Remember, you're not like those people

I grew up in a small town. In that town there were three grocery stores, five churches, four liquor stores and one traffic light. I don't know exactly how many lived in the town when I was little, but I do know they all knew each other (and most were related).

I was born in 1968, so most of my memories of my "childhood" are from the 1970's. As I look back on those memories though, it's almost like I grew up in the 1950's based on this small town. I remember African Americans, or "the blacks" as they were called then, lived in the wooded area outside of town. I even remember the big deal that was made when they first moved into the actual town.

I remember my brother having a job at 10 years old. He delivered papers each day after school and early morning on Saturday and Sunday. He also mowed lawns and shoveled snow. I don't know how much he made on most of the jobs, but since I helped with the snow shoveling I know he made $1.00 per house. Whenever we shoveled snow, Mom would let us each take $.50 to the store to buy penny candy.

The store we'd walk to was five blocks away, down by the railroad tracks. I remember climbing the old wooden stairs and swinging the creaking door in as it rang the bell attached to the jamb. In addition to having the best candy display I'd ever seen (compared to the one other I'd seen in my young life), they also sold hot and cold subs, milkshakes and french fries. This doesn't seem like a big deal today where we see a McDonald's or Wendy's on every corner, but to me it was like a wonderland!

I remember sitting on top of the glass candy case sat the "water game". This was an old gallon jar which once held pickles or pickled eggs. It had been cleaned of its contents, a shot glass sat on the bottom and filled with water. The lid had a slit cut in it large enough to fit a coin of your choice. If you dropped a coin in and it landed in the shot glass you'd earn 10 times that amount in candy.

I remember dropping many pennies into that jar in hopes of winning. My brother would drop nickels in hoping for a larger payoff. He won many times and never shared a single piece of candy with me. There was one time that I remember actually winning at the game. I was so excited! I bought $.05 worth of rootbeer barrels which were my favorite (that was 25!), $.04 in sour balls because my little sister and I loved them (I am sure I said no green ones. Even though green is my favorite color, everyone knows green sour balls are gross!), and $.01 worth of caramel creams (my mom's favorite).

I ran the whole way home. My little brown sack of candy was gripped so tightly in my hands that my knuckles turned white. The only more exciting moment in my young life had been the day Daddy put up a swingset for my birthday! I ran in the house through the backdoor off the kitchen. As it slammed behind me, my mother called me into the living room. There stood my brother with the most pathetic look on his face. He practiced this look so often and I was shocked that my mother never caught on. Each time he'd beaten me he would put on this face and tell my mother how I was such a horrible sister and just wouldn't leave him alone. She fell for it each time. All the joy fell out of my heart and down into my shoes. It was going to happen again.

Mom asked me what I had in my hand. Instead of blurting out the news as expected, I nearly whispered simply "candy". She then demanded I pour the candy onto the hassock. Then with hands on hips she asked, "Why did you steal your brother's money?!" I tried to explain that I took my sole penny and won the water game. She didn't believe me though because my brother had already concocted a story about me stealing a dime from his bank. As she looked at the candy she even accused me of buying the caramels so I wouldn't get in trouble.

She swept the candy up into the bag. I was expecting that she was going to make me take it back to the store. It was worse than that though. She handed the bag over to my brother. There he stood beside her as she lectured me. Her words were blocked out by the evil smirk on my brother's face. He'd found yet another way to win.

Later that afternoon my father returned from work. He had to do some work on the car, so I went into the garage to talk with him. I told him the story about the candy. At first he told me that it was just candy and not like the world was coming to an end. I started to cry. I think my crying annoyed him more than made him want to find the truth, but either way we were off to the store.

As we walked to the store Dad told me that I better not be lying. I knew I wasn't lying, but I was scared because my brother convinced my mom I was lying perhaps he did the same with the store owners. As we entered the store the once happy sounding bell terrified me. I stood behind my father as he asked the owner how I came upon this bag filled with candy. The owner laughed out loud. "She finally did it!", he announced, "That little cutie of yours finally landed a penny in the glass!"

Dad shook the owners hand. Then he bought me a bag filled with the candies I'd picked earlier with one minor change. Instead of buying me the caramels that Mom liked, he had the owner throw in some bubble gum balls.

We walked home in silence, but I had never been happier. We walked into the garage and Dad placed my candy in his large tool box. He told me that it was best that we not make a big deal of things, but I could get my candy from his toolbox whenever I wanted. I just had to promise that I wouldn't eat the candy in front of anyone else. I happily made the promise.

A few evenings later I was sitting on the front porch with Dad. We were listening to the local baseball game on the AM radio. I was sucking on one of my rootbeer barrels and I turned to Dad and thanked him again for the candy. Then I asked him why my brother always picked on me and why my mom didn't seem to care. He was quiet for so long that I thought maybe he hadn't heard me. Then he finally said, "I'm not sure why some people are the way they are. Some people when they have been hurt, they turn around and hurt other people. Remember, you're not like those people. You're my daughter."

Obviously that is something which has stuck with me. As I grew up and faced trials and adversity I always kept it in my mind that I was somehow different. More than that, I decided that I was different because I was my father's daughter. As I have become nearer to my Father in Heaven, that has become even more true. As I remember that I am my Heavenly Father's daughter, I try to be different.

Frankenstein, Dracula and Lassie

Children are amazing creatures. As children we learn and grow so quickly and we are so resilient.

I am amazed at how my brain protected me as a child. As my brother abused me, my brain tried to reach out to those around me to help me.

I remember the recurring nightmares of my childhood. As I woke my parents with my screams each night, it was my brain trying to tell them the truth. Unfortunately they weren't listening. Maybe that's a bit harsh. It's less likely that they weren't listening, but that they didn't know how to interpret it all.

The nightmare started off the same way. It was an early summer evening and I had gone to bed. I knew it was early summer as it was still light outside and my bedroom window had a screen in it. As I laid in my bed reciting nursery rhymes the sun disappeared faster than in real life. It was one of the cues to me that it was a dream. That was one of the oddest parts of my nightmares, I knew they were nightmares while I was in them.

After I was asleep in my nightmare, the variation would come. One nightmare had Lassie breaking through the screen on my window and attacking me. I would try my hardest to beat her down with my pillow, but it wasn't enough. She snarled and growled while jumping at me. The second nightmare had Frankenstein and Dracula come into my room through the bedroom door. They would taunt me, knowing that I knew it was a nightmare.

I knew there were only two ways to end the nightmares. I had to either scream at the top of my lungs so my parents would come wake me, or I had to turn on the bedroom light. In order to turn on the light I needed to get out of my bed and cross the floor to flip on the light switch beside the door. Frankenstein and Dracula would take turns standing between my bed and the door. I could never reach the light switch. Instead I would scream. In my nightmare as I would scream the sound came through in both the sleeping and waking world.

In the beginning my mom would come into my room and wake me. She'd then take me into my parents' room where I would fall back to sleep after searching each corner for Frankenstein, Dracula and Lassie. As the nightmares continued she stopped waking me. In my dreams I would attempt to scream only to have no sound come forth. I knew my parents could hear me though. Each day my mother would tell me how I was screaming again, as if I had control over my dreams. Each day I promised that I would try to not do it again, but we both knew it would happen again.

Eventually the nightmares stopped. My mom said that I "grew out of it". What she didn't know is that I found a flashlight that I kept under my mattress. Each night as the sun went down I would pull the sheets over my head. Then I'd turn on the flashlight and read. I would read until the letters blurred into a black blob on the page. Only then would I allow myself to sleep.

Eventually the nightmares did go away for good. That wasn't until I no longer lived under the same roof as my brother though. To this day it amazes me how even though I was afraid to tell my parents what was going on, in the deepest part of my soul I wanted them to save me. I was just a little kid and I deserved to be protected. While they didn't protect me, I did.

My patchwork life

As I look back through my life, it looks like a patchwork quilt. Bits and pieces all thrown together. When you look at it too closely you can't see the beauty. When you step back you can see the artistry.

If you've ever seen a really old handmade quilt you'll see they differ greatly from ones sold in department stores. Quilts were made by piecing together fabric scraps. The scraps came from making clothing and other household goods. The quilt may have had lots of one fabric and perhaps only one scrap of another.

Sometimes you'd find scraps from a Sunday dress along with scraps from a dishcloth in the same quilt. My life has been like that. There have been scraps in my life of utter ugliness, but they are blended in with scraps of beauty. As I look at the quilt of my life I see the beauty of the design and am thankful for each of the scraps. If one scrap were missing then the design would be incomplete.

.

A family tradition

Have you ever seen businesses with names like Smith and Son? I always imagine they started off just plain old Smith. Then one day Smith Jr. decides he likes what Smith Sr. is doing enough that he wants to learn how. Eventually Smith Jr. likes it so much and he's so good at it that Smith Sr. excitedly invites him into the business. Smith Sr. makes it official and throws "Son" up on the sign.

I then imagine it goes to the next level and Smith Jr. has a son of his own. The process is repeated and it's a full on family tradition.

Unfortunately you see on news how there are other family traditions. Have you ever seen mug shots of a family splashed across the evening news? I remember seeing a mother and two sons in a recent story where they were arrested for drug trafficking. Another family tradition, but not necessarily one to be proud of.

In my family there was a tradition of secrets and shame. Unfortunately those traditions led to other traditions such as alcoholism, drug abuse, and low self-esteem.

I'd like to say that I was the only person in my family ever sexually abused. I wasn't. I'd also like to say that my brother was the only one who ever sexually abused someone. He wasn't.

It was after WWII and my grandfather came home to find his life no longer as he remembered. The war had changed him, but his family had changed while he was gone. I won't go into all of the details because that's that's not my story to tell. The part I feel is mine to tell is how he began to sexually abuse his daughters, my mother.

When I knew him, he was an alcoholic. My grandmother was also an alcoholic. I believe their addiction was a direct result of trying to bury the ugly truth. I'm sure they never talked of it. Both of their daughters married quickly to "the first guy to show interest" in order to get out of their father's house (their words).

My mother's mother visited us every summer for a few weeks. I would usually take up residence in my brother's lower bunk bed as my grandmother took my room. At Christmastime my grandparents would come to town, but they never stayed at our home. It wasn't until I was a teenager that I learned that my mother couldn't sleep if he was in the same house.

When I was a teenager I was sent to spend the summers with my grandparents along with my younger siblings. I remember my mother telling me to never stay home alone with my grandfather. She also made me promise to take my sisters with me whenever I left the house. I agreed and figured it was because of his alcoholism.

The next summer when she asked me to promise the same thing I asked her why. I recognized the look of fear in her eyes. She recounted for me the story of her sister's sexual abuse. She then explained how her sister ended up pregnant by her boyfriend so she would have to get married and leave. She told of her hatred toward her sister leaving her behind, knowing he would turn to her. Which he did.

I felt sorry for my mother. She endured not only sexual, but physical and emotional abuse. She was abused by the person who should have been her protector. As most girls were looking for men to marry like their fathers, she was looking for anyone to take her away from her father and her secret.

Can you imagine these two sisters' pain? Both were sexually abused by their father. Then each had a son/stepson who sexually abused her daughter(s). The guilt which wrapped their shame had to have been so hard to carry. I didn't dare tell my mother that I had been abused by my brother for four years before he moved on to my next younger sister. She didn't need to know my secret and shame, hers was enough for her to carry.

I'm guessing it's no surprise to you that my mother also became an alcoholic. She's never admitted it though. She believes drinking a six pack or more each day by yourself is just a family tradition.

Skeletons in the closet

I've learned that no family is perfect. Sure the Smiths may look like they have it all going on, but even they have a skeleton or two in their closet. Of course when you're a kid you either think yours is the only family with problems, or your family problems are the norm.

When I was little I loved to look through the family photo albums. That's back when scrapbook was a noun and not a verb, and it contained actual scraps of newspaper articles. I loved to look at the photos of aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. There were photos of my twin cousins that I loved looking at in particular.

The twins (as most twins are called I guess) were so beautiful even as little girls. I remember this one photo with a boy in it who was far too old to have been their younger brother. I asked my mother who that boy was. She told me he was their father's "other son" and he'd been "sent away". I was told not to ask anymore questions about him and that photo disappeared soon after.

I have a brother who is two years older than me. I loved my brother as much as I hated my brother. I was the typical little sister. I followed my brother everywhere he went and I wanted to do everything he did. If he went fishing, I wanted to tag along. If he played kickball in the empty lot with his friends, I was hanging out in the outfield. 

My brother was the type of brother who didn't let anyone pick on me. He had lots of friends who wanted to, but he would either tell them to shut up or he would shut them up. I admired that about him.

I didn't admire; however, when he would sit on my chest and see how far he could let his loogies drop before sucking them back into his mouth. I admired him even less when he sat on my chest with his knees on either side of my head while dangling spiders over my face.

You're probably either laughing or wondering why my parents did nothing about it. My parents didn't do anything about it because I didn't tell them about most of what he did to me. It's not what you think, he didn't threaten to do something to me if I told. I didn't want him to be sent away. No matter how mean he was to me, he was my big brother. I didn't want him to disappear and then all of the photos of him and of us together to disappear.

About once a month my parents would go out with other couples. I don't know exactly what they would do, but they would dress up and we typically wouldn't see them until it was time for us (the kids only) to go to church the next morning.

It was one of those nights when my parents went out. One of my older cousins was babysitting us. What that really meant was she was either making out with her boyfriend on the sofa or out front in his car. My brother came into my room and molested me. Sure, I know the word now, but then all I knew was that he hurt me. Sure, he'd hurt me in the past by punching me, pushing me down, kicking me, but this was different. This was something I knew I had to tell my parents about.

I laid in my bed waiting for my parents to come home. I heard the third step from the bottom creak under my father's weight. He didn't turn on the light in the hallway, but I kept trying to will it to come on. I wanted to make sure it was him. "Daddy!" I cried out into to the darkness. He answered back and tears began to flow.

I don't remember all of the words. I do remember me saying, "he said we were going to boogie. I don't like to boogie!" Most of all I remember my mother saying, "If you EVER touch her again you will be gone! I will send you away so fast your head will spin!"

I never told my parents anymore about what he did to me. I didn't want him to go away. I loved him. And I hated him!

What it takes to create a diamond

I learned a long time ago what it takes to create a diamond; pressure, heat and lots of time. A diamond starts as simple carbon. If you've ever seen a chunk of coal you've seen something similar to the beginning of a diamond. I'm sure any geologists will allow me some poetic license and not explain how scientifically the carbon from which diamonds are formed is simply a second or third cousin to coal.

In looking back through my life, I believe I started as a lump of coal. Don't misunderstand me. I don't believe I started as some dirty rock. I believe I started as this piece of life filled with potential. I don't really think I started any differently from you or anyone else really. Just this life with potential.

I'm now at what I hope is the midpoint of my life. I believe I am a diamond. I'm not a perfectly cut and polished diamond, but I have been through much. The heat and pressure of my life has helped me develop into something I had never imagined while under that pressure.

I'm sure your life and the pressure you've endured has done the same with you. That's the point of my writing. I want to share with you the story of how my life of pressure turned me into a diamond. I hope in the sharing you'll see that your life has transformed you into something beautiful also, something which never would have come to be without the pressure.