Update for the gap of time

These months since my last entry have been long, tedious, and trying –but I’m non-destructable so far, I see.

In October, we were moving right along. November came up and we marched through, overcoming obstacles like personal space, kind speech, and how to state feelings without fearing rejection. Thursdays popped up over and over, each one with a new therapy session and more to overcome. We trudged on into December. Work was going well for me, I was serving tables Thursday-Sunday and decided to tweak the schedule and ask for evenings, only. Then I tried to use the child support charge card… it was empty. It was December 3rd and I got the sobering truth that the children’s dad (my ex-husband of 22 years) didn’t want us to know he had lost his job in October.

I called SNAP (food stamps) and told them he’d lost his job, but they told me that since I hadn’t reported it in time, I’d miss out on November, and December’s food support. I called Child Support and asked them if they knew –they did know. What’s worse, they work in the same building as SNAP, the computer systems are set on the same knowledge base, yet no one installed a connection (nor is the supposedly budgeting for it in the official paperwork, someone needs to legislate for it?) and because my ex didn’t inform anyone, we suffered. I tried to reach out to him, ask him why he couldn’t have told us sooner, and his response was ,”Why don’t you get off my back? I’m trying!” Meanwhile, I had to figure out how to come up with enough money for gas to make it to the food shelf. Some wonderful people stopped by on Christmas Eve to drop household needs and some lovely gifts for the girls. I kept going to work. In some miraculous way we made it through into January.

January had my son getting an odd illness for the 2nd time, worrying for his health, and trying to convince the kids our schooling isn’t a carbon copy of the system’s. Days have been spent NOT constantly practicing our consonants and state capitals, but rather an UN-schooling and a person-building.

I’m coming to the firm belief that if you allow yourself to indulge until you receive the utmost of something, you’ll come to realize what a happy medium is. If you abstain completely, you’ll hanker on and on, and maybe create a few addictions along the way. The kids put their Chromebooks down and said ‘enough’ in February. My 13 year old is still attached, but she’s made friends online and likes to keep in touch. We are getting tablets to work our art on, and we’re gathering eclectic and trendy with our lessons. I am teaching the girls to trust their intuition, to believe in their own abilities, and to trust their decisions –something I’m learning with them!

We spent a day at the library and filled our basket. I brought home a book I strongly recommend, which was recommended to me by my therapist called Mothers Who Can’t Love; A Healing Guide for Daughters by Susan Forward, PhD. It was kicking my ass. I was doing the hard speech work, writing my heart out, crying and feeling all the truths of my relationship with my mother. I was recognizing constantly all of the shit I was doing out of remote control with my kids –just like my mother, and adjusting accordingly, with great sweat and sorry tears. My kids were watching a transformation, but for about 2 weeks their mother was a sobbing, drooping, miserable mess & they saw it, they knew why, and they recognized grief for what it really is. They allowed me my grief, they forgave my sorrow; for they knew with certainty I’d be better when it was all done. Our therapists were walking alongside us, assuring them and me that all of this was natural and healing me. I was gobbling up everything I could to keep my spirits up. I thought that maybe when I finished this book I’d be strong, I’d be able to speak without rushing into rabbit holes, I thought I’d be confident and capable of meeting with my mother –maybe even reaching her and showing her how much I’ve changed and offering her a chance at a new relationship someday. Yes, I held hope, again.

March swept up with warm weather in the Northland; that was a treat. But what came next, I wasn’t prepared for physically –but with all of the mental work –yes, I was prepared.

On a Tuesday morning my girls and I took a trek out to run errands instead of doing school work. We grocery shopped, got breakfast smoothies (I was excited I had enough money to splurge! Tax refunds are lovely to receive), I was getting my oil changed and we got lunch at Subway. We were walking to the Lube center when I saw a man who looked like my step dad coming towards us. I didn’t bring along my glasses, so I wasn’t sure, but sure enough, when he was about 6 feet away (yeah… my eyes aren’t that great) I knew with certainty it was him. From my therapy, the books I’m reading and the material I’ve been inhaling information on how to handle toxic or narcissistic people, I knew being straight forward and speaking a boundary would be the best mode of action. I lifted my right hand like a stop sign and calmly said, “Don’t speak to me please.”

It was like he was glowing with brown rage. It was also as if time froze; I could see the slender frame of his weak body hidden beneath layers and layers of a giant, hooded sweatshirt and wool coat, over. He was a man who was trying to hide, not be seen –or recognized –and if seen, be seen as a huge, scary man not to be tangled with. His eyes were slits, his mouth was covered with a goatee, but his teeth opened up and I could see a sneer –the very one I’d endured since I was a little, adoring girl.

He said with contempt, “Slut,” the ‘ssss’ hissing at the beginning and the sharp ‘ttt!’ at the end made a long, reverberating, ringing sound; just like the sounds he made when he mocked a gay or feminine man speak. I was confused. I’d been married to one man for 22 years and dated 2 men, total since my divorce 5 years back… was I supposed to fit the category of a “slut?” “What even is a ‘slut?'” I wondered. I turned and mumbled, “Who’s a slut?”

He was still walking away, like the coward he is. From behind his hooded and cloaked back, I heard his hateful voice judge me again, “Whore!”

My kids were baffled. “Who is that, Mommy?” “Mom, what’s a slut?” “That’s grandpa! Why did he say that? He’s scary looking.”
I became enraged. The 13 year old said, sounding fearful, “Come on Mom, lets get out of here, now!”

I recalled how my stepdad was arrested and plead guilty to indecent exposure in southern Wisconsin so I thought of the most true thing I could say about him, and I childishly shouted and pointed, “That man is a streaker right there! A streaker!” Some people in line looked but my 13 year old was pulling the shopping cart telling me to get going.

His swagger was exaggerated as he kept walking away from us, never turning back.  He actually slapped his rancid backside at us… a rancid, withering ass that had to have been hiding in those 6 sizes too large jeans, but it made no sound.

Immediately my Flight response kicked in. I began to rush towards the back of the store where our van was parked, but then I recalled how sneaky my stepdad was when I was a kid; how I was his prey, he was the predator —I just knew he’d ambush us.

I felt the Fight response kick on. I was NOT going to be sexually slandered and harassed in front of my children! I turned the shopping cart around. How dare he judge me; he who professes to be a devout, devoted Christian –“Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,” –Jesus’s words flooded my mind and I wanted to tell him, loudly.  I desired to step on his throat with my heel and read his precious bible to him.  I began to pursue him. I honestly wanted to kill him, I thought, “This is the chance I’ve been preparing for. This man is going down.”
My 13 year old was pleading with me to turn back, go home, please let’s go. She was terrified of him. She’d seen and heard him before… and she’d heard my experiences. 
We saw as he turned around the corner and by the time we reached the produce aisles behind him, he was gone. I felt a sickening fear settle in.
He was hiding.

Flight mode turned back on. I knew I needed to return to a Safe and Social status before I could make good decisions. My tormentor was no where to be seen and I felt an urgency to seek help. 
My eyes landed on the door greeter. I rushed my children and I to him and said, “I’m in an unsafe situation and I think we need help. I don’t feel safe, can you please escort us to our vehicle?” They asked some questions and upon learning that I’d been approached by my stepdad and verbally attacked, they gathered up nearly 8 managers and team members and we all began to head towards the Lube center.
I was in a fog. I felt so ashamed of my situation.  Here I was, a grown woman running away from her abusive stepdad… how quaint.

Suddenly my mother appeared from behind a rack of women’s exercise clothes; her face was drawn, eyebrows knit, with a pinched frown and panicked eyes that darted from me to our escort. Instantly she exploded with rage and she grabbed the shopping cart (that contained a 10 and 8 year old daughters, who each were exhausted from all of our errands by now).  She began to shake and pull at the cart aggressively –tugging it away from me– my kids in the cart were terrified and let out terrified gasps and cries.
She was shouting something like “You should know” or “You need to” when she was surrounded by the escort. I heard them tell her to leave this family alone and let us exit the store, safely. She realized these people were protecting me and turned on them with a voice I remember from childhood. 
She snarled, “Who the fuck do you fucking think you are?? Who do you fucking think you’re talking to? Huh? Fucking leave me alone! I want to speak to her!”
I thought, “She is saying that very word she shunned me for using. The same word she turned the entire family on me for!”
This woman, my mother who couldn’t look at me because I’d turned my back on Christ; the epitome of Christian women.  My Christian-professing mother was going down like Peter, slathering and spewing like a demon, herself. I didn’t even recognize her! Everything felt like it was in slow-motion.
The stepfather appeared and his face was suddenly in my face; he’d popped up from behind us –from the direction I had been fleeing towards, back when I was in Flight mode. He zeroed in on me, an arm coming up to bend over the crowd that surrounded us–but the management team swarmed him, too. He looked confused as they descended upon him, then he became visibly furious as he saw his precious princess getting swarmed and they both were hustled away.
I was so dizzy from it all, the management team began to pull us along, encouraging us to keep moving, to not listen to them screaming about me through the store, and focus on getting to the van.
In a flash I said to my mother, “I thought you were a Christian!” As they hustled us away from my mother and stepdad, I heard her shout, “How can you be so hateful?”
Hateful?  Wasn’t that how she was behaving?
Because of therapy, I knew that was a power play, a victim blame and a projection. I did nothing “hateful,” in fact, I was doing the most loving thing for my children and myself, ever.

When we got to the van, the team waited for us to start the van up and leave the parking lot before they headed back inside. They told me they were contacting the police, everything was on video surveillance, and that for my own good and my kids’ sake I should seek a protection or harassment order. One woman on the escort crew apologized to me for my mother’s behaviors and then told me, “It’s sad that we can’t pick our families.”
The entire drive home felt like it was a nightmare.
I saw my step-father driving in every car that passed us; I saw my mother in the passenger seat of the cars beside us.
 I was terrified, and my kids wanted every single bit of information. ” Who was that?” “Why did they act like that?” “Why did Gramma pull our cart –was she going to try to kidnap us?” and “I don’t ever want to see them again, they’re awful.”

For all of us a great knowing came…
The kids thought this is the kind of people Mom came from. With clarity, they knew full well what kind of a family I was surrounded with while growing up. They witnessed the abusive behavior, the slander, the accusations, the scapegoating, the lies, the pretending, the demand to love when there’s nothing to love…
“Mom, so that’s what your life was like?” Innocent, loving eyes turned up to me.
“Yes.” I felt so ashamed, looking down.
“I’m glad you’re not like them, Mommy. I love you for getting help. Thanks for going to therapy.”

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Since that Tuesday I’ve written my story, filed 6 hours worth of redundant paperwork, and stood before court, testifying my truth. My mother and stepdad never showed up to argue their poor behavior, so the courts granted another 2 years of protection for me and the children.
2 more years to heal.
What will we be like, then? Ooh, I’m happy for that thought, yet the sorrow that spills over from the initial shock of it all; that keeps me saddened. The fact that I now have to grieve the loss of my relationship –like someone has died– is constantly on my heart. There’s not a chance in the next 2 years to repair my mother; she has to do it, anyway. She won’t let me help, she looks down on anyone who’s not her. I have to come to these terms and accept them. Adapting is painful and she’s just incapable of adaptation; I think it’s called “maladaptive.”

Some observations: The courtroom was dumpy, I was surprised by all the pride in such a dingy, slow system. Even the calendar was incorrect; I didn’t even have a judge –I realized with crushed pride that I had a “Referee” –this was a fucking brawl, a clashing of teams; not a civil court.
The judge was saddened by my case. 
He said at the end, “I do hope this is the last time you’ll have to do this; I’m sorry you’re having to.” My mother was revoked the rights to own firearms.

This is her 2nd POF. It’s my stepfather’s 2nd, too. After 2, I can request a 50 year POF, and that will mean she and I can never, ever reunite. That will be her decision.
 
I refuse to spend another second of my life explaining myself, defending my choices, or simply sharing the oxygen around my stepfather; he removes all goodness from my life.
If it were up to 13 year old me, he would have a knife in his back and buried in 1985. This me stopped her. My stepfather is a sour, bitter, and hateful man who competed with me for my mother’s attention and love; like I was his sibling in the nest.
He wins.
 He can have her; he’s poisoned her, anyway.
She let him contend with me, chose him over me time and time again; she can keep him, then. She lost me, she lost her 8 grandchildren; they recognize toxic now.
 
They don’t know love like I do, the love I share with my children is foreign to her.  My mother and her husband see love as control. She sees compliance as love. She sees love and respect as things to demand, not create, not model.
To her and my stepdad, love was a transaction, like money; you take it away when they don’t work hard enough for it; you pile it on, falsely, when they’re giving you what you want. Well, that’s bullshit!

Love is never erased, it never disappears, but it can move to different places, instead. Love doesn’t cause pain to the one it loves; love doesn’t inflict damage; love doesn’t scare, inflict damage, judge, or reject based upon outside looks. Love loves.
To love someone is to let go of their lives and let them live, and continue loving them as they do what they love, even what they don’t love.
Love holds hands, cries with, and supports. Love stands by and is ready when needed. It’s not looking for blame and it’s not searching for mistakes; love loves mistakes because learning means change for the better. Love is lovely and that’s what I’m showering in!

March comes with new fears. This Covid19 virus is threatening my income. Last night the customer load was half of what it is usually. The government has shut down schools in the states of Wisconsin, Illinois, Michigan… so many surrounding our state. If I were still working my 45 hour week job, I do not have a clue what I’d do with the kids… I’ve got this job set up, but now it looks as if serving tables will become a difficult opportunity.

I missed my goal of February for my book, but this is a catalyst. This virus is going to cause a lot of change. I’m not sweating it, though. I’ve got this. (Even if I do get it, I’ll beat it.)