I am going to share the story of the last few years of my life of escaping the throes of an addict and narcissist:
My writings are to a "Bishop"(at the time it was my earthly Bishop--poor soul--but in reality to was to my Savior and Redeemer to whom I wrote, think of this verse from the New Testament:
1 Peter 2:25
For ye were as sheep going astray; but are now returned unto the Shepherd and the Bishop of your souls.
6/814
Bishop, I need you to be extra careful with the reading you give to K. He said, I was to read them and I did--they seemed safe enough. However, I received a phone call this afternoon, spoke freely so he could hear . . . He asked (demands is too strong) who it was on the phone. I didn't freely give him an answer because of his tone. He then begins to tell me that the articles said "couples don't keep secrets from each other". Just thought I'd let you know how he's interpreting the messages. I really cannot understand his thought processes.
7/20/14
Bishop the gist of the C story is that I know Father has the power to give K the enlightenment to understand and comprehend what he is lacking. Kevin just needs to ask and until he becomes like the apostles and asks "Is it I?" our marriage will enjoy the blessings of "sobriety" rater than the greater joys of "recovery". Nevertheless, I can enjoy the greater blessings and joy of my own recovery. Thank you,
***********
Bishop, it just dawned on me the hypocrisy of my words: "Is it I?" I am not sure I can trust my own answer to that question about myself. Is it I, am I holding back the progression of the marriage? Intellectually I want to answer no for my own safety. But I understand all too well-the talk/sentence miracle-that taking the first step into vulnerability is not a pleasant experience and there is no peace until you accept God's will for you. I was going to ask you for that answer, "Is it I?" but I think I answered it myself. I do not feel the turmoil within that comes from being out of sync with God's will.
Thursday, December 20, 2018
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Monday, March 19, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
My Father's Voice
My Father’s Voice
My father’s voice has different sounds: one that my teachers and friends hear and the one that echoes in my ears. His words speak volumes to both ears. While one hears a father who offers his child the world, the means and abilities to obtain her dreams and desires--everything a father should do, the younger me, the child, hears a voice of condescension, arrogance and indifference; nevertheless, it is a voice I must abide or lose all semblance of security.
Nebraska, 1974, Sunday Brunch in the Officer’s Club: I drop a piece of cantaloupe and reach down to pick it up. Before my hand touches the piece of fruit, I am stopped abruptly by the sound of my father’s voice speaking these words: “Don’t touch it! It’s not your job!” I knew what was coming having been corrected before in a place of business. My insides shake. The knowledge explodes within my mind and auto-pilot kicks in. I am no longer aware of my surroundings. Somehow, I continue eating but not tasting the meal which is before me. Voices, noises, and the bustle of the Club seem to disappear around me as rapidly as my outward appearance continues its emotionless, yet essential, functions: the obligations and demands of an Officer’s child. I know how I must present myself, how not to show the feelings of fear which build within me.
California, 1996, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon: I am stuck waiting impatiently for my child’s prescription. From behind me, two hands grab my shoulders. Surprised, I jump; however, these words: “What are you doing here?” cause my insides to shake, heart to pound and my mind to freeze. It is not my father’s voice, but that of our pediatrician and friend. “Filling the prescription you just called in” are the words which leave my mouth as I bury the unwarranted fears within me.
Hawaii, 2010, I find myself upon the shores of my childhood home once again: however, this time it is to repair a wound older than my father’s voice: my mother’s death. In fact, it may be the cause of my father’s controlling and condescending voice. Twelve days after my seventh birthday, the last one she would attend, my mother passed away. I didn’t know that then, just as I did not know that Christmas would be the last time I’d see my mother well. The next afternoon a navy- blue ambulance swallowed her--bed and all. I sat on the brown carpeted stairs ignorant of the changes my future held, the changes which now bring me once again to the world’s paradise and the beginnings of my purgatory.
The melody of gentle waves upon the shore, the fulfillment of boarding once again, the smell and taste of familiar waters, and the company of a wonderful friend I’ve known for thirty-five years form new memories of this world’s paradise. That evening in her home, we reminisce about our shared youth, showing horses, raising and butchering the animals, the life of living on “Utopia” Debbie’s words for our family farm. My friend, overcome by curiosity, asks a question that I had never before contemplated.
“How did your mom and dad meet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask him.”
“No! You don’t ask Dad.”
“Why?”
“You just don’t.”
“Why not? He’s alive isn’t he?”
“Yes, well uh, I don’t know why. You just don’t ask dad!”
* * *
Now, at the age of forty-five with six children of my own constantly asking about the past, I ask: How could he hurt me now? There is no longer a threat of being kicked out of the home for non-compliance like my older siblings were. What could he possibly do? Hang up! Dialing a number forever etched in my memory, I hear the phone ring. I wonder the outcome of my boldness. Another ring and I pull the phone away from my ear. Looking for the end key, I hear my father’s voice on the other end:
“Hello.”
“Hi Dad! I’m in Hawaii visiting Debbie.”
“Debbie?! How is she doing?”
“She’s fine. You may speak with her.”
I pass my father over to my friend while putting the phone on speaker. Hearing the formalities and politeness of conversation in the background, I locate the paper and pencil to take notes when Debbie asks the ominous question: “How did you meet your wife?” To my surprise my father actually answers the question.
My father’s voice is different. What am I hearing? I hear joy, excitement, and contentment. I am hearing the voice my teachers and friends’ have always heard. He is speaking about Mom! Really? Nobody speaks about mom; it is not allowed. I write down the forbidden knowledge generously being shared. It is confusing yet wonderful to hear, the words flowing from my father’s mouth. I hear his voice and I am not ashamed; I am not frightened. I am stunned, shocked and amazed, however, with the amount of pleasure and joy emanating from my father’s voice.
Debbie hands me the phone:
“Hi, Dad!”
“It was nice speaking to Debbie.”
Click!
“Dad? . . . Bye.”
* * *
It’s okay. I am at peace. My father’s condescending voice after that “click” is now barely audible. The mind’s quietness liberates the disabling fears I formed in childhood. I am now keenly aware of my surroundings; yet, my mind still explodes -with curiosity; my heart still pounds –with delight; my body still trembles –with enthusiasm. My voice, no longer held by the strength of those combined powers, will never be silenced. I am free!
My father’s voice has different sounds: one that my teachers and friends hear and the one that echoes in my ears. His words speak volumes to both ears. While one hears a father who offers his child the world, the means and abilities to obtain her dreams and desires--everything a father should do, the younger me, the child, hears a voice of condescension, arrogance and indifference; nevertheless, it is a voice I must abide or lose all semblance of security.
Nebraska, 1974, Sunday Brunch in the Officer’s Club: I drop a piece of cantaloupe and reach down to pick it up. Before my hand touches the piece of fruit, I am stopped abruptly by the sound of my father’s voice speaking these words: “Don’t touch it! It’s not your job!” I knew what was coming having been corrected before in a place of business. My insides shake. The knowledge explodes within my mind and auto-pilot kicks in. I am no longer aware of my surroundings. Somehow, I continue eating but not tasting the meal which is before me. Voices, noises, and the bustle of the Club seem to disappear around me as rapidly as my outward appearance continues its emotionless, yet essential, functions: the obligations and demands of an Officer’s child. I know how I must present myself, how not to show the feelings of fear which build within me.
California, 1996, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon: I am stuck waiting impatiently for my child’s prescription. From behind me, two hands grab my shoulders. Surprised, I jump; however, these words: “What are you doing here?” cause my insides to shake, heart to pound and my mind to freeze. It is not my father’s voice, but that of our pediatrician and friend. “Filling the prescription you just called in” are the words which leave my mouth as I bury the unwarranted fears within me.
Hawaii, 2010, I find myself upon the shores of my childhood home once again: however, this time it is to repair a wound older than my father’s voice: my mother’s death. In fact, it may be the cause of my father’s controlling and condescending voice. Twelve days after my seventh birthday, the last one she would attend, my mother passed away. I didn’t know that then, just as I did not know that Christmas would be the last time I’d see my mother well. The next afternoon a navy- blue ambulance swallowed her--bed and all. I sat on the brown carpeted stairs ignorant of the changes my future held, the changes which now bring me once again to the world’s paradise and the beginnings of my purgatory.
The melody of gentle waves upon the shore, the fulfillment of boarding once again, the smell and taste of familiar waters, and the company of a wonderful friend I’ve known for thirty-five years form new memories of this world’s paradise. That evening in her home, we reminisce about our shared youth, showing horses, raising and butchering the animals, the life of living on “Utopia” Debbie’s words for our family farm. My friend, overcome by curiosity, asks a question that I had never before contemplated.
“How did your mom and dad meet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask him.”
“No! You don’t ask Dad.”
“Why?”
“You just don’t.”
“Why not? He’s alive isn’t he?”
“Yes, well uh, I don’t know why. You just don’t ask dad!”
* * *
Now, at the age of forty-five with six children of my own constantly asking about the past, I ask: How could he hurt me now? There is no longer a threat of being kicked out of the home for non-compliance like my older siblings were. What could he possibly do? Hang up! Dialing a number forever etched in my memory, I hear the phone ring. I wonder the outcome of my boldness. Another ring and I pull the phone away from my ear. Looking for the end key, I hear my father’s voice on the other end:
“Hello.”
“Hi Dad! I’m in Hawaii visiting Debbie.”
“Debbie?! How is she doing?”
“She’s fine. You may speak with her.”
I pass my father over to my friend while putting the phone on speaker. Hearing the formalities and politeness of conversation in the background, I locate the paper and pencil to take notes when Debbie asks the ominous question: “How did you meet your wife?” To my surprise my father actually answers the question.
My father’s voice is different. What am I hearing? I hear joy, excitement, and contentment. I am hearing the voice my teachers and friends’ have always heard. He is speaking about Mom! Really? Nobody speaks about mom; it is not allowed. I write down the forbidden knowledge generously being shared. It is confusing yet wonderful to hear, the words flowing from my father’s mouth. I hear his voice and I am not ashamed; I am not frightened. I am stunned, shocked and amazed, however, with the amount of pleasure and joy emanating from my father’s voice.
Debbie hands me the phone:
“Hi, Dad!”
“It was nice speaking to Debbie.”
Click!
“Dad? . . . Bye.”
* * *
It’s okay. I am at peace. My father’s condescending voice after that “click” is now barely audible. The mind’s quietness liberates the disabling fears I formed in childhood. I am now keenly aware of my surroundings; yet, my mind still explodes -with curiosity; my heart still pounds –with delight; my body still trembles –with enthusiasm. My voice, no longer held by the strength of those combined powers, will never be silenced. I am free!
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Nine months one might think I went into hiding in order to give birth. In a metaphorical sense I have done just that. I have come to learn a lot about myself, life, and others during the last few months. A metamorphosis a new birth has taken place in my life again.
I have finished five more English essays, earned my AA (still waiting for it in the mail), have declared my majors. English and Social Work with a minor in Women's Studies. I was truly frightened to take an English class and to think it is now my major. I am also taking on the challenge of writing a book about addiction and understanding the eternal perspective . . . If I can figure out how to add an attachment I'll add the essay; I also have surveys in order to help with the contents of the book.
It is time to go do some research in attachments in the blogging community.
Take care,
Ref
Friday, September 24, 2010
It has actually only been a couple of days. I have finished my English essay on the American Dream. Took two test for TBE, Tues and Thurs last week. Art test starts tomorrow and we have a week to take it. The Doctors called today and I have a vitamin B12 deficiency. So I will make an appointment with my doctor on Monday and set up daily, weekly or monthly shots, I do not know how low my levels are I will ask on Monday. I have researched the causes, and hopefully it is a parasite, or a bacteria because than I may not have to take supplements the rest of my life. If it is another cause it will be a life long endevour. I am signing off because my eyes are closing. Good night all and sleep well.
Ref
Ref
Monday, September 20, 2010
It's been what 2 years I had to search my email to find the blog's name. Well in the last blog I stated that two of my children had moved out, well they are back home again. The joys of mother hood.
I went back to college over the summer, if I can get the classes I need next semester I will get my AA degree. Than I need to decide what I would like to do with my life. I still have three in school and my third child is in college too, a different state of course who wants to go to school with their mother.... did well last term, and am trying to hang in there this term. Life is full, had homecoming this week for my eldest daughter as well as Stake Conference.
Gotta go and pick up a child for an appointment. Hopefully I will write before two years are up. After I finish my first English paper I will post it if I can figure out how to.
Ref
I went back to college over the summer, if I can get the classes I need next semester I will get my AA degree. Than I need to decide what I would like to do with my life. I still have three in school and my third child is in college too, a different state of course who wants to go to school with their mother.... did well last term, and am trying to hang in there this term. Life is full, had homecoming this week for my eldest daughter as well as Stake Conference.
Gotta go and pick up a child for an appointment. Hopefully I will write before two years are up. After I finish my first English paper I will post it if I can figure out how to.
Ref
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