I was a very compliant child.  Afraid not to do as I was told.  I had little concept of what it meant not to obey most especially when I was right under my mother’s nose.  Unlike one or two of my children, who had I even attempted such a method against their will or interest would have sat there, looking around, book on table, or possibly in their hand, not reading a word, no matter how much I prodded them to read.  No, I wasn’t like that I took the book she had for me, slumped into my chair, opened the cover with a quiet sigh, marked the time when I would be done, and began to read, counting each tedious minute as it ticked by.

A few days later I had library at school, and this was where my school librarian played a heavy role in my life, I don’t remember her name, or her face.  But what I do remember that she LOVED books and she smiled a lot.  I told her my unfortunate, annoying dilemma.  I remember her eyes twinkled from the broad smile on her face.  She told me, “I have just the book for you, follow me.”  We walked along the wall of books that were in my age range and stopped at the far end. Then she reached out and hitched her finger on the binding of a hard covered, cornflower colored book, about an inch thick.  Then she place it into my hands.  I looked at the cover, it had a picture of a cute robot on the front with a planet in the back ground.  “I think you’re going to enjoy that book Theresa, I loved it.”  “Okay,” I said with a shrug, “thank you,” then turned, went to the desk, checked it out, took it to class, and shoved into my desk.

Later that night I again examined the cover,  “The picture’s cute at least”,  I sighed rolled my eyes then opened to the first page.  But this time when my 20 minutes were up I didn’t stop.  I couldn’t.  I was unashamedly hooked.  I have no idea how much longer I read or what the title was that made me fall head over heels in love with reading but I can tell you it was about a robot from space and there were three in the series.  (Thus began my passion for series.)  From that day forward I went to library hungry for another book and looked to the same Librarian to guide me to another book.

All summer long I walked to the local library spent languishing time scanning the stacks and forming a deep pile int my arms.  Although my walk home was considerable I never let it detour me from bringing home every book that my heart fancied and I knew I could read in a week.   Once my eyes devoured that pile I returned to get another.   And from that day till now I have surrounded myself and my children with books.  All my children have cut their teeth on them both literally and figuratively and I’m happy to say some do love reading while some some find it tedious.  However even my soon to be 20 year old daughter, who is one who finds it tedious and why she does I’ll never understand, stills loves for me to read to her and if I could would have me read book after book while she listened with rapt attention.  If only there were time…

Love ya,
Theresa Jane
-who loves her first librarian and is thankful to her mother for making her sit at that dining room table for 20 minutes a day

With unstoppable intensity memories bombarded my mind.  Although I remember tremendous boredom being at my step-grandparents I don’t remember any negative memories.  Except when we left.  That’s when my parents would begin to bicker, even as we left the driveway.  Bickering that was a straight road to intense arguing.  My mother didn’t like going for our frequent Sunday afternoon visits.  My step-father’s parents smoked, a lot.  Drank beer.  To access. But not to access when we were there, unless there was a family party.  They played poker.  Holey decks of cards were unashamedly stacked on the counter or table and my step-grandmother often played solitaire or played/practiced with the cards at the kitchen table where they visited when we were there.  Moving them this way and then that, or fanned out in a perfect row, lifting the last, and nudging the rest so that they all flipped from front to back in perfect orchestration. 

One day when I was about 6 or 7 I was there, alone.  The one and only time I remember being there without my parents.  They were up the country road about a quarter of a mile at a site where my step-father had put a small, inexpensive, used, travel trailer on a piece of land he had purchased from his parents.  He needed a place to go, to get out of town where we lived.  Where my mother wanted them to live.  She had grown up in town and that’s where she liked it.  He had grown in the country and felt cramped, awkward, and out of place in our house, on its tiny plot.

My parents were busy clearing the land around the trailer and setting things up inside and I was totally bored.  So I asked if I might go and visit my step-grandparents (although I never referred to them as “step”).  This was when my grandmother taught me how to run a deck up my arm, nudge it and have them all flip from their backs to their faces.  She showed me repeatedly running them along here wrinkled arm and used her middle finger to nudge them with.  I watched enthralled.  Eager to learn.  No one had ever taught me such a thing.  My other grandmother, my mother’s mom taught me to clean dishes and the floors, how to crochet, and embroider but nothing nearly so spectacular as this.

Then she handed me the deck.  I took it filled with tremendous confidence that I could repeat this trick.  But it only took seconds to discover that just getting the deck to spread evenly up my small arm was a task.  But I persevered.  I remembered her warm smile and encouragement she shared by telling me it took her some time of practice to get it to work for her.  We laughed together that day.  And ate wafer cookies from a pack with a mixed variety of vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry, and she told me about the orange tree that stood proudly on her kitchen counter.  It had come from Joany, her daughter.  She had sent it to her all the way from California where she lived.  It had an orange about the size of an acorn and I thought it was the cutest little thing.  She told me how she loved it and wanted it to grow tall and strong so she could pick her own oranges.

This was the only time I remembered connecting with my grandmother on my step-father’s side.  The one and only.  My step-father’s trailer and the land it sat on was put up for sale and sold the next week.  I remember the arguments my parents had over it.  My mother hated it.  She didn’t want to go up there anyway into the country.  She wanted them to get their money back that they had put into it.  AND she didn’t want me up there around “those people“.

We continued with our visits on Sundays where my parents and baby brother visited with them at the kitchen table, I was rallied to the living room to watch TV or preferably outside to play.  Rarely invited to sit with the adults.

My step-grandparents died long, long ago but today wafer cookies are one of my total favorites.  They can compete equally with Oreo’s for my attention.   And the card trick?  Well today I couldn’t pick up a deck and just wing it out there with great perfection however back in the day of my youth I practiced it, out of the view of my mother, off and on for years till I got it right.  I think growing into longer arms helped 

Night, love ya,
Theresa Jane
-my step-grandparents had two pictures in their home…one was the famous scene of the outdoors, in the country, red barn… and this pictured below, it hung in their kitchen,  I found this picture on Invisible Mikey’s blog he wrote about the artist, interestingly enough, last week, however it didn’t have the same memory evoking effect as the salt and pepper shakers . . .  I always loved that picture…my mom hated it.

Blessing left out about an hour ago after watching “Did You Hear About the Morgans” with me, Grace, Dan, Cal, and Zac.  I really liked that movie, laughed a lot.  It was nice to see a movie that wan’t full of sex and language making it possible to comfortably watch something with my kids without shouting “don’t look”, while I fast forward.  Now some are watching, “Kit Kitridge”,  a movie I picked which was met with eyes rolling and them saying, “An American Girl” movie?  Oh brother.”  Well, it wasn’t but five minutes and they were hooked.  There’s been lots of laughter and a general emphasis of “movie enjoyment” the whole way through, so  I guess I know how to pick a good movie after all.  And it is.  It’s a fairly good representation of life in those times through a nice story.  Grace went to bed about an hour ago, and Dan’s head has been slumbering on his pillow for longer.  Cal and Zac on the other hand are still awake.  My night owls.  I have no idea where they get that trait from

All I can say as I wrap this post up is, I’m thankful for a wonderful day.

Night, love ya,
Theresa Jane

So while I’ve been doing the bunny hop all over Birmingham this my posts suffer.

For the last few weeks I’ve been going around with a metal sliver in my toe.  I’ve tried repeatedly to get the bugger out.  But no go.  Hard to get something out you can’t see.  But I know it’s there because I felt it go in and it’s been hurting ever since.  The last few days I’ve put Black Salve on hoping to draw it out.   After I tested it today by walking around without a bandage or sock I can assure you that it’s not out.  There’s been a small ache in my foot that starts at my toe and moves up.  The other day the pain was radiating up my leg.  Have no idea how I’m going to get this thing out but I can’t help but make the connection to how things in our lives effect us even if we can’t see them.

They’re there every day causing a little pain and effecting our mental and physical health to some degree without our even knowing it because it’s not staring us in the face.

For the last near 7 years I’ve worked intensely on healing childhood traumas.  I continue to be surprised at how they’re having a lasting effect on me.  How I react to things and so forth.  I carried those issues into my marriage and the “unseen metal slivers” had their effects.  Then there was the marriage and the “slivers” that I accumulated there.

So where am I going with all this??  Last week my “ex” and I finally went for counseling.  It was a productive session.  I left crying.  But it was a good cry, like the drawing effects of Black Salve, the tears were drawing out the “slivers” we have between us.  These days I am feeling better toward my ex and he has improved toward me.  We’ve agreed to go every other week so I am hoping to see even more healing take place between us till finally all the “slivers” are drawn out and life is peace and sweet between us.

Love ya,
Theresa Jane

CONTINUED from yesterday, I said there was more that has opened for me…
The day before when I was writing about my thoughts on “The !BLAM!ming” (click here for the post) and stated that I was like a war vet suffering post war trauma, the strangest thing happened.  There were visions in my mind, like the Ghost of Christmas Past had taken me to when I was a child… I was watching scenes of myself in my parents home.  I was able to observe “this little girl”.  Bad things were happening and she was frightened.  Many scenes flashed as we moved through the years.

As I observed something came vividly clear…

I was able to see the connection between me and the war vet. People go to war healthy mentally and can come home very different.  They can’t help it.  They lived through horror.  They can’t stop the psychological traumas: The flash backs.  The fears.  Living on edge.  Waiting to protect/defend.  Watchful.  Suspicious.  And everyone including themselves know why they changed from the great person they were before they left… the effects of war.

This experience broke open an understanding why “the little girl” in the visions became the way “she” had.

How much worse for “her” then the vet?

She was 2 1/2 when her mother married “her” step-father. “She” was just a baby. Never even had a chance to develop healthy mentally. Her brain was forming. Her experiences with life were taking shape. The networking being laid was hard wired with traumas: fear, jumpy, hide, go outside…run, protect, shut down, defend, stop listening, be suspicious, be watchful, lie, keep to herself, no one loves her, no where is safe, stop feeling, don’t express “herself”, shut up, go away, do as “she’s” told, don’t question, “she’s” worthless, who would want to love “her”, look for others to hurt “her”, be: depressed, suicidal, pull away, ice over, protect, feel worthless, shut down, survive, defend, argue…

“She” suffered the effects of “war”/horror/violence inside “her” home. It’s all “she” knew. “She” couldn’t help it.  “Her” brain’s beliefs and patterns took over and “she” was stuck there.  In that past.  Hopeless… unless someone helped “her”.  Everyone, including me, should have known…

But I didn’t know.  I didn’t cut myself an inch of slack. All through my life I have been destructively self-judgmental and just plain self-destructive.  I curse myself. Put myself down. Call myself names. I’ve had no patience with myself. Couldn’t receive compliments.  No acceptance of myself unless I was perfect and my bar was so high I rarely, if ever, reached it.  And certainly never accepted my failures.

The !BLAM!ming freed up a ton of bottled up energy that I used elsewhere…

The other day was the first time I connected with the small child inside. The one that was hurt and scarred.  For the first time in my life I was able to understand “her“.  Except “her” faults.  Feel compassion. I wanted to pick her up, sway side to side, stroke her hair, and tell her, “It’s okay, I’m here now.  I’m protecting you.  I understand.  I’m going to keep you safe.  I’m taking you out of here to live with me.  You don’t have to stay.  You can leave with me.”  And walk off with her in my arms and not stop till we were in my apartment.

You know what?  That’s exactly what I’m going to do right now.  Spend time with the “little girl”.  Let her know she’s safe…

Night, love ya,
Theresa Jane
-Tomorrow… what the response from my parents has been so far.

Who knew that the project/business John1 and I started in August was going to go in the direction it has?  Not me.  Not him.  This is truly an organic process.  We followed a white rabbit and the hole keeps getting deeper, a little unnerving even, but we’re determined to keep up…

Here’s the end at the beginning…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3dcbzTwu7Y&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

So why did I do this?  !BLAM! my parents.  Here’s a little history to get to you there.  Sorry it’s so long.  But how do you condense 21 years any tighter?  Beats me, because I tried.  Spent about 2 1/2 hours getting it to where it is…

I have mentioned that the home I grew up in was a violent, scary place.  A war zone where I was robbed of any real childhood.  With a decision, initiated by my ex, we cut my parents out of our lives and asked that they respect us in this decision.

For 19 or so years we had nothing to do with them. (there’s a little more but I decided to cut it for space, basically my mother forced phone calls on me several years ago.  She called every few months.  When I took the call they were tense.  She was controlling.  Nosy…  I was reminded, “She is my mother…”)

About two and a half years ago, after years of work on my healing, I flew home to see my parents for the first time in about 22 years, to seek peace.  This I initiated.

Within minutes I nearly walked out on them because my mother said, “I don’t appreciate you not coming to our home and having to come to your aunts house.  I haven’t been in your aunts house in years,” she said scanning the house disgusted, “and here we are now because you won’t come to our house blah, blah, blah… I don’t even recognize you.  You don’t even look like yourself…”

My step-father said very upbeat, “Oh she looks just like Theresa.”
She glared at him.
It took all my healing not to end everything right there.  It was only my determination that this part of my life needed peace if from nowhere else but on my part.  So I stayed.  I told them I wasn’t there to make them wrong about the past, but I felt we needed to be honest and at least acknowledge that there has been a reason why they were cut out of our lives 21 years ago.  I was brief, but blunt…  Then I added we had no family to speak of.  Therefore no foundation to build from.  We needed to build a foundation.  That was what I wanted.  Not pretend that there was more than there was… let’s form a friendship. Go from there.

I apologized for how difficult I had been in my teens and asked them to forgive me.  My step-father broke down and cried.  This I only saw once, maybe twice before.  He said, “Of course I forgive you.”  Then his tears flowed, “I only hope you can forgive me.  I was awful.  Absolutely horrible to you.  I made a mess of everything and was terrible to everyone.  It was all my fault.”

I was amazed.  This was a basically a first.  I started to cry and told him I forgave him and it wasn’t all his fault.  My mother sat there.

I didn’t press her.  I started talking saying how we each played our role in the past…  she expressed disgusted I had been so forgiving to “him” when he had ruined her and her children’s life.  I pointed out that dad wasn’t the only problem.  She hadn’t been a silent lamb.  She was just as bad… she said, “I know, I was a terrible mother and cried.  Now, this is what my mother had always said.  It’s all she’s ever said.  And you have to hear her to get what I am saying… her sincerity is sadly lacking.  It’s like she’s forced to say something.  Like she wants pity.  She never says she did a thing to cause hurt or pain.  She was always a victim…I just want to hurt her, make her wrong…

Since the meeting a little changed.  In the beginning.  Shortly there after she started back to where we she was with me when we were on the phone…constantly reminding me I’m her daughter, she’s my mother, those are her grandchildren…  She gets testy, pushy, insulting, probing, wants me to live her way, I need to get back with my ex, the divorce upsets her so, am I seeing the children, it’s important that I do, if so when, “That’s all? How come not more…”, (for new readers, my children live with their dad, I see/have my children with me 4-6 days a week I have three right now, Caleb’s been with me since Thursday.) everything is about her…  I rub my temples.  I do all I can to be nice.  Ignore.  Not attack.  At times I’m direct.  Others we bicker.  She can get my father on the phone to “protect her from me”.  I was wearing thin to the bone.  I wanted to tell her that I didn’t want to talk with her anymore.

Then John1 suggested I try !Blam!ming them.  I had my doubts that it would work.  She never wants to listen.  She’s always defending.  Insulting.  Talking over me.  Accusing me of not letting the past go… and “John look what I had already done…”

But I decided that the business/project John1 and I were in had taken us here for more reasons then we had seen.  I needed this.  I had tried everything to gain peace.  To be respected.  To have peace.  To really heal inside when it came to my parents and well, it didn’t seem to be working most esp. with my mother.  I decided to try.  The above video is the super condensed version of me !BLAM!ming my parents.  When I first posted it it was at the bottom.  I re-thought it and decided it needs to be right there at the top, then give the history that accompanies it.

Night, love ya,
Theresa Jane
-long, I know, but it’s Sunday, even the paper is bigger, and I really couldn’t figure out where to split this. If you know what I could have said…it would take a book.  Oh yeah, I’m writing one!    (Also: John1 is so named because I have son named John and he works with us.  So John1 and John2:my son)