A brother with a bullet hole in his abdomen does not sound fun, but it was exciting. My brother has always been good for a little excitement.
Like the time he locked out of the house our older brother while my mom was at work, or somewhere. The rage that builds up between brothers is sometimes so intense, that even an otherwise smart person can turn into an incredible idiot. And that's just what happened.
Craig and I were standing in the house, laughing at Kevin who was turning a dark shade of maroon, when, without any warning, Kevin sent his fist straight through the window in the top of the door. It broke the glass and sent Craig and I scurrying off to some other part of the house.
Then we heard the scream of pain come out of Kevin.
With all the courage we could muster, Craig and I carefully crept to the door and found Kevin bleeding heavily from the palm of his hand toward the elbow on the under side, close to the main blood vessles.
I immediately thought about a nurse who lived down the street a ways and I went running to get her.
Now, all of the details are blurry from there on out, but the scar that remains on Kevin's wrist and forearm are always a reminder of the outcome of rage, and teasing. I guess it should have taught us all a lesson, however...
Speaking of injuries, I had my own. It involved a parka, stairs and a pokey-outy stair rail.
This was again a time when it was just the three of us at home. Kevin was in charge and decided we would have a little fun with the force, gravity, testing its boundless energy on the only indoor labratory we could find - the stairs to the basement.
We would slide down on our rear ends and then climb the stairs for another run. Well, Kevin, being the brains in our bunch, decided something slick would increase the speed of the run, thus causing more fun.
Indeed, he was correct. The fun just got better with the increased speed. My turn came and I sat on the parka all ready to go, got a great push from one of the brothers and sped down the stairs with the greatest of ease.
The baby toe on my right foot ( I remember it was the right one because that night I solidly came to the realization of which was right and which was left) got caught on the stair rail and yanked it back toward the outside of my ankle.
Now, for any of you who knew me as a youngster of six years, you know that my lungs worked very well, indeed. I utilized the strength of my lungs and belted out for several hours while my brothers managed to get me some ice, tell me to sit in my dad's electric Lazy Boy with my foot elevated. How they knew to do that was, well, intriguing.
Mom and Dad got home and then came the ER visit and lo and behold - Buddy Tape. A lingering phrase in my life. I guess I was hoping for more drama, but at least I knew which foot was my right one.
Lesson learned...kind of.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Opportunist
Now before you start thinking my life was fully of hardship and tragedy, I want to tell you there were times in my young life that were positive.
Now give me a minute.....
Oh, yes. Austin Avenue brought much freedom to my young life. South Salt Lake was a place of fun surprises and interesting places of adventure. It was a good place to live for a girl who needed to spread her wings and get her feet wet on this planet Earth.
My brothers and I (I don't remember much at this time without them involved) were wanderers. We loved to ride our bikes, park them and walk up a stream that ran behind the houses across the street. We would find water skeeters and fresh mint to pick and eat. Mom sent us to pick mint for her mint jelly that we would have with a lamb roast some Sundays. I can still smell that roast cooking and the mint jelly simmering in a pot on the stove. Mom made life bearable. She still has a knack with that.
There was a little meadow where the water would swell to in the high runnoff time in the early Spring.
The air was clear and the tree canopy coverage let through tiny bits of sunlight in streaks we would call the "Angel's Road to Earth." I imagined myself an angel. I would "fly" through the meadow with my little five-year-old feet taking me as swiftly as you could imagine. It gave me a dizzying feeling and I would fall to the ground, watching the world go around and around, finally stopping when my breaths became slower. What a wonderful world this meadow was. It was truly a tender mercy of my father and mother in heaven. I was so grateful I had this place.
Church on Sundays consited of Sunday School and Sacrament Meeting. We met in the old 700 East chapel that has since been demolished and a new-fashioned meeting house built in its place.
That old chapel was a great place to go. We would sometime walk to church when the weather was good. Sometimes we drove. We loved the enormous ramp that was built for wheelchair access after the building had been in use for decades. The cultural hall had windows the length of it. The primary room in the basement seemed large enough to house a small army of children.
Mom was a den mother in the Cub Scouts organization so I would go along with her and the brothers to Cub Scouts at the chapel where my other primary buddies and I would have the run of the place. Oh, we found the many pockets and nooks and crannies of that building. Forty years later I can still follow the corridors in my mind. The opportunities seemed endless.
Then, one Sunday at that church took us all by surprise when a bullet went off, driving itself into my brother's stomach...
Now give me a minute.....
Oh, yes. Austin Avenue brought much freedom to my young life. South Salt Lake was a place of fun surprises and interesting places of adventure. It was a good place to live for a girl who needed to spread her wings and get her feet wet on this planet Earth.
My brothers and I (I don't remember much at this time without them involved) were wanderers. We loved to ride our bikes, park them and walk up a stream that ran behind the houses across the street. We would find water skeeters and fresh mint to pick and eat. Mom sent us to pick mint for her mint jelly that we would have with a lamb roast some Sundays. I can still smell that roast cooking and the mint jelly simmering in a pot on the stove. Mom made life bearable. She still has a knack with that.
There was a little meadow where the water would swell to in the high runnoff time in the early Spring.
The air was clear and the tree canopy coverage let through tiny bits of sunlight in streaks we would call the "Angel's Road to Earth." I imagined myself an angel. I would "fly" through the meadow with my little five-year-old feet taking me as swiftly as you could imagine. It gave me a dizzying feeling and I would fall to the ground, watching the world go around and around, finally stopping when my breaths became slower. What a wonderful world this meadow was. It was truly a tender mercy of my father and mother in heaven. I was so grateful I had this place.
Church on Sundays consited of Sunday School and Sacrament Meeting. We met in the old 700 East chapel that has since been demolished and a new-fashioned meeting house built in its place.
That old chapel was a great place to go. We would sometime walk to church when the weather was good. Sometimes we drove. We loved the enormous ramp that was built for wheelchair access after the building had been in use for decades. The cultural hall had windows the length of it. The primary room in the basement seemed large enough to house a small army of children.
Mom was a den mother in the Cub Scouts organization so I would go along with her and the brothers to Cub Scouts at the chapel where my other primary buddies and I would have the run of the place. Oh, we found the many pockets and nooks and crannies of that building. Forty years later I can still follow the corridors in my mind. The opportunities seemed endless.
Then, one Sunday at that church took us all by surprise when a bullet went off, driving itself into my brother's stomach...
Thursday, February 23, 2012
"Dad"
Life with father was ready for phase two.
Number two dad was a much better bread winner. He actually worked at a full-time job. He actually brought home a reasonably-good income. He actually joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints after he married Mom. He actually took care of us.
He seemed to be the tall, dark and handsome knight in shining armour sent by the sovereign to save us from the world.
Unfortunately, he hid a very dark side. He is an alcoholic.
Alcoholic. A word that brings images of hobos staggering with breath that could clean tarnish off silver. A word that brings images of depressed men in a bar bemoaning their lives of unsuccessfull attempts to make their life better. A word that brings images of people who have no hope of a healthy liver. A word that solicites images of brain cells dieing with each ounce of liquor.
My new dad blew all these stereotypes out of the water.
He took us under his wing and kept us safe from the world.
For a while.
After the "honeymoon" was over, the reality burst onto the scene. His actions seemed a bit stunning at first. He didn't do the drinking at home, so he was usually okay a couple of hours after he was home, but then he got comfortable. He started to bring home the beer.
One late afternoon, he got angry with me. I am sure I wasn't the only one he was angry with. My brothers, of course, were much more difficult with me, but this is MY blog.
That is when he broke. He took off his rivetted black belt and whipped me on the bare bottom after he told me to lay down on my bed.
Oh, it stung.
I was four or five years old.
But that night's nightmare would soon come.
Dad had been drinking more and came into my bedroom sloshing drunk. He woke me up and with a voice reminiscent of the drunk hobo falling in the gutter in an alley, told me how sorry he was he hit me.
I was so scared I wet myself.
I wet the bed almost every night until I was 12.
Number two dad was a much better bread winner. He actually worked at a full-time job. He actually brought home a reasonably-good income. He actually joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints after he married Mom. He actually took care of us.
He seemed to be the tall, dark and handsome knight in shining armour sent by the sovereign to save us from the world.
Unfortunately, he hid a very dark side. He is an alcoholic.
Alcoholic. A word that brings images of hobos staggering with breath that could clean tarnish off silver. A word that brings images of depressed men in a bar bemoaning their lives of unsuccessfull attempts to make their life better. A word that brings images of people who have no hope of a healthy liver. A word that solicites images of brain cells dieing with each ounce of liquor.
My new dad blew all these stereotypes out of the water.
He took us under his wing and kept us safe from the world.
For a while.
After the "honeymoon" was over, the reality burst onto the scene. His actions seemed a bit stunning at first. He didn't do the drinking at home, so he was usually okay a couple of hours after he was home, but then he got comfortable. He started to bring home the beer.
One late afternoon, he got angry with me. I am sure I wasn't the only one he was angry with. My brothers, of course, were much more difficult with me, but this is MY blog.
That is when he broke. He took off his rivetted black belt and whipped me on the bare bottom after he told me to lay down on my bed.
Oh, it stung.
I was four or five years old.
But that night's nightmare would soon come.
Dad had been drinking more and came into my bedroom sloshing drunk. He woke me up and with a voice reminiscent of the drunk hobo falling in the gutter in an alley, told me how sorry he was he hit me.
I was so scared I wet myself.
I wet the bed almost every night until I was 12.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
The New Normal
It's been several months since I have been back on the blog; mostly because I have been busy; mainly because I have been unsure what to write next. It seems as though my latest blog had a climax that really could be the end, but it's not.
You see, though that little girl inside of me named "Mandy Leigh" was raped, molested and abused, that's not the end of the story. My story seemed to have begun at that time, until I realized what had actually happened. All I knew was the "after" of the "before."
After the sexual abuse, I needed reassurance that I was okay. I became constipated and depressed. I started wanting to be a boy, not a sweet little girl who had been exposed to a sexual world before my body even developed. Confusion seemed to overshadow me. I don't remember feeling my physical self. All I remember was feeling like my head and skull were my only parts. The food went in my mouth and seemed to get lost, not coming out without severe pain. I was closing up. My irregularity was my new "normal."
No, this isn't an Activia advertisement.
Mom wasn't openly aware of what happened to me. Things like this were not common to her. She grew up in a home where "abuse" was siblings relentlessly teasing, but never in a sexual way. But I figure even her upbringing was a means to the evil that lurked.
Blame it on Elvis, The Beatles, Woodstock, Hippies.
The "sexual revolution" was in full swing. Mormondome was getting a dose of "worldly." Our little suburban world outside of "metropolitan" Salt Lake City was getting even more complicated that early Mormon settlers could have imagined, but not more than church prophets had prophesied.
You see, Salt Lake City is destined become "the most wicked city in the world."
I guess my incident was one step toward that wickedness.
However, as a young girl with revenge on the outskirts of her mind, the fight to protect her remaining innocence was far from over.
Then mom got married, pregnant and we moved to Souix Falls, South Dakota.
My new little sister was the product of this. She is a beauty in my life that I cannot explain fully with words. But when I was young I remember nothing about her. I am sure I was jealous of this new little being in my family's life, most siblings have jealousy in the mix. I remember, however, that I wasn't sure she was a girl. The style of dressing children must have become more unisex because I remember her being dressed boyishly.
I got my first physical scar in South Dakota or maybe Phoenix, where we moved just after. It remains on my left hand, reminding me of a bike and my brothers. I remember an orange tree and some cows. I remember some pictures.
Then it was back to Salt Lake. Back to Austin Avenue. Back to our same house. Back to extended family. Back to time with Grande Anne.
The good came with the bad. And the bad was not over.
You see, though that little girl inside of me named "Mandy Leigh" was raped, molested and abused, that's not the end of the story. My story seemed to have begun at that time, until I realized what had actually happened. All I knew was the "after" of the "before."
After the sexual abuse, I needed reassurance that I was okay. I became constipated and depressed. I started wanting to be a boy, not a sweet little girl who had been exposed to a sexual world before my body even developed. Confusion seemed to overshadow me. I don't remember feeling my physical self. All I remember was feeling like my head and skull were my only parts. The food went in my mouth and seemed to get lost, not coming out without severe pain. I was closing up. My irregularity was my new "normal."
No, this isn't an Activia advertisement.
Mom wasn't openly aware of what happened to me. Things like this were not common to her. She grew up in a home where "abuse" was siblings relentlessly teasing, but never in a sexual way. But I figure even her upbringing was a means to the evil that lurked.
Blame it on Elvis, The Beatles, Woodstock, Hippies.
The "sexual revolution" was in full swing. Mormondome was getting a dose of "worldly." Our little suburban world outside of "metropolitan" Salt Lake City was getting even more complicated that early Mormon settlers could have imagined, but not more than church prophets had prophesied.
You see, Salt Lake City is destined become "the most wicked city in the world."
I guess my incident was one step toward that wickedness.
However, as a young girl with revenge on the outskirts of her mind, the fight to protect her remaining innocence was far from over.
Then mom got married, pregnant and we moved to Souix Falls, South Dakota.
My new little sister was the product of this. She is a beauty in my life that I cannot explain fully with words. But when I was young I remember nothing about her. I am sure I was jealous of this new little being in my family's life, most siblings have jealousy in the mix. I remember, however, that I wasn't sure she was a girl. The style of dressing children must have become more unisex because I remember her being dressed boyishly.
I got my first physical scar in South Dakota or maybe Phoenix, where we moved just after. It remains on my left hand, reminding me of a bike and my brothers. I remember an orange tree and some cows. I remember some pictures.
Then it was back to Salt Lake. Back to Austin Avenue. Back to our same house. Back to extended family. Back to time with Grande Anne.
The good came with the bad. And the bad was not over.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Memories Blur...
I recall being told "if you swallow your gum, it will stick to your ribs" by one of my brothers one day. That night I had a stomach ache and couldn't sleep.
Grandma got out her bakery whole wheat bread, toasted it and slathered it with butter to settle my stomach. While sitting on her lap at the table in the big kitchen, I revealed the bitter truth to my mom across the table: I would probably need gum removal surgery.
The two giggled and asked who told me gum sticks to ribs and I divulged the name.
Relieved I wouldn't need to be sliced open to get the Doublemint Gum out from between my ribs, I sauntered off to bed with a full tummy and nothing but dreams ahead for the night.
"Sweet dreams," Mom would say to me every night before bed.
There were some nights it was just Grande Anne giving me multiple kisses on the neck and ears, sending shivery tingles up and down my spine and making the giggles start up. I'm sure Mom did the same thing, too. I just can't recall that.
There have been many memories that have blurred together and mixed into the stew I call my life.
It was all too soon that Mom, my brothers and I moved into a cute little rambler with a basement apartment. My grandpa was able to work through all the financials so my mom could get her little family on with life on their own.
Austin Avenue was a sweet little neighborhood in the late 60s/early 70s. Adventures were behind every corner. Mom gave us a lot of freedom. She also had to get babysitters from time to time because she had a full-time job not too far from our house. She worked with the health department and very much enjoyed her new-found freedom of bringing home a paycheck.
Not only adventure was behind every corner. And not every babysitter was kind.
At a young age of three, a 14-year-old boy babysitter took away what can never be given back to me: he raped me. My brothers were, at the very least, molested as this boy removed his clothing and told all three of us to touch his private parts.
It happened right there on the couch in the front room of our little home. It was disgusting in that I remember my brothers touching and me feeling so defiled and petrified beyond belief.
It terrorizes me to this day - one of the few memories I remember inside that house.
I weep with sorrow for the loss that little girl endured. The shame is still so strong.
I have kept the secret from my mother until now as I push the "publish post" button on this page.
The need for healing has now surpassed the shame.
Grandma got out her bakery whole wheat bread, toasted it and slathered it with butter to settle my stomach. While sitting on her lap at the table in the big kitchen, I revealed the bitter truth to my mom across the table: I would probably need gum removal surgery.
The two giggled and asked who told me gum sticks to ribs and I divulged the name.
Relieved I wouldn't need to be sliced open to get the Doublemint Gum out from between my ribs, I sauntered off to bed with a full tummy and nothing but dreams ahead for the night.
"Sweet dreams," Mom would say to me every night before bed.
There were some nights it was just Grande Anne giving me multiple kisses on the neck and ears, sending shivery tingles up and down my spine and making the giggles start up. I'm sure Mom did the same thing, too. I just can't recall that.
There have been many memories that have blurred together and mixed into the stew I call my life.
It was all too soon that Mom, my brothers and I moved into a cute little rambler with a basement apartment. My grandpa was able to work through all the financials so my mom could get her little family on with life on their own.
Austin Avenue was a sweet little neighborhood in the late 60s/early 70s. Adventures were behind every corner. Mom gave us a lot of freedom. She also had to get babysitters from time to time because she had a full-time job not too far from our house. She worked with the health department and very much enjoyed her new-found freedom of bringing home a paycheck.
Not only adventure was behind every corner. And not every babysitter was kind.
At a young age of three, a 14-year-old boy babysitter took away what can never be given back to me: he raped me. My brothers were, at the very least, molested as this boy removed his clothing and told all three of us to touch his private parts.
It happened right there on the couch in the front room of our little home. It was disgusting in that I remember my brothers touching and me feeling so defiled and petrified beyond belief.
It terrorizes me to this day - one of the few memories I remember inside that house.
I weep with sorrow for the loss that little girl endured. The shame is still so strong.
I have kept the secret from my mother until now as I push the "publish post" button on this page.
The need for healing has now surpassed the shame.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
What Happens in Vegas....
...goes to Salt Lake City. At least that's where my story led me. At 18 months old, I wasn't exactly your image of a well-adjusted toddler. What toddler is adjusted?
Heading into the holiday season and no other place to go, Mom moved back in with Grandma and Grandpa. Humbling, frustrating, maddening, saddening: all describe the situation for Mom.
Stunting and bewildering seemed to describe me. My guess is my brothers felt the same.
Once we got to Grandma and Grandpa's house, life drastically changed. A constant stream of activity with Mom's siblings, my aunt and uncle, left us in awe. Mom was on the hunt, for work, among other things. Rebounding after a marriage gone bitter sour can't have been that pleasant. Mom was, and is, a beautiful woman with great legs (it's true)! So she wasn't out of the running for finding another man.
She quickly got into the secretary business and did very well. She was a great typist and organized herself into a highly-sought-after assistant.
Her three children organized themselves, too. My brothers were attached to Grandpa as soon as he got hom from his civil engineer job. I attached myself to Grandma.
We have fond memories of living in Grandma and Grandpa's gingerbread Victorian house near Sugar House.
My earliest memories of Grande Anne was being pushed in the old, red metal stroller up to the corner market. I recall the sound of the "click, click" of the wheels on the sidewalk cracks. I recall the brown loafers Grandma wore with white ankle socks. I remember dusting the staircase with the old dusting rags sprayed with the lemon scented furniture duster sold to Grandma by the traveling salesmen. I thought I was helping her...but she was helping me.
She did that a lot.
Heading into the holiday season and no other place to go, Mom moved back in with Grandma and Grandpa. Humbling, frustrating, maddening, saddening: all describe the situation for Mom.
Stunting and bewildering seemed to describe me. My guess is my brothers felt the same.
Once we got to Grandma and Grandpa's house, life drastically changed. A constant stream of activity with Mom's siblings, my aunt and uncle, left us in awe. Mom was on the hunt, for work, among other things. Rebounding after a marriage gone bitter sour can't have been that pleasant. Mom was, and is, a beautiful woman with great legs (it's true)! So she wasn't out of the running for finding another man.
She quickly got into the secretary business and did very well. She was a great typist and organized herself into a highly-sought-after assistant.
Her three children organized themselves, too. My brothers were attached to Grandpa as soon as he got hom from his civil engineer job. I attached myself to Grandma.
We have fond memories of living in Grandma and Grandpa's gingerbread Victorian house near Sugar House.
My earliest memories of Grande Anne was being pushed in the old, red metal stroller up to the corner market. I recall the sound of the "click, click" of the wheels on the sidewalk cracks. I recall the brown loafers Grandma wore with white ankle socks. I remember dusting the staircase with the old dusting rags sprayed with the lemon scented furniture duster sold to Grandma by the traveling salesmen. I thought I was helping her...but she was helping me.
She did that a lot.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
The Tidal Wave
As I understand from conversations with Mom and Grandma, Gary dropped me, my brothers and my mother in Las Vegas where Grandma and Grandpa met us and took us to their home in Salt Lake City.
I imagined it was like Gary sent us back to the manufacturer because of faulty wiring or we turned out to be the wrong size.
I couldn't understand it at that time, and I still can't.
I mean, it's not like I am the cutest person in the world, but what would bring a man to deposit his family and drive away?
Was Kendra cuter? Was her mother cuter than my mother or a better lover? Did my brothers ruin everything because they were unruley?
I now know that he must have been a very sick individual. His brain must have oozed out of his ear and re-entered in through the "barn door." There was never a letter, never a phone call, never an apology, never anything to make me believe he still cared for me. (There was some stalking, but that happened years later.)
I became very closed.
Mom said I stopped walking. For a young child to stop walking usually takes a major cataclysmic event or injury. I know I must have felt both. I know my brothers must have felt similar feelings.
But, we never talked of it as children.
The hurt never healed properly for me. You could say I was "infected" with self-doubt, fear of abandonment, grief and weakness. I "self-medicated" with hate, anger, anxiety, depression...Diet Coke! :)
It's time to scoop out the puss, cleanse the wound, get some antibiotics and heal all over again.
The only way to do this is through the grace and mercy of God ... in other words...the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
>>Enter angels, stage left.<<
I imagined it was like Gary sent us back to the manufacturer because of faulty wiring or we turned out to be the wrong size.
I couldn't understand it at that time, and I still can't.
I mean, it's not like I am the cutest person in the world, but what would bring a man to deposit his family and drive away?
Was Kendra cuter? Was her mother cuter than my mother or a better lover? Did my brothers ruin everything because they were unruley?
I now know that he must have been a very sick individual. His brain must have oozed out of his ear and re-entered in through the "barn door." There was never a letter, never a phone call, never an apology, never anything to make me believe he still cared for me. (There was some stalking, but that happened years later.)
I became very closed.
Mom said I stopped walking. For a young child to stop walking usually takes a major cataclysmic event or injury. I know I must have felt both. I know my brothers must have felt similar feelings.
But, we never talked of it as children.
The hurt never healed properly for me. You could say I was "infected" with self-doubt, fear of abandonment, grief and weakness. I "self-medicated" with hate, anger, anxiety, depression...Diet Coke! :)
It's time to scoop out the puss, cleanse the wound, get some antibiotics and heal all over again.
The only way to do this is through the grace and mercy of God ... in other words...the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
>>Enter angels, stage left.<<
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