Once upon a time I had a big brother who would joke around with me, be goofy, teach me how to play the violin, help me audition for plays and who would make every Christmas so much more exciting because it belonged to us. That brother I loved has been dead for over 20 years.
Erik was from my Dad's first marriage and still a good 12-14 years older than me. It didn't matter though. It was as if we were the same age. My memories of him always make me smile. I was his Krissy and he was, well he was my friend.
20+ years ago Erik died. He became a crack addict. He became unpredictable, a con artist, liar, thief, everything a person tries to avoid. The good in him died the second the effects of crack struck his blood.
Years and years I remember my Mom taking me in the middle of the night to go searching for him in crack neighborhoods, knocking on doors to see if he was there. Always trying to get him back, back to my friend, back to being my big brother Erik because my Mom always (and even now) believes people can change and hides behind ignorance of reality.
After countless failed step houses and rehab stays I just gave up on him. I had to in order to move on. So now I mourn who he was, who I miss, who I loved. The man he is today breaths and his heart beats but the soul is gone, he is the walking dead.
He's been in and out of prison for at least 10 years and a large amount of that time was for tax fraud and the rest all drug related. Each time he got out he'd go into another treatment center, find God, say he's changed, has his priorities in check and a few days will pass, a couple weeks maybe and he's disappeared again on a crack binge and back in jail.
19 years ago he met a woman named Jackie who he shared his crack addiction with, they had a son, Erik Jr. None of us knew this baby boy was my brother's until suddenly he and his Mother appeared back in Sarasota and any doubts anyone had of who his Father was disappeared. He's a spitting image of his Father and the first time I spoke with him he thought he could "cure" him, make him better because he was what he had been looking for and now that they were reunited he would be better. Erik didn't change and did the same thing he's been doing for over 20 years. He disapeared, went on a crack binge and wound up back in prison breaking this child's heart, my Nephew's heart.
Now...now my heart breaks for him, this lost soul, because I so vividly remember that pain, that desperation for a parents affection and undying need to fill this void inside your soul that only a Mother or Father can fill.
Having recently been thinking about good memories of people that I wished I didn't have I was reminded of my brother, my Erik. So I picked up the phone and I called my Mom as she still keeps track of him and what prison or recovery house he is at the moment. I found out he was in prison again at the Coleman Correctional Facility in north Florida for violation of probation relating to drugs. She then informed me that he was going to be released soon and go to a court mandated Salvation Army facility for 20 some odd days. This didn't affect me, I didn't have an ounce of emotion only thinking, "what a fuck up". It was what followed that broke me a part.
I was informed that Erik intended to complete his stay here in Florida and upon his release date would be moving to Mississippi to live with his now 19 year old son and the woman he had a crack based relationship that resulted with a precious gift of an innocent child. I felt like a link formed almost immediately pulling me to this child, this little me; a Krissy.
So I tried to convince the mother, who has only been off crack for 12 years and has no income and makes her son work to support the household which forced him to drop out of school. I offered up different ideas on how they could relearn to trust Erik if there was any trust left in him. I didn't expect it to go anywhere and it didn't. I knew that going in but I felt that I had to try. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't reach out to this child, a child who reminds me so much of myself and who's pain I share and experienced.
My Nephew, Erik Jr., is numb and deeply depressed and I hurt for him. I know there is nothing that I can do to "fix" him but to let him know that he's not alone, that someone, an Aunt he never knew he had but so desperately wanted, knew his pain. And sometimes, just sometimes just knowing someone relates and knows what you are going through and the people involved can be that string that keeps you from delving deeper into the depths of darkness.
So for the first time in 10 years I plan on facing my brother. Sit in front of him, let him see my face, who I have become, and I will look back and see the shock that shall shower his face as this day was never going to happen and wouldn't if he didn't have this wonderful boy that NEEDS stability and my brother, the walking dead who will forever be a perpetual drug addict, is not going to help his son instead he will only further his pain. I don't know what the outcome is going to be but I know I can't and probably won't change his mind because he is in an addicts mindset where a score is more important than your love, your heart. BUT, I feel it's time. It's time I face him and bury him as they do those that have stopped breathing.
I'm nervous, scared and yet oddly confident with a sense of inner strength I haven't felt in a very long time. It's time.
Friday, May 27, 2011
How is this possible to feel remorse?
I spent a lot of my youth surrounded by people who weren't good for me, who abused me, who treated me like a piece of shit and yet still I mourn them as if they never hurt me.
These memories of those people in my youth started reminding me those that I hated and at the same time not understanding why I could not let go of the good memories I had with them. How is it possible, logical even, to feel sorrow for missing someone who was abusive to you? How does that make sense? How can I feel empathy towards those people when they destroyed parts of me that I cannot get back?
I thought, at first, about Westley. He was my cousin, we grew up together and were more like siblings than cousins. We would used to stay up all night talking, laughing, joking around like kids do and all that time he had abused me. I pretended and forced myself to think that it was all okay, he was good and we had fun together. I forced myself to forget that he abused me. That at the age of two he undressed me to my diaper, took me to the closet and closed the doors and tried to show me what sex was and rubbed my breasts. My diaper was never removed and even though he was just 2 years older than me I knew it was wrong. I remember my Grandma Brown finding us and punishing us making us wait for my parents to get home to talk to us.
Years later, on a family camping trip with my Aunt Diddi, Grandma Adcock, baby cousin Danielle and Westley, we went to my Great Aunt Shirley's cabin in Michigan for a vacation. At the that time my Aunt Diddi was obsessed with the t.v. show MacGuyver and as soon as it came on she and my Grandma sat in the living room to watch it. Westley then asked me if I wanted to play a game. Pretend we were dogs and were going to "make a baby" (have sex like dogs) and our baby cousin Danielle, who is 2 or 3 years younger than me, would be the puppy.
I agreed because I wanted him to like me, to continue to have fun together but I knew, I knew it wasn't right and something very wrong was about to happen but that fear took over and even with visible hesitation I played along.
The room for "the game" was in the front of the cabin, away from the living room so no one could hear. Danielle wasn't in the room so it was just him and I. He ushered me to the floor between the bed and wall so that if someone walked by they would not see. He said "okay, we have to do it like dogs so we can have a puppy". He told me to get into a "dog" position on all fours. We were fully clothed. He then began to try and get on top of me from behind and I panicked. I KNEW this wasn't right but was too scared to run away so instead I said, very quietly, "I don't like this can you just let me lay on my back?". So he rolled me over and got on top of me, still both fully clothed. As he went through the motions of "making a puppy" I starred under the bed because I could not be present. I was trying to make myself believe that this wasn't real, that it was imaginary, but it wasn't. Clothed or unclothed he abused me in a sexual way and this puppy we were supposed to make and the whole purpose of the "game" never appeared as Danielle wasn't even in the room. The next day and everyday after I blocked it out and tried to pretend that nothing ever happened. I told no one. So how could I mourn this person's death? How could I feel sorry and cry at the funeral? How could I miss him? Brian didn't understand because he knew who and what Westley had done to me.
After a long time spent in the gang world, doing drugs and being in prison for pulling a loaded weapon on someone he died of a drug overdose on December 2, 2004. His Mother was doing drugs with him that night. I remember being at work and my Mother calling, screaming "Wes is dead! Wes is dead! Oh my God, he's dead". She was crying so hysterically that I am surprised that I was able to hear her but I did. Immediately I left work and drove to the scene. EMS was already there, my Mother was crying uncontrollably and all I could do was be "the grown up" despite the fact that I was so infuriated about the day he did the inevitable. I hated him for picking a day that I would never be able to forget. His death was exactly 1 year and 1 day before my wedding day and every anniversary to celebrate one of the greatest days of my life, my wedding day, December 3, 2005, every anniversary I am reminded of him.
Suddenly I had to play "Mom", I had to take charge, make sure everyone was okay even though inside my veins were pulsing with furry that I hadn't felt in a long time. Inside I wanted to scream every single thing that he had done wrong to me and to shout "I'M GLAD YOU ARE DEAD YOU PIECE OF SHIT", but I didn't. The paramedics pulled out the gurney from the house with the sheet draping the body. I walked over and asked "Can I see him?", they said no. I became more infuriated because inside my body the anger and rage was reaching a boiling point but my fear, my cowardliness, kept me from doing what I wanted/needed to do; kick the gurney over and beat the corpse of the cousin that sexually abused me, made passes at me, openly expressed his attraction for me, made me feel as though I had to hide my body and be away from him because of the looks in his eyes when he saw me. No, instead I became the adult. I became the one that took the responsibility to contact family and console them and even console his Mother, who I hated with every bone in my body.
Why did I take on that role? To this day I cannot tell you because I simply don't know.
But it was this collection of memories and the questions I had about missing the good in him, which I have come to realize didn't exist in him, that made me think of others in my life that have done similar, specifically my brother.
These memories of those people in my youth started reminding me those that I hated and at the same time not understanding why I could not let go of the good memories I had with them. How is it possible, logical even, to feel sorrow for missing someone who was abusive to you? How does that make sense? How can I feel empathy towards those people when they destroyed parts of me that I cannot get back?
I thought, at first, about Westley. He was my cousin, we grew up together and were more like siblings than cousins. We would used to stay up all night talking, laughing, joking around like kids do and all that time he had abused me. I pretended and forced myself to think that it was all okay, he was good and we had fun together. I forced myself to forget that he abused me. That at the age of two he undressed me to my diaper, took me to the closet and closed the doors and tried to show me what sex was and rubbed my breasts. My diaper was never removed and even though he was just 2 years older than me I knew it was wrong. I remember my Grandma Brown finding us and punishing us making us wait for my parents to get home to talk to us.
Years later, on a family camping trip with my Aunt Diddi, Grandma Adcock, baby cousin Danielle and Westley, we went to my Great Aunt Shirley's cabin in Michigan for a vacation. At the that time my Aunt Diddi was obsessed with the t.v. show MacGuyver and as soon as it came on she and my Grandma sat in the living room to watch it. Westley then asked me if I wanted to play a game. Pretend we were dogs and were going to "make a baby" (have sex like dogs) and our baby cousin Danielle, who is 2 or 3 years younger than me, would be the puppy.
I agreed because I wanted him to like me, to continue to have fun together but I knew, I knew it wasn't right and something very wrong was about to happen but that fear took over and even with visible hesitation I played along.
The room for "the game" was in the front of the cabin, away from the living room so no one could hear. Danielle wasn't in the room so it was just him and I. He ushered me to the floor between the bed and wall so that if someone walked by they would not see. He said "okay, we have to do it like dogs so we can have a puppy". He told me to get into a "dog" position on all fours. We were fully clothed. He then began to try and get on top of me from behind and I panicked. I KNEW this wasn't right but was too scared to run away so instead I said, very quietly, "I don't like this can you just let me lay on my back?". So he rolled me over and got on top of me, still both fully clothed. As he went through the motions of "making a puppy" I starred under the bed because I could not be present. I was trying to make myself believe that this wasn't real, that it was imaginary, but it wasn't. Clothed or unclothed he abused me in a sexual way and this puppy we were supposed to make and the whole purpose of the "game" never appeared as Danielle wasn't even in the room. The next day and everyday after I blocked it out and tried to pretend that nothing ever happened. I told no one. So how could I mourn this person's death? How could I feel sorry and cry at the funeral? How could I miss him? Brian didn't understand because he knew who and what Westley had done to me.
After a long time spent in the gang world, doing drugs and being in prison for pulling a loaded weapon on someone he died of a drug overdose on December 2, 2004. His Mother was doing drugs with him that night. I remember being at work and my Mother calling, screaming "Wes is dead! Wes is dead! Oh my God, he's dead". She was crying so hysterically that I am surprised that I was able to hear her but I did. Immediately I left work and drove to the scene. EMS was already there, my Mother was crying uncontrollably and all I could do was be "the grown up" despite the fact that I was so infuriated about the day he did the inevitable. I hated him for picking a day that I would never be able to forget. His death was exactly 1 year and 1 day before my wedding day and every anniversary to celebrate one of the greatest days of my life, my wedding day, December 3, 2005, every anniversary I am reminded of him.
Suddenly I had to play "Mom", I had to take charge, make sure everyone was okay even though inside my veins were pulsing with furry that I hadn't felt in a long time. Inside I wanted to scream every single thing that he had done wrong to me and to shout "I'M GLAD YOU ARE DEAD YOU PIECE OF SHIT", but I didn't. The paramedics pulled out the gurney from the house with the sheet draping the body. I walked over and asked "Can I see him?", they said no. I became more infuriated because inside my body the anger and rage was reaching a boiling point but my fear, my cowardliness, kept me from doing what I wanted/needed to do; kick the gurney over and beat the corpse of the cousin that sexually abused me, made passes at me, openly expressed his attraction for me, made me feel as though I had to hide my body and be away from him because of the looks in his eyes when he saw me. No, instead I became the adult. I became the one that took the responsibility to contact family and console them and even console his Mother, who I hated with every bone in my body.
Why did I take on that role? To this day I cannot tell you because I simply don't know.
But it was this collection of memories and the questions I had about missing the good in him, which I have come to realize didn't exist in him, that made me think of others in my life that have done similar, specifically my brother.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Emotional wind has been knocked out of me
I wasn't prepared for that. In truth I hadn't thought about her in anyway shape or form in a very long time when out of nowhere I see a new friend request on Facebook from none other than Joann. I couldn't believe my eyes. Really? I sit there in front of the computer, shaking and not being able to process anything or type or speak, just thinking how this person thinks that I would actually be okay with this. Who does she think she is?
I got off the computer and I called my Mom and asked her flat out "Is Joann living there?" to which she replied with a yes and then I explained what just happened and out of nowhere I decided it was time. I asked Mom to put her on the phone. I could hear hesitance from my Mom in the background as she was transferring the phone from her to her sister. I could hear whispers of "what?" and "I don't know". She picks up the phone and says "Hi Kris, how are you?" and it was striking to me just how calm and happy her voice was. It was literally as if nothing had ever happened and we were good pals and super close. It was like being punched in the stomach again. I gasped for air for a moment because I could not believe what was happening.
I stood there on the phone, holding onto the counter in the kitchen for balance since I could not control the shaking in my body, I unleashed. The anger I could feel rushing from my feet to my head and hands. I screamed and yelled at her. Told her to leave me alone, she doesn't exist to me, she abused me, she allowed her son to molest me, she killed her son, she tortured me and I would not allow her to know me or MY family ever as they will never know who or what she is. A stranger on the street that is so abrasive that even the politest of people wouldn't stop to help if they saw her trip while walking down the sidewalk.
Again, punch to the gut, she was so absent minded about it all and did not and could not understand where my anger was. Repeating to me "Don't you believe in God? In heaven and hell? You have kids, you HAVE to believe in God"...those were the exact words. She was at peace with everything and was so taken out of herself that she didn't think she did anything wrong. That calling her teenage niece a "fucking whore" was "bad" and not abusive or wrong. That beating me with a door while a friend sit in complete shock watch as she pushes the door as hard as she could repeadidly into me over dishes in the sink while I sit pinned between the wall and door, scared, embarrassed, ashamed. There she sat on the other end of the phone totally okay with everything. Totally okay with her involvement in killing her son, my molester. Saying that she "only did that a few times" when referring to doing drugs with her abusive child and so it was "okay" and "not abusive" or destructive or "being a bad mother"....my jaw hit the floor. I literally could not believe what I was hearing.
The anger just boiled through my veins. I started to talk louder and use fowl language, I broke. Told her to leave me alone, I don't exist to her, I am not her niece, she will never know my children and they will never know her. What angered me the most was that she would not just shut up she had to keep repeating "I love you, I wish the best for your family, you have a beautiful family, May God bless you, I will always love you" over and over. I had to put the phone out of ear shot of my ear so that I wouldn't get so enraged that I couldn't handle it. I just told her to give the phone back to my Mom and that's when I lost it. The shock, anger, everything just broke and I began to hyperventilate.
I am calm now, able to think, able to type. Just not something that I expected to happen today or any day for that matter. It could be a positive in the sense that I finally got to verbally express my anger to her and verbally tell her what I wanted from her.
I did tell her to go to hell to which she replied with "I'm going to Heaven". It's a little reminder like that to just let you know, once again, how much you hate the Christian religion and this belief that if the sinner repents to God that all will be forgiven and the gates to Heaven will open for you. The people that don't deserve infinite bliss in the afterlife are the ones that the religion preaches will get in through forgiveness. Well to that I can only say...FUCK YOU CHRISTIANITY, TAKE YOUR RAPISTS, ABUSERS, MOLESTERS, KILLERS WITH YOU AND ENJOY YOUR NEVER ENDING TORMENT THAT WILL BE INFLICTED ON YOU AS A RESULT OF LETTING THESE PEOPLE REPENT AND GET WHAT THE GOOD PEOPLE OF THE WORLD WORK HARD TO ATTAIN AND GET PUNISHED FOR IT!
I got off the computer and I called my Mom and asked her flat out "Is Joann living there?" to which she replied with a yes and then I explained what just happened and out of nowhere I decided it was time. I asked Mom to put her on the phone. I could hear hesitance from my Mom in the background as she was transferring the phone from her to her sister. I could hear whispers of "what?" and "I don't know". She picks up the phone and says "Hi Kris, how are you?" and it was striking to me just how calm and happy her voice was. It was literally as if nothing had ever happened and we were good pals and super close. It was like being punched in the stomach again. I gasped for air for a moment because I could not believe what was happening.
I stood there on the phone, holding onto the counter in the kitchen for balance since I could not control the shaking in my body, I unleashed. The anger I could feel rushing from my feet to my head and hands. I screamed and yelled at her. Told her to leave me alone, she doesn't exist to me, she abused me, she allowed her son to molest me, she killed her son, she tortured me and I would not allow her to know me or MY family ever as they will never know who or what she is. A stranger on the street that is so abrasive that even the politest of people wouldn't stop to help if they saw her trip while walking down the sidewalk.
Again, punch to the gut, she was so absent minded about it all and did not and could not understand where my anger was. Repeating to me "Don't you believe in God? In heaven and hell? You have kids, you HAVE to believe in God"...those were the exact words. She was at peace with everything and was so taken out of herself that she didn't think she did anything wrong. That calling her teenage niece a "fucking whore" was "bad" and not abusive or wrong. That beating me with a door while a friend sit in complete shock watch as she pushes the door as hard as she could repeadidly into me over dishes in the sink while I sit pinned between the wall and door, scared, embarrassed, ashamed. There she sat on the other end of the phone totally okay with everything. Totally okay with her involvement in killing her son, my molester. Saying that she "only did that a few times" when referring to doing drugs with her abusive child and so it was "okay" and "not abusive" or destructive or "being a bad mother"....my jaw hit the floor. I literally could not believe what I was hearing.
The anger just boiled through my veins. I started to talk louder and use fowl language, I broke. Told her to leave me alone, I don't exist to her, I am not her niece, she will never know my children and they will never know her. What angered me the most was that she would not just shut up she had to keep repeating "I love you, I wish the best for your family, you have a beautiful family, May God bless you, I will always love you" over and over. I had to put the phone out of ear shot of my ear so that I wouldn't get so enraged that I couldn't handle it. I just told her to give the phone back to my Mom and that's when I lost it. The shock, anger, everything just broke and I began to hyperventilate.
I am calm now, able to think, able to type. Just not something that I expected to happen today or any day for that matter. It could be a positive in the sense that I finally got to verbally express my anger to her and verbally tell her what I wanted from her.
I did tell her to go to hell to which she replied with "I'm going to Heaven". It's a little reminder like that to just let you know, once again, how much you hate the Christian religion and this belief that if the sinner repents to God that all will be forgiven and the gates to Heaven will open for you. The people that don't deserve infinite bliss in the afterlife are the ones that the religion preaches will get in through forgiveness. Well to that I can only say...FUCK YOU CHRISTIANITY, TAKE YOUR RAPISTS, ABUSERS, MOLESTERS, KILLERS WITH YOU AND ENJOY YOUR NEVER ENDING TORMENT THAT WILL BE INFLICTED ON YOU AS A RESULT OF LETTING THESE PEOPLE REPENT AND GET WHAT THE GOOD PEOPLE OF THE WORLD WORK HARD TO ATTAIN AND GET PUNISHED FOR IT!
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Sometimes you just want to scream
I find myself wanting to just go insane a lot. Not insanity in the mental health definition but insanity in the uninhibited sense of the word. I want to loose control, let go of my bloody grip and just go....insane.
There's always something you want to do when you are growing up, something/one you want to be. I had a lot of different roles I was planning on playing as an adult or when I finally grew up, which is a phrase I'm finding has a never ending definition since you aren't finally grown up until your heart stops beating. I don't know, I always thought I'd be a teacher, a movie star, a lawyer and in a way I suppose I am all of those things. I guess the constant "thing" was to be a Mommy. Makes it fitting that the constant thing was the only thing I completely became and no that's not a complaint.
I can remember being a child and playing with my dolls or just imagining my future and being stable, happy, over joyed and loved...loved, loved without exceptions/rules/specifications/boundaries.
There's always something you want to do when you are growing up, something/one you want to be. I had a lot of different roles I was planning on playing as an adult or when I finally grew up, which is a phrase I'm finding has a never ending definition since you aren't finally grown up until your heart stops beating. I don't know, I always thought I'd be a teacher, a movie star, a lawyer and in a way I suppose I am all of those things. I guess the constant "thing" was to be a Mommy. Makes it fitting that the constant thing was the only thing I completely became and no that's not a complaint.
I can remember being a child and playing with my dolls or just imagining my future and being stable, happy, over joyed and loved...loved, loved without exceptions/rules/specifications/boundaries.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Well it's a start...
I am an adult woman. I have been depressed for as long as I can remember. I have Borderline Personality Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as a result of the life I have experienced and am working on unexpiriencing.
At 15 I tried to kill myself. I took a as many sleeping pills as I could find, which were about 80, and wrote a note in my favorite Traper Keeper. I didn't go through with it. My Grandmother had heart problems and took medication for it. I went into the kitchen and stared at the bottles but I put them back and instead grabbed the Tylenol Pm. I could have also drank a couple bottles of wine my Mother had on top of the fridge but I didn't. I just poured a glass of water and took every last one of them and threw the empty bottles onto the floor next to my bed. I sat, fetal position, rocking back and forth at the edge of my bed crying hysterically thinking that what if I did die, what then? The other thought was, maybe I made a mistake..FUCK! In the end I went with the FUCK thought and woke my Mom up and called her into my room. I said to her, still rocking back and forth - still sitting at the edge of my bed - still sobbing, "Mom, I don't want to die.". In that moment the look in her eyes was one that I had not seen in quite some time. It was a panic, scared, I'm going to loose my baby that I love, look. I missed that look and I hadn't seen it for a long time up until that moment.
I am not going to go through the entire nights events or the following days right now but rather just go into each moment as it shines from the back of my eyes and tingling the tips of my fingers to get it out, piece by piece, moment by moment.
This...this is my life. Am I proud of it? Right now? No. Tomorrow? Maybe. The day after? Yes. Just not today.
At 15 I tried to kill myself. I took a as many sleeping pills as I could find, which were about 80, and wrote a note in my favorite Traper Keeper. I didn't go through with it. My Grandmother had heart problems and took medication for it. I went into the kitchen and stared at the bottles but I put them back and instead grabbed the Tylenol Pm. I could have also drank a couple bottles of wine my Mother had on top of the fridge but I didn't. I just poured a glass of water and took every last one of them and threw the empty bottles onto the floor next to my bed. I sat, fetal position, rocking back and forth at the edge of my bed crying hysterically thinking that what if I did die, what then? The other thought was, maybe I made a mistake..FUCK! In the end I went with the FUCK thought and woke my Mom up and called her into my room. I said to her, still rocking back and forth - still sitting at the edge of my bed - still sobbing, "Mom, I don't want to die.". In that moment the look in her eyes was one that I had not seen in quite some time. It was a panic, scared, I'm going to loose my baby that I love, look. I missed that look and I hadn't seen it for a long time up until that moment.
I am not going to go through the entire nights events or the following days right now but rather just go into each moment as it shines from the back of my eyes and tingling the tips of my fingers to get it out, piece by piece, moment by moment.
This...this is my life. Am I proud of it? Right now? No. Tomorrow? Maybe. The day after? Yes. Just not today.
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