The Interim

Contrary to popular belief, I have not fallen off the face of the earth. I am in an interesting place right now; trying to sell the house and move; trying to find work....

I did start a new blog. It's called More To Say About Nothing, and I'll use it to write about everything unrelated to the recovery process. The current post, also a few days old now, discusses the first few steps I've taken in finding my biological father (I know, I know, I said unrelated to recovery, but...). I have a link to it under Blogs I Read.

I also decided to fill-in some of the blanks in my Swiss-cheese knowledge of the family history. On both sides. I will be interviewing my oldest sister AND my mother! There have been some developments in the Brothers From Hell piece as well, so that is forthcoming, and could turn out to be life-changing for a certain predator. We'll see...


-b

The Poem - Child Of Abuse - by Straw

I spoke with my oldest sister last night. I had known for some time that she was a poet, but due to technical difficulties I had been unable to see her work until this afternoon, when right out-of-the-blue, for reasons beyond human comprehension, her web server suddenly decided that I was, in fact, worthy to view her website.

She laughed when I told her that the following poem was about me. I cut her off with a heavily exaggerated laugh of my own as she started in with the old standard "well, we didn't have a mama like you did" garbage, and that shut her right up. I proceeded to shed a little light on the wounded little boy in the corner. Just a sliver. I knew if I told her too much that she would be appalled. The last thing I want to do is alienate those few who were a refuge to me. She was speechless. I got the impression that she never even suspected.

Child Of Abuse

Crying in hunger,
Crawling in filth.
Why is this child not cared for?
Is there not one who loves him?

His Mom is away,
In another world.
Drugs have taken his place.
A shell of a Mom is there.

Neighbors cannot see,
He needs attention.
They hear the cries of hunger,
Yet they fear the Mom on drugs.

No family near,
Alone in this world.
His cries are heard through the night.
Morning dawns without a sound.

Laying in filth,
Shivering with cold.
No strength to cry or crawl.
Shallow breaths come and go.

Laying cold and blue,
Forgotten baby.
No longer crying for you.
Taken away by God's grace.

Never alone any more.

Straw ©2005

thanks Sis... I love you

-b

The Mother, The User - Part 1

My mother, Lori, is a complicated woman. Over the years my feelings for her have been a seesaw of emotions; an ebb and flow of love and contempt; hate and affection. As I attempt here to capture those thoughts and feelings through the miasma of my childhood memories, I will not pretend to actually KNOW her, only to parlay information in a factual manner, as I recall it. Unfortunately, she is a very private woman, and I do not know much about her family or her childhood. She never shared, and she never invited sharing.

She was born during the Depression in a Podunk town in North Louisiana. I'm not sure what the family business was, but if I had to guess, I'd say her daddy was a logger. Her mother's family were farmers, a simple but proud lot, who owned a nice-sized chunk of the countryside. I don't know for sure, but I suspect that her father was an alcoholic. In fact, I often wonder if he may have been abusive as well but that is just speculation. It's just as possible that they were very close, and in a healthy, functional relationship. Either situation could have caused her to go hog-wild when he died.

She was fourteen when it happened. Before her fifteenth birthday she had a husband; by her sixteenth, she had a baby. They say country folks move-in for the kill quickly; it must be so.

'Old-Man' Haggard was twenty-five when he swept Lori off her feet. When I was young I had the freedom of thinking that he had taken advantage of her. In my contempt of him it was an easy thing to believe. As I've grown in reasoning, I've come to understand that my mother, even at the tender age of fourteen, was the very type of person that I despise most. The user.

I had not planned on stopping here, but suddenly I am in the wrong frame of mind to discuss this. I realize that I am feeling empathy for her. I know she was hurt as a child, but she chose not to stop the cycle. She chose to abandon me. She chose to beat me. She chose to look the other way and allow me to be molested repeatedly.

I gotta go...

-b

The Brothers From Hell - Part 2

It's normal for teenage brothers to fight, but what I remember from my dysfunctional childhood is something far beyond sibling rivalry. Bobby and Ray fought like rabid dogs. Who knows why, I guess they just loved each other that much. As brutal as that sounds, I find it somewhat humorous, having grown up with a caustic and perverted concept of love. I was always torn when they fought; I never knew who to pull for - the lesser of two evils.

Ray almost killed Bobby once. I was pulling for Ray (that bastard) as a result of a beating I had received from Bobby earlier in the day. As I recall it, Bobby had been beating the crap out of Ray (as usual), but Ray managed to get his hands around Bobby's throat. Bobby ended up on the floor with Ray sitting on his chest chocking the life out of him. Though he couldn't speak, he was begging Ray to let him go. You could see the panic stricken plea in Bobby's eyes mirrored by the hate and contempt in Ray's. Tears streamed down his face and he foamed at the mouth as Ray continued to exert pressure on his throat. In recollection, I realize that Ray was making Bobby suffer; releasing pressure long enough for Bobby to get enough air to keep himself alive, then reapplying. Ray was screaming obscenities as Bobby drifted in and out of consciousness. My sister Shirley was crying, but I was excited! I believe that in that moment, I actually wanted him to die. Maybe that's a bit strong. Instead, let's say - I believe that in that moment, I actually would have been OK with the fact, had he died.

A car pulled into the driveway about the time Ray began to become weary from the energy spent on his new-found sport of choice. As soon as Shirley heard the car door slam she ran outside screaming "Ray's Killing Bobby! Ray's Killing Bobby!" I don't have a clue what she was thinking, but it sure wasn't self-preservation. Suddenly the 'old man' was there knocking Ray off Bobby's chest forcibly. Ray was not only unable to let go of Bobby's throat, he seemed liked he was lost in a trance. Bobby was unconscious initially, but came around eventually and before too long was back at the top of his fiendish little games, no worse for wear.

I'd like to tell you that something positive happened that day in the Haggard household, but honesty demands that I do not. I'd like nothing more than to be able to say that appropriate discipline was dished out as necessary, but once again, I simply cannot lie. Hell, I'd be OK with just being able to tell you that we sat down as a family and discussed the incident, but alas, all of those things are impossible to say, if we desire to walk the path of truth-be-known.

The greatest tragedy of my childhood was not the physical abuse; it was not the abandonment; nor was it the sexual abuse, painful as those things are. It was simply the denial, deception, and delusion of living in a dysfunctional family.

-b

The Rings of Trust

"Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself." Tolstoy

Before I start my topic tonight I'd like to take a moment to thank those of you who have been so kind as to leave your most-welcome comments. I have been touched by your sentiments and your stories as well. I believe that recovery is possible via this outlet, but only through telling my story as well as hearing yours. Thank you.


Tolstoy never met the Black Heart. I want to change myself. I have been given the resources and the facilities to do it. I know that it is possible. I believe the Bible and it says that over time I will be transformed into the image of Christ. I take that to mean that I will be a loving, compassionate person, eager to spread the message of a life of joy. Can I level with you? That is a long way from where I am right now.

People piss me off, and I just plain don't like most of them. I guess because of the early abuse, I have always found it very difficult to trust people. I have never had a clear picture of what "love" is, nor have I ever developed more than a handful of close friendships. I seem to have varying degrees of 'closeness' that I assign to people, though admittedly, even the closest are held at arms-length. If you picture a series of concentric rings, Heather would be alone in the closest ring, with Matt and Joey in the 2nd closest ring, followed by Joe, PastorMan, James, and maybe Mike in the 3rd ring. The 4th ring would be various acquaintances that have been "deemed safe" though not necessarily trustworthy; here you'd find people like Jim, Doyle, Steve, the Newmans, etc. Outside that is a big ring that is just short of total stranger that includes almost everybody else that I know including most of my family. Though there are a few from the family that will never grace the floors of my three-ring circus.

I want to change the way I feel about people. I want to know what it's like to experience true friendship; true trust; true love. I also want to change the way people feel about me. I want them to know the real me, the me that I long to know.. my TRUE SELF as God created me to be...

-b

The Brink of Recovery

The Brothers From Hell - Part 1

In The Brothers From Hell I will attempt to discover and express my true feelings for my older brothers, both of which abused me though in very different ways. Keep in mind that this is a recovery step and both my thoughts and feelings may go on a tangent in any direction. The purpose of this first segment is a simple introduction, though I am hopeful that I will be able to self-express whatever aspect of these damaged relationships is necessary at this juncture. Be advised that this introduction is done from the perspective of my wounded child and is representative of circa 1974.

Bobby
Bobby was the redneck of the family. Named after the 'old man', he thought he was some kind of bigshot. He was good-looking and had plenty of girlfriends, so I don't know what he was so angry about. Whatever the cause, he took his anger out on me. By this time, I had become the punching bag for the entire family it would seem, and Bobby took his share of turns kicking the cat (me). I think maybe he was pissed about the divorce. Or, maybe he was pissed that mother took me with her (not that I was with her per se). He liked to shove his weight around, and was very physical in doing so.

The ironic thing about Bobby was that he was the "good" one. He always went to church, and even got me to go to church. He never smoked, never did drugs, and never drank. All the while he was a very angry young man who would come home form church and beat the shit out of me, a child seven years his junior.

Ray
Ray was the opposite of Bobby in every way. Bobby was a redneck, so Ray was a hippie. Bobby drove a truck, so Ray rode a bike. Bobby went to church, so Ray got high. To the outside world, Bobby was the best kid a parent could have, and Ray was a son-of-a-bitch. Get the picture?

Ray sexually abused me on a daily basis for approximately 5 years. I hate the mother fucker. It feels so good to say that. I know it is a sin, but I want you to understand that I recognize right now, at this very moment, just how much I hate that son-of-a-bitch. More than I have ever thought it was possible to hate someone. More than Bobby, more than Shirley, more than my Mom or the father I never met, I despise Ray most of all. He hurt me in ways that I only hope to be able to put to words in the very near future. Ray was the one that turned me on to my life-long medicant of choice, marijuana. He also enabled me to experiment with Cocaine, amphetamines, Mescaline, and LSD.

In summary, I find the two of them much more alike than immediately obvious. I have to wonder if the cycle was started by "Old-Man" Haggard. I know for a fact that he favored Bobby, and I speculate that he sexually abused Ray and Bobby knew it and despised Ray for it. As a result, Bobby became angry because he knew his beloved father was a child molester, while Ray propagated the sexual abuse to me and who knows how many others by now. The irony is obvious; they had their unique ways of brutality, and their unique ways of numbing the pain, both of which they passed on to me.

-b