Tag Archive: pyschology

It was a hot summer’s day in the sand hills of Georgia.  Our teenage friend had gathered us little kids – there were about five or six of us – into our back yard to show us something.

“This here’s a pellet gun,” he solemnly announced.  He held out the long rifle with both hands for us to see; all us little kids leaned forward to take in this remarkable weapon.  Most of us had seen – and owned – BB guns – the ol’ Daisy brand, spring loaded; cocking weapon.  Most of us had been shot (multiple times) over and over again through these guns; we were actively engaging in BB gun wars.

“This ain’t no BB gun,” he commented as we took in the long barrel.  It looked like a BB gun to me.  “This things a whole bunch more powerful.”

And with that he began pumping up the thing.

Aiming at a tree (a small scrub oak kind of thing – it ‘looks’ about an inch and a half wide in my eyes; correcting for a small child’s vision .. and knowledge of our yard … yeah, an inch and a half, maybe an inch?) – he took a shot.

“Peeyow!!!”  The pellet gun barked and we kids took off to see what could be seen.  The tree he’d shot had been about twenty feet away; maybe a little bit more.

The pellet had ripped through the bark, and then through the tree, spitting out a small handful of splinters on the other side.  (I can still ‘see’ that tree perfectly, the wound on its back gaping.)

The teenager had ambled up as we oohed and awed over the ‘tremendous damage’ (we’d never seen any such thing before in our lives).

“That’s why you don’t want to make me mad,” he warned us seriously, fingering the tree’s wound (we were fingering it too) …. and I felt a great tremble of fear.  “I could kill you with this thing.   And I might . . . if you go and make me mad.”

And so there it was – the single warning we would get during our childhood; the only one I recall from him (but … I dunno; Mikie’s screaming that weren’t the only one; the only time …. visions and pictures in the darkness; the teenager’s there; we are scurrying around … the party? we are thinking? or was it a different one?  We don’t know and we aren’t sure.)

But I know from that moment on our lips were shut on this thing.  Nobody wanted to be shot with that gun.  No one wanted the teenager pissed off at them.  He was (to our baser knowledge) – the only one with a gun. If the other teenagers had them, we didn’t know – after all, THIS was the one who played with us; he was our ‘friend’.

I don’t know why he felt his need to demonstrate this thing to us unless it was what in he said.  I don’t even know if it was a real threat.  He may have just been pointing out something. … I don’t know what.

But I do know this.

After that we were a little scared of him.  And scared of him all the time.

(and yet … we went on loving him … ‘making love’ with him … doing his bidding.  He was our best friend’s older brother; he had been placed ‘above’ all us kids by the neighborhood parents; he was the ONLY teenage friend in that sort of position; ALL the parents trusted him … felt he was real good with us children – because he took care of us; played almost ALL of the time only with us, his little friends; and helped us along our way … towards what, I don’t know.  But in this – the pellet gun and things … I dunno.  We’re kinda mucked up on all of that thing and this one, too…

But it wasn’t until the last two days I realized: he was always playing with us kids; no one else.  None of the other teenagers were his ‘friend’; or if they were, it was to come later when he turned about 16.  (see “the Betrayal“)   But he was the neighborhood’s ‘favorite’ babysitter; the one who was ‘always there’ when we – or the parents – needed him.  That tells ya something; I just don’t know what that something IS.

But it’s pretty damned obvious: he cowed us with this thing.  And my brain is whirling right now … filled with images of darkness; moving figures; HIM being there … and wondering …

did he ever threaten us again?  Does it matter?  We weren’t going to tell on him (I think; I dunno; we were pretty mad after the Betrayal.   We almost betrayed him.  We almost told where we’d learned (and what we’d learned) “fuck” is.  He was the one who’d taught us that thing…and we hated him for that (the betrayal.)  After that things were never the same again … and it hurt our hearts HARD in this thing; this thing we had learned as love …. and Love itself, I’m thinking … for we were betrayed in love, by love, and through love ….

No wonder we have trouble with that thing.

This is the third of the “Groomed Child Rejected Part 1“, “Groomed Child Rejected II” of what you might call the “Groomed Child Betrayed series” in which our inner child, little Mikie … well, it’s a simple story.  And not even an ‘abusive’ one in a sense.  There’s no sex nor beatings going on.  Little Mikie isn’t set against some teenager.  This isn’t when he got buried.  This isn’t a lot of things.

But what it is is something that has affected my entire outcome in life.  It affected who “I” am; the ‘littles’, most definitely the teenager – and many other parts of my entire being.

We won’t go into all that now.  That remains in the future, when we start ‘analyizing’ the effects of Story 1, 2, and this, number 3.

Three hammer blows; each one a little different, each one much the same – and each perpetrated by one who I loved . . . in many sorts of ways.

This story opens up in the late afternoon; it is the summer, and all us kids are dressed much the same.  I’m about ten; barefoot and in cutoffs – everyone wears them, but not this afternoon, not the teenager and some of his friends.

All my friends and his are gathered around together, ‘shooting the shit’ in the front yard.  We’re ALL boys – dusty and dirty some of us (especially me sometimes) from a hard day’s play.  But this is still early enough in the afternoon that I can see the white puffy clouds over us, set against an azure sky.  The pines – huge pines – reach up like giant green needles with fluffy spines, pointing at that azure sky.  The road is ‘dirt’ – meaning sand, of course, and when it rains you can sink up to your knees.  Scrub oak, scrub pines, and endless tracts of Southern forest high on the sandhill lots.

And we are talking.  They are talking.  And all my friends are standing around; and here his is, this teenage friend of mine . . .

“Yeah, little Mikie!” I hear him saying.  I don’t know how the conversation rolled around to this; or let’s just say I think I do but don’t – it’s just fuzzy around the edges; must’ve had something to do with cornholin’ – “He’s the best cocksucker around.  He’ll suck anyone’s dick,” and then looking at one of his friends (F., who I sorely disliked, but didn’t hate as much as the S’s.)  “He’d even suck yours!”

And then they burst out laughing.  Maybe even pointing at me.

I can’t even figure out the emotion right then.  Betrayal and rage?  Shame, most definitely. Super hot flush to the tops of my ears.  And I scream at them, fists knotted (can even feel the hot tears of rage and shame that instantly sprung to my eyes) … and yet I am (as you can tell) – totally dissociated with this emotion.  Reaching down and touching it . . . is like touching fire; only this one is worse.  This kinda ‘burning’ goes on forever.*

“NO I DON’T!!  NO I WOULDN’T!!” I remember screaming at them – because it was true.  Some of them I would have never done ‘that thing’ for – because I didn’t love them.  Others, however . . . in a heartbeat; two heartbeats pressed together – that’s what I wanted!  That’s all any of us have ever wanted; I’m hearing in the back of my mind (and feeling a great big deal of damn sadness).

And I ran.  I ran through the yard (it was ‘my’ and ‘our’ yard, anyway!) – to the carport or something …

and sorta black.

I don’t remember crying it out though I know I did or must have – somewhere there – perhaps in the laundry rooms (where it was tight and dark and smelling of dust and laundry detergent and there was nowhere to sit only someplace to stand – bent over and crying on the ‘hood’ of the washing machine) … that, or went to my room – but I kinda doubt that one; it was kind of forbidden to ‘be in’ in the day unless you were called specifically for something.

But I do know that it had an affect on my and our teenager’s relationships; no longer would we ‘make love’ with him once and awhile.  He’d hurt us bad two times – and now (and then!) – this thing . . . this betrayal, “outing” me in front of all my friends (though many of us ‘little kids’ in that group of teens were being molested by him during ‘parties’ and things – and some, I’m certain, one-on-one like me sometimes . . .

Which just reminded me.  Of something he’d said.  LOL, thinking “just a few days ago” but NO it wasn’t – it was a ‘few hundred years ago’, LOL!

He said to me, (my friend and very best friend BW back then) he said:

“I thought it was going to be ME next” (in line) for the ‘abusing’ – the ‘telling’ and the ‘outing’ – and he was then about my age which was then about ten I guess back then.

So he’s telling me about it a few days later . . . after I’d gotten in trouble for doing something else ‘to my friend’; meaning me and the teenager (B was his young brother whom he’d been doing these things with for awhile) . . .

writing “fuck” on the house’s end wall – over and over again. . . on the side facing my “friend’s” house . . . right there where he can see it . . . but only I can, for it’s in pencil, and the house is soft sided in redwood, making the surface hard to write on – but don’t you know?  I can still SEE those damned little scrawls – “child’s hand” square and blocky letters … fat little (but not so little by now; tanned and brown) hands.

Our parents found out about that thing.  We tried to blame it on the teenager.  We failed again.

We got our asses beat and then we had to go and try to erase it out (never did: we had bore so hard down that the pencil marks stayed in; the eraser leaving gleaming surface; it just ‘highlighted’ the words, LO bitter soft L’ing and crying … Mikie going on.  sad kid.

His love was betrayed by that time; I think he’s / he’d realized its time had come. . .

and there was no one else to love him; not like that.

Not for a long time.

Our Island Paradise: Me and Little Mikie

  (* though we ARE working on getting over, through, and ‘beyond’ this thing . . . because it HURTS inside; you gettin’ the picture? <-LOL’ing THAT’s Matt, my friends; always helping us out by ‘stabilizing things’ . . . even when we know (talking at him) – we’ve ALL got to go through it)  LOL, good time to continue: (LOL again . . . see where the ‘*’ left off . . . symbolic of Matt’s feelings on this one!!!  (aw, come on … we’re about to roll on the floor and he’s smirking at us – still not ‘feeling a thing’ . . . though we know he is somewhere deep inside ….
… until later …
Jeff and friends.

Tales Momma Tells
(Toknoni 05/16/2009)

While my mother and I have a troublesome past (mild understatement), I like hearing her stories of her past. These are stories that are fading with the older generation, and not often written down. In time they will be lost forever. Often they reveal things about my mother’s upbringing which gives me some insight into her and my own upbringing, since one affects the other. (see “The Tools They Were Given”).

Yesterday my mother and I went to a museum, not something we do often. The museum visit – forgettable. The ride there and back – not so much. Especially after my mother revealed an incident involving me and some Vietnamese officers that I am still trying to “get over” or digest. Last night was hard, and I . . . “switched” in my wife’s arms, something I have not done for years, and let her hold that child-thing within me. (Yeah, it was that bad, and I have gone to her several times today, just to be in her arms – though she does not know what I’ve been told, only that it ‘did something’ to me.) But in that thing my mother told me, she revealed either her love for me – just her outrage at those men (because she truly does hate men at heart). More on that later, perhaps today. We’ll see.

In her tales to me, she revealed that she was ordered to take care of her siblings – just babies – at the age of seven – or else! Her new step-father was a PTSD WWII alcoholic vet (a very violent man). I have just begun to realize how very poor they were.

She told about how they would save tinfoil for the war drive – not the tinfoil that you cook with, but even the foil off of cigarette wrappers, gum wrappers (when, she said, they were lucky enough to have gun) – every little scrap. She told how she, when she got older, would babysit for money – but had to turn every cent over to her stepfather, who would contact her employers to make sure he got every penny – and would beat her severely if she held back a single dime.

She talked about how they lived for a while on a tenement farm

She talked about how she never knew how she knew to take care of and handle the old kerosene lamps – the cleaning, trimming of wicks, etc., until HER mother said:

“Don’t you remember, dear? How you would have to carry the lamp upstairs to go to your bedroom? In that old dry house? And I was always afraid you’d fall or drop it – but your (step) father wouldn’t let me do it. But you always made it!”

She talked about how her and her mother, along with the kids, would be dropped off at the “garden” to work all day in the hot sun – her no doubt having to alternate between taking care of the kids and weed and hoe – while her stepfather went to town to start his daily drunk. I know those ‘gardens’ – they weren’t ‘gardens’. They were (and are here in the South) long endless furrows with dust and weeds, not a drop of shade to be found. It’s hot, dry, dusty work that leaves your tongue swollen with thirst, your skin caked with sweat coated mud, and your fingers and back sore from bending. About how, at the end of the day they would sit on a dusty bank waiting for him to come pick them up. And how in the end it all proved an exercise in futility, for their father made them move before the garden ‘came in’ for harvesting. I could hear the tone of finality, the sense of regret and loss in her at that. She has always loved gardening.

She talked about how they grew up poor, so poor that in all their years their greatest treat was the few (I take it two or three) times that her and her brother would be given a Hersey bar to split; how their mother would split the bar, and then they (my mom and her brother) would separate the little squares, dropping them into two separate teacups and sitting on the couch all day, suck on the chocolate squares, making them last as long as possible. “It’s not like the children of today,” she said, indicating with her tone how spoiled they are. “We didn’t gobble them up. We’d let each piece slowly melt in our mouths, savoring the flavor for as long as possible.” The wrappers, of course, went to the foil drive.

She grew up in places where the things we as modern individuals take for granted were just a dream. No electricity, no running water, not even a toilet in the house. They used an outhouse instead – and this was in the early fifties. They would have to heat water on the stove to do dishes – and her a young girl of maybe ten? I can imagine my mom struggling with a big pot of boiling water, making her way ever so carefully from the stove to the sink. What a hard life it must have been (and yet I have lived like that a time or two myself, which is why I have no fear of extreme poverty.)

She also talked about how the kitchen had to be spotlessly clean before everyone went to bed – another one of her chores – and if anything was forgotten, her stepfather would beat her unforgivably. (Having met that cruel man, I can easily believe this – very easily.) This is a habit she carries to this day: everything must be put up and tidy; the cabinets all wiped down, before she retires in the evening – no matter how tired or sore she is from her old age. Me? Not so much. I will leave dishes in the sink until morning, though I am a compulsive countertop wiper.

What reoccurs in all her stories of the past is her abusive – and I take it horribly abusive – stepfather, his rages and tempers, and hard quickness of hand. I imagine that because he was so abusive, she doesn’t see what she did to us kids as abusive, not so much – though I think in her heart of hearts, she knows, and knows very well what she did to us was just as horribly wrong in its own way. The fact that she didn’t abuse us quite as bad as she was abused tells me something about her – but I don’t know what, yet. It’s still something I’m trying to figure out. (See “The Drum Beats Slowly”.)

That’s something that I learned when I inadvertently became an abuse counselor online (while seeking help for me) – it’s not the stories that matter; it’s their effect on a person. It’s not the depth of abuse so much as how the person decides to handle it, change their own behavior, reject their ‘training’, and become a better person not only despite it, but because of it and their recognition of what it did to their lives. It’s one of the reasons I think us survivors are strong, and why we can be more tender and compassionate than those who have never had this sort of thing go on in their life. But only when we heal, or as we heal — for the scars last forever. They really do. And looking at our own scars is what gives us the strength to bear another’s; memories of our own pain is what gives us the empathy to understand the pain of another.

It’s a sad thing to realize you’ve been abused; but I feel it’s up to you (me) to change it, if you’ve discovered in your own self those abusive behaviors – the tendencies to strike out at others (unreasonably sometimes), to push away, sabotage your accomplishments, and engage in self-destruction. Lord knows, I’ve done everyone of those things in the past, and face the temptations to do those types of things on a daily basis. Not a day goes past that I or some part of me doesn’t have the temptation to put my .357 to my temple and pull the trigger**. Sometimes (like last night, after my mom revealed to me something forgotten), the urge to cut and hurt myself strikes. I sometimes find myself looking at the male-seeks-male ads, wanting to satisfy that long denied side of my bisexual nature. But I never answer; never (thus far) give into those impulses, knowing they are not only self-destructive, but would terribly hurt the ones I love so dearly. The ones who can not understand, and my wife who can never trust (she, too has some issues from her past.) But I know she trusts my love, and knowing how untrustworthy I can be, I try my best to be my best for her.

I won’t say I’m perfect. I’m so far from perfect that I can’t stand myself sometimes (hence the behavior patterns of times gone past, and the temptations I face now, and will face in the future.) Despite my name – “Michael” – I know I’m not angel, though he is my guardian at times, and I will fight alongside him should that judgment day come to pass. After all, it’s what I am, and what I’ve become, and what I always hope to be.

More human all the time.

 ** Note this was written in 2009.  Since April 1st of this year (2011) things have gotten MUCH better as we’ve cut through this BS and learned not only to accept ourselves, but BE ourselves – a multiple being living in a single unit, embracing each other and all – inside and out – with love. 

Things are much better now (we are hoping!) – and will continue to be so, though we also know: there’s a long tough row to hoe ahead in our lives – but we will go on living!  (singing our SONG of LIFE inside – forever and always THERE!  (big smiles big big smiles . . . if you only knew …. the beauty that we see.)

The Tools They Were Given
(Tokoni 05/13/2009)

“They had to work with the tools they were given,” the shrinks said, but they never really explained it to me. I wonder if they really understood it themselves. It was a phrase handed out in college, like their diplomas – something to hang on the wall for us to see. A handy cliché, something to say when they couldn’t think of anything else. They have a lot of those phrases, dispensing them like candy pills – and in many cases, just as effective – which means it sounds sweet, but doesn’t do any good. It still doesn’t cure the sickness in your heart and in your soul. It isn’t the superglue that makes the mind whole. Trust me – I know.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking here lately. Part of that goes back to the story I wrote, “The Drum Beats Slowly”. The drum is thrumming, the mind is rolling, peeling back away the years – looking for experiences and motives, times and conditions. Onion peel – hell yes. I’m peeling back those layers, one by one. I wonder if onions cry when they are being peeled? I know it must hurt them; it hurts me. Just look how hard it is to peel an onion as you dig deeper through the layers. They don’t “peel”, you have to tear the skin off, ripping it with your fingernails and fighting your own tears are you dig deeper towards the core. And I – for now – am that core. And yes, as an onion, I can tell you: it hurts sometimes. Hurts really bad.

But I’m not going to go there right now – my skin is still fresh and bruised. Instead, I’m going to consider something else.

The tools they were given.

What do I know about my parents? What do I know about their family skills?

I’ll take the easy one first.

My dad. His mother was killed when he was young by a drunken driver. That drunken driver was his father, piloting the vehicle they were in. I didn’t discover this story until I was in my early forties – dad won’t talk about it, won’t mention it, and gets madder than hell if we do and simply storms off to go sulk in his room. What I do know about it I’ve gleaned from my mom, who had long been into genealogical research. She has talked to members of his own family, discovered the ‘family secret’ that he kept hidden so well – so well in part because he changed his name as soon as he was able. That’s how much he hated his drunken dad for taking his mother from him. (soft smile. Nothing stays hidden from mom, not for very long – nothing except my own secrets, and the secrets of my own madness – though she has long suspected something is ‘wrong’ with me. But then again, she has often said I am crazy – just like her, only in a similar, if somewhat different way. At least I sought help for my own particular type of insanity – after experiencing her’s for so long.)

I’m not certain, but I think my dad was in the car when his momma died. Again, not sure, but family rumor has it that his dad pulled out into an intersection against the light, getting rammed in the process. Of course into the passenger side, where his own bride sat. My dad was eight years old.

I know this (and because I’m from a military family, over a thousand miles from my extended family – always have been – information is sketchy at best). His aunt(s?) and uncle on his mother’s side took in all the children. I didn’t really realize he had two sisters until my forties, again. I thought they just lived with someone else; were a different set of children. I never knew they belonged with him.

His mother – or shall I say aunt? – was a doting old bitch. I know this from having met her several times. She even insisted my mother press and iron his underwear when my mother married him. (It was a frowned upon marriage by his extended family.) I don’t know where he got his mean streak from – he’s quite a sadist at times, has always been that way. I know the man who raised him – a great hunter with a natural eye for shooting – was gruff, but friendly to me and my brother. Me and my daughter have inherited that eye – we seem to be able to pick up a rifle or a shotgun and always put that round just where we want it. Amazing thing to me, to see my five year old daughter shooting my .357 with an unflinching eye, putting those rounds right where she wanted. Same with the .22. Dead shot every time. I guess it’s something we inherited. (some stories in that, needless to say!)

He grew up out west, in Wyoming, the lonely state. His ‘father’ (or uncle, if you’d rather), was a business owner and a businessman, who, I gather, also had a few Mafia connections. He owned a bottling plant – I won’t say which one (trademark issues), but my father worked for him for some time before joining the Army. It wasn’t long after that that he first met my mother.

I also know that my father changed his name as soon as he was legally able. That much he has managed to admit. He wouldn’t tell us what his ‘real’ last name was – that was something for my mother to find out. I rather wish he hadn’t changed it. I like his former last name much better; my daughter, too. His ‘new’ last name is just too hard to pronounce, and even then, he didn’t get it quite right. He changed it from his uncle’s last name to one of his own making – shortening it somewhat, and throwing off the “ie”. As a result I’ve always had to give my last name by spelling it. And of course, it’s often mispronounced. I feel like I have two last names – three, now, if you include the one my dad gave up when he was eighteen – because when asked, I say my last, then spell it right after. I’ve learned most folks won’t get it right the first time around. But I’m okay with that. I just wish my wife would let me use the name “Smith” or “Johnson” or “Jackass” (my favorite) when we go to a restaurant and have to leave our name to stand in line to wait. It would make life so much easier – for both the poor restaurant girls and me.

I also know that my dad suffered PTSD from his experiences in Korea – ones that left him so violent and enraged the Army (and this is the Army, mind you!) – determined that the best thing to do was put him in a hospital for a year – and then isolated him (along with others of his kind) on a small military outpost on a smaller Japanese island for another year – leaving them without treatment (the Army itself didn’t understand PTSD) to ‘heal’ on their own. It didn’t work.

My mother’s life I know much better. She was a lonely girl, despite being born into a large family. And they had it hard (unlike my dad, whose family had a bit of money – the bottling plant and Mafia thing, you know.) Her first mom and dad split up when she was young – but not so young that she couldn’t take care of the kids – her siblings. And when her mother married the second man – things went south. Quite literally.

They moved away from her family home in Iowa, where she had all her relatives and friends. Her new dad was a WWII vet, given to bouts of alcoholism and extreme violence. He had PTSD in every way imaginable. Apparently he was a front line infantryman during the Great War – or the second of the Great Wars – and saw a lot of truly, seriously bad s**t. We’re talking the ‘guy next to you head blown off’ face gone limbs mangled blown up bits of body type of stuff. The really bad stuff that if you think of being there, sends shudders down your soul. And I guess it kinda broke him – and not in a gentle way. From what I remember of him, he was a violent man with a bad temper, though he always treated us grandchildren okay. Not so much his own wife and kids. Apparently there were beatings and starvings. Things we’d call torture today. And they were poor poor. Hard core poverty. And my poor mom – she had to raise the children, though she was a child herself. Her mother was too involved in trying to keep her marriage together (which sounds familiar, given my mom and her marriage to my dad! ← new realization!). Her sister still leans on her like my mother is her mom – which is what my mom had to be to her then. I remember my grandmother on that side. She was . . . weak. Beautiful and frail. An artist and a writer (which is perhaps where I got those skills, eh?) Her letters to us always contained the most beautiful pictures and drawings in the margins and envelopes. But she was weak. Too weak to leave him, despite what he was doing to their family.

Screwed up relationships. That is what my mother and father were given. Those were the tools they had to use. For my mother: a hatred of a violent, PTSD, half-drunken father who couldn’t give a good G-D about their feelings or needs. One who, apparently, never told them that he loved them – because he couldn’t. He was a hard man. I know. I met him.

I was walking in the woods with my mom a few weeks ago. She has always bitterly complained how much she hates her (now dead) stepdad; how badly he would beat her, how she was put in charge of everything regarding her siblings, ‘the kids’. “The only thing he didn’t do was sexually molest me,” she said, her voice so bitter that I could almost hear the leaves dropping. “That came . . .” and she trailed off. I didn’t press the issue – god knows! – I know how hard it is to address that sort of stuff within one’s own self, much less admit it to someone else – much less admit it to her own (now adult) son.

But it left me wondering, and with little doubt.

It must of happened to her, too.

I’ll add this, before I close on this one.

My mom was desperate to escape from her ‘family’, if you want to call it that. Horribly, desperately wanting to escape an emotionally, mentally, and physically abusive stepdad, and the mother who was too weak to either control him, or leave him, and the children who depended upon her for their care. And she met my father at a USO dance one night. A few days later he proposed to her. Sher refused. He asked again. Again she said no. The third time was the charm. A week or two they were married. Within a year, my brother was born; a year and a half later, overseas, I was too.

She was trapped.

Just like her mother was.

So . . . these were the tools they were given. And now, in retrospect, I’ve discovered the secret of the phrase that the shrinks were given – and they gave to me. Even if they didn’t explain it at the time.

My parents couldn’t do any better because, I guess, they didn’t know any better. Or did they?

I found out. Why couldn’t they? Or perhaps – they viewed the treatment they gave me and my brother as so much ‘better’ than that they were given . . . that they thought what they gave us was good. What a normal family should be.

I’m going to have to do some more thinking about this one. It’s got me sorta confused – but I can see a point. A dim point of light there, at the long end of a tunnel. They were treated bad; I was treated better? Is that it? Even if better was “bad”? Does that excuse what they did? I don’t know.

And yeah – feel free to enlighten me on this one. Like I said: it’s sorta confusing. Kinda like my life sometimes.

I gotta quit for awhile. This onion is feeling . . . bruised and tender skinned. Let me dry awhile. Let that shell harden a bit Then we’ll dig deeper again.

(Note: Now it is 2011 – and I do feel much better!  Specifically, I started “feeling much better” on April Fool’s day for one of two reasons; then two of two reasons (one leading me – and us – to another, better reason) – and now many more (including love, Faith, and Forgiveness (some)).  You’d better read the rest of my blog (especially around that period) to even get a clue.  Until then – have faith, have hope, and carry on as best YOU can …. with the Tools YOU’VE been given.  Good luck, good faith, and have a lotta hope . . . and may the Peace of Love fill your Souls as well.

Jeff and Friends
May 2011