As I was reading another blog this morning where someone was sharing a bit about depression and then looking back at some of my own writings, I am thankful that (at least for now) I am no longer plagued on a regular basis with severe depression which used to often lead to the temptation of committing the "s" word.
For years, suicide was a continual temptation. I never made an attempt. If I had, it would have been successful; my detailed plan is fail proof. I will not share my plan online. Yet in the plan, there is even little (or no) physical mess to clean up. I'm a committed recycler.
I still have suicide ideation from time to time. I think the most recent was last year, in September, 2010.
In years previous, the main roadblock from me committing the act was my children. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving them the legacy that their mother committed suicide. Both my doctors at the time responded, "Good! You think of those kids every time....every time."
In my reading this morning, I ran across a blog piece I wrote in May, 2010. I have reposted it below. It came to mind after reading a blog post this morning written by someone else who stated, "It will let up. It always does."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Giant & Dwarf
I sat on the ground. Small.
The large man beside me loomed upward. Like a giant Paul Bunyon. Yet unlike Paul, he wasn't kind, nor warm, nor approachable.
He was mean-spirited as he derided me rehearsing my worthlessness to my inner ear. I sat listening. The lesser.
He stood to my right. As I sat cross-legged. On the ground.
But I didn't fear him.
I looked up at his towering physique and his small head in the distance.
My eyes then gazed downward, at his feet. Giant feet.
"You. You are the boot."
For at least a decade, if not longer, when I would sink into what I referred to as "the hole," in my mind's eye which is more my heart's eye, the giant, laced army boot always awaited me. Awaited me at the top of "the hole."
"The hole." That deep, dark, damp, mold-ridden, all-encompassing vortex of hopelessness. A void. Yet not quite a void or a vortex. It seems I would fall in rather than be sucked in. And the hole had a bottom to it. I don't think of voids and vortexes as having a closed end.
At the bottom was a large rock where I'd lay, exhausted. I'd look up, feeling trapped, yet seeing light. I'd rest to gain strength for my ascent.
"The hole." A dry well. Red dirt walls with scattered protruding roots. I'd try to climb out; I always tried. I had to try. I could not give into suicide or utter despair. I had to pull myself up.
And when I'd get to the top, my fingernails caked with red earth, my hands sometimes scraped and bloodied, I'd feel "the boot" on my head.
"The boot." The giant, laced army boot. Stomping my head and pushing me down, back down into the hole.
I'd feel the words more than hear them. Words that came somewhere from that army boot. "You fucking moron. You good-for-nothing jerk. Asshole. Sorry excuse for a person." Then I'd feel the mocking laughter, laughing at me for trying to escape. "You'll never make it out."
I'd often hang on a root that grew out of the dirt wall that bounded the cylindrical 6-foot diameter, 30-foot deep dry well. Sometimes I'd end up at the bottom again. To rest. To gain strength for another climb.
During that decade or so, I'd sometimes make it out of the hole. And that only after the boot was no where to be seen. I never saw the body to which that boot belonged.
Until a few days ago in May, 2010. When I sat, in my mind's eye which is more my heart's eye, cross-legged on the ground.
And this time, for the first time, I saw the looming, gigantic, male body that went with that god-forsaken boot and his deriding words of shame.
And I wasn't afraid.
"You. You are the boot."
I wonder what I'll name him. I wonder if I can tame him.
I feel empowered that I never allowed him to tame me.
Perhaps I'll burn his boot(s) and throw him in the hole.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A poem I wrote in 2008 about that boot: Despair
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
October 31, 2011
October 28, 2011
It could have been avoided.....
July, 2010. In the wee morning hours on Wednesday, Knapp had sent an email calling for an up and down vote on the usage of the terms "spiritual" or "psychological". I'd previously proposed using both, but Knapp adamantly stated, "No." Seeing as there were only three of us voting and two, Lema and Knapp, were clearly in disagreement, I was the tie breaker.
I voted in accordance with Knapp's term, "spiritual."
Knapp and I never had a disagreement. Knapp and Lema had a disagreement.
When Knapp called for this tie-breaking vote via email, Lema did not receive that email. I was not aware at the time that Lema did not receive that email and only discovered it days later and after Lema became upset - seeing that he was not informed a vote was being called for.
Was this intentional on Knapp's part, to not inform Lema that a vote was being called for? At one time I thought it was simply an error on Knapp's part in not clicking "reply all" on the email. Now, over a year later and due to the excessive lying I've discovered Knapp has engaged in, I'm not sure.
After my vote was cast, Lema began directing some of his objection toward me, questioning my motives. After me addressing these objections and insinuations with Lema and after I asked him where his apparent suspicion was coming from, Lema shared that he didn't understand why I had voted when I did. I responded that I had voted because Knapp had called for a vote. Lema asked, "When?" That's when we discovered, on Saturday night, that Lema never received the email Knapp sent on Wednesday calling for a vote. All these email exchanges were also shared with Knapp.
Sometime earlier on Saturday, the conflict between Knapp and Lema seemed to be calming. Knapp had sent an email that, to me, sounded like the issue of the terms and of the conflict were open for discussion.
So I discussed, via email. Lema discussed, via email. Again, all these emails exchanges were also shared with Knapp. Knapp's only response was to send a lengthy ultimatum email asking for Lema's and my resignation within 24 hours if we couldn't agree to what Knapp stated that we all initially agreed to which Knapp stated was the democratic process. Within that ultimatum email were other insinuations that I had no idea I had engaged in.
I was totally baffled.
After Knapp sent the ultimatum email, I tried to reach him via phone twice, the last time leaving a message that I hoped we could talk and stating how confused I was by his ultimatum email. His response was to not return my phone call. Instead he sent me emails cutting off communication and letting me know just how untrustworthy, non-compassionate, and disrespectful I was.
He signed his final email,"Have a nice life."
****
****
In one of John Knapp's public writings, now accessible only via cache or via a certain ISP address, Knapp states that the three parties (Lema, myself, and John) disagreed over a main issue, that we were passionate about a cause, that tempers got heated, and that we couldn't move beyond the disagreement. He states that he closed down the project we working on because, according to Knapp, we simply couldn't work together and so...he went on to work with others.
That simply isn't the case.
Among other things, there wasn't a main issue that we simply couldn't move beyond. The only reason we couldn't get past it, is because John Knapp demanded an ultimatum and then cut off communication.
As far as a main issue, Knapp and Lema Nal had a disagreement over the words "spiritual" and "psychological." To me, the terminology wasn't that important, which I expressed in my email exchanges with Knapp and Lema. My only "passion" at the time, was to have a healthy place to help people exiting high-control groups; terminology was secondary.
The situation, in my opinion, could have been resolved simply, had communication stayed open and respectful.
But communication was terminated, not by Lema or myself, but by John who was unwilling to work to resolve any misunderstanding.
As far as tempers getting heated? Knapp's was the main temper. Lema got heated too. The only time I expressed anger (and that in a tiny dose, in no way "flared") was via email in response to John's ultimatum email. But mainly, I was confused and expressed that, multiple times.
****
****
Below is a rendition of the overview of the conflict that I submitted with my complaint to NY State. Emails are not included.
_____
[If needed, I can provide all emails for the following overview. Altogether there were 100+(?) email exchanges, within two different email threads. (I have attached {to this overview} two other email threads that are in addition to the 100+(?) emails that I have not included.) I realize this may be too much information; I just wasn't sure what to include and what not to include.]
The three parties involved were John Knapp, myself (Carol Welch), and Borz Lema Nal.
(NOTE: Lema is Chechen and, to my knowledge, has always lived and still resides in Russia. English is not his first language, but he used to work as a translator and his written English is quite fluent.)
This, of course, is my overveiw and is given to the best of my knowledge.
****
Tuesday Evening, 7/27/10: Lema and John began to express disagreement over the usage of the words "spiritual" or "psyhological" to describe the trauma that some people experience after involvement with high control groups. The phrase in which the words were to be used, would appear on the public online discussion board as part of a description for the board. Both Lema and John were passionate about their opinions.
[John owned/owns the online discussion board. Lema, myself, and John were Co-Administrators. The board address was http://www.knappfamilycounseling.com/phpBB3/index.php . The board was separate from (but would be a component of) John's non-profit organization that he was thinking of formulating.]
****
Wednesday, 7/28/2010: Beginning in the wee morning hours, the disagreement between John and Lema became heated. In one of the emails, in the wee morning hours, John called for an up and down vote regarding which word ("spiritual" or "psychological") to use in the phrase. I voted in agreement with John.
[NOTE: It was discovered around 9:45 PM on Saturday night (almost 4 days later), that Lema never received the email that John had sent Wednesday around 4:00 AM which called for the up and down vote. Thus Lema thought (up until Saturday night when we discovered the error) that John and I had gone behind Lema's back to make a decision.
It was later discovered that Lema never received a second email that John sent around that same time.
In typing up this overview, I just found another email that Lema never received, from that same time frame.
Apparently, with the 3 emails that Lema never received, John didn't click "reply all" when he sent them. An easy error for anyone to make. In my opinion, the emails Lema never received were an important factor that contributed to some of Lema's accusations and insinuations directed at John and myself in the conflict.]
*************************************
Wednesday (later), 7/28/2010: John contacts me via video Skype and discusses his exasperation with the circumstances regarding the conflict with Lema. I agree with him, that Lema is being adamant and hard to get along with. John stated that John felt that Lema was lecturing him. I made no comment to John's perception of this, though I didn't think Lema was "lecturing him." In hindsight, I should have stated my opinion.
John also stated that Lema was providing no evidence to back up Lema's opinion. I asked John if he had looked at the links Lema had provided in his argument for his opinion. John had not; so he then looked at (at least) one of the links and stated it was still just opinion, not evidence. My thought was, "Well isn't your viewpoint just opinion too?" Again I did not express this to John, and in hindsight I think I should have. I felt at the time John needed to simply vent so I mainly listened to what John had to say.
By the end of the Skype conversation, John seemed distressed and stated he needed to find someone to talk to (obviously other than me) about the situation. He mentioned [certain person] might be someone he could speak with.
****
Thursday, 7/29/2010: The three of us (John, Lema, and myself) meet on voice Skype for our weekly prescheduled conference call. As Creative Director, I was the one to oversee these calls. After 1/2 hour of business talk about the online board, Lema and John begin to discuss their disagreement, but John had to leave in 1/2 hour due to work so that conversation never got finished. (NOTE: Lema's spoken English is not as fluent as his written English, so spoken communication is a bit more difficult.)
****
Thursday (later), 7/29/2010: Lema started another email thread addressed mainly toward me with insinuations and accusations regarding my vote where I had voted for John's word proposal, questioning my reasons and motives behind my vote. I addressed these with Lema through Saturday evening.
(It was Saturday night during my back and forth emails with Lema, when we discovered Lema had never received the one email from John calling for the up and down vote.)
****
Friday, 7/30/2010: John called me on the telephone and stated that now Lema was referring to John or at least comparing him with a cult leader. (I had not been keeping up with all the emails, due to my work load and some family illness so had not read those emails yet.)
John also shared some other information in regard to a phone call he received that day or the day before, from a therapist in California. John felt the therapist was fishing John for information regarding dual relationships with clients and regarding the non-profit organization John was thinking of formulating. (I can share more of this if needed.)
John again stated he needed to talk to someone (obviously other than me) about all this. He also stated the verbal attacks from Lema had to stop within the next 24 hours. The dialog with Lema was (of course) wearing John down. I agreed that Lema was being accusatory toward both John and myself.
****
Saturday (morning), 7/31/2010: It wasn't until Saturday morning that I was able to catch up on John's and Lema's email exchanges. They had become quite heated, from both sides. At that point, I responded via email suggesting that maybe they should give it a rest. John had mentioned this previously, but still they had continued to go back and forth as Lema had continued to bring things up.
****
Saturday (afternoon), 7/31/2010: John sent an email which sounded to me like things were calming down between he and Lema and like John had brought how to word the phrase (the initial disagreement) back up for discussion.
[That email thread is attached and is labeled with a cover sheet, "Conflict: Back on the table for discussion, 7/31/2010." Please note the times on the responses, in light of not discvoering until Saturday night that Lema had never received John's email (from Wedsnesday) calling for an an up and down vote.]
****
Saturday (night), 7/31/2010: As stated previously, it is discovered that Lema never received John's Wednesday email calling for an up and down vote which (imo) was part of the reason for Lema's accusatory statements toward myself and John as Lema had thought John and I had gone behind his back to make a decision.
****
Sunday, 8/01/2010: John sent (what I refer to as) an ultimatum email, asking for a resignation decision within 24 hours from both Lema and I if, since according to John's perception, Lema and I could not agree with the democratic process (ie: voting).
I was totally confused by this email (especially in light of John's previous email in which it sounded that the discussion was back on the table) and was taken aback by some of the things John accused, inferred, and/or insinuated. I expressed my confusion and surprise in my response to the 'ultimatum' email.
[That email thread is attached and is labeled with a cover sheet, "Conflict: Ultimatum email, 8/01/2010." ]
________________________________
I voted in accordance with Knapp's term, "spiritual."
Knapp and I never had a disagreement. Knapp and Lema had a disagreement.
When Knapp called for this tie-breaking vote via email, Lema did not receive that email. I was not aware at the time that Lema did not receive that email and only discovered it days later and after Lema became upset - seeing that he was not informed a vote was being called for.
Was this intentional on Knapp's part, to not inform Lema that a vote was being called for? At one time I thought it was simply an error on Knapp's part in not clicking "reply all" on the email. Now, over a year later and due to the excessive lying I've discovered Knapp has engaged in, I'm not sure.
After my vote was cast, Lema began directing some of his objection toward me, questioning my motives. After me addressing these objections and insinuations with Lema and after I asked him where his apparent suspicion was coming from, Lema shared that he didn't understand why I had voted when I did. I responded that I had voted because Knapp had called for a vote. Lema asked, "When?" That's when we discovered, on Saturday night, that Lema never received the email Knapp sent on Wednesday calling for a vote. All these email exchanges were also shared with Knapp.
Sometime earlier on Saturday, the conflict between Knapp and Lema seemed to be calming. Knapp had sent an email that, to me, sounded like the issue of the terms and of the conflict were open for discussion.
So I discussed, via email. Lema discussed, via email. Again, all these emails exchanges were also shared with Knapp. Knapp's only response was to send a lengthy ultimatum email asking for Lema's and my resignation within 24 hours if we couldn't agree to what Knapp stated that we all initially agreed to which Knapp stated was the democratic process. Within that ultimatum email were other insinuations that I had no idea I had engaged in.
I was totally baffled.
After Knapp sent the ultimatum email, I tried to reach him via phone twice, the last time leaving a message that I hoped we could talk and stating how confused I was by his ultimatum email. His response was to not return my phone call. Instead he sent me emails cutting off communication and letting me know just how untrustworthy, non-compassionate, and disrespectful I was.
He signed his final email,"Have a nice life."
****
****
In one of John Knapp's public writings, now accessible only via cache or via a certain ISP address, Knapp states that the three parties (Lema, myself, and John) disagreed over a main issue, that we were passionate about a cause, that tempers got heated, and that we couldn't move beyond the disagreement. He states that he closed down the project we working on because, according to Knapp, we simply couldn't work together and so...he went on to work with others.
That simply isn't the case.
Among other things, there wasn't a main issue that we simply couldn't move beyond. The only reason we couldn't get past it, is because John Knapp demanded an ultimatum and then cut off communication.
As far as a main issue, Knapp and Lema Nal had a disagreement over the words "spiritual" and "psychological." To me, the terminology wasn't that important, which I expressed in my email exchanges with Knapp and Lema. My only "passion" at the time, was to have a healthy place to help people exiting high-control groups; terminology was secondary.
The situation, in my opinion, could have been resolved simply, had communication stayed open and respectful.
But communication was terminated, not by Lema or myself, but by John who was unwilling to work to resolve any misunderstanding.
As far as tempers getting heated? Knapp's was the main temper. Lema got heated too. The only time I expressed anger (and that in a tiny dose, in no way "flared") was via email in response to John's ultimatum email. But mainly, I was confused and expressed that, multiple times.
****
****
Below is a rendition of the overview of the conflict that I submitted with my complaint to NY State. Emails are not included.
_____
THE ONLINE CONFLICT BETWEEN JOHN
& THE OTHER ONLINE BOARD
CO-ADMINSTRATOR
which took place
July 27 - August 1, 2010
July 27 - August 1, 2010
(includes John's ulimatum email)
[If needed, I can provide all emails for the following overview. Altogether there were 100+(?) email exchanges, within two different email threads. (I have attached {to this overview} two other email threads that are in addition to the 100+(?) emails that I have not included.) I realize this may be too much information; I just wasn't sure what to include and what not to include.]
The three parties involved were John Knapp, myself (Carol Welch), and Borz Lema Nal.
(NOTE: Lema is Chechen and, to my knowledge, has always lived and still resides in Russia. English is not his first language, but he used to work as a translator and his written English is quite fluent.)
This, of course, is my overveiw and is given to the best of my knowledge.
****
Tuesday Evening, 7/27/10: Lema and John began to express disagreement over the usage of the words "spiritual" or "psyhological" to describe the trauma that some people experience after involvement with high control groups. The phrase in which the words were to be used, would appear on the public online discussion board as part of a description for the board. Both Lema and John were passionate about their opinions.
[John owned/owns the online discussion board. Lema, myself, and John were Co-Administrators. The board address was http://www.knappfamilycounseling.com/phpBB3/index.php . The board was separate from (but would be a component of) John's non-profit organization that he was thinking of formulating.]
****
Wednesday, 7/28/2010: Beginning in the wee morning hours, the disagreement between John and Lema became heated. In one of the emails, in the wee morning hours, John called for an up and down vote regarding which word ("spiritual" or "psychological") to use in the phrase. I voted in agreement with John.
[NOTE: It was discovered around 9:45 PM on Saturday night (almost 4 days later), that Lema never received the email that John had sent Wednesday around 4:00 AM which called for the up and down vote. Thus Lema thought (up until Saturday night when we discovered the error) that John and I had gone behind Lema's back to make a decision.
It was later discovered that Lema never received a second email that John sent around that same time.
In typing up this overview, I just found another email that Lema never received, from that same time frame.
Apparently, with the 3 emails that Lema never received, John didn't click "reply all" when he sent them. An easy error for anyone to make. In my opinion, the emails Lema never received were an important factor that contributed to some of Lema's accusations and insinuations directed at John and myself in the conflict.]
*************************************
Wednesday (later), 7/28/2010: John contacts me via video Skype and discusses his exasperation with the circumstances regarding the conflict with Lema. I agree with him, that Lema is being adamant and hard to get along with. John stated that John felt that Lema was lecturing him. I made no comment to John's perception of this, though I didn't think Lema was "lecturing him." In hindsight, I should have stated my opinion.
John also stated that Lema was providing no evidence to back up Lema's opinion. I asked John if he had looked at the links Lema had provided in his argument for his opinion. John had not; so he then looked at (at least) one of the links and stated it was still just opinion, not evidence. My thought was, "Well isn't your viewpoint just opinion too?" Again I did not express this to John, and in hindsight I think I should have. I felt at the time John needed to simply vent so I mainly listened to what John had to say.
By the end of the Skype conversation, John seemed distressed and stated he needed to find someone to talk to (obviously other than me) about the situation. He mentioned [certain person] might be someone he could speak with.
****
Thursday, 7/29/2010: The three of us (John, Lema, and myself) meet on voice Skype for our weekly prescheduled conference call. As Creative Director, I was the one to oversee these calls. After 1/2 hour of business talk about the online board, Lema and John begin to discuss their disagreement, but John had to leave in 1/2 hour due to work so that conversation never got finished. (NOTE: Lema's spoken English is not as fluent as his written English, so spoken communication is a bit more difficult.)
****
Thursday (later), 7/29/2010: Lema started another email thread addressed mainly toward me with insinuations and accusations regarding my vote where I had voted for John's word proposal, questioning my reasons and motives behind my vote. I addressed these with Lema through Saturday evening.
(It was Saturday night during my back and forth emails with Lema, when we discovered Lema had never received the one email from John calling for the up and down vote.)
****
Friday, 7/30/2010: John called me on the telephone and stated that now Lema was referring to John or at least comparing him with a cult leader. (I had not been keeping up with all the emails, due to my work load and some family illness so had not read those emails yet.)
John also shared some other information in regard to a phone call he received that day or the day before, from a therapist in California. John felt the therapist was fishing John for information regarding dual relationships with clients and regarding the non-profit organization John was thinking of formulating. (I can share more of this if needed.)
John again stated he needed to talk to someone (obviously other than me) about all this. He also stated the verbal attacks from Lema had to stop within the next 24 hours. The dialog with Lema was (of course) wearing John down. I agreed that Lema was being accusatory toward both John and myself.
****
Saturday (morning), 7/31/2010: It wasn't until Saturday morning that I was able to catch up on John's and Lema's email exchanges. They had become quite heated, from both sides. At that point, I responded via email suggesting that maybe they should give it a rest. John had mentioned this previously, but still they had continued to go back and forth as Lema had continued to bring things up.
****
Saturday (afternoon), 7/31/2010: John sent an email which sounded to me like things were calming down between he and Lema and like John had brought how to word the phrase (the initial disagreement) back up for discussion.
[That email thread is attached and is labeled with a cover sheet, "Conflict: Back on the table for discussion, 7/31/2010." Please note the times on the responses, in light of not discvoering until Saturday night that Lema had never received John's email (from Wedsnesday) calling for an an up and down vote.]
****
Saturday (night), 7/31/2010: As stated previously, it is discovered that Lema never received John's Wednesday email calling for an up and down vote which (imo) was part of the reason for Lema's accusatory statements toward myself and John as Lema had thought John and I had gone behind his back to make a decision.
****
Sunday, 8/01/2010: John sent (what I refer to as) an ultimatum email, asking for a resignation decision within 24 hours from both Lema and I if, since according to John's perception, Lema and I could not agree with the democratic process (ie: voting).
I was totally confused by this email (especially in light of John's previous email in which it sounded that the discussion was back on the table) and was taken aback by some of the things John accused, inferred, and/or insinuated. I expressed my confusion and surprise in my response to the 'ultimatum' email.
[That email thread is attached and is labeled with a cover sheet, "Conflict: Ultimatum email, 8/01/2010." ]
________________________________
October 27, 2011
Innocence
AWW, 10/26/11
non-subject ~ innocence
________________
Innocence
Guilt
Shame
There were times I was so hard on my children. It causes my heart to droop, my eye to tear. I'm thankful as adults, we can all talk about those times. Yet I wonder if it affected them deeper than they let on. I wonder, if ten years from now, they'll recall the harsh times and recognize that those harsh times are part of who they are.
At least we have discussed it, though the kids mainly don't want to. Or they roll their eyes at me like, "Oh Mom. We aren't damaged for life."
Mid 1990s. We sat at the dining room table, myself, my son who must have been around 5 or 6, and my daughter who must have been around 7 or 8. As often typical, Daughter would not respond to me when I asked her something. I can't recall what it was, something about crayons or coloring or something. Most likely she did respond, but I deemed the response not good enough and so I would push her for more. What a jerk I was. I can't recall the details, just the emotions. Daughter was supposed to obey me, which meant she was supposed to answer my questions straight forward.
Like the teaching tape from The Way, one of the many about children obeying their parents in the Lord. On that tape, Reverend shared about teaching the ABCs to his son. Reverend stated that Reverend's son was to recite after Reverend, "A, B, C, D" and that if his son refused, it was proper to strike his son with a wooden spoon. Not a beating, but a strike. His son was supposed to obey.
I never went that far, to strike my children for not repeating the ABCs properly. But I struck them for other acts of disobedience. I didn't use a wooden spoon; wooden spoons were for stirring batter. I used a switch. And I struck them with words, harsh words. And then I'd feel bad, terribly bad. Why couldn't they just obey the first time? Anything less than obedience the first time was not obedience.
One time, Daughter refused to take her vitamins at breakfast. I threw water from the table glass in her face. I told her she needed to obey and swallow the pills. I don't recall now if she ever did. Though quiet, like her father, she could be quite stubborn, which now I'm glad she was.
Son was different than Daughter. Son showed more emotion, like me.
Sometime last year Son, now 21, chuckling confessed to me how when he was a child he used to put his raw veggies in his jean pants pockets when I wasn't looking. Then he'd throw them out when helping to clear the table. And I thought he ate those veggies.
On more than one occasion when I tried to spank Son, he fought back, literally. He wrestled me telling me it was wrong to hit people. He must have been around 6 or 7 years old when, one day he brought the switches in a room where I was sitting and broke them in front of me. "Momma it's wrong."
I never used a switch again; I did use my palm a few more times. And I still used harsh words.
I'm not sure which was worse.
I am not innocent.
___________________
non-subject ~ innocence
________________
Innocence
Guilt
Shame
There were times I was so hard on my children. It causes my heart to droop, my eye to tear. I'm thankful as adults, we can all talk about those times. Yet I wonder if it affected them deeper than they let on. I wonder, if ten years from now, they'll recall the harsh times and recognize that those harsh times are part of who they are.
At least we have discussed it, though the kids mainly don't want to. Or they roll their eyes at me like, "Oh Mom. We aren't damaged for life."
Mid 1990s. We sat at the dining room table, myself, my son who must have been around 5 or 6, and my daughter who must have been around 7 or 8. As often typical, Daughter would not respond to me when I asked her something. I can't recall what it was, something about crayons or coloring or something. Most likely she did respond, but I deemed the response not good enough and so I would push her for more. What a jerk I was. I can't recall the details, just the emotions. Daughter was supposed to obey me, which meant she was supposed to answer my questions straight forward.
Like the teaching tape from The Way, one of the many about children obeying their parents in the Lord. On that tape, Reverend shared about teaching the ABCs to his son. Reverend stated that Reverend's son was to recite after Reverend, "A, B, C, D" and that if his son refused, it was proper to strike his son with a wooden spoon. Not a beating, but a strike. His son was supposed to obey.
I never went that far, to strike my children for not repeating the ABCs properly. But I struck them for other acts of disobedience. I didn't use a wooden spoon; wooden spoons were for stirring batter. I used a switch. And I struck them with words, harsh words. And then I'd feel bad, terribly bad. Why couldn't they just obey the first time? Anything less than obedience the first time was not obedience.
One time, Daughter refused to take her vitamins at breakfast. I threw water from the table glass in her face. I told her she needed to obey and swallow the pills. I don't recall now if she ever did. Though quiet, like her father, she could be quite stubborn, which now I'm glad she was.
Son was different than Daughter. Son showed more emotion, like me.
Sometime last year Son, now 21, chuckling confessed to me how when he was a child he used to put his raw veggies in his jean pants pockets when I wasn't looking. Then he'd throw them out when helping to clear the table. And I thought he ate those veggies.
On more than one occasion when I tried to spank Son, he fought back, literally. He wrestled me telling me it was wrong to hit people. He must have been around 6 or 7 years old when, one day he brought the switches in a room where I was sitting and broke them in front of me. "Momma it's wrong."
I never used a switch again; I did use my palm a few more times. And I still used harsh words.
I'm not sure which was worse.
I am not innocent.
___________________
October 25, 2011
journal entry ~ october 24, 2011 ~ disorder
Panera Bread drinking coffee
10/24/11
________________
A myriad of thoughts runs through my head.
Do I corral them?
Once corralled, which thought will I catch if I decide to toss a lasso into the herd?
I could just sit here on the fence and watch the herd, the hive, swarm.
If I just observe instead of trying to capture, will the herd at some point experience synchronized order, like random swinging clock pendulums that then synchronize on a clock wall?
If clock pendulums herded on a wall can synchronize by just continuing to swing, cannot my thoughts do the same?
It seems there must be order to the herd, the hives, the flocks. I've read that is so.
The individual beasts don't force this order. The only "force" is their state of being; they simply are. Their instincts dictate.
My current state of gross disorder in my life must have some sort of purpose...maybe?
But then, has my life ever been ordered?
These days, I piddle away time on the computer, often times re-reading my own writing. I'll check my blog statcounter and note which pieces are read...and I'll reread some of the pieces that are being read.
Why do I do that? What need is it meeting? What makes it so important that it supercedes the laundry and getting my home in order? What am I looking for? Am I trying to find me?
I wonder if other people do that with their blogs?
All these writings are like that herd in the corral, each piece like a beast. The individual words and letters expressing strings of thoughts are like the parts of the beast....matter, cells, emotions, and all that swims around in some sort of organized chaos.
But...the disorder in my home is not organized chaos; it is disorganized and it silently screams at me continually. Why do I avoid it?
As I was conversing with Teresa today at the dentist office, mail came up as a subject. I confessed, "I have mail down on my desk that has awaited me for two years, lost in the scattered piles of mail received since then."
Then in my head, events of personal history tumbled forth..one after the other...circumstances of life-causing chaos...beginning in 2008 to present and then all the way back to childhood.
It seemed to all start in 2008, this vast disorder.
My hip disability; then hip replacement surgery; then blood clots from the surgery; then discovering later that my hip is on recall so now it's on continual observation; then Mom in the nursing home; then Mom dying; then Mom's home of 50 years to be cleaned out and sold; then part of Mom's home's contents taking over my dining room and other parts of my house; then my daughter moving in and out and more furniture to store...in the dining room and garage; then hard wood floors installed in the lower level and moving everything out that I have yet, after two years, to move back in; then I got MRSA four different times; then I got involved with the dual roles with my ex-mental health therapist that ended with his verbal assaults and me learning I'm not the only one who has been one of his verbal assault targets...that it's a pattern; then the tormenting decision of filing a complaint on the therapist; then learning more about the pattern of deceit over the following months; then the agonizing process of deciding whether or not to go public with some of the information; then buying a business; then being stricken with the crippling effect of serum sickness and its misdiagnosis for a couple months and now being on long-term steroids; then the ex-therapist deciding to publicly lie about me including a fabricated sex propositioning story and posting his lies with my photograph, even on other people's Facebook pages, and the small, public feeding frenzy comment responses that ensued based on his lies and his description of me; then my car and bike getting stolen a couple weeks ago. And before all that was the disorder of leaving The Way after 28 years. I left alone, without my family...though they left, one at a time, over the following eight months. And then the whole GreaseSpot Cafe ordeal...more hypocrisy. And before leaving The Way were our family moves, five times in seven years, the final move being in 2003. And before that were the almost two decades of struggling to breathe and the other chronic health conditions while I was "believing God" for healing, not to mention the multiple sinus surgeries and 1000s of needle pricks and sticks. And there was the care of my Dad as a quadriplegic after a car wreck, not to mention my mom with bipolar swings. And before that, beginning at 13, were boys and then drugs, not to mention the one boyfriend when I was 14 years old who used to hit me with his fist when he'd get drunk and jealous. And before that are only snippets of memory, though I've been told about the violent temper that my father could physically impose.
Disorder.
Then my thought, "Carol, it's not that bad. You don't live in a war zone."
Yet I find myself wanting to escape with no where to escape to.
Can I accept what I can't change, part of that being myself? There are things about me that simply will always be.
I know not how to begin to get my life back in order.
"Back in order" indicates there was at some time "order."
Maybe there was.
________________
10/24/11
________________
A myriad of thoughts runs through my head.
Do I corral them?
Once corralled, which thought will I catch if I decide to toss a lasso into the herd?
I could just sit here on the fence and watch the herd, the hive, swarm.
If I just observe instead of trying to capture, will the herd at some point experience synchronized order, like random swinging clock pendulums that then synchronize on a clock wall?
If clock pendulums herded on a wall can synchronize by just continuing to swing, cannot my thoughts do the same?
It seems there must be order to the herd, the hives, the flocks. I've read that is so.
The individual beasts don't force this order. The only "force" is their state of being; they simply are. Their instincts dictate.
My current state of gross disorder in my life must have some sort of purpose...maybe?
But then, has my life ever been ordered?
These days, I piddle away time on the computer, often times re-reading my own writing. I'll check my blog statcounter and note which pieces are read...and I'll reread some of the pieces that are being read.
Why do I do that? What need is it meeting? What makes it so important that it supercedes the laundry and getting my home in order? What am I looking for? Am I trying to find me?
I wonder if other people do that with their blogs?
All these writings are like that herd in the corral, each piece like a beast. The individual words and letters expressing strings of thoughts are like the parts of the beast....matter, cells, emotions, and all that swims around in some sort of organized chaos.
But...the disorder in my home is not organized chaos; it is disorganized and it silently screams at me continually. Why do I avoid it?
As I was conversing with Teresa today at the dentist office, mail came up as a subject. I confessed, "I have mail down on my desk that has awaited me for two years, lost in the scattered piles of mail received since then."
Then in my head, events of personal history tumbled forth..one after the other...circumstances of life-causing chaos...beginning in 2008 to present and then all the way back to childhood.
It seemed to all start in 2008, this vast disorder.
My hip disability; then hip replacement surgery; then blood clots from the surgery; then discovering later that my hip is on recall so now it's on continual observation; then Mom in the nursing home; then Mom dying; then Mom's home of 50 years to be cleaned out and sold; then part of Mom's home's contents taking over my dining room and other parts of my house; then my daughter moving in and out and more furniture to store...in the dining room and garage; then hard wood floors installed in the lower level and moving everything out that I have yet, after two years, to move back in; then I got MRSA four different times; then I got involved with the dual roles with my ex-mental health therapist that ended with his verbal assaults and me learning I'm not the only one who has been one of his verbal assault targets...that it's a pattern; then the tormenting decision of filing a complaint on the therapist; then learning more about the pattern of deceit over the following months; then the agonizing process of deciding whether or not to go public with some of the information; then buying a business; then being stricken with the crippling effect of serum sickness and its misdiagnosis for a couple months and now being on long-term steroids; then the ex-therapist deciding to publicly lie about me including a fabricated sex propositioning story and posting his lies with my photograph, even on other people's Facebook pages, and the small, public feeding frenzy comment responses that ensued based on his lies and his description of me; then my car and bike getting stolen a couple weeks ago. And before all that was the disorder of leaving The Way after 28 years. I left alone, without my family...though they left, one at a time, over the following eight months. And then the whole GreaseSpot Cafe ordeal...more hypocrisy. And before leaving The Way were our family moves, five times in seven years, the final move being in 2003. And before that were the almost two decades of struggling to breathe and the other chronic health conditions while I was "believing God" for healing, not to mention the multiple sinus surgeries and 1000s of needle pricks and sticks. And there was the care of my Dad as a quadriplegic after a car wreck, not to mention my mom with bipolar swings. And before that, beginning at 13, were boys and then drugs, not to mention the one boyfriend when I was 14 years old who used to hit me with his fist when he'd get drunk and jealous. And before that are only snippets of memory, though I've been told about the violent temper that my father could physically impose.
Disorder.
Then my thought, "Carol, it's not that bad. You don't live in a war zone."
Yet I find myself wanting to escape with no where to escape to.
Can I accept what I can't change, part of that being myself? There are things about me that simply will always be.
I know not how to begin to get my life back in order.
"Back in order" indicates there was at some time "order."
Maybe there was.
________________
October 19, 2011
Erasure
AWW - 10/19/11
non-subject: erasure
______________
I've heard people say that if they had their life to live over again, they wouldn't change a thing.
I would.
I'm not sure what all I would change, but I'd make some decisions that I didn't and I'd unmake other ones that I did.
What have I tried to erase?
I draw a blank as I sit here and stare at the page trying to recall my erasures in life. I can think of things I've not revealed, but I have difficulty thinking of things I've tried to erase.
Is my memory so bad that I've erased my erasures?
Yet, I know there must be erasures. Perhaps a good exercise this week is to be aware when I reach for the eraser and try to undo a mistake before I'm found out.
There is the time when I was in first grade; I drew the naked picture of my father.
I sat at my school desk. It wasn't a table; it was a desk, wooden and metal with a cubby under the seat in which to put books. It was a right-handed desk with a curved wooden bridge that was part of the desk top. The bridge connected on the right side to the back support. I could rest my arm on the bridge. At the bottom of the slightly sloped desk top, the part nearest my body, a very small, ten-inch ditch was smoothly carved, a place to park my pencil. The desk top smelled like a type of buffing cleaner, or maybe that was the smell of the floor or the room.
I don't know why I drew the naked picture of my father. I don't remember what we were supposed to draw. Perhaps our assignment was to draw a family picture; my father often walked naked in the house. Sometimes I'd get afraid that he might walk around naked when my friends were over, but I don't think he ever did.
After I drew the naked picture of Daddy, I felt shame. I needed to get rid of the picture. So I switched pictures with Susan who sat beside me in her desk. When she wasn't looking, I stole her picture and put my picture where hers had lain upon her desktop.
I got in trouble, but I don't remember exactly what the teacher did. Probably nothing too bad, other than a verbal scolding.
I didn't draw any more naked pictures...until I was thirteen and in love with Marshall.
______________
non-subject: erasure
______________
I've heard people say that if they had their life to live over again, they wouldn't change a thing.
I would.
I'm not sure what all I would change, but I'd make some decisions that I didn't and I'd unmake other ones that I did.
What have I tried to erase?
I draw a blank as I sit here and stare at the page trying to recall my erasures in life. I can think of things I've not revealed, but I have difficulty thinking of things I've tried to erase.
Is my memory so bad that I've erased my erasures?
Yet, I know there must be erasures. Perhaps a good exercise this week is to be aware when I reach for the eraser and try to undo a mistake before I'm found out.
There is the time when I was in first grade; I drew the naked picture of my father.
I sat at my school desk. It wasn't a table; it was a desk, wooden and metal with a cubby under the seat in which to put books. It was a right-handed desk with a curved wooden bridge that was part of the desk top. The bridge connected on the right side to the back support. I could rest my arm on the bridge. At the bottom of the slightly sloped desk top, the part nearest my body, a very small, ten-inch ditch was smoothly carved, a place to park my pencil. The desk top smelled like a type of buffing cleaner, or maybe that was the smell of the floor or the room.
I don't know why I drew the naked picture of my father. I don't remember what we were supposed to draw. Perhaps our assignment was to draw a family picture; my father often walked naked in the house. Sometimes I'd get afraid that he might walk around naked when my friends were over, but I don't think he ever did.
After I drew the naked picture of Daddy, I felt shame. I needed to get rid of the picture. So I switched pictures with Susan who sat beside me in her desk. When she wasn't looking, I stole her picture and put my picture where hers had lain upon her desktop.
I got in trouble, but I don't remember exactly what the teacher did. Probably nothing too bad, other than a verbal scolding.
I didn't draw any more naked pictures...until I was thirteen and in love with Marshall.
______________
October 18, 2011
Similes and Metaphors
What else do I write as I sit in this room, alone, at Panera?
Do I just sit and write until my fingers fall, until my hand falls, off?
Where do I go with my pen? Where shall my pen lead me?
A thought I had earlier today, about mice - the mice that cause computers to function, with a click -
A silent mouse
that makes so much noise...
A silent mouse
that erases deeds
without accountability...
like Knapp is trying to do, or so it seems.
How do I explain my feelings in regard to this sweeping under the carpet of Knapp's lies, of the disappearance of the CHSCA website, at least its direct access, at least for now?
Will Knapp be considered 'compassionate' for simply deleting its existence, for trying to erase the lies, the half-truths, the labels and threats exacted? Will the CHSCA, minus the defamation and profanity, be resurrected and emerge as some sort of legitimate healing center, whitewashed? Does Knapp distance the site and his name with it from readily accessible public view so that his words and deeds do not mar his feigned humility and embarkment upon his next 'righteous' cause?
Knapp's lies are insignificant compared to the largeness of life; I know that. And they will fade as time goes on.
I think again of Simon Crosby's article, Undoing Scapegoating - that if a scapegoater chooses to address in some manner such as with apology or (I add) with an act of so-called compassion by attempted erasure of dirty deeds, and lies, and twists, and treatment of others as unintelligent to be swatted like gnats - that the goater receives pity from onlookers if the goatee continues to hold the goater accountable for the goater's deceit. That if the goater appears to "undo" the scandal, the goater moreso than the goatee will then possibly receive credit for the "undoing." And that apologies (or the like) are not an undoing of or resolution for the scandal; but rather, apologies without accountability act as a putting away of the deed...making the story nice but without any restorative justice.
Once something is put away on a shelf, it is often forgotten. The 'something' can even be stored in a beautifully carved, red-velvet-lined, mahogany box with an embossed golden latch, or no latch at all.
The shelf can be appealing to the eye. Neat and orderly. Books with impressive titles penned by impressive authors interspersed with exquisitely chiseled stone or metal or wooden bookends. Hummels and sculptures catch the eye, causing one to ponder.
Perhaps a beautiful ceramic urn containing ashes of some previous great or non-great relative sits with grace among the treasures - among the books; the ends; the sculptures; and the red-velvet-lined, carved, mahogany box with or without the latch.
Transparency, even translucence,
non-existent upon the shelf...
except through the holes
of sculptures and carved bookends.
_____________________
Do I just sit and write until my fingers fall, until my hand falls, off?
Where do I go with my pen? Where shall my pen lead me?
A thought I had earlier today, about mice - the mice that cause computers to function, with a click -
A silent mouse
that makes so much noise...
A silent mouse
that erases deeds
without accountability...
like Knapp is trying to do, or so it seems.
How do I explain my feelings in regard to this sweeping under the carpet of Knapp's lies, of the disappearance of the CHSCA website, at least its direct access, at least for now?
Will Knapp be considered 'compassionate' for simply deleting its existence, for trying to erase the lies, the half-truths, the labels and threats exacted? Will the CHSCA, minus the defamation and profanity, be resurrected and emerge as some sort of legitimate healing center, whitewashed? Does Knapp distance the site and his name with it from readily accessible public view so that his words and deeds do not mar his feigned humility and embarkment upon his next 'righteous' cause?
Knapp's lies are insignificant compared to the largeness of life; I know that. And they will fade as time goes on.
I think again of Simon Crosby's article, Undoing Scapegoating - that if a scapegoater chooses to address in some manner such as with apology or (I add) with an act of so-called compassion by attempted erasure of dirty deeds, and lies, and twists, and treatment of others as unintelligent to be swatted like gnats - that the goater receives pity from onlookers if the goatee continues to hold the goater accountable for the goater's deceit. That if the goater appears to "undo" the scandal, the goater moreso than the goatee will then possibly receive credit for the "undoing." And that apologies (or the like) are not an undoing of or resolution for the scandal; but rather, apologies without accountability act as a putting away of the deed...making the story nice but without any restorative justice.
Once something is put away on a shelf, it is often forgotten. The 'something' can even be stored in a beautifully carved, red-velvet-lined, mahogany box with an embossed golden latch, or no latch at all.
The shelf can be appealing to the eye. Neat and orderly. Books with impressive titles penned by impressive authors interspersed with exquisitely chiseled stone or metal or wooden bookends. Hummels and sculptures catch the eye, causing one to ponder.
Perhaps a beautiful ceramic urn containing ashes of some previous great or non-great relative sits with grace among the treasures - among the books; the ends; the sculptures; and the red-velvet-lined, carved, mahogany box with or without the latch.
Transparency, even translucence,
non-existent upon the shelf...
except through the holes
of sculptures and carved bookends.
_____________________
Face Odds
Trust eludes me
Once I believed
humans were basically good
Once I believed
people were altruistic
I tended
to take folks
at
face value
Trust is ever decreasing
as thieves,
hidden manipulators,
disguised liars
reveal their
true facial contours
while trying
to save
face
Facades
I think I need
to learn
to read
faces
more clearly
________________
Once I believed
humans were basically good
Once I believed
people were altruistic
I tended
to take folks
at
face value
Trust is ever decreasing
as thieves,
hidden manipulators,
disguised liars
reveal their
true facial contours
while trying
to save
face
Facades
I think I need
to learn
to read
faces
more clearly
________________
October 16, 2011
Eleven Years
10/16/11
************
It's Sunday morning. A beautiful, crisp, clear, North Carolina blue-sky day.
It felt good to walk Jack this morning. Black Jack, a happy, lively English Lab. From Jack's place, I went to Robbie & Tsula's place. Robbie and Tsula are two little fluff-ball Pomeranians. I spoke with one gentleman on my dog-walk rounds this morning; a friendly, thankful chap. It was pleasant.
I miss my laptop. It's been over a week since I managed to spill coffee on it resulting in its inability to function. Fortunately my extended warranty covers coffee spills. I'm not as prone to compose with pen and paper as with a laptop. I can type faster than I can push a pen.
My vehicle got stolen this past Friday night. That was a shocker.
I'd had a long week with lots of work - packing art, walking dog, scooping kitty litter. I'd had some stressful events on Thursday with the by-product of anxiety through out the day, irrational concerns regarding my physical safety and that of my family. I handled those fears with rational debate, my thoughts telling me the more likely scenarios regarding my fears. But still, I felt the anxiety.
When I arrived home Thursday night in the dark hours of 10:15, I was met with three police cars, each parked with blue-lights awhirl. One sat in a small church parking lot around the corner from the street where my home resides. One was parked at the corner convenience store, a few hundred yards down the street from the church. The third swirling blue light sat on a side street across from my home. I pulled in behind the squad car, got out of my car, and walked toward the police car. I needed to know what was happening; my house was bathed in darkness.
"Mam, get back in your car," the woman office sternly stated.
I wasn't getting back in my car until I knew what was going on. I'd had enough anxiety for one day; this wasn't helping.
"What's going on?" I responded.
"Mam, get back in your car," was the response.
"I live across the street and I need to know what is going on."
"You'll confuse the dogs. I need you to get back in your car."
"Dogs? Why are there dogs?"
"There's been a robbery at the corner store. I need you to get back in your car."
Well shit; that's great. I wonder if hubby is home.
I call my neighbor from my cell phone and tell him what is up. "Crap! I'm gonna turn on the flood lights out back. Do you need me to come over while you go in the house?"
"I don't know yet. I'll know after I pull in the driveway."
"I'll stay on the phone until you know if John's home," he responded.
I pull in my dark driveway. John's car is there. My neighbor and I end our phone call and I call John's cell to make sure he's okay inside. His just-awakened-by-the-phone voice answers. He's fine. I make my way inside and secure the house.
But it was the next night, Friday night, that my vehicle got stolen.
Like I'd done for 11 years, I park my 1999 Ford Explorer in the automotive garage parking lot. I retrieve an Early Bird Service envelope from the translucent plastic box. I climb back into my dark vehicle and turn on the interior light. With a pen I fill in the blanks on the envelope: my name, the vehicle color, the mileage, my address, make, model, license plate number. I check what I need serviced - oil change, lubrication, tire rotation. I write in the special notes section: "Get it ready for cold weather." At the bottom, I sign the line stating I don't want any old parts that might need replacing.
My husband awaits in his car parked beside the Explorer. From the parking lot, we were going for a ride in his car; a joy ride. We hadn't done a joy ride in awhile. The night was clear and fresh.
Like I'd done for 11 years I throw the envelope in the night box slot with the thought, I'm always nervous doing this with all my idee on the envelope. That niggling thought must be irrational too; nothing has ever happened in the last 11 years when I've used the Early Bird Service.
It was around 9:25 PM when hubby and I pull out of the parking lot to embark on our joy ride. Hubby drives while I sip a rum and coke that he had brought along for me. I yack a lot while he drives; I'd not been around people much this past week...mainly just dogs and cats.
On the way home he just happens to take the route that goes by the garage and he just happens to look over in the parking lot where we had parked the Explorer an hour earlier.
The Explorer had vanished.
Eleven years. So much for my Friday-night "irrational" concern.
I hope I get my parts back even though I signed the "don't-want-old-parts" line on the envelope.
*********************
************
It's Sunday morning. A beautiful, crisp, clear, North Carolina blue-sky day.
It felt good to walk Jack this morning. Black Jack, a happy, lively English Lab. From Jack's place, I went to Robbie & Tsula's place. Robbie and Tsula are two little fluff-ball Pomeranians. I spoke with one gentleman on my dog-walk rounds this morning; a friendly, thankful chap. It was pleasant.
I miss my laptop. It's been over a week since I managed to spill coffee on it resulting in its inability to function. Fortunately my extended warranty covers coffee spills. I'm not as prone to compose with pen and paper as with a laptop. I can type faster than I can push a pen.
My vehicle got stolen this past Friday night. That was a shocker.
I'd had a long week with lots of work - packing art, walking dog, scooping kitty litter. I'd had some stressful events on Thursday with the by-product of anxiety through out the day, irrational concerns regarding my physical safety and that of my family. I handled those fears with rational debate, my thoughts telling me the more likely scenarios regarding my fears. But still, I felt the anxiety.
When I arrived home Thursday night in the dark hours of 10:15, I was met with three police cars, each parked with blue-lights awhirl. One sat in a small church parking lot around the corner from the street where my home resides. One was parked at the corner convenience store, a few hundred yards down the street from the church. The third swirling blue light sat on a side street across from my home. I pulled in behind the squad car, got out of my car, and walked toward the police car. I needed to know what was happening; my house was bathed in darkness.
"Mam, get back in your car," the woman office sternly stated.
I wasn't getting back in my car until I knew what was going on. I'd had enough anxiety for one day; this wasn't helping.
"What's going on?" I responded.
"Mam, get back in your car," was the response.
"I live across the street and I need to know what is going on."
"You'll confuse the dogs. I need you to get back in your car."
"Dogs? Why are there dogs?"
"There's been a robbery at the corner store. I need you to get back in your car."
Well shit; that's great. I wonder if hubby is home.
I call my neighbor from my cell phone and tell him what is up. "Crap! I'm gonna turn on the flood lights out back. Do you need me to come over while you go in the house?"
"I don't know yet. I'll know after I pull in the driveway."
"I'll stay on the phone until you know if John's home," he responded.
I pull in my dark driveway. John's car is there. My neighbor and I end our phone call and I call John's cell to make sure he's okay inside. His just-awakened-by-the-phone voice answers. He's fine. I make my way inside and secure the house.
But it was the next night, Friday night, that my vehicle got stolen.
Like I'd done for 11 years, I park my 1999 Ford Explorer in the automotive garage parking lot. I retrieve an Early Bird Service envelope from the translucent plastic box. I climb back into my dark vehicle and turn on the interior light. With a pen I fill in the blanks on the envelope: my name, the vehicle color, the mileage, my address, make, model, license plate number. I check what I need serviced - oil change, lubrication, tire rotation. I write in the special notes section: "Get it ready for cold weather." At the bottom, I sign the line stating I don't want any old parts that might need replacing.
My husband awaits in his car parked beside the Explorer. From the parking lot, we were going for a ride in his car; a joy ride. We hadn't done a joy ride in awhile. The night was clear and fresh.
Like I'd done for 11 years I throw the envelope in the night box slot with the thought, I'm always nervous doing this with all my idee on the envelope. That niggling thought must be irrational too; nothing has ever happened in the last 11 years when I've used the Early Bird Service.
It was around 9:25 PM when hubby and I pull out of the parking lot to embark on our joy ride. Hubby drives while I sip a rum and coke that he had brought along for me. I yack a lot while he drives; I'd not been around people much this past week...mainly just dogs and cats.
On the way home he just happens to take the route that goes by the garage and he just happens to look over in the parking lot where we had parked the Explorer an hour earlier.
The Explorer had vanished.
Eleven years. So much for my Friday-night "irrational" concern.
I hope I get my parts back even though I signed the "don't-want-old-parts" line on the envelope.
*********************
October 13, 2011
Cheating
AWW ~ 10/12/11
non-subject: cheating
____________
Cheating.
Tests.
Marriage.
Lovers.
The fastest feline, the cheetah.
____________
What was Knapp's perspective when he acted out online at the end of August?
Did I drive him to that point because of what I wrote publicly?
Did Knapp view me as the hypocrite?
Did I write what I wrote because of the hypocrisy I witnessed?
Was I acting out by bringing forth parts of my story?
At one point does a person break?
Once a person reaches that threshold, what is the rationale to lie?
When is lying proper?
I feel there would be times when lying is proper - perhaps to save a rebel with a just cause.
But does a true rebel lie?
Truth and lies.
My friend Frank acted out, but mainly in private. And Frank didn't lie. Instead, he told the truth.
____________
In May, 2007, Frank sent a private email to Rhodes, the administrator of the ex-Way online discussion board. In that email Frank revealed that Frank and Nora had had an affair. The affair had taken place in 2001. I think it was 2001.
Nora was one of Dr. Wierwillle's victims, a victim of the inner-sanctum teaching of The Way that it was okay, and even a sign of spiritual maturity, for a woman, married or unmarried, to meet the sexual needs of the man of God, married or unmarried. It wasn't cheating; it was blessing.
Story goes that Nora may have been given a drug when Doctor decided to meet his needs. However, that isn't for sure - the drug part. The event happened some 30 plus years ago. I recall reading or Nora telling me that she felt herself outside of her body, observing the sex between she and Doctor. I've read of similar responses surrounding trauma; the feeling of being outside one's body...disconnected, dissociated. Nora isn't sure if she was drugged or simply felt drugged...or something. Nora had been sexually abused by her uncle when she was a child. Doctor told Nora he could help heal that part of her life; that part stolen by her uncle.
Doctor. Healing. Cheating.
Nora and Frank met through the online anti-Way discussion board. Nora approached Frank and I'd say seduced him; at least from what I gather. She told Frank her marriage was on the rocks and I'm sure it was. She was lonely; I guess Frank was too. Frank and Nora's however-many-months online and phone affair ended up with a weekend in Nora and her husband's bed, or maybe it was Nora's son's bed.
Frank fell in love with Nora. He thought Nora fell in love with him.
Then Nora dropped Frank; just like the affair had never happened and like Frank never existed. No good-byes; nothing. Frank's heart was ripped apart.
He didn't tell anyone for five years until he revealed it to me in 2006. Except his adult children; he had told them.
During that five-year silence, Frank observed Nora's online activity. From his perspective, she was a hypocrite - continuing to bring up her Dr. Wierwille abuse story and Frank knowing what she had done to him and, from his observation, may be trying to do to other men.
He only told me because of Rhodes' allegations in December, 2006, that Frank had masqueraded online as a woman; a woman who spilled her heart to me in a private online chat room about her broken relationship with Frank.
And now, as I write this in 2011, my mind is flooded with details. Back story details. Complexities. Relationships.
Frank and I knew each other from 30 plus years ago in Connecticut. Then he appeared in my life again in December, 2006, first online and shortly thereafter face to face.
Just so happened, in 2006, that Frank lived less than an hour's drive from me. The woman, whose name is Sandy, that Frank supposedly masqueraded as, lived within a half-hour drive.
Unlike Frank and Nora and me and Rhodes and the people of the anti-Way discussion board, Sandy had never been with The Way. Her only Way association was that she had been the girlfriend of Frank, an ex-Way follower.
Frank acted out because of many reasons; one being the lies told about him. Another being the hypocrisy of the anti-Way forum. Another being certain people on that forum referring to Frank as a liar and poser and baiter and pervert, when really, it was the other way around.
There are probably other reasons too.
When I had dinner with Sandy at Ham's Restaurant in May or June, 2007, she told me that she received emails from one of the anti-Way discussion board moderators. She forwarded me those emails. The emails stated that the moderator knew who she was, the moderator accusing her of being Frank, which she wasn't.
Frank never played the role of Sandy and Sandy didn't play the role of Frank.
In December, 2006, when I wrote to Rhodes that my husband and I had met face to face with Frank and that Rhodes' allegation simply wasn't true, Rhodes wrote me that there could be no other explanation than Rhodes' explanation; that is, that Frank had posed as a woman trying to bait me. Rhodes wouldn't even consider that Rhodes might be wrong in his accusation against Frank.
At the time, I wrote back to Rhodes that if Frank had posed as a woman, then I had a penis.
I was that sure that Frank was telling the truth.
____________
non-subject: cheating
____________
Cheating.
Tests.
Marriage.
Lovers.
The fastest feline, the cheetah.
____________
What was Knapp's perspective when he acted out online at the end of August?
Did I drive him to that point because of what I wrote publicly?
Did Knapp view me as the hypocrite?
Did I write what I wrote because of the hypocrisy I witnessed?
Was I acting out by bringing forth parts of my story?
At one point does a person break?
Once a person reaches that threshold, what is the rationale to lie?
When is lying proper?
I feel there would be times when lying is proper - perhaps to save a rebel with a just cause.
But does a true rebel lie?
Truth and lies.
My friend Frank acted out, but mainly in private. And Frank didn't lie. Instead, he told the truth.
____________
In May, 2007, Frank sent a private email to Rhodes, the administrator of the ex-Way online discussion board. In that email Frank revealed that Frank and Nora had had an affair. The affair had taken place in 2001. I think it was 2001.
Nora was one of Dr. Wierwillle's victims, a victim of the inner-sanctum teaching of The Way that it was okay, and even a sign of spiritual maturity, for a woman, married or unmarried, to meet the sexual needs of the man of God, married or unmarried. It wasn't cheating; it was blessing.
Story goes that Nora may have been given a drug when Doctor decided to meet his needs. However, that isn't for sure - the drug part. The event happened some 30 plus years ago. I recall reading or Nora telling me that she felt herself outside of her body, observing the sex between she and Doctor. I've read of similar responses surrounding trauma; the feeling of being outside one's body...disconnected, dissociated. Nora isn't sure if she was drugged or simply felt drugged...or something. Nora had been sexually abused by her uncle when she was a child. Doctor told Nora he could help heal that part of her life; that part stolen by her uncle.
Doctor. Healing. Cheating.
Nora and Frank met through the online anti-Way discussion board. Nora approached Frank and I'd say seduced him; at least from what I gather. She told Frank her marriage was on the rocks and I'm sure it was. She was lonely; I guess Frank was too. Frank and Nora's however-many-months online and phone affair ended up with a weekend in Nora and her husband's bed, or maybe it was Nora's son's bed.
Frank fell in love with Nora. He thought Nora fell in love with him.
Then Nora dropped Frank; just like the affair had never happened and like Frank never existed. No good-byes; nothing. Frank's heart was ripped apart.
He didn't tell anyone for five years until he revealed it to me in 2006. Except his adult children; he had told them.
During that five-year silence, Frank observed Nora's online activity. From his perspective, she was a hypocrite - continuing to bring up her Dr. Wierwille abuse story and Frank knowing what she had done to him and, from his observation, may be trying to do to other men.
He only told me because of Rhodes' allegations in December, 2006, that Frank had masqueraded online as a woman; a woman who spilled her heart to me in a private online chat room about her broken relationship with Frank.
And now, as I write this in 2011, my mind is flooded with details. Back story details. Complexities. Relationships.
Frank and I knew each other from 30 plus years ago in Connecticut. Then he appeared in my life again in December, 2006, first online and shortly thereafter face to face.
Just so happened, in 2006, that Frank lived less than an hour's drive from me. The woman, whose name is Sandy, that Frank supposedly masqueraded as, lived within a half-hour drive.
Unlike Frank and Nora and me and Rhodes and the people of the anti-Way discussion board, Sandy had never been with The Way. Her only Way association was that she had been the girlfriend of Frank, an ex-Way follower.
Frank acted out because of many reasons; one being the lies told about him. Another being the hypocrisy of the anti-Way forum. Another being certain people on that forum referring to Frank as a liar and poser and baiter and pervert, when really, it was the other way around.
There are probably other reasons too.
When I had dinner with Sandy at Ham's Restaurant in May or June, 2007, she told me that she received emails from one of the anti-Way discussion board moderators. She forwarded me those emails. The emails stated that the moderator knew who she was, the moderator accusing her of being Frank, which she wasn't.
Frank never played the role of Sandy and Sandy didn't play the role of Frank.
In December, 2006, when I wrote to Rhodes that my husband and I had met face to face with Frank and that Rhodes' allegation simply wasn't true, Rhodes wrote me that there could be no other explanation than Rhodes' explanation; that is, that Frank had posed as a woman trying to bait me. Rhodes wouldn't even consider that Rhodes might be wrong in his accusation against Frank.
At the time, I wrote back to Rhodes that if Frank had posed as a woman, then I had a penis.
I was that sure that Frank was telling the truth.
____________
October 6, 2011
To write or not to write
10/06/11
This morning I was revisiting Knapp's blog post in which his title labels me "cyberstalker."
There are statements within the body of Knapp's post that I do not address in my response which I wrote on August 28. The statements I don't address are mainly the ones in Knapp's introduction and background. Statements that, from my perspective, are misleading or false.
As I was reading Knapp's introduction and background snippet this morning, I thought:
Geez. How can I ever relay what took place over the period of those six to seven days? There are over 100 email exchanges during that time. The conflict and heat were mainly between John and Lema. I didn't get angered until John's ultimatum email he sent at the end of the conflict, and even then, I tempered my anger. I'm not comfortable with anger; John knows that about me. He knows how I cower when people are angry and how anger can scare me - internal responses stemming back to my early childhood; my dad had a violent temper.
How can I share what happened? Is it even necessary? Few, or no one, would read it if I'd post it. If I post what I write, it would be public for anyone who would be interested. It would be from my perspective, not John's or Lema's. If I write in chronological order, what took place, it might be a good exercise for me...similar to when I wrote out the complaint. Plus I'd get it on record while the memories are still fresh...at least fresher than if I wait years to record it. If I write it, I'd include parts of the emails. If I write it, it'd be a mix of memoir style and narrative style.
Perhaps if I write it, some of the ruminating in my head will cease. Not all, but at least part.
I'd need to go back and be a fly on the wall, and at the same time be present with how I felt at the time. I'd have to include the times I didn't speak up, my thoughts at those times, my fears. Would I end up including the back story to that too? And the back story to my and John's developing relationships over the previous nine to twelve months? What if that would come up as I write? Do I include it?
I could always begin the project and keep it saved as a draft until I feel it's "finished."
"Finished." Like there ever really is such a thing.
One of my signature lines comes to mind: Is there ever a final draft?
And....I think of Rilke:
"I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."
This morning I was revisiting Knapp's blog post in which his title labels me "cyberstalker."
There are statements within the body of Knapp's post that I do not address in my response which I wrote on August 28. The statements I don't address are mainly the ones in Knapp's introduction and background. Statements that, from my perspective, are misleading or false.
As I was reading Knapp's introduction and background snippet this morning, I thought:
Geez. How can I ever relay what took place over the period of those six to seven days? There are over 100 email exchanges during that time. The conflict and heat were mainly between John and Lema. I didn't get angered until John's ultimatum email he sent at the end of the conflict, and even then, I tempered my anger. I'm not comfortable with anger; John knows that about me. He knows how I cower when people are angry and how anger can scare me - internal responses stemming back to my early childhood; my dad had a violent temper.
How can I share what happened? Is it even necessary? Few, or no one, would read it if I'd post it. If I post what I write, it would be public for anyone who would be interested. It would be from my perspective, not John's or Lema's. If I write in chronological order, what took place, it might be a good exercise for me...similar to when I wrote out the complaint. Plus I'd get it on record while the memories are still fresh...at least fresher than if I wait years to record it. If I write it, I'd include parts of the emails. If I write it, it'd be a mix of memoir style and narrative style.
Perhaps if I write it, some of the ruminating in my head will cease. Not all, but at least part.
I'd need to go back and be a fly on the wall, and at the same time be present with how I felt at the time. I'd have to include the times I didn't speak up, my thoughts at those times, my fears. Would I end up including the back story to that too? And the back story to my and John's developing relationships over the previous nine to twelve months? What if that would come up as I write? Do I include it?
I could always begin the project and keep it saved as a draft until I feel it's "finished."
"Finished." Like there ever really is such a thing.
One of my signature lines comes to mind: Is there ever a final draft?
And....I think of Rilke:
"I would like to beg you dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."
October 5, 2011
"The past in the present"
AWW - october 5, 2011
non-subject: the past in the present
_____________________
I don't want to write tonight.
I've felt depressed and anxious much of the day. Questioning myself. Nothing new really...the questioning myself. I wish I trusted my thoughts more, my opinions. I wish I knew my opinions. I'm sure I have opinions.
I stand in the kitchen tonight at writing break to grab a bite to eat. I heat a turkey burger in the microwave, throw some mixed salad greens on a plate, plop shredded mozzarrella on the salad, put on a couple handfuls of a nut-seed-raisin mix, pour Newman's Light Raspberry Walnut Vinaigrette dressing over the salad, then add relish on top of my heated turkey burger. I eat alone standing at the kitchen counter, a regular routine for me these days - eating alone standing at the kitchen counter.
What do I write about? "The past in the present."
About a thousand things run through my mind. With whatever thing it is that runs through my mind, the backstory comes tumbling forward.
I'm again on long-term steroids, not for asthma as used to be the case for almost two decades, but for serum sickness. I saw a rheumatologist last week. Good news is, the diagnosis is confirmed...serum sickness; I don't have lupus or rheumatoid arthritis or multiple sclerosis or anything like that. The longest case of serum sickness the rheumatologist has seen is 18 months. I'll be on low dose steroids for probably another 6 to 7 months as I wean down from 7 milligrams per day to 0 milligram, taking it down 1 milligram per month.
I was hopeful when I left the rheumatologist.
I think about the John Knapp saga every day. Last week, Knapp took his website off line, the website with the derogatory posts about me and Monica and Lema. Knapp called Lema, "lefty." I thought that was low. Lema is Chechen and lives in Russia. Knapp also took down the Facebook page for his website, and the Facebook page for his previous paractice, and he apparently changed his personal Facebook page from public to private.
I cried today. It was good to see Dante and Banjo when I cried. Banjo, a toy terrier mixed breed canine that can jump four feet high, looked up at me with the, "What's the matter Miss Carol?" look. I smiled and he smiled back. Dante is Banjo's side kick and is an old black lab mix. I think Dante must be 10 to 12 years old. He has a gray beard and walks slow and pees slow and does everything slow...even wags his tail slow. He smiled at me too.
The other day as I was walking some dogs, I thought how I'm back with animals again...like when I was a kid and spent so much time with horses. I spent time with dogs and cats too, but mainly horses. I never had any formal horse training. Never showed a horse. Never took riding lessons. The horse just grew underneath me, at least from as small as I remember. They were just always there, in the backyard pasture that belonged to some rich person that rented the pasture to old man Abernethy, our neighbor.
Mrs. Abernethy used to make homemade popsicles in small paper Dixie cups. I think she used Koolaid. She was a big woman, at least to my little self. She always wore a dress. I don't think she dipped snuff.
Ron's grandmother dipped snuff...and I don't think she wore panties under her dresses.
Ron was my boyfriend when I was 15 years old. He was the drug dealer. I used to bag the pot to sell. I had to make sure there were flowertops in every nickel or dime bag; he always liked customers to get their money's worth. Ron sold MDA, acid, mescaline, hashish. Not long after I broke up with Ron, he got busted with a crap load of PCP. My understanding is the cops found the PCP in Ron's car after they arrested Ron at someone's house; he was breaking and entering and trying to steal a TV or something. I wonder if the folks in the house owed Ron money?
I visited Ron in prison after that. I was involved with The Way when I visited him, so I witnessed the Word to him. He told me he had already spoken in tongues; that was after he'd spent time in solitary confinement and the prison had given him only a Bible to read.
________________________
non-subject: the past in the present
_____________________
I don't want to write tonight.
I've felt depressed and anxious much of the day. Questioning myself. Nothing new really...the questioning myself. I wish I trusted my thoughts more, my opinions. I wish I knew my opinions. I'm sure I have opinions.
I stand in the kitchen tonight at writing break to grab a bite to eat. I heat a turkey burger in the microwave, throw some mixed salad greens on a plate, plop shredded mozzarrella on the salad, put on a couple handfuls of a nut-seed-raisin mix, pour Newman's Light Raspberry Walnut Vinaigrette dressing over the salad, then add relish on top of my heated turkey burger. I eat alone standing at the kitchen counter, a regular routine for me these days - eating alone standing at the kitchen counter.
What do I write about? "The past in the present."
About a thousand things run through my mind. With whatever thing it is that runs through my mind, the backstory comes tumbling forward.
I'm again on long-term steroids, not for asthma as used to be the case for almost two decades, but for serum sickness. I saw a rheumatologist last week. Good news is, the diagnosis is confirmed...serum sickness; I don't have lupus or rheumatoid arthritis or multiple sclerosis or anything like that. The longest case of serum sickness the rheumatologist has seen is 18 months. I'll be on low dose steroids for probably another 6 to 7 months as I wean down from 7 milligrams per day to 0 milligram, taking it down 1 milligram per month.
I was hopeful when I left the rheumatologist.
I think about the John Knapp saga every day. Last week, Knapp took his website off line, the website with the derogatory posts about me and Monica and Lema. Knapp called Lema, "lefty." I thought that was low. Lema is Chechen and lives in Russia. Knapp also took down the Facebook page for his website, and the Facebook page for his previous paractice, and he apparently changed his personal Facebook page from public to private.
I cried today. It was good to see Dante and Banjo when I cried. Banjo, a toy terrier mixed breed canine that can jump four feet high, looked up at me with the, "What's the matter Miss Carol?" look. I smiled and he smiled back. Dante is Banjo's side kick and is an old black lab mix. I think Dante must be 10 to 12 years old. He has a gray beard and walks slow and pees slow and does everything slow...even wags his tail slow. He smiled at me too.
The other day as I was walking some dogs, I thought how I'm back with animals again...like when I was a kid and spent so much time with horses. I spent time with dogs and cats too, but mainly horses. I never had any formal horse training. Never showed a horse. Never took riding lessons. The horse just grew underneath me, at least from as small as I remember. They were just always there, in the backyard pasture that belonged to some rich person that rented the pasture to old man Abernethy, our neighbor.
Mrs. Abernethy used to make homemade popsicles in small paper Dixie cups. I think she used Koolaid. She was a big woman, at least to my little self. She always wore a dress. I don't think she dipped snuff.
Ron's grandmother dipped snuff...and I don't think she wore panties under her dresses.
Ron was my boyfriend when I was 15 years old. He was the drug dealer. I used to bag the pot to sell. I had to make sure there were flowertops in every nickel or dime bag; he always liked customers to get their money's worth. Ron sold MDA, acid, mescaline, hashish. Not long after I broke up with Ron, he got busted with a crap load of PCP. My understanding is the cops found the PCP in Ron's car after they arrested Ron at someone's house; he was breaking and entering and trying to steal a TV or something. I wonder if the folks in the house owed Ron money?
I visited Ron in prison after that. I was involved with The Way when I visited him, so I witnessed the Word to him. He told me he had already spoken in tongues; that was after he'd spent time in solitary confinement and the prison had given him only a Bible to read.
________________________
October 3, 2011
Climbing out the "devil's ass crack"
Grandfather Trail, NC
September, 2011
___________________
"I'm feeling fear." I looked up at my son, Josh, who had already climbed out of the "chute" or what he renamed "the devil's ass crack," a much more appropriate description of the 1/8-mile-long 45-degree-angled crevice with rock walls on each side and scattered small boulders and rocks up and down the crack. Like a giant rock ass crack with lots of fossilized hemorrhoids. An old grandfather's crack for sure.
"Good!" Josh resounded.
What's so effing good about me feeling fear because my short legs and arms can't seem to find a rock hold for my hands and a secure place to stick my foot to hoist myself up so I can climb out of this crevice!! God. What if I slip? I won't die, but I could sure break a bunch of bones, or get a concussion or something. And then people will say, "Dumbass Carol. You should know better than to go climbing around at your age on rocks like that. Stupid. What were you doing that for? Why didn't you have climbing equipment?"
Shut up voices. This climb doesn't need climbing equipment; it's not that steep. Besides if I injure myself, well hell, at least I was doing something I want to do.
"You're NORMAL Mom! It's normal to feel fear." He chuckled as his words descended down the crevice mingling with the thoughts running through my head.
He kept yacking, "It's not normal to not feel fear. Like we were talking about earlier today. I don't know anyone who would respond like you did on the trail when that thing screamed in the woods and when that big dude showed up at your tent without a pack on. Most people would feel fear. But not Mom." He chuckled some more.
Earlier that day, amidst our many conversations, I'd shared with Josh, again, how I'd handled two different scenarios on two different nights when I was solo backpacking in May, 2010, on the Appalachian Trail.
One night I'd heard horrid screams, what I thought sounded like a monkey screaming bloody murder, not far from my tent pitched solo alongside the trail. What was that!!? I'd asked myself as I lay in my tent with its false security. Instead of allowing my heart to jump to fear, I'd thought, Well, I can't do anything about it. If some sort of beast decides to attack me, I guess I'll just be attacked. My food bag is hung high enough up and far enough away from the tent. Maybe whatever it is won't come near the tent. And with that, I went to sleep.
The other scenario was the scariest incident though. I'd set up tent right beside the trail, literally; my tent pole touched the edge of the narrow two-foot wide path.
I knew I was only about 1-1/2 miles from a public road. I'd read the safest place for solo women on the trail is in the woods, to never camp near the roads. The map showed a steep, long decline to the road which meant a steep, long ascent to get to my tent - an ascent most people wouldn't take unless they were serious hikers. I should be safe here; I'm far enough from the road. Better here than toward the road and it is getting dark.
Then, as the sun continued to lower in the sky, along comes a 6-1/2 foot tall, 250 pound, muscle bound dude up the trail...without a backpack. Oh shit? Why doesn't that dude have on a backpack. What the fuck?? I sat on the log outside my tent continuing to eat my supper as he approached.
After our cordial conversation - about him just moving here from Chicago to be with his girlfriend, about his buddies coming down in a few weeks so he is checking out the trail to know where to take them, about what a rugged 1-1/2 mile climb it was to get to my tent, about his inquiry of what lay north on the trail from whence I'd just come, about safety on the trail and wasn't I scared and asking me if I was packing - he headed back south from whence he'd come.
Damn. What if he's lying and comes back here and rapes and kills me. I have no cell service. I could write his name, at least the name he told me, in my journal and describe what he looks like and that way if someone finds my journal they can maybe at least catch him. I have my Swiss army knife, like that'd do any good. There's no way I could fight off that dude; he looks like a linebacker for the Chicago Bears. Instead of allowing my heart to jump to fear, I'd resigned myself to the same tactic as the monkey screams, "Well, there ain't nothing I can do about it. I might as well just lay down and go to sleep." And I did.
Josh told me that just isn't normal, how I'd just turned off those fears and gone to sleep. So I guess I did feel some fear; it was just short lived. It is seldom I feel fear along the trail.
But now, in the devil's ass crack, I felt fear.
Josh kept talking, "You know Mom, if you fall you won't get hurt that bad. Might break some bones or something."
"Would you shut up!?!" I hollered at him, my heart jumping on the inside and wondering how I was going to get out of this situation.
But he kept egging at me, just to needle me and kid me, as he does. I kept telling him to shut up. Then I just had to block his voice out and steel my mind.
Calm down Carol. Worst case, you fall and hurt yourself and some rescue team has to come in and get you out. You'll be embarrassed. You're business will take a slow down. But you can't just stay here on this rock wall. You have to move!
Deep breath. I bounce my legs just a bit to make them move. They aren't paralyzed. Feel around the rocks above me with my left hand, searching for a hand hold.
Three points on the rock and butt out. That's what you learned at LEAD. Trust your shoes. Find a hand hold.
I found one. My foot felt slippery on the loose rock.
Hoist yourself Carol. Make your legs work.
Josh kept talking. I kept blocking his voice from my mind.
It seemed like 30 minutes, but was probably only four, maybe five.
My fear calmed and I scrambled up the rest of the devil's ass crack, across all those hemorrhoids.
Ha!
Like backpacking, I'll do it again. And maybe next time I'll even attempt MacRae's Peak.
_________________
Me climbing down the Devil's Ass Crack
September, 2011
___________________
"I'm feeling fear." I looked up at my son, Josh, who had already climbed out of the "chute" or what he renamed "the devil's ass crack," a much more appropriate description of the 1/8-mile-long 45-degree-angled crevice with rock walls on each side and scattered small boulders and rocks up and down the crack. Like a giant rock ass crack with lots of fossilized hemorrhoids. An old grandfather's crack for sure.
"Good!" Josh resounded.
What's so effing good about me feeling fear because my short legs and arms can't seem to find a rock hold for my hands and a secure place to stick my foot to hoist myself up so I can climb out of this crevice!! God. What if I slip? I won't die, but I could sure break a bunch of bones, or get a concussion or something. And then people will say, "Dumbass Carol. You should know better than to go climbing around at your age on rocks like that. Stupid. What were you doing that for? Why didn't you have climbing equipment?"
Shut up voices. This climb doesn't need climbing equipment; it's not that steep. Besides if I injure myself, well hell, at least I was doing something I want to do.
"You're NORMAL Mom! It's normal to feel fear." He chuckled as his words descended down the crevice mingling with the thoughts running through my head.
He kept yacking, "It's not normal to not feel fear. Like we were talking about earlier today. I don't know anyone who would respond like you did on the trail when that thing screamed in the woods and when that big dude showed up at your tent without a pack on. Most people would feel fear. But not Mom." He chuckled some more.
Earlier that day, amidst our many conversations, I'd shared with Josh, again, how I'd handled two different scenarios on two different nights when I was solo backpacking in May, 2010, on the Appalachian Trail.
One night I'd heard horrid screams, what I thought sounded like a monkey screaming bloody murder, not far from my tent pitched solo alongside the trail. What was that!!? I'd asked myself as I lay in my tent with its false security. Instead of allowing my heart to jump to fear, I'd thought, Well, I can't do anything about it. If some sort of beast decides to attack me, I guess I'll just be attacked. My food bag is hung high enough up and far enough away from the tent. Maybe whatever it is won't come near the tent. And with that, I went to sleep.
The other scenario was the scariest incident though. I'd set up tent right beside the trail, literally; my tent pole touched the edge of the narrow two-foot wide path.
I knew I was only about 1-1/2 miles from a public road. I'd read the safest place for solo women on the trail is in the woods, to never camp near the roads. The map showed a steep, long decline to the road which meant a steep, long ascent to get to my tent - an ascent most people wouldn't take unless they were serious hikers. I should be safe here; I'm far enough from the road. Better here than toward the road and it is getting dark.
Then, as the sun continued to lower in the sky, along comes a 6-1/2 foot tall, 250 pound, muscle bound dude up the trail...without a backpack. Oh shit? Why doesn't that dude have on a backpack. What the fuck?? I sat on the log outside my tent continuing to eat my supper as he approached.
After our cordial conversation - about him just moving here from Chicago to be with his girlfriend, about his buddies coming down in a few weeks so he is checking out the trail to know where to take them, about what a rugged 1-1/2 mile climb it was to get to my tent, about his inquiry of what lay north on the trail from whence I'd just come, about safety on the trail and wasn't I scared and asking me if I was packing - he headed back south from whence he'd come.
Damn. What if he's lying and comes back here and rapes and kills me. I have no cell service. I could write his name, at least the name he told me, in my journal and describe what he looks like and that way if someone finds my journal they can maybe at least catch him. I have my Swiss army knife, like that'd do any good. There's no way I could fight off that dude; he looks like a linebacker for the Chicago Bears. Instead of allowing my heart to jump to fear, I'd resigned myself to the same tactic as the monkey screams, "Well, there ain't nothing I can do about it. I might as well just lay down and go to sleep." And I did.
Josh told me that just isn't normal, how I'd just turned off those fears and gone to sleep. So I guess I did feel some fear; it was just short lived. It is seldom I feel fear along the trail.
But now, in the devil's ass crack, I felt fear.
Josh kept talking, "You know Mom, if you fall you won't get hurt that bad. Might break some bones or something."
"Would you shut up!?!" I hollered at him, my heart jumping on the inside and wondering how I was going to get out of this situation.
But he kept egging at me, just to needle me and kid me, as he does. I kept telling him to shut up. Then I just had to block his voice out and steel my mind.
Calm down Carol. Worst case, you fall and hurt yourself and some rescue team has to come in and get you out. You'll be embarrassed. You're business will take a slow down. But you can't just stay here on this rock wall. You have to move!
Deep breath. I bounce my legs just a bit to make them move. They aren't paralyzed. Feel around the rocks above me with my left hand, searching for a hand hold.
Three points on the rock and butt out. That's what you learned at LEAD. Trust your shoes. Find a hand hold.
I found one. My foot felt slippery on the loose rock.
Hoist yourself Carol. Make your legs work.
Josh kept talking. I kept blocking his voice from my mind.
It seemed like 30 minutes, but was probably only four, maybe five.
My fear calmed and I scrambled up the rest of the devil's ass crack, across all those hemorrhoids.
Ha!
Like backpacking, I'll do it again. And maybe next time I'll even attempt MacRae's Peak.
_________________
Me climbing down the Devil's Ass Crack
October 1, 2011
Audience Voices
Since Knapp's postings about me, which currently have been taken offline from public view, I've had a similar response as when he first accused me in private, back in August, 2010. The accusations he threw at me then in 2010 sent me falling down Alice's rabbit hole. At that time, Knapp had been my mental health therapist, a position of trust, for right at two years.
And it wasn't just the accusations that sent my heart and brain spinning, but also the lack of Knapp's willingness to even discuss the situation or address my confusion, which I plainly wrote to him how very confused I was. Instead, he totally cut off communication with me and that in a hostile manner.
And then, the day after he cut off communication with me, he called my home phone, while I was out hiking the Roan Highlands for over 13 hours, and left an odd message on my voice mail telling me that I'd contacted his assistant and that I told her I wanted to talk with him.
I never contacted his assistant. I couldn't have; I was without technology that whole day.
And then he never called me back after I returned his call in response to that odd message.
And then some six weeks later he emailed a friend of mine, who was also his client, wherein he twisted the scenario between he and I, minimized its impact, and rationalized his behavior and words.
To this day, I'm not even sure what it was that Knapp and I disagreed over or had a misunderstanding about, other than I thought he had opened up an issue for re-discussion. So I had re-discussed. Is that what the misunderstanding was about? I don't even know.
The rabbit hole. Among other things, my mind felt divided...split. I couldn't trust myself. I couldn't trust my perceptions. I couldn't trust what was plainly in front of me. Was the person who was kind to me in the check out line, really being kind? Or were they being manipulative? When I was kind, was I really being kind? Or did I have some sort of sinister, ulterior motive?
With the current 2011 round of Knapp's accusations - public accusations and fetched far beyond what I would have ever imagined that anyone would fabricate regarding me. Me...a non-public, unimportant (in light of all history), one-of-the-million-among-the-masses tiny fish in a huge sea. This round, the accusations have had a similar effect. That of causing my mind to feel divided or split and wondering if I really am this (among other descript words & labels) "sadistic," "terroristic," "cruel," "crazier than a shithouse rat" woman who is trying to "DESTORY" another individual, that individual being Knapp.
If I had wanted to destroy Knapp, I have much (depending on one's definition of much) more I could have brought public. If I had wanted to destroy Knapp, I could have sued. I could have plastered my writings on all sorts of online sites where John has visited or currently visits, including places John has 'enemies.' I could have emailed all sorts of people who know John.
I didn't do those things.
Instead, I filed a complaint. I spoke with a handful of others, some who initiated contact with me, about what had happened. I listened to their stories. Some had similar experiences as I. Some six months after filing the complaint, I went public with Knapp's name and in the subsequent months went public with more detail. Of that, I am guilty.
After this last round of false accusations, I find myself wanting to explain myself, not only regarding Knapp stuff, but with other decisions or errors that I make. I think that is probably normal when someone is accused.
When a friend of mine was falsely accused in the past (among the anti-cult crowd), and before I was sure if the accusations were false or not, I noticed he would explain himself for various decisions, explaining his motives or his whereabouts. It wasn't something I needed him to do, but he must have felt the need. I did notice it.
I'd wonder, "Is he guilty of the accusations and he is now trying to prove to me, by his explanations regarding other things in life, that he isn't that kind of person, that "pervert," and the picture others have tried to paint for me that he is? Or, is he innocent and he feels cornered?"
Ends up, he was innocent. He's not any more a "pervert" than the next two-legged animal standing in line behind me at Starbucks. And he was never, ever guilty of the accusation thrown at him of posing as a woman in a private chat conversation with me, relaying in tears her heartache over the broken relationship with him. I wonder how other men would feel had they been accused of doing that and of baiting me by posing as that woman?
Should I have gone public with what I've gone public with regarding Knapp? It's a question I don't have a direct answer for right now. I'll probably continue to question it for months.
Some people have thanked me for speaking up.
Some don't care.
Some have criticized.
Some have brandished me to shameful, despicable scorn.
I wonder just how important the "all-important audience" (to quote from this article) is?
In the end, the most important audience is a person's own heart and that of their loved ones. That assurance helps bring my heart back to gratitude and helps clear the static of the all-important audience voices.
Else my heart could become divided, split, and conquered. I think I'd rather die.
___________________
And it wasn't just the accusations that sent my heart and brain spinning, but also the lack of Knapp's willingness to even discuss the situation or address my confusion, which I plainly wrote to him how very confused I was. Instead, he totally cut off communication with me and that in a hostile manner.
And then, the day after he cut off communication with me, he called my home phone, while I was out hiking the Roan Highlands for over 13 hours, and left an odd message on my voice mail telling me that I'd contacted his assistant and that I told her I wanted to talk with him.
I never contacted his assistant. I couldn't have; I was without technology that whole day.
And then he never called me back after I returned his call in response to that odd message.
And then some six weeks later he emailed a friend of mine, who was also his client, wherein he twisted the scenario between he and I, minimized its impact, and rationalized his behavior and words.
To this day, I'm not even sure what it was that Knapp and I disagreed over or had a misunderstanding about, other than I thought he had opened up an issue for re-discussion. So I had re-discussed. Is that what the misunderstanding was about? I don't even know.
The rabbit hole. Among other things, my mind felt divided...split. I couldn't trust myself. I couldn't trust my perceptions. I couldn't trust what was plainly in front of me. Was the person who was kind to me in the check out line, really being kind? Or were they being manipulative? When I was kind, was I really being kind? Or did I have some sort of sinister, ulterior motive?
With the current 2011 round of Knapp's accusations - public accusations and fetched far beyond what I would have ever imagined that anyone would fabricate regarding me. Me...a non-public, unimportant (in light of all history), one-of-the-million-among-the-masses tiny fish in a huge sea. This round, the accusations have had a similar effect. That of causing my mind to feel divided or split and wondering if I really am this (among other descript words & labels) "sadistic," "terroristic," "cruel," "crazier than a shithouse rat" woman who is trying to "DESTORY" another individual, that individual being Knapp.
If I had wanted to destroy Knapp, I have much (depending on one's definition of much) more I could have brought public. If I had wanted to destroy Knapp, I could have sued. I could have plastered my writings on all sorts of online sites where John has visited or currently visits, including places John has 'enemies.' I could have emailed all sorts of people who know John.
I didn't do those things.
Instead, I filed a complaint. I spoke with a handful of others, some who initiated contact with me, about what had happened. I listened to their stories. Some had similar experiences as I. Some six months after filing the complaint, I went public with Knapp's name and in the subsequent months went public with more detail. Of that, I am guilty.
After this last round of false accusations, I find myself wanting to explain myself, not only regarding Knapp stuff, but with other decisions or errors that I make. I think that is probably normal when someone is accused.
When a friend of mine was falsely accused in the past (among the anti-cult crowd), and before I was sure if the accusations were false or not, I noticed he would explain himself for various decisions, explaining his motives or his whereabouts. It wasn't something I needed him to do, but he must have felt the need. I did notice it.
I'd wonder, "Is he guilty of the accusations and he is now trying to prove to me, by his explanations regarding other things in life, that he isn't that kind of person, that "pervert," and the picture others have tried to paint for me that he is? Or, is he innocent and he feels cornered?"
Ends up, he was innocent. He's not any more a "pervert" than the next two-legged animal standing in line behind me at Starbucks. And he was never, ever guilty of the accusation thrown at him of posing as a woman in a private chat conversation with me, relaying in tears her heartache over the broken relationship with him. I wonder how other men would feel had they been accused of doing that and of baiting me by posing as that woman?
Should I have gone public with what I've gone public with regarding Knapp? It's a question I don't have a direct answer for right now. I'll probably continue to question it for months.
Some people have thanked me for speaking up.
Some don't care.
Some have criticized.
Some have brandished me to shameful, despicable scorn.
I wonder just how important the "all-important audience" (to quote from this article) is?
In the end, the most important audience is a person's own heart and that of their loved ones. That assurance helps bring my heart back to gratitude and helps clear the static of the all-important audience voices.
Else my heart could become divided, split, and conquered. I think I'd rather die.
___________________