The Cancer of Abuse

I was first sexually assaulted when I was 12, by a brother-in-law. He was close to 30 at the time. My mom was sick and dying and I didn’t tell anyone. I was embarrassed and scared and knew it was wrong. But I also knew no one would believe me. So I just stayed quiet. That brother-in-law did it several times over the course of a couple of years before I was finally able to be in a position to not be around him alone.

When I was 16, a guy who was 27 “courted” me and made me feel like I was the most special person on the planet. By that time both of my parents had died and I just wanted, needed someone to love me. I was an easy victim and this guy told me all the things I wanted to hear. All so he could have sex with me. Yes, it was consensual. But I was too naïve to know it was wrong. My brothers knew it was wrong and they tried to stop it. But my brothers had never shown me any love. They had only acted in a way that showed me I was a burden in their lives. Why would I listen to them? Eventually this abuser grew tired of me and found a new plaything.

Looking back I now understand it was only a natural progression in my life that I would marry someone who was an abuser. At first he was super sweet and loving. It wasn’t until about a month before our wedding when I first saw how destructive his anger was. Again, I knew it was wrong but I was embarrassed and afraid. I should have walked away but instead he apologized and said it would never happen again. I believed him and I married him.  

In many ways his abuse was the worst because it didn’t leave bruises. Similar to a frog in water that slowly gets warmer and warmer, the abuse was gradual and I didn’t see it happening. It started out as controlling behaviors, being jealous for no reason, getting angry and blaming it all on me. He limited my access to money and to other people. And he clearly made it known who was the boss in our marriage bed. I totally bought into his declarations that I was the one causing all the problems. I was the one doing things that made him angry. Everything that was wrong was my fault.

It took me YEARS to figure out it wasn’t me and another five years to safely exit the marriage. And I went through intensive counseling to heal the wounds. I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of all of the abuse in my life and I’ve managed to deal with it well. I am in a much better place in life now. I have a husband who loves me and respects me. My life and my daughters’ lives are not threatened on a daily basis. I feel safe at home, at work, in my community. I get a good night’s sleep every night with both eyes closed.  

About a year ago, some darkness slipped into my life when the news media blew up with coverage about Donald Trump and the Access Hollywood video. Another black cloud appeared when this man who had bragged about sexually assaulting women was elected as our country’s president. I was physically ill for several days. Yet, I was persuaded to give Trump a chance. “That happened years ago. He’s different now.” Anyone who’s ever been abused knows from first-hand experience that the abuser doesn’t change. The abuser just gets smarter and learns to conceal it better. But I respect the office of the presidency so I gave him a chance. By January, Trump was in the public eye a lot and so much of his behavior and actions and words told me this man hadn’t changed. Watching him interact with his wife made me cringe. I could easily imagine things that have probably happened in their marriage, in their home.

Things settled down a little after the Inauguration, as other issues flooded the news headlines. And then the saga at Fox News blew up with Roger Ailes followed by Bill O’Reilly. When the Harvey Weinstein story broke this fall, my anxiety ticked up several notches. Sexual assault or abuse was in the daily headlines. There was nowhere to hide from it, unless I went completely off grid. I tried that for a couple of days and it didn’t work. So I dusted off my “tricks” for dealing with anxiety and PTSD and was holding my own until this week. This thing with Roy Moore just pushed me over the edge. It had to be the circumstances of that 14-year-old girl being approached in a courthouse by a prosecutor, a man of the law, someone who was “safe” and they were in a “safe” place. It was too close to home for me. I had been 12 and it was a family member and we were in a “safe” place.

I’ve learned over the years that I have to talk about what happened. It’s the only way to allow the horror to escape from my mind and spirit. Usually when I talk about it I minimize the details. That’s a natural reaction according to the experts. But minimizing it causes other problems, so I have to be careful and make sure I tell my story in all of its gory detail. It’s hard. I physically shake when I talk about it in that depth of detail. I’ve forgotten so many things that have happened over the course of my life but I can remember all the minute details of where I was, what I was wearing, how much light there was in the room, what the sounds were, what the room smelled like, when it first happened to me at 12. I remember like it happened yesterday. And as difficult as it is for me to talk about it, it’s just as difficult for someone to listen to my story. I know this to be true, so I am very careful in making sure the person is qualified and “safe” for me to talk to. I cannot fathom the stories such professionals have heard. Certainly they are trained to listen but it has to be so challenging. I am grateful for these people. I would not be alive today without their help.

None of us knows what the future holds. In the coming days and weeks we will hear more about Roy Moore and his victim. We may possibly hear more in regard to Trump. Surely we have not heard the last of the Weinstein story and others like him in the music and film industries. I am bracing myself as best I can. I know all too well, it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

Advertisements

Are you passionate?

I’ve never thought of myself as a passionate person. I don’t know why not, I just never have. At times in my life people have teased me about “getting my Irish up” but I never made the connection to passion. I always felt it was their way of telling me I needed to be mindful of my frustration and to toe the line.

Yesterday I had a conversation with my daughter Rose. We were talking about my current battle with depression and she rightly pointed out all the things that are out of balance in my life. She brought to mind the ongoing battle I face in keeping communication channels open amongst my four daughters. She honored the love I have for my husband and the nurturing I’ve provided for the last six months as he’s fought heart health issues. She called me a patriot and mentioned how I’ve been upset for nearly a year about the fact that our country elected a man without integrity or morals. And she recognized the stress I carry every day in my quest to dig out of an enormous financial hole that is almost ten years old. She brought to mind many things in my life that I feel passionately about and how nearly all of those things are in a state of weakness or under attack. She called me passionate.

Webster’s declares a passionate person as one who is capable of, affected by, or expressing intense feeling and defines passion as intense, driving, or overmastering of feeling or conviction.

In a sense, it is humbling to be known as someone driven by conviction. For my whole life I’ve thought of such people as heroes. Mother Teresa was a woman of conviction. She was criticized for many things but praised for her service to those with AIDS, leprosy, and tuberculosis and for her life-long devotion to the poorest of the poor. John McCain is a man of conviction. His duty and honor to others outshines anyone else I can think of in recent service to our country. His ability to survive five torturous years as a POW speaks of his courage and character. These are two examples of my heroes. Two people passionate about their beliefs that they took action impacting many.

To be driven by your convictions means you face challenges despite your fears. It means you make a decision for the good of the whole and take action despite a rapidly and ever-changing world around you. It means you are strong despite your weariness and the hardships you face. You are passionate.

It is an honor to have one of my daughters recognize that I am also one driven by my convictions, that I am passionate.

Unfinished Business

For the last several years, the changing colors of the leaves triggers me to ask my four daughters, “When can we get together for Christmas?” Every time I ask that question, no matter how I preface it, how I disguise it, the question becomes a catalyst for a civil war among the daughters. I almost didn’t ask the question this year—it’s been such a godawful year for my husband and me—but duty called. I’d like to report there was a different response this year but I’d be lying. In fact, the ache of disappointment is greater than it has ever been.

Going through this drama each autumn, I’ve come to know that there are a lot of people out there who do not talk to siblings and a few who don’t even talk to their parents. Having spent seventy-five percent (or three quarters, and that’s not an exaggeration) of my life without parents, I would give anything to have my mom and dad back for just one day, or even one hour. I cannot fathom any circumstance that would cause a child to choose not to talk to his or her parents. It is beyond my comprehension even though I know it happens.

Siblings, on the other hand, are different. I am the youngest of eight and there are a couple of my siblings that I do not talk to more than once or twice a year. And when we do talk, the conversation is stilted and awkward. If we were not siblings, there’s not a chance in the world those people would be included in my inner circle of friends.  So as it regards siblings, I have empathy for my four daughters. They did not choose to be related. However, I know without a doubt, if my parents were alive, all of us would be there for Christmas.

In the midst of the civil war that erupted about ten days ago, my daughters Rose and Emily debated the definition of family. Daughter Kate’s husband is allergic to cats and Kate’s house is the only one without a feline. So Kate wants to have Christmas at her house, which happens to be more than two hours away from everyone else. Rose suggested Kate hand out Benadryl and get her family to my house to celebrate the holiday. Emily accused Rose of being insensitive and said “family doesn’t treat family like that.” And so it went.

The thing that is most troubling for me is the fact that all four of my daughters gather at their dad’s house on Christmas Eve and at their grandmother’s house on Christmas Day. “We’ve always done it this way.” So when their dad and I divorced, I compromised and held my Christmas celebration on other days. When really didn’t matter to me. We’ve gathered as early as the first weekend in December and as late as the middle of January. It’s the gathering of my four daughters with me that matters. So why can they gather at other people’s houses but not at mine? Why can they agree to gather as a group with other family but they can’t agree to gather with me? What do I bring or not bring to the equation?

It’s a riddle I’ve been trying to solve for years with no success. The older I get, the greater the disappointment and the deeper the hurt. I have the wisdom of knowing I have fewer years ahead of me than I have behind me. My four daughters can’t comprehend that at their young ages. And since they have yet to lose a parent or a sibling, they have no comprehension of how life turns on a dime, how short our lives actually are.

Oldest daughter Kate is now 32. She’s a mother herself and plenty old enough to understand unconditional love, and yet it’s Kate who is the biggest antagonist. This year she drew a line and will not be celebrating Christmas with me and her sisters, prompting Rose to call her a “self-righteous, self-centered, holier-than-thou bitch.” Like that would help.

Holidays are always so stressful, so filled with emotions. We battle the stress of buying presents, telling ourselves we’ll deal with the overspending in January. We exhaust ourselves by hurrying and scurrying while getting everything ready for the ultimate December 25 deadline. We fight disappointment at not getting something we wanted or frustration and anger when a somewhat inebriated sister-in-law says, “Wow, I didn’t know you were pregnant. When are you due?” With all the noise in the mix, it’s no surprise that we lower priorities with family. Family is loved ones, safe, reliable. If family gets hurt feelings, they’ll still be family a month from now and you can circle back and say, “Hey, sorry about that. I was having a bad day.” But I’m here to tell you that sometimes, you can’t circle back.

Number One

The first time you do something, you don’t have hindsight. You can read every book you can find on the subject and research and study. Or you can talk to others who have done it and ask about their experiences but in the end, you just have to do it. And only then do you know if you can do it.

When I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I was both ecstatic and terrified. Most women turn to their mother for guidance but mine had died many years before. So I turned to books for answers. I also asked my sisters and some female friends who had given birth and I quickly learned that everyone has their own journey and they have plenty of advice to give and horror stories to share. I was determined to do it according to the book because that’s who I am.

My pregnancy went well. In fact, I felt better and healthier and happier than I had many years prior. I glowed, inside and out. I am not a tall person, so as the baby grew so did my girth. By the time I was eight months along, my co-workers were concerned I was going to have the baby in the office. I assured them that wouldn’t happen but they weren’t as confident as I was.

I had planned on working right up until the moment of my first contraction but about three weeks before my due date I started getting overly tired. My doctor was concerned that I would go into labor and be too tired to deliver the baby. I hadn’t even thought of that! So I started working half days and that helped. Then my manager (a mother herself) suggested that maybe it was time for me to go on leave. I was making everyone too nervous. So we agreed my last day in the office would be Friday, September 13, even though my due date wasn’t for another week. When that final work day came, I was ready to be done. But the project I was working on still needed a couple more days of work so we agreed I would work two days at home, turning in the last of the work on Wednesday morning. And that’s exactly what I did.

When I stepped into the office to deliver my finished work on Wednesday, September 18, 1985, people were happy to see me but eager to get me out of there before anything happened. Everyone wanted to know how I was feeling. It was a sticky, humid, muggy day and I was miserable being out and about. I felt tired and I was frustrated with a kink in my back that had been pestering me since the night before when I had gone to a meeting and had sat on a very uncomfortable metal chair for a few hours. I knew nothing about back labor, but my coworkers knew all about it. Once I said I had a kink in my back, they practically pushed me out the door.

My husband usually worked the second shift but that day he had to go in earlier for a meeting so when I got back home, there was no one there. I was exhausted, so I laid down to rest. I was watching TV but didn’t fall asleep. At 2:30, the first pain came. I had experienced a lot of false labor so I didn’t get too excited, but I couldn’t overlook the fact that this pain was different from any of the others. This was my first baby and everyone had insisted that I would be in labor for a long time, probably eight hours or more. So I wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere and since this was my first, I had no experience (or hindsight) to tell me to hurry along. Fifteen minutes later the pains were intense and paced at five minutes apart. I remember thinking things were going a little faster than I had expected but because of all the false labor I just wasn’t convinced. By 3:00 the contractions were even stronger and three minutes apart. With the consistency, I decided this was the real thing and I called my husband at work. We agreed I would call the clinic to see if I should come in and get checked.

It was Wednesday, my doctor’s day off, so they scheduled me for a 4:00 appointment with another doctor. I called my husband back and gave him the news. He wouldn’t be able to make his commute back home in time to get me to the appointment, so we decided I would call a family friend for a ride. I did and he said he’d pick me up in fifteen minutes. There were several things I wanted to do but it took me all of that time just to get clothes on. I had to stop every time a contraction hit. But I did finally get dressed and our friend arrived and off we went.

The family friend was so nervous. He was driving super fast and I had to tell him to slow down a couple of times because he was making me nervous. When we got to the clinic, the doctor examined me and said I was indeed in labor but I wasn’t dilated very much so it was going to be a while. He suggested I might want to go home and spend a few hours there before being admitted to the hospital, but I didn’t want to do that since I would be home alone. I called my husband again to tell him it was the real deal. He left work and our family friend said he’d stay with me until my husband arrived.

By 4:30 I was prepped and in bed with a fetal monitor wrapped around my belly. The nurse said that even though I was having contractions I wasn’t progressing much and would probably be sent home when my husband arrived. I was so disappointed. At 4:45 my husband walked into my hospital room just as I felt warm liquid between my legs. I thought my water had broke but I had only lost the mucus plug. The nurse said that was progression and they would not be sending me home after all but she insisted it would be several hours of labor before the baby would arrive. I felt nauseous and I felt a little bit of panic. I had been so tired the last few days. Would I have the stamina to go through many hours of labor and deliver this baby?

Around 5:00 the nurse came in and told me she had called my doctor to let him know I was being admitted. He was headed to a church dinner and said he’d come by later when that was over, to check on me. He agreed with the nurse that it would be several hours, so he figured he’d come by about 10:00 and would be around to deliver the baby.

Since everyone was telling me that I was going to be in labor for several hours, I told myself I needed to relax and focus on my breathing exercises. I kept thinking I would need to pace myself since the labor would last most of the night. Basically I had three different breathing techniques and I wanted to stay with the first one for as long as I could, saving the other two for the really bad stuff to come. Contractions stayed steady at two minutes apart and they would last about a minute each. By 7:15 I felt the urge to push. The nurse checked me and again told me I still had a very long way to go. Fifteen minutes later I had to go to the bathroom. My husband and I argued about it. He didn’t want me to get out of the bed. The nurse came in and said it wouldn’t be a problem at all and helped me get to the toilet. As I sat there, I was overcome with an urge to push. I had to groan to keep from pushing and the sound that came out of my mouth was unlike any sound I had ever heard before. The nurse literally pulled me off the toilet and she and my husband carried me back to the bed. She wanted to check to see what was going on and took one look and said, “Oh my God!” and ran out of the room. I had no idea what her panic was all about, but I found out later that the bag of waters had not broken and so the baby was inside it and my body was pushing all of that. The bag was black in color, so the nurse must have seen a frightening sight.

So I was back in the bed and the nurse had run out of the room. I didn’t have time to think or react to being abandoned because the mother of all contractions slammed into me. I had no choice but to move onto my second breathing technique and even that was ugly. I truly was terrified that I wouldn’t endure a full night of labor, especially when another contraction came right on top of the other one. And then another one of those animal-sounding groans came out of my mouth and another doctor, who was a couple doors down checking on one of his patients, heard it and came running. He knew exactly what that sound was and he came into the room yelling at nurses to break down the bed and get ready to deliver a baby. Not a single one of the nurses was ready.

At that point everything became a blur. Relief swept through to my soul that I was not going to have to endure that kind of pain for several more hours. Nurses worked in a flurry getting the doctor what he needed. My husband was curious and he wanted to see the baby being born, but instead he saw the black amniotic sac stuck to the baby’s head as it was coming through the birthing canal. The doctor slit open the amniotic sac and a ton of fluids gushed out and the baby was sucked up into the bag. A baby’s head gets misshapen as it comes through the canal, so all my husband saw was a black lizard head. I couldn’t see anything, but I could see my husband’s expression and it wasn’t good. And my panic went up ten notches when he quickly moved away from watching the baby being born and came and stood right by my shoulders. Then the doctor was yelling at me to not push. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but then someone said the doctor needed to get the cord free of the baby’s neck, so I did everything I could (which wasn’t much since nature was in control) to stop pushing. And then my first baby, a daughter, was born, at 8:11 p.m.

In the end it wasn’t anything like what I had prepared for and nothing like what I had read in the books. It was a birth none of us would forget. According to the nurse, I dilated from zero to ten in a span of fifteen minutes, something she had never known was possible. From start to finish my labor and delivery lasted less than six hours. We were the talk of everyone in the hospital, including other mothers who hadn’t been so fortunate and who had endured several hours of labor. My doctor arrived about a half hour or so after the baby was born and examined us both, declaring my baby perfect. He had had no idea my labor would go that fast and he told me then that if I had any more children I should expect the labors to be quick. Little did he know…

Later that evening my husband left to go celebrate and spread the good news, so it was just my precious daughter and me. She was wide awake, studying me as I held her, so I began a conversation. I told her of our home and her dad and a little about me. I promised her I would do my best to give her what she needed. And I talked about my hopes and dreams for her, and why I wanted to bring her into this world. I remember the moment clearly. And I get to cherish that memory forever.

Number Four

September 12, 1993. I was the mother to three children (the oldest was one week shy of eight years old), with another baby expected any day. All girls. My husband worked the overnight shift, which caused the majority of parenting responsibilities to fall on me. A normal day saw him getting home from work about five in the morning, so he slept until about one in the afternoon. By then my day was half over and the younger kids were down for naps. Supper was always at six, and my husband headed back to work at seven-thirty. By that time each day I was exhausted. I’d put the kids to bed and go to bed myself. This day had been like all the others before it.

Asleep in my bed, something wakes me up about one-thirty in the morning. I roll over and watch my cat pacing back and forth across the foot of my bed. This is odd. Still getting the sleep out of my brain, I start to ask myself why the cat is doing that and before I can finish the thought I have the answer. I’m in labor. Except I have no pains. There are no signs of imminent birth. I’m just fine. But Millie Cat and I have a history. I know her and she knows me. If she says I’m in labor, I’m not going to stick around to argue the point.

With my husband at work, I pick up the phone and call my sister who lives five minutes away. She asks me how far apart my contractions are. I tell her I don’t have any yet, but to just trust me. (She hates cats and I wasn’t going to tell her the cat is telling me to go to the hospital.) I get out of bed and get dressed, choosing clothes carefully since I know I’ll be taking them off in a bit. About ten minutes later I’m at the front door with my bag, waiting for my sister to arrive. My first contraction hits. It’s not awful, but it has strength and endurance. Silently it’s telling me our time is limited.

My sister’s husband pulls the car up the small hill in our front yard and parks it right outside our front door. My sister’s teenage son comes in the house (he’s the sitter for my three sleeping children), wishes me luck, and I head out. My sister grabs my bag and her husband helps me into the back seat of the car. Immediately I lay down on my left side.

And we’re off. On a normal night it’s a twenty-minute drive to the hospital. My sister asks about my contractions. I tell her they’re regular and strong. She completely understands the silence between my words and knows we cannot waste any time. Laying down, I have no idea what the night is like. So I’m frustrated and unnerved when my sister tells me we’re going to make a stop at the fire hall. Her husband is a volunteer firefighter and he wants to have a radio in the car with us. I don’t understand and want to argue but a contraction slams me into silence. My sister hears my groan, and tells me it’s a super foggy night and we need the radio. I won’t argue.

The stop at the fire hall lasts only a minute or so, but I can hear the ticking of my belly bomb and anxiety sets in. Another contraction slams hard and I’m afraid we aren’t going to make it in time. With my brother-in-law back in the car, we take off again, but at a slower speed than I want. My brain is in full labor fog now and my sister explains the intensity of the fog in the air. I want to shout out to hurry, go faster, but instead I take control of my breathing as another contraction slams me. I barely catch my breath and another one comes.

I hear my brother-in-law call on the radio, informing the sheriff’s department of who he’s bringing to the hospital. It’s a small community. This isn’t my first rodeo and they all know me by name. Police on night patrol position their cars at intersections so that we have clear passage when we come through. Still laying down, I have no sense of where we are and how much longer we’re going to be. I grow impatient with worry that we won’t make it in time. My sister reads my mind, and tells me it’s really hard to tell where we are because of the dense fog. I know the route we’re driving and I tell myself I cannot allow myself any fear about the wildlife that shares the road in the night. We reach a place where there is a farm house and barn right next to the road with a strong flood light. My sister has her bearings now and she tells me where we are. I can picture it in my mind’s eye and my worry becomes real. Contractions are less than two minutes apart now and we have another eight minutes or more to get to the hospital.

I force myself to get into my zone and I focus solely on my breathing. My sister tries to talk to me but I do not answer. I cannot. As we approach the city, more landmarks expose themselves amidst the fog and my sister offers encouragement. The police radio squawks updates of our progress on our journey as different officers report our passing by. My sister tells me the hospital has a gurney in the emergency bay waiting for us. Laying on the seat I begin to see city lights and I get my bearings. We are so close. I can do this!

Our car squeals to a stop in the emergency room bay and both doors to the back seat are thrown open. Good fortune in that very moment puts me between contractions, so I pour myself out of the car and climb aboard the waiting gurney, with no time to spare as another contraction slams into me. A nurse at my head and another at my feet start running, pushing the gurney at break-neck speed through the hospital corridors, and I hang on as best I can as we maneuver around corners, all while working through an intense contraction. The gurney comes to a stop outside the birthing room, and again good fortune gives my belly a pause.

I jump off the gurney and peel off my clothes, uncaring about any witnesses. I climb aboard the birthing bed completely aware that another contraction is coming and I’m not disappointed. A nurse I’ve never met stands at the foot of the bed, patiently waiting for the contraction to end. When it does she tells me that she needs to check me before I can push. Not a chance, I tell her. The contractions have just changed and now nature is taking over and there is no holding back. She begins to argue with me just as a pushing contraction takes hold. I focus on my breathing, trying desperately not to push, and I hear my doctor come in the room. He tells the nurse that there’s no need to check me. If I say I’m ready to push, I’m ready. Relief floods my mind and body. One push and the baby is born. The record shows she came into the world five minutes after our car pulled into the emergency entrance bay, forty minutes after Millie Cat woke me, on Monday, September 13, 1993, at 2:10 in the morning.

My fourth daughter. Healthy. Beautiful. Precious. Still is, twenty-four years later.

Reading Between the Behaviors

As part of my job, I am required to complete extensive training each year on a variety of topics but usually on the laws and regulations that govern the industry in which I work. This month’s training was on the topic of culture and identity, a slightly different topic from the norm but important nevertheless since my employer takes ethics very seriously and instills a culture of inclusion for all of its employees.

Two questions were asked to begin the training: What identity do you have? How many cultures do you belong to? Simple answers are the first things that come to mind but the real answers are much more complex. For example, in terms of identity I think of myself as a wife, mother, grandmother. Those are my first thoughts. But I also can identify as sister, youngest sibling, aunt, working woman, baby boomer, survivor, writer. Actually, there are many more labels that can be applied depending on the context I find myself in when needing to self-identify.

The culture thing was a little trickier for me. When asked how many cultures I am a part of, I naively answered one. As it turns out, I am a part of several since I am a white, college graduate, middle-aged, employed, married, hearing-impaired, female, American. Each one of those characteristics places me into a unique group. And each one of those groups to which I belong has its own rules and values that drive my behaviors. If a culture values hard work, behaviors will look like focusing on goals, being organized and determined, striving for success. If a culture values family, behaviors will look like respecting elders, honoring parents, offering support and encouragement to siblings.

As “one nation”, the United States is a diverse blend of communities and cultures, all sharing experiences and common influences. Our lives are governed by the same laws, systems, and processes, and yet we behave in ways that we learned from our cultural identities, based on who we identify as and how important certain values are to us.

Think of the community in which you live. How many cultures are reflected in that community? How different are the values and behaviors among all of the cultures that exist? Do you consider your community successful? Do cultures co-exist easily or is there a constant tension?

What happens when a culture is mired in despair and hopelessness, if common values are focused around the mere act to survive? How does a community blend that set of values with the values of its other cultures that don’t have to worry about survival and instead focus on achievements and success? Can members of “successful” cultures even comprehend the lives of those in other cultures just trying to live to see another day?

Cultural differences influence how we are treated simply in how others identify us or in how we self-identify. As a white person I never thought I would be subjected to profiling in America. It never used to matter that I was a woman. I was told I could grow up to be anything I wanted and I taught my daughters the same thing. But things changed during last year’s presidential campaigns and election. The Women’s March and other protests caused some men to start treating me differently, labeling me emotional, hysterical even, simply because I am a female and despite the fact that I didn’t participate in any of those events. As a citizen of the United States, I never thought I would live in a country ruled by a dictator. I still don’t, but the fear is real now when before I couldn’t imagine it. Right before my very eyes I’ve witnessed the man in the office of President of the United States knowingly lie and mislead people, blatantly and strategically breaking ethical and moral bounds if not legal ones. If a culture begins to allow lies and deceits and ambiguity, what rules and values do those behaviors create?

I am embarrassed to admit I am married to someone who defends Trump’s every word. I try to justify it by saying my husband doesn’t get it, he doesn’t understand women, he’s from the “old school”. But what do my words and my behavior say to the culture of women to which I belong? When my husband defends Trump by saying it’s within the President’s authority to pardon anyone he wants, what does that say about the values and rules we have in our home?

I am an American. I am a woman. Nothing will change those identities. But I have fear today that I didn’t have a year ago, that I never imagined I would feel, ever. How do I stay a member of my cultural groups when their values and behaviors are changing in catastrophic ways that I disagree with? These sweeping changes carry the potential to destroy the America I love and crack the foundation of my marriage and my home. How does one maneuver through a minefield like the one that has sprouted up around us?

Inner Voice

Call it intuition, or conscience, or knowing, or being in touch with the Universe. The fact is, many people hear an inner voice. Of those who do, some consider it a gift while others call it a curse. For some people the voice is loud and can’t be turned off. Others struggle to hear it because it is so quiet.

I’ve been aware of my inner voice for as long as I can remember. At times it’s been loud but mostly it’s been quiet and subtle. I have to strain sometimes to hear it and even then I don’t always interpret the message accurately. When I was younger the voice scared me. No one in my life ever talked about having an inner voice and I was afraid to say anything about mine out of fear that it would confirm my worst fear—that I was crazy. Over time I learned to trust my inner voice, understanding it was trying to guide me. I also discovered that I cannot will it to speak. On my darkest days I would call upon it to tell me what to do but the voice would be silent. It only spoke when it wanted to speak. I guess that’s the curse of my inner voice.

At times I’ve found it quite a struggle to interpret my inner voice’s message. Some messages made no sense at all so I would ask for more details only to be met with silence. Some messages were very clear but completely illogical and not anything I would ever consider acting upon. Once in a while I’d hit the jackpot and get a clearly communicated message that gave me the guidance I needed so that I could take action and find myself in a better place. Those moments are affirmation that I need to continue to listen and trust. And there have been enough of them to prove my inner voice is not just a coincidence and not a whimsy message being tugged through my brain like an ad being pulled through the air by a small plane. And so there’s the rub. My inner voice has been proven. It’s not one hundred percent accurate—or perhaps it’s more correct to say my interpretations are not always accurate—but it’s been correct enough times that it cannot be discarded nor ignored. So I’ve learned to hear and interpret the message to the best of my ability and take appropriate action.

For the last several weeks my inner voice has repeatedly told me I need to clean house, as in declutter and get rid of all the extra stuff sitting around. We have a big house and there’s a lot of extra stuff. It embarrasses me tremendously to admit it, but there are about one hundred boxes in our basement that haven’t been touched since the day we moved in ten years ago. Many of them are files from my husband’s career, correspondence and other papers, some of which have value. The only one who can really determine the valuable papers from those that need to go in the trash is my husband, and unfortunately he’s not too thrilled with my Decluttering Project. Other boxes contain a lot of knick-knacks and household goods that were extras and duplicates from having blended two households. These are easy for me to go through, but it still takes time. And I know some of these items are things my daughters will want. So I’m being careful to go through everything with them in mind. It’s a big project and it’s going to take a while. But I’ve started it, and I’ll keep working at it. The message was loud and clear: Just do it!

Needless to say there is a humungous mess in my basement that can’t be hidden from my family and some of them have been asking me questions. One of my daughters understands the concept of an inner voice and I believe she hears one as well. So it was easy to explain to her that I’m doing it because my inner voice told me to. She doesn’t question that. But my other daughters and my husband don’t believe in inner voices and they have become alarmed and want to know the Why. And that’s a problem because I don’t know why, other than I am feeling a very strong “demand” that I do this now and to get it done quickly. I have speculated about the Why and a couple of possible answers scare me (and my husband as well) so I’m going to ignore them. Instead I’ve done my best to placate my family by explaining this is long overdue and I’m tired of tripping over boxes. While that reasoning isn’t necessarily a lie, I know I don’t believe it so why should they. And they don’t. So I’ve taken another approach, and that’s answering a question with an even more important question.

Why does any household need eight extra sets of sheets, three wine decanter sets, five different sets of wine glasses (along with an assortment of matching sets of twos and threes), two punch bowl sets, eighteen flower vases, three dozen mismatched coffee mugs, thirteen kitchen aprons, and two room-sized rugs unrolled for ten years?

It’s the last item that gets them distracted and they forget about the Why. “You’ve been hiding not one but two room-sized rugs? What do they look like? How big are they? Can I have one?”