8 Days (Warning - darkness ahead.)

I am going to start by saying something I rarely say. I am angry. Anger is not usually my response to life. Anger was never allowed. My mother was the angry one in the family. She had legitimate reasons to be angry, and she often expressed her anger openly and loudly. I was the good quiet gifted obedient child. My older brother got in trouble a lot. He was average. He disobeyed. I was the good quiet gifted obedient child. My father was the jolly one. He was gregarious and a leader at work and at church. He was also a fundmentalist Christianity obsessed pedophile and my pimp. I was the good quiet gifted obedient child. Anger was not allowed. Expressing anything but acceptance made bad stuff worse. Above all, anger was a huge failure to be the good quiet gifted obedient child.

I am angry. I have felt sadness, grief, loss, terror, and despair over the years. I have felt broken and faulty and insane. I have doubted, denied, disguised, and disavowed my own truth… and my own worth. In all of this, there has been extraordinarily little room for rage. I have whacked the obligatory cushions with a tennis racquet in gestalt therapy — hurled metal folding chairs against a wall in psychodrama — sobbed and roared in controlled settings. But overall, anger had not been my baseline. Anger terrifies me. Expressing it aloud seems dangerous, and fixes nothing. Raging about something just makes it scarier and more disturbing… and drags everyone within earshot into the slimy goo.

I am angry. For some reason, awareness is coming to me in waves right now — not really flashbacks, but more like enhanced memories. I am getting progressively more agoraphobic (COVID19 did not help) and am having a more difficult time being patient with and nice to people. My aha moment a while back was that maybe it is because I was forced to be nice to so many people who were giving me pain. I was forced to be good — to be quiet — to be obedient. I don’t want to be nice anymore. I don’t want to be good. I don’t want to be quiet. I want to speak — and I really have no place to go with it. The fact I am writing things this intimate for strangers bears witness to the fact I have no appropriate outlet for telling my story. The story is too ugly — too repulsive — too graphic — to talk about. It is just too much shit to share.

 

 I am angry. I am more than angry. I am furious, irate, and bitter… enraged and outraged. I once watched a movie called “8 Days,” and it was dreadful in every way. It was not a movie I would have even considered watching under normal circumstances. The writing, acting and directing were atrocious. It was based on a true story about a sweet naive 16-year-old girl who was kidnapped and used as a sex slave for 8 days. In that time, she was drugged and forced to have sex with over 50 men. There was nothing redeeming in this movie except that in the end — she was rescued and went on to become an advocate for those trapped in the nightmare of sex slavery. As I viewed this horrible film, I kept saying “This sucks — why do you keep watching?” It was like a house fire or a car wreck that you just can’t pull your eyes away from. It started with young children being abducted — children the age I was when the incest and rapes started. I’m not going to give details — other than to say NEVER watch this movie. It did not explicitly show things happening, but it was explicit, nevertheless. There was no missing the message. And in the middle of watching — I was hit with the appalling realization that what happened to me was a lot like being sex trafficked. I don’t think there was money involved — I think it was more about my father currying favor from family, church leaders, and colleagues in the business world, as well as his own perverse pleasure. I will never know for sure — at least not in this lifetime. I only know that it was not orchestrated by strangers making a financial transaction, but by someone who was supposed to love and care for me. The girl in the movie had parents and people in the community that moved heaven and hell to rescue her. I had no one… no one at all. It is hard to imagine a worse kind of betrayal.

A friend of mine whose wisdom I highly value once compared what happened to me with what happened to Jews in Auschwitz. It was a shocking statement. I would never have made that analogy — particularly not with someone like my friend; a Jew with grandparents and other family who died in concentration camps. My kneejerk reaction was no — it was nothing like that. I had a roof over my head, food, clothing, much more than the basic needs of life. It was not nearly that bad. But the truth is, his words, as outrageous as they seemed, were some of the most affirming I have ever heard about the nightmare that was my life. I think that might be part of why my painstakingly constructed cocoon is bursting open….

Now part of me just wants to shout, “I was tortured for more than 15 years. Not 8 horrifying days, but 15 YEARS. My self-esteem was devastated. My belief in a loving Father God was shattered; my concept of Divinity poisoned and twisted. Any childlike hope for the future was obliterated. Any thought that the world would ever be a safe place for me was destroyed. I was violently robbed of the ability to fully trust anyone ever again.

I AM ANGRY! I want to tell my story in detail — something I have never really done. I want to write a book — make a movie — write a play — share it on my blog and on Facebook and let the whole world know who my father was — what I survived — why I am the way I am. And of course — I will do none of these things because I no longer live in a psychiatric facility, and this is the real world. I have a family and friends and responsibilities, and it just can’t be like that. I am never going to have a safe and appropriate place to puke this all out. I have to keep the secrets… and move on.

I talked a little bit to another friend after watching “8 Days” because I thought my head was going to explode. I didn’t give her much detail — but I did tell her I was angry. She knows bits and pieces of my story and has suffered her own abuse. Her thought was that maybe the anger was good — maybe it would help me move through things and let go. I don’t know. Right now it just seems like another hurdle to normalcy (like I have any idea what normalcy is…). I just want to keep my head above water and to not let the rage make me into a person who walks carelessly in the world.

I am a survivor. I am still here. I have been strong, despite everything. It’s not easy for me to say those words. I can’t stop hearing the voice in my head that says, “If you’re so fucking strong, why haven’t you done more with your life?” And yet there is a part of me that knows there was a little girl who kept breathing when she just wanted to stop — who kept being kind when kindness was not modeled to her. She managed to not be annihilated by so many years of violence. She somehow managed to grow into a gentle, loving and compassionate adult. Maybe, just maybe, this is enough. Maybe this is what being a successful survivor looks like. Maybe it’s time to take a breath — and just be.

The Tiny Suitcase

If home is where the heart is, I’m not sure I have a home.
My legal residency is in Arizona – but it has not felt like home for decades.
My heart is with beings who live far away – but I have no home of my own there.

Maybe the fact that my physical heart has literally been “broken” is a good metaphor.
Each time I come to visit my family in Minnesota, I know there is an end date.
My residency is in the desert, not on the plains.
Each time I have to leave my brilliant. creative, compassionate daughter,
my bright, imaginative, funny remarkable grandchildren,
my big, clumsy, sweet, obnoxiously adoring granddog,
my grandgeese, grandchickens, and grandducks who greet me each morning,
and the towering evergreens and huge black walnut tree
that I see from my window when I open the curtains;
each time I have to go “home,” my emotional heart breaks again.
Just the thought robs me of air and tears thick with sadness stream down my cheeks.

Life goes on.
I have things to do in another distant place.
Living in “The Cottage;”
this perfectly marvelous and perfectly challenging semi-insulated
wooden shell of a tiny house on a farm in rural Minnesota
becomes significantly less marvelous when the winter temps drop to negative numbers
and snow drifts against the door.

So, I pack for my trip back to Arizona, and I cry as I choose what to put in my suitcase
and what to leave here in the space they have so lovingly made for me.
I cry over the tiny suitcase that holds a 4-year-old’s scraps of cardboard,
2 broken balloons on a string, an empty dropper bottle, a spiral notebook and pen,
a crumbled piece of Christmas wrapping paper, 3 books, a purple knit cap,
and other treasures scavenged from the Cottage as tools for pretending.
She dashes to see me as soon as she gets home from preschool.
Her big bright beautiful eyes behind small, pale-purple glasses peek in my window,
and her grin broadens as I motion her in for playtime before dinner.
“Hello Beast” she says.  
“Welcome home, Belle” I say in a beastly voice.
The cottage instantly becomes a gothic castle until she says,
“Now let’s pretend you are Anna and I am Elsa”
and the castle is magically turned to sparkling ice.

I cry over the tiny suitcase,
and the small cardboard box she decided was the perfect crib for her plastic baby turtle.

I cry sitting in the audience watching her 14-year-old sister
playing a Who in “Seussical the Musical” because it is such a miracle that she is there,
doing what she loves; doing what I have loved since before I was her age.

I cry over my grandson’s lanky 16-year-old body draped over the couch,
his thick dark hair falling in waves over his handsome freckled face.

I cry at the thought of saying goodbye to my daughter at the airport,
and to all that I leave behind,
and to that tiny suitcase.

Over weeks and months, my feelings will numb a bit
and my emotional heart will recover a bit,
just like my physical heart has recovered a bit.
But the brokenness is never really mended.
The cracks in my emotional heart are still real,
just like the damage to my physical heart is real.

My eyes will brim with tears as the plane lifts off,
carrying me away from the love – the hugs – the laughs,
away from Elsa and Anna,
away from Belle and Beast,
away from that tiny suitcase.

I’ll be back my sweet Bella Bella.
I may be out of your sight for a while, but Mawney always comes back.
Just ask Bobo and Sissy.  Mawney always comes back.
I love you all to infinity and beyond!


LAE  11-14-23

Bella Bella Ballerina

Londyn Bella Marie,

My Bella Bella,

Princess Bell.

She lives in a castle with the "Ting" (who is me), 

not the Queen, but always the "Ting;"

Always the "Ting"

except when she decides I am something else.

She is 4 and I am 70

We can’t run and play like I could with her “Bobo” and “Sissy” 13 or 14 years ago

We can’t crawl into a small tent on the floor of the living room

and pretend to be camping on the moon.

We can’t go hunting for dragon eggs in my front yard.

Some days I can’t even rise from my chair,

and yet we play, with our imaginations at full volume.

She is the teacher,

I am the student.

She is the doctor,

I am her patient.

She is a bad fairy - and so am I

until the good fairies are needed to make things right again.

She is the Queen and I drive her carriage (which is my recliner)

through the bumpy forest and over the rushing river.

We fly to the stars in our rocket ship (recliner).

She is Beauty.

I am the Beast.

She is a Bella Bella Ballerina

and the stage is a red plush throw spread out on the floor.

Her two imaginary friends Nono and Fifi twirl and spin at her sides.

I watch from my front-row mezzanine recliner seat

and applaud with gusto when the ballet is done.

Brava!  Brava!

She smiles her beautiful smile and giggles her sweet giggle,

takes a sweeping final bow, and suddenly, she says 

"Wet's pwetend you are the 'Ting' now, Mawney. Dot it?"

Not the Queen but always the 'Ting;"

Always the 'Ting'

and she is Princess Bell.

My Bella Bella,

Londyn Bella Marie

Forever and For Always

 

I was supposed to be in the delivery room.  It was all planned – supporting her through the process and watching the baby be born.  I sat up with her in the living room most of the night, trying to help but feeling entirely powerless as I watched my daughter in pain. Moving an 8-pound baby out of your body is a lonely job, no matter how many people are nearby.  I dozed for a bit, and then my daughter was saying “It’s time to go” and we were off in a rush.  The wheelchair that awaited us at the hospital door whisked her along to labor and delivery, with me close on her wheels.  A room filled with light and helpful friendly nurses did not hide the fact that something was not going quite right.  I watched, remembering her older brother and the long painful process of labor before an emergency C-Section brought all 10 pounds, 15 ounces of him into the world.  My grandson was taking his time making his entrance – and in a strangely ironic turn of events – the doctor decided that  my daughter also needed a last-minute C-section.  So I could not be there to greet my grandson  – to see his first breath – to hear his first cry or see my daughter's joy when she saw her son for the first time. I sat dejectedly in the waiting room with his other grandparents – anxious, worried and wallowing in my disappointment.  I had never actually seen a delivery firsthand, since I was sedated when my son was born and didn’t get to see him until many hours later. Complications during the surgery when my daughter was delivered by C-section gave me only a brief glimpse of my beautiful baby girl before she was carried off to the nursery.  Watching this delivery of my very first grandchild was a dream come true for me;  a dream that was not meant to be.

After what seemed forever, a tired but happy Daddy came out to the waiting room and invited me to be the first to meet this brand-new shiny soul named Sebastian Phoenix.  The nurse lead me to the nursery, pointed out an infant warmer, and a quiet gasp escaped my lips as I looked at the huge dark blotch around the baby's eye and down the entire side of his face.  Was this some kind of giant birthmark – or was there something wrong with my sweet baby boy?  It only took an instant to look beyond the blotch and see the gorgeous creature that lay in that clear bassinette. The immense love I had felt for him from the moment I knew he existed in his mother’s womb washed over me.  Then the nurse blurted out that our boy had been tightly wedged behind his mother’s pelvis and had to be pulled out with forceps.  The big purple splotch was a bruise – he was going to be just fine! 

Left alone with him, I gazed in wonder at this miracle before me. His half Columbian heritage was evident in his thick dark hair, but the pale skin was all his mother.  I reached out and reverently touched his leg – his  tummy – then his tiny perfect fingers.  As I stood in complete adoration -  he wrapped his sweet brand-new precious hand around my finger and held on.  A flash of joy shot through my body  and as tears of happiness flowed down my face, a forever connection was formed that still exists 15 years later.  It is a memory of total happiness indelibly etched in my mind.

There is a song from the musical "Mame," when Mame is singing to her nephew Patrick. "You're my best beau; you're handsome and brave and stong, there's nothing we two can't face... and if some day another beau comes along, determined to take your place, I hope he's resigned to fall in behind, my best beau."  I have sung this song to Sebstian all of his life, and  my nickname for him is Best Beau.  If someday, I grow old and senile; if I can’t remember where I am or what year it is or the names of any of the people I love, I am certain I will still remember the ecstasy of my sweet Best Beau's tiny fingers wrapped around mine – holding on tight to someone who will love and accept him exactly as he is, forever and for always!

LAE  3-4-22

 

Thankful for the Important Stuff

 

All my life, singing has been the one thing I could count on. From age 5, when I sang my first solo in front of the congregation at Norwood Baptist Church in Ohio, I have known that when I opened my mouth to sing – something pretty decent would come out. I have had obstacles - throat problems, allergies, other things that have affected my voice in distressing ways. But still, I knew that if I had picked the right song in the right key, I could wow almost any audience. Unlike many singers I’ve known – I loved auditions – loved to see the positive looks of appreciation or surprise, with both my big musical theater voice and my quieter ballad singing. It was an absolute in my life – one of the precious few things I could totally depend on – something rare and wonderful that would never abandon me. It defined me – gave me something to feel confident about – made me feel like I was special in a world that was constantly trying to make me wear the label of failure. And when I was singing, the depression – the despair – the loneliness – the sadness and anger – all these burdens disappeared or were lightened for the 3 or 4 or 5 minutes I was actually performing.

I lost my voice for a while due to nodular laryngitis. I didn’t sing for years. Then I started again – different voice – not so big – not so capable – not so impressive. And with time – the gift got smaller and smaller. From an impressive 3 ½ octave range to barely 1 octave now – from a solid high Bb to only a solid middle C…. the gift continued to shrink. With my severely limited voice – I went on sharing my gift with passion and love – and again, as long as I picked the right songs in low keys, I could still get a small “wow” out of an audience. Then my major venue for performing was taken away because of COVID and the conversion of my home church to a ZOOM community. No more weekly singing – no more in-person church services – no more audiences - no more identifying myself as a singer and performer. Then open-heart surgery and an extended recovery that is still going on took even more of a toll. Any tiny hope of being a singer again has pretty much faded away. But if not a singer, who the hell am I? I am devastated by this loss - trying to figure out how, after 63 years of being known for doing something that made me feel so special - how do I find even the slightest desire to redefine the essence of Lori?

And then tonight, as I was singing bedtime songs to my 12-year-old granddaughter Savannah, I had a tiny epiphany. I sang to my children from before they were born until they grew out of wanting bedtime songs – maybe a little beyond that. I have been singing to Sebastian and Savannah since they were in the womb. This means I have been using my voice to entertain, soothe and comfort my children and grandchildren for over 45 years. Someday I hope to be able to continue the tradition with baby Londyn Bella. That’s a really long gig – the longest one I've ever had, and it might go on for years to come!

This is NOT the illustrious Broadway fame and fortune I had hoped for in my early years. It is not the large audiences I used to sing to in my prime or even the smaller audiences of my more recent years. It does not satisfy my yearning for the footlights – for the “Roar of the Greasepaint and Smell of the Crowd” – the feeling I instantly get when I inhale the wondrous scent of actor sweat and freshly painted flats. But I just realized that right now, if I had to choose between having had a successful career on Broadway or sitting on a bed croaking out songs to my sleepy-eyed grandkids, there would be no contest. The spotlight gives such a rush – and I will always have an almost unbearable longing for the stage. But on this Thanksgiving Day, I am reminded how much I need to cherish these real-life moments – not playing a role or performing a song, but real meaningful moments with the ones I love most. I’m deeply grateful for this awareness – grateful for the original musical gifts I was given – grateful to my mother for encouraging me toward using those gifts - grateful for all the musicals and concerts and solos and exciting opportunities I was given - and grateful that I am still able to do this most important thing with my grandkids. If my voice sounds croaky and horrible, the kids don’t really mind, because even if they don’t know it yet – what they hear is not Mawney’s scratchy straining notes, but the familiar lyrics and the unconditional love behind them. I’m not very good at finding the blessing in the midst of the storm, but in this moment, I get it. I really get it.

To anyone who reads this blog, thank you for your time and energy. I hope my words encourage you to look deeply and see the things that really matter – even if they are not the things you always thought were most important. Happy Thanksgiving my friends!

 

 

I WAIT FOR THE SUNRISE

 

I wait for the sunrise,

feel the chill in the desert air,

know the smell of dew on creosote 

and the sound of coyote’s last call.

Soon the sun will come,

the chill will go and the dew will dry.

The creatures of the day will replace the creatures of the night.

Fox, rattlesnake, prairie dog, hawk,

each with its own purpose – its own Divine holy life,

and they move forth in their world with no concern 

for what they will wear,

or what others will think

or where they will be when the darkness returns.

 

I wait for the sunrise.

The Universe turns up the volume on the Cicadas

and the buzzing rises to a dull roar.

The glow on the horizon becomes a bright bump of color

slowy expanding into the fullness of its blazing round.

Sun floods the desert with its brilliance

while four grey-brown lizards, basking in its glow,

never worry, not even for one moment,

about who is paying for all this Light.

 

I wait for the sunrise.

The desert is a harsh place but the cycle of life is strong.

The hearty survive, 

without malice - without hateful intent.

Life simply continues

whatever that requires.

 

I wait for the sunrise

and imagine a place with no wars

No hatred

Peaceful coexistence

Living in the moment – filled with hope

Being what we were created to be, every day, all the time.

 

The ever-changing song of the Mockingbird tells it all:

“Hope is everywhere.  Nature is at peace!”

Imagine that.

Imagine that kind of peace and hope in our human world.

 

I wait for the sunrise… 

and the rise of peace for all creatures on earth.

 

LAE 2004