurse and she told Mom to take off that awful shoe, to let him run barefoot as much as possible, and to buy him a pair of cowboy boots. Now, I don't know if these commands came from her nursing education or were simply common sense beliefs, but Mom did as she was told. Off came the shoes and Andy soon had a spiffy pair of red cowboy boots. Within a couple of months, Andy was walking fine and another battle had been fought and won. 

As Andy grew, so did his imagination and humor. He loved to make people laugh and he was about two when he learned he could capture an audience and make them laugh. At that point in his life, westerns were big-time TV fare and we had watched a show where someone had died and all the cowboys took off their hats and cried. This somehow stuck with Andy, so he would put on his red boots and he had a red cowboy hat and then he would get Mom or I to say, "They are dead. Now take off your hat and cry." Of course, we would and he would then dramatically fall to his knees, pull his hat off put it over his heart, and pretend to cry like he was auditioning for his big break in TV. To his delight, each and every time, we would laugh so hard over his dramatics, and in those early moments, we helped to cultivate his love for humor and making others laugh. 

Andy's imagination knew no bounds and some of his happiest moments as a child were spent with nothing but big cardboard boxes and his own brain. He could make that box a house, a castle, a spaceship, or his favorite.....a race car, in which he would ride down the stairs when Mom wasn't looking. He also had a thing about taking every single toy he had out of his playroom and relocating it to the den in a big pile. Once his playroom was completely empty, he would then take all the toys and put them back exactly where they went. I never understood this, but it seemed to make him very happy and so proud when the task was completed. 

One of the things that always amazed me about Andy was that he was always a genuinely good child. Before he came along, and even at times after, my mother had worn out ping pong paddles, hairbrushes, and switches on my naughty little backside, but with Andy, that was never necessary. If Mom told me to do something, it was a 50/50 bet whether it would ever be accomplished, but with him, it was done immediately without a complaint. I think he only got spanked one time in his life and that was when he ran out in front of a car and almost got hit. Even then though, it was traumatic for both him and Mom and I think she cried as hard as he did. 

As Andy grew older, his ability to tell a story and hone his humor grew also. He also learned to master voices and did pretty good imitations of actors and characters. One of his best was the late great Jack Benny. When the resurgence of old-time reruns came into fashion, the Jack Benny Show was one of them and Andy dearly loved the show and spent his days getting Jack Benny's vocal and physical actions down to an art. He would then spend his time making Mom and me laugh as he would just out of nowhere become Mr. Benny. He would integrate it into a conversation at just the perfect time without missing a beat or cracking a smile. It never failed to crack me up which always made him smile. 

When Andy was 13, his world was turned upside down. I was at college and on Halloween, Mom fell off a ladder and broke her leg, ankle, and foot. It was so badly broken that they couldn't even cast it, and the doctor felt that she would likely be "bedridden" (his words) for the rest of her life. For whatever reason, Mom didn't let me know what happened (she didn't want me coming home from college I guess), so Andy was left to take care of her. He had to take over the laundry, shopping, helping her before and after school, and still go to school and do his homework. True to form, he managed, but maybe with just the teeniest bit of resentment. 

Mom later told me that she had a portable toilet in her room and in the morning before school, Andy would put it by her bed and then when he got home he would dispose of it. Well, the whole being 13 and a caretaker thing was starting to wear on him and one morning he was mad at Mom so rather than move it by the bed, he moved the toilet out of the room and left. Mom said at first she was a little upset, but then the more she thought about it, she started to laugh. She said she spent the entire day laughing and chuckling over Andy's one and only defiant act in a huge sea of caregiving. It was that day that Mom decided that she was done laying in bed and that she was going to walk again.....and she did.....in record time. To this day it makes me equal parts laugh and feel great compassion for what Andy went through back then. 

As Andy grew older, he developed some lifelong loves. He loved fishing and camping which my dad cultivated in him. He loved art, music, photography, the holidays, and Star Wars. 

He loved bands like Styx, Toto, and Night Ranger and later down the line, he got a side job using his love of photography, to take photos at the Coliseum of different bands that came to town. His love of photography started in high school and stayed in his life in some form until the end. 

In high school and college, Andy's art became a passion with him. He loved to paint in oils and acrylics, along with turning his photography into art. In college he even had his work displayed in some art shows. I always was amazed at his skill and his ability to see things with his artistic eye that most of us miss in everyday life. 

In Andy's high school years, he felt the typical struggle of trying to find his place and where he fit in. In his eyes, he always felt like a bit of the odd man out, but looking back, he did fit in, he just didn't realize it. He always had friends and for the most part, was liked by everyone. In fact, several of the friends he made in his early years, became lifelong friends. His art and photography gave him places on the yearbook staff and his dedication to studying made him a much better student than I ever was. 

While high school may not have left Andy feeling at his highest comfort level, college is where Andy came into himself. In his college years, he expanded on the things he loved, grew a lasting friend base, gained new experiences, and ultimately found the love of his life, Gail. In fact, the first time Mom and I met Gail, we both said the same thing, she is Andy's perfect match. 

Andy and Gail were introduced by a teacher they mutually had. I know for a fact that Andy was head over heels from day one and soon they were talking marriage. On June 6, 1992, Andy and Gail began a 31-year marriage that would allow them many adventures and experiences, not to mention they would have a son, who would be the joy of Andy's life. 

After Andy and Gail had been married for sixteen years, they had remained childless, and having a child was a dream they both wanted. That dream was made a reality when they adopted their son Ayden. He was adopted as a newborn and only today did I hear the complete story of how the adoption came about. It was a true God stepped-in story where He put the right people in the right place at the right time. 

As a dad, Andy was one of the best. Before Ayden, he had some practice with my boys, but having his own son brought Andy to life. As a family, they traveled a bit, and Andy shared his love of fishing, camping, and hiking with Ayden. He also became very active in Boy Scouts being a leader and helping Ayden continue to cultivate a love for the outdoors and all that being a Boy Scout entails. 

Once out of college, Andy and Gail lived in Salina, then Colorado (a place he truly loved) and then they moved back to Wichita where they stayed. Andy went to work as a web designer for Butler County Community College and stayed their 25 years until his retirement. During this time, Andy and Gail also had their own business, Jacques Designs, where they designed websites for different businesses. 

In 2017, Andy was diagnosed with colon cancer. He knew that cancer would be likely in his lifetime as he carried the Lynch Syndrome gene that our mother had. As her children, we each had a 50% chance of having the gene which meant not "if" we would get cancer but "when" we would get cancer. After testing for the gene, I didn't have it, but Andy did. 

After the original diagnosis, he ended up having colon cancer twice and the second time resulted in him losing most of his colon. He then had bladder cancer twice and the second time he lost his bladder. He got it a third time too as he got bladder cancer where his bladder had been. He also had kidney cancer twice and most recently he was diagnosed with lung and bone cancer. They were all primary cancers which is pretty typical of the LS gene. Along with the cancer diagnosis came numerous surgeries and treatments from chemo to radiation and immunotherapy. In some cases, the treatments were harder on him than the disease itself. From the treatments, he developed non-alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver, diabetes, scoliosis, and osteoporosis, not to mention a broken hip socket. Through all of this though, he rarely complained. 

Andy's life over the last six years has been stress of diagnosis, doctors, trips to KC and Houston, surgeries, infections, and many many hospital stays. Through all of this though, he tried to work until he simply couldn't, he tried to keep up Boys Scouts and he fought like it was his job. He never gave up hope and he did his best to keep as much normalcy in their lives as he possibly could. 

As children, Andy and I were very close. As adults, circumstances and situations drew us apart and we lost the bond that we had created as kids. In the last couple of years though, we opened up communication again and we were able to have long talks and get to know each other. He began to call me more after he retired and we would talk about the present and reminisce over our mutual past. I caught up on his life and he caught up on mine. I would ask him honest and pointed questions about his illness and he gave me honest answers, and through this, I saw my brother for who he really was. 

If you listen to those who knew Andy, friends, family, and business associates, the first thing they will always comment on is his sense of humor. He loved a good joke and nothing tickled him more than to catch someone off guard with an inappropriate or even scathingly funny comment. Often his funniest moments were when humor wasn't expected such as at church or a funeral. I have a bit of him in me and in the last couple of days, I have thought of some pretty inappropriate comments myself, that would scandalize most people but would have Andy rolling. Wish he were here to hear them. 

Words to describe Andy's humor that I have heard have been shocking, inappropriate, hysterical, unexpected, and wicked to name a few and to that, I say....yes. His humor was all that and more. 

Andy has also been described as a mentor, kind, generous with his time, a great dad, husband, and friend. His skill with web design and photography has been praised and apparently, he was pretty proficient with sending the late-night meme. 

In the last few days, I have done nothing but go over my lifetime with Andy. I have deep-dived into my memories of our childhood and psycho-analyzed our adult years. Mostly though, I have been so grateful for the last year. I am grateful for the phone conversations, and the texts, and that I had the ability to tell him what he meant to me and how much I truly loved him. I am grateful he got to meet my grandkids and that we got to talk about all the people and things he loved. I am grateful he called and wanted to talk and that he would talk to me about some of the hard stuff. I am grateful that I really got to know my brother. 

So yes, Andy was an artist with an artist's eye and imagination. He was a photographer, a web designer, a lover of fishing and camping, a Boy Scout leader, a traveler, and a lover of Christmas, Halloween, and fireworks. He was a little boy who rode cardboard boxes down the stairs when Mom wasn't watching, and who had finger gun fights with me every day for a year. He loved Star Wars, decorating for holidays,  and 80's music. He was a good son who loved, took care of, and missed his parents. He was a good dad, husband, and friend.....and he was my brother. And what I have learned recently is that he was also the strongest person I have ever known, beating back cancer time and again and fighting to stay with his family for as long as he could. He was a man of great faith, understanding that God's plan is not always ours and yet continuing to go along for the ride without question. He was the greatest fighter I have ever known and through it all, he kept his sense of humor and tried his hardest to be as little "burden" as he could be for those around him. 

In the last year, my little brother has taught me so much about the struggle of living and the grace of dying. I also am acutely aware that because of Andy's cancer, he touched so many lives he might not have otherwise touched. There was so much purpose in his life and even in his illness, and I have no doubt that God worked through him to change lives. Andy definitely changed mine and through it all,  he became my hero. 

On Nov. 20, 2023, Andy's last fight ended. He left this world peacefully and quietly with Gail by his side. He had accomplished all God had laid out for him and I have no doubt that my parents, his dogs, my husband, my daughter, and a myriad of other family and friends greeted him on his arrival to heaven. In fact, I bet he attended a birthday party or two also. 

As I sit here, my heart breaks writing this as I mourn his loss, but it also swells with pride knowing that I am the only one who can claim.....Andy was my brother. 

Rest dear Andy. Your journey is complete.

The Horrible House

 

I have to laugh. I do listen to what people say as far as my blogging goes. Sometimes I politely smile and say, "Now that is an interesting idea," while other times I try to actually implement what is suggested. Recently I have been implementing, only to get told last week that my blog was a little darker than expected. Really? 

They were referring to the part about my actual life. I was rather shocked, as my life was like a day at Disneyland compared to many other people's lives. What were you all expecting? Did you think my life was special and I sprouted from daffodils and breathed sunshine and light breezes during my young life? Well, you would be wrong. So if last week felt a little too grey for you, then this week might really throw you off and make you look at me through different eyes. Sorry. Not sorry. It just simply is what it is. 

The first house my mom, dad (step-dad), and I lived in, was an "L" shaped ranch style house that sat less than a block from my grade school. It had three bedrooms, one and a half baths, a living room, a den, a galley kitchen, and a small dinette area. The half bath attached to the master bedroom which by today's standards was just an average bedroom and the half bath which had no tub or shower, held the washer/dryer hookups and doubled as our laundry room. The house also had a rather large front patio enclosed by a bricked fence and a huge backyard, surrounded by large cedar trees. The large living room was supposed to be a formal living room complete with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the backyard. My parents didn't have nearly enough furniture to fill such a spacious room, but as both of my parents were antique collectors, we did have a turn-of-the-century sofa, a Lincoln rocker, and a small, 1920s sewing rocker in the room. The rest became my brother's play area and toy room after he was born. 

To say I HATED this house, even as a young child, was an understatement. Looking back, I think the reason I had such strong feelings about it was because of the emotional trauma I felt living there, but in all fairness, the house itself did not help. 

Now some might say, that because of all the turmoil in my house, Dad leaving, Mom pregnant and sick, and me feeling like an afterthought, this might have contributed to my negative feelings in that house, and they would likely be right. It might also be believed that I fed off the feelings of my mom, however, I never particularly was conscious of my mom's feelings on the house until we had long moved away and then she let me know that she hated it as much as I did. So now I wonder, were some of my emotional situations coming from feeding off her feelings? Quite possibly, but some were uniquely my own too. 

I am sure that some of my harsh feelings towards the house were because of my dad's constant comings and goings. Now in my recollection, I never once ever remember my parents fighting in that house. Obviously, they did, but they never made me aware of it. Because of this, it made it just that much easier for me to believe that his leaving had to do with me and me alone. The coat closet by the front door was the bain of my young existence. My dad wore suits to work, and this is where he kept his suit jackets. When my dad was staying with us, the closet was full, but when he was gone, it was empty. I learned early on to check that closet daily, in order to know what his home status was. 

I was also too young at the time to know about his girlfriend, so I always thought he was staying with my grandparents. That illusion though was shattered when I was about eight, and Mom, myself, and my brother were driving to the store and we pulled up right next to my dad and his girlfriend at a stop light. My poor mom had a lot of explaining to do that day, as my dad refused to acknowledge that he even saw us, although he looked right at us, and of course, I never asked him about the situation, only Mom. 

One of the traumas I suffered not in the house but directly related to the house, happened when I was about six. It was a cold, grey winter day and I had been held after school for some reason. When I finally headed out for home, the street was basically empty. I always walked the block to and from school, as my mom had a newborn, and most kids in the area also walked. As I was walking towards my home, on the opposite side of the street, I saw a car parked with the engine running but facing the wrong way for that side of the street. He was facing the direction that I was walking. As I had gotten down a ways from the school's front doors, the car slowly pulled away from the other side of the street and started coming directly toward me. I noticed that his passenger window was down and I wondered why on such a cold day. The strange thing is though, I no longer know what the man looked like. I remember at the time thinking he was older, but to a six-year-old, older could be twenty or fifty. 

In the minutes that followed, the man tried to get me to come to his car, speaking to me through his rolled down window and trying to coax me with the warmth of his car. I began to run and darted in front of his car (not a great move) screaming to the top of my lungs for my mom. Luckily my lungs were strong and my screams were piercing on this cold afternoon as it carried straight to my mom who was waiting at the front door to get a glimpse of me. The man in the car pulled to the other side of the street trying to follow me and obviously having no idea how close to home I was. His driver's side window was also rolled down as he kept saying, "Little girl. I just want to give you a ride. Little girl, I'll take you to your mommy." 

It was just about then that my mom came out and stood in the front yard. The sight of her was such a relief as I ran directly into her arms and the man gunned his motor and sped down the street and past my waiting mom. 

Long story short, I was not this guy's only attempt at child abduction that day. After leaving us, he went to a grocery store parking lot a few blocks away and tried to grab a child walking with his mom to the car. The mom turned just in time to see him. Whether he was caught or not, I am not sure, but he left a lasting impression of stranger danger instilled in me, as well as more reason to hate my current surroundings. 

Another situation that caused me lasting trauma, happened in my own backyard. It was here that I was molested by an older neighborhood boy. Because my backyard was so large, and my mom was always there to keep an eye out, a lot of kids of different ages came over and played there. This particular neighborhood boy played there because he lived directly behind us and my mom knew his mom. He was a mean kid though, who often hit me when my mom wasn't looking, knowing that I was too timid to tell on him. 

On the side of our house, we had cedar trees growing huge and thick, blocking the view of any neighbors. Between the house and the trees was about an eight-foot space out of view of windows or my mom's vigilant eyes. The boy who was about four years older than me, convinced me to go beside the house with him, immediately yanking down my pants and his. As he began to touch me, I began crying, scared, and having no idea what to do. Luckily my mom had looked out and not seen me, so she stepped out and heard me crying. She came around the house and caught him. I remember she was so angry and she sent me into the house and told him to pull his pants up and get home. It was a different time and I am sure that my mom was immediately on the phone with his mom, but aside from what, if anything his parents might have done to him, nothing else happened. He was forbidden from ever coming into our yard again and I was told never to go near him. That was the end of it, but the incident never left me, nor did the emotional scarring it caused inside me. 

After that, I hated those cedar trees. In fact, to this day, I hate ALL cedar trees. It made me realize how dark and closed off they made the yard feel. They turned a place that I used to like to play, into a place I dreaded going. There was however, a large covered patio that set just out the backdoor that had a picnic table, and from then on, I would play on the patio, but I refused to go anywhere else in the yard unless my parents were out there with me. 

My bedroom also scared me from day one. I was okay in it during the day, but at night, it was a source of complete terror for me. My dad was a stickler for no nightlights and doors closed. The dark always felt so thick and I always had the sensation that someone or something was watching me. I refused to allow myself to see anything that might be there, so I would immediately shut my eyes tightly and cover my head, regardless of how warm the house was. I would lie there sweating and barely able to breathe, motionless, until I would fall asleep. I was literally terrified every night I slept in that room. 

The thing that solidified my dread of that house happened when I was six or seven. I was taking a bath at night with the bathroom door open. While playing in the tub, I saw something go past the door. Thinking it was my mom, I said her name but there was no answer. Then I heard her down the hall in the kitchen. 

I went back to playing when I saw something dart past the door again. I could still hear Mom down the hall and there was no one else but her and I and my baby brother who was in his playpen, in the house. Once again I went back to playing until out of the corner of my eye, I saw something dark. The bathtub sat on the opposing wall of the door, so as I just sat there, frozen, I could see directly out the door. There in the doorway stood a tall, dark, shadowy figure of a man wearing a hat. His face was shadowed by the hat and he was more floating than walking. In fact, I don't remember much of what he looked like from about mid-chest down, except for shadowy black. As I watched, he began to move towards me. The bathroom was about ten feet long and he was slowly closing the distance between the door and me. I remained frozen until he was about two feet from me and then I let out another one of my signature ear-piercing screams. I heard my mom's feet running towards me and just as the figure got close enough to touch me, she was coming around the corner of the bathroom. The figure exploded into nothingness. 

I was hysterical and told my mom what I had experienced. She told me that I was being silly and that it was just my imagination. I knew it wasn't and because of that knowledge, I refused to take a bath there again without my mom sitting outside the door.

 It wasn't until I was much older that my mom told me that she did actually believe me that day. She said I was too scared to not have seen something and over the years, I had never changed my story. At the time though, she didn't want to make me more afraid by letting me know that there might actually be something there. Ohhhhh that house. 

There was also the time that I was sound asleep and my mom came and yanked me out of bed and put my brother and I both in her bed (dad of course was not there). She locked her bedroom door, went to the closet, and pulled out a gun. I had no idea we had a gun or that my mom knew how to use one, but we did and she did. She sat on the bed with the gun pointed at the door as she called the police. She stayed in this position until she saw the reflection of the police lights in the window and heard the knock on the front door. 

Apparently, Mom had been rocking my brother in the Lincoln rocker in the living room. The room was dark so she could get him to sleep, when all of a sudden, she saw the light from a flashlight coming through the big window. Someone was in our backyard. Mom froze and then within minutes, she heard someone pounding on the front door. She went to the door but would not open it. She peered out through the window and saw a guy she had never seen before, dressed mainly in black holding the flashlight. She said he yelled through the door using her name and saying he was a cop just checking everything out and that if she would let him in, he would check out the inside too. Needless to say, she made no sound and that is when she ran and got me, putting us in her room. 

The police assured her, that it was not a cop and that they would never be in our backyard without first being called and then getting her permission. They never caught the guy, but it was obvious that he had been watching our house, knew who my mom was, and knew my dad was not there. 

It wasn't long after that Dad moved back home for a bit. One night I was in bed and I kept hearing something outside my window. I started crying and Mom heard me. She looked out and saw nothing so she told me to go back to sleep. Under the covers I went, this time with my fingers in my ears, so I couldn't hear anything. The next morning, my dad looked outside and saw a bunch of stuff scattered over the backyard. When he went out to check it out, there were rings, necklaces, a small camera, along with some other items. 

My parents called the police, recognizing the jewelry held some value. Come to find out that there had been several break-ins in our neighborhood the night before and these were some of the items that had been stolen. The police figured that the thieves had cut through our backyard as the cedar trees would keep them out of view and they likely had dropped the items in the process. So I HAD heard something. 

My last night in that house came when I was about eight. I was in the third grade and school was not out for summer yet. Dad of course was not residing with us, and I was asleep when again, my mom came and pulled me out of bed. This time she handed me some shoes and told me to put them on and then she put my brother and me in the car, which was packed to the brim with our stuff. She locked the house door, got in the car and we took off. Once a ways down the road, she told me that we were going to stay with my Aunt Margaret. My Aunt Margaret lived in New Mexico. It was not even sunup as it was still dark, but by day's end, we would be in another state, another home and this would be the beginning of the end of a long drawn out dissolution of my family. At least I never had to step foot in that horrible house again. 

Little fun fact. The horrible house was on the market a few years ago and there were many realty pictures of it. Gone are the ominous cedar trees, the enclosed brick front patio, and the interior has been done to look light and airy. I couldn't help but wonder if the house held such darkness for me because my family was in such a dark period ourselves or was the house just that horrible? Did any other children residing there fear the night or meet up with what I later learned was a shadow man? I certainly hope not. 

That was not our last experience with the scary and traumatic in places we lived, but I never once have missed that horrible house and the emotional distress it caused me. Funny thing though, up until my dad's death last year, he proclaimed that house to be his favorite of all the houses he had lived in. Perhaps if he had actually lived there, either we would all have had a more positive experience, or at the very least, he might have seen it through different eyes. 

A Perfect Childhood?

I can't speak for all generations but I have learned as I have achieved several decades of life, that all was not as it seemed when I was growing up. Not even for me. Was this because I was in fact a child and therefore did not have the ability to see clearly or moreover understand clearly the world around me, or perhaps it was because I was brought up fairly sheltered? I know that by today's standards, I was definitely sheltered to the ways of the world. In fact, I think most of us were back then. We watched TV, but not like it was our job. We had Saturday morning cartoons, after-school cartoons, and sometimes evening shows that were carefully analyzed and approved by the FCC. There was no gratuitous sex, murder, or bad language. Our view of the world through TV was definitely G-rated. 

Most of our homes were two-parent (mother/father) homes unless one of the parents had died, and in that case, the living parent usually remarried quickly, as families had to be anchored by the two in order to survive and thrive. 

Our days (as children), were school, in which most of us walked to and from even in our earliest years, and after school were cartoons, homework, and usually playing with friends until dinner time. Dinner was not dinner though. It was "supper" and it was a ritual where everyone sat at the same table, at the same time and ate together. 

In the summertime as kids, we were up and out early. We ate breakfast (because it was the most important meal of the day), and then we were out the door. Whether we were cruising the neighborhood on our bikes, or on foot, we found our fellow neighborhood kids and we congregated in parks, fields or driveways, and front yards. We played games, found places we likely shouldn't have, to investigate and hang out, and still made it home when our moms called us for lunch. A bowl of soup and a sandwich later and we spent the afternoons much like the mornings until we were called for supper. Because the days were much longer in the summer, after supper, we might have to help with the dishes, but after that, we were out with our friends again until the street lights came on, which was our non-verbal cue to head home. 

Our lives were family, school, our neighborhood, barbecues, and dinner parties (if you were middle class and your dad did anything having to do with clients and business associates). 

Life looked pretty Norman Rockwell back then....at least on the surface. In fact, it looked so mid-century wonderful, that looking back, most of us bought into that being our true existence. We thought we had the perfect life growing up. We had no electronics or cell phones. There was no social media and very few broken homes. Our moms for the most part were always home. They cooked, cleaned, and kept our homes Better Homes and Gardens perfect while often wearing a dress, heels, and a full face of makeup. Our dads worked, wore suits, and hats, and many smoked pipes. They read the morning newspaper before work, the evening paper after supper, and on Sundays after church (oh yes, most all of us went to church) and before lunch, the Sunday paper was read. This was a big family production as we all sat around passing the paper among us, eagerly waiting for our turn with the Sunday funnies....except mom of course, she was cooking. 

It has only been in the last few years that I have learned that we all had some version of this growing up, but most of our childhoods were the furthest thing from a Norman Rockwell painting. We were all more like a Jackson Pollock piece of abstract art with light and dark all melded together, trying to create something that was more beautiful than it actually was. 

I have learned that friends whom I thought had literally idyllic lives with two parents (mine were divorced early on), money, cool clothes, and who seemed to be the center of the school universe, were in reality....suffering childhood in ways I would never have believed. Behind the smiles and cool personas were childhood traumas that ranged from living with alcoholic parents, pill-addicted moms, verbal, physical, and even in some cases sexual abuse. Some of these kids who looked so perfect on the outside were hiding physical bruises as well as deep emotional ones. We lived in a world where you were taught from your earliest existence that "what happens at home, stays at home." We were also taught that no matter what, if an adult tells you something, you listen and obey. This was the downfall of many a young child's innocence when an adult outside the home, took advantage of that mentality. 

Hearing the stories that many of my peers who are now reaching their 60s are only in the last decade or so, comfortable enough to talk about, is heartbreaking. Often these kids never even let their best friends in on what was going on behind closed doors. There was pain, shame, and the belief that even if they told, no one would listen. What was even worse, is that some of these kids didn't even realize what was going on in their homes wasn't right. They honestly believed that everyone lived like this. It was a dark world and their only escape was the fake other world they created where their jokes, smiles, money, and cool clothes hid the pain. The world they felt safest in was school and their neighborhood of friends who they hung out with every chance they got. My heart breaks even when writing about this. The fact that these kids who are now grandparents themselves at this point, survived and got here without giving up or falling apart, is just a miracle. 

It was hearing these stories that made me realize, that my life also wasn't the perfect picture of ideal childhood that I like to tell myself it was. When I started thinking about it, and really being honest, it was a rather bleak life at times full of chaos and drama where I mostly felt like the kid that never belonged or maybe never should have belonged. 

I was the product of an affair between a young woman and an older man. My mom chose to end things the minute she found out she was pregnant. She was a Catholic girl with much Catholic guilt. The older man was married and had a family and being pregnant out of wedlock was more than she could handle. She simply couldn't add homewrecker to her list of sins too. This happened in a day and age when, if this sort of thing happened, women discreetly went to "stay with a relative" for nine months and then gave their "mistake" up for adoption. My mom, apparently by now having become a bit of a rebel, decided to keep me. She was a single woman, who was a nurse (back then, they got paid zilch), who had to rent out a room from strangers and rely on them to watch her newborn, while she worked. Because the paychecks were small, everything including food was scarce. Luckily I don't remember those days.

My first real memories were when I was about two. In fact, I remember my 2nd birthday with a lot of clarity, and by this time, Mom had an apartment for us, but babysitters were still a fact of my life. For the most part, they weren't bad, except for an older woman we will call Mrs. P, who drank from the time my mom left for work until she got home. Mom caught on fairly quickly to Mrs. P's daytime activities. While I spent my days playing with my dolls by myself in a closed-door bedroom, she spent her days in a rocking chair snoozing and chugging vodka. Needless to say, she was sent packing. Then there was "Judy" and her two boys. Even as a 2-3 year old, I still remember that Judy smelled. She came to our apartment to take care of me and I understood (without really understanding because I was...well...two) why, when she took me to her house one day. It was nasty, even by a toddler's standards. It smelled just like Judy and it was dark and awful. 

Judy didn't like me and her boys incessantly teased and bullied me. Judy would bathe me in very hot water and then spank my naked butt when I cried. Her boys would take my food at lunch and eat it themselves, or try to get me to eat things that weren't food. I hated Judy and her brood but I don't think I could really convey to my mom what was going on while she was at work. I just didn't have the verbal capacity. Judy ended up getting fired though, not for all the atrocities that she and her hellions were creating against me, but because they were cleaning out our fridge and stealing everything they could get their hands on. 

When my mom finally met my stepdad (I just called him dad), I was about four. It is obvious to me now that my mom had her own issues where men were concerned and my dad was one big red flag that my mom apparently couldn't see. He came complete with a girlfriend and mama's boy issues. He was a spoiled man-child who was no more ready to settle down and be a ready-made dad than the man and the moon, but my mom was gorgeous and he had to have her. I'm not sure what her attraction to him was, but in no time, they were married, had bought a house, and to his credit, he adopted me right out of the gate. His family was not pleased with any of it, and his girlfriend was especially unhappy over this turn of events. 

In the years that followed, my mom got pregnant and spent the entire pregnancy very sick. She had been diagnosed with Lupus beforehand and although the Lupus went away during the pregnancy, she managed to have morning sickness, the flu, and strep throat one on top of the other. She couldn't take care of herself, let alone me, and my dad was not a fan of taking care of anyone but himself. My 6-year-old needs were then taken care of by an old school sitter who although kind, was not my mom and had no idea how badly I needed my mom in the midst of all the confusing changes going on. 

I had latched on to my new dad, feeling that I had scored big now having a dad like the other kids. I also wanted the same kind of dad I saw other kids have and I could not understand that even though he adopted me and I called him "dad" he was not dad material. Because of this, I spent most of my life wondering what "I" did to make him not want to stay. To make him not want me. Kids internalize everything. I did so x2. I spent years rushing home after school just to see if his suit jackets were in the closet or if both them and him were gone again. 

Once my brother was born, both he and my mom were very sick. After my mom delivered my brother, her Lupus came back with a vengeance and she ended up with Glameral Nephritis (a kidney disease whose onset was because of the Lupus). My baby brother was a fragile newborn and he was allergic to everything in the universe. At the time breastfeeding was believed to be unhealthy for both the child and mother and my poor brother couldn't handle formula. Every time Mom tried a new formula, he would have some horrible reaction to it and end up in the hospital. Mom was sick, my brother was sick, my dad was at his girlfriend's and my world was crumbling, so I did what every six-year-old would do when she was just an afterthought in a world of chaos. I began acting out. I didn't understand it then, but now, I realize that I just wanted to be seen. My poor mom was at the end of her rope and in a last-ditch effort to control this uncontrollable situation, she would threaten to send me to "boarding school." At the time I had no real idea what boarding school was, but I did know that it was a place where I couldn't see my mom, dad, or new baby brother and that in my little child's head, I would be by myself. While the thought terrified me, rather than calm the waters, it simply added fuel to an already raging fire. It was a rough and tumultuous time. What I as a child didn't understand though, was as sick as my mom and brother were, my dad was making the situation worse. He antagonized my mom with his extracurricular love life and only made occasional visits to our chaotic home, only to get up and walk out the minute the baby cried or Mom needed his help with something. She was miserable, my brother was miserable and I was coming apart at the seams because I didn't understand any of it, but I felt that somehow my dad not being there was my fault and that if he were just there, everything would be fine. My kid's math told me that I was the common denominator for all that was wrong and therefore it was all my fault. I think this was the beginning of a lifetime of self-dislike that only grew with time. 

A perfect childhood? There is no such thing. 

Thinking, Planning and Hoping

 

I have some little birds that from time to time come and whisper in my ear, especially when it has to do with my blog and my writing in general. One of those little birds recently told me that I should really blog more about ME! I laughed. This is not the first time nor is she the first person...errr...little bird that has told me this. My pat answer is always, This entire blog is about me, what more do you want to know? The little bird then said, "You tell the world what you want the world to know, the world however wants to know the stuff you don't tell us. The stuff you hold close and don't want to let go of." My first thought was, honey, I am really not that interesting and I am definitely not that deep. However, I did keep thinking about what she said. 

This week I began reading a book, The Stories We Tell, Every Piece of Your Story Matters, by Joanna Gaines. Now I am a true lover of memoirs, autobiographies, biographies, and the like and I have always really liked Joanna Gaines. She just always seemed to have a midwestern flair, like if we lived down the street from each other, I might like to stand a while and chat if we were both working in the yard or taking the trash cans to the curb. She has a down-to-earth feel about her, although if who she is on TV is anywhere close to who she is in person (and apparently it is) she has a whole lot more energy than I do. 

After barely getting started on her book, I realized why she had that midwestern feel to her. She grew up just down the road from me in the little town of Rose Hill. Well, there you have it. Her town of origin aside though, her book, not quite a memoir or an autobiography, sits nicely somewhere in between full of self analyzation and deep personal introspection. I could literally go on and on about this book, but one thing stood out right from the beginning. She said that she questioned whether to write this book, even though she had decades of bits and pieces of her life, her feelings, and herself, written in notebooks and journals all over her house. She wondered if anyone would read, or more importantly, even care about a book about her. It wasn't until she was deep into the writing though, that she realized not only was this book cathartic to her, but even though we are all individuals, we still all have similar life experiences that by sharing our own individual stories, may actually help someone else who reads it. It struck a chord. 

As I continued to read, I kept thinking about my little bird telling me "You tell the world what you want the world to know, the world however wants to know the stuff you don't tell us. The stuff you hold close and don't want to let go of." Now I am definitely no Joanna Gaines. We have the commonality of proximity in growing up, her having a degree in journalism and me studying journalism (which is really not the same at all), and me having my life written down in notebooks and journals everywhere, but pretty much that is where it ends. She is much younger than I am, she has traveled, she has had her own TV shows and she is an influencer to anyone who loves shiplap and farmhouse style, and yet, so much of what she talks about, the emotions....those she has shared and those she bottles up, her fears, her dreams and her desires, resonated with me like I never dreamed possible. This woman's words were affecting me to my core. She was speaking words that I needed to hear, and maybe, just maybe, there was more to me than I thought. Maybe someone needs to hear my story too. 

I have been doing a great deal of thinking about this whole writing about me thing. I have asked myself a lot of questions such as, who would even read this? Is there a big audience out there for the story of a Kansas girl who is a stay at home mom and grandma, who cooks, cleans, likes to write, and attempts to be crafty on occasion? Do people want to hear about the saddish childhood I didn't even know I had until I was an adult? My shadow man experience? My daddy issues and my wild late teens and early twenties (trust me, by today's standards, I was pretty mild, but for then....)? Who really wants to hear about my heartbreaks, my missed opportunities, my inability to talk without cussing, and my fear of, well.....everything? What's more, am I brave enough to put myself out there in a world of bullying, hate, and cancel culture...where every word is dissected, misinterpreted, and evaluated out of context? 

There are lots of questions and very few answers. Did I mention that I fear everything? 

I actually don't know whether I could take on the time I would need to write a book per se. I do think though, that piecing my life together in blog style (my real deep down life, not just the one I usually choose to show), might be a bit easier and I have no doubt, greatly cathartic....at least for me. Others in my world may not find it as mentally healing as I would/will. 

Granted, there would be no book deal or possibility of earning from it, but then that really wouldn't be the point of writing it, at least not for me. If my goal is to possibly help someone with my words, then financial gain for doing so seems a bit self-serving and even a tad hypocritical. These stories have to be put out there with the desire to help me by clearing out my mind and memories, organizing them, and learning from them as well as redefining who I am as a human being. By doing this....the hard work, and yes, even the scary work, then maybe it will help others to find something that I have battled that resonates with them and helps them or makes a difference in their life. 

So there you have it. The little bird whispered. I listened. Joanna Gaines spoke, and I am thinking, planning, and hoping that if I write it, you will read it. 

Until next time.