An Abusive Husband, part one

I have written very openly about the difficulties in my marriage, although it's primarily been on my other blog.  Many people have commented to ask if my husband knows that I write about him and the things he's done.  He does.  He reads almost everything I write; I hide none of it from him.  Sometimes the things I write are difficult for him.  It's not so much that he doesn't want people to know what he's done, it's that he's so sad that he did those things.  But he has read the comments.  He has seen how many people are grateful that I share our story.  He has felt their gratitude for sharing what we've learned.  He is proud that I have been able to help others.    And he is courageous enough to allow me to share the story of our struggles.

This weekend he surprised me with a grand step of bravery.  He opened his heart and wrote his story.  So that I could share it on my blog.  Because he believes it can help.

I know it was hard and am so proud of him.

I offer the first segment today.  Where the hate and anger come from.

I Was an Abusive Husband.  Really? (part one)

I've been married to MisssRobin for 22 years.  I've learned a lot in that time.  So, I've been reading her blogs and I love her writing.  I've decided to tell my side of the mess that is her life.

I was raised in a family of 4 boys and 2 girls.  I was raised with the idea that a man's house is his castle and the wife does what the husband decides after they have talked about it.  After all, I am the head of the house.  As a boy, we (including the girls) fought and wrestled with each other all the time.  I remember my dad saying, "If a girl acts like a boy, treat her like a boy."  So, I did.  I never got into a fist fight with the girls but I would have a hitting contest with one.

I lived in Los Angeles and when I was in 7th grade my family moved to Utah and things went badly for me after that.  We moved mid school year, so I was the new kid.  I didn't know the culture and was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole.  I went from being popular at school to being bullied.  I was assaulted by a gym teacher that same year and no one did anything about it.  I went to the principal, school counselors, my parents and no one did a thing.  I learned to hate.  I rebelled.  I hated authority.  I didn't do drugs but I did break rules and vandalized and stole things.  This didn't go over very well with my religious parents.

In my senior year, I found religion.  I had been raised in the Mormon church but it didn't really mean anything to me until that year.  I would skip every class at school but I would never skip my religion class (seminary).  It was the only class I ever got an A in, I'm pretty certain.

I started to trust again and the hate started to fade.  It was still there but now it just smoldered.  I decided to go on a 2-year mission for the church when I was 19.  I was raised to believe that if you live the commandments and did everything you were supposed to do that God would take care of you.  I was also raised with the belief that missionaries walked 2 inches off the ground because they were so righteous.

I saved up my money and entered the mission training center and discovered that missionaries are just a bunch of 19-year old boys and some of them didn't want to be there.  It made my time there really hard because when you go into the training center you are assigned a companion (another missionary) that you are supposed to stay with 24/7.  We were not to leave the grounds; my companion wanted to leave to go to the mall.  I had to make the choice of which rule to break and I was done breaking rules.

I figured things would be different when I got to my mission area in Oklahoma.  Things didn't get better.  My mission president was an ego maniac who would not listen to the missionaries' side of anything.  So if a member of our church would call him and say that we were watching TV all day, then we would get in trouble for that even though it wasn't true.  I felt very betrayed and the hate for authority returned.

Read more here.

Why Do You Apologize?

You did something stupid.  It was hurtful.  And now you feel bad.  So you apologize.  And your apology is rejected!

*  Maybe it is openly rejected, "Oh, yeah.  Right.  Sure, you're sorry."  Dripping with sarcasm.
*  Maybe it is accepted on the face of things, but the person still holds a grudge and punishes you every chance they get.
*  Maybe you get no response.  They heard you.  They just won't acknowledge you said anything at all.

So now what?  If you're like most human beings, now you get irritated or even angry.  You offered a sincere apology.  How dare they not accept it?  How immature of them!  How un-Christlike!  And you walk away feeling superior.  You did your part.  They were too childish to do theirs.

But have you ever asked yourself why you are apologizing?  I think our reasons for apologizing change all the time.  And understanding why you are apologizing gives great insight into the way you react afterward.

Sometimes we apologize because we feel genuinely sorry.  Sometimes it's an attempt to get out of trouble.  Sometimes it's because it's what we think we are supposed to do, even when we don't feel sorry.  Sometimes our mom or wife or friend pushes us into apologizing.  Sometimes the person we've offended demands an apology and we offer it out of fear.  Sometimes we're too tired for the fight and just apologize hoping to end it.  There are more reasons we apologize than I can list.

When I say I'm sorry I should mean it.  It shouldn't be about getting out of trouble or doing what's right.  It should be because I saw the hurt I caused, realized I was at fault (either partially or entirely), and want to make amends.

And this is why I don't make my kids apologize.  When they were little I taught them to say, "I'm sorry."  Even when they didn't feel it.  And once they were old enough to say, "But I'm not sorry," the conversation changed.  We discussed other people's feelings, how our actions affect others, and repentance.  Their apologies began to hold greater meaning.  They are 14-21 now.  When they hurt each other they are often not sorry.  In many circumstances I could still bully them into apologizing.  But I won't.  I will chastise and teach.  And if they are unwilling to try to make up for being hurtful (usually because they aren't ready yet), they won't be allowed to stay in the room with the rest of us.  And maybe I will apologize to the person who was hurt because my child misbehaved.  I won't claim the offender is sorry.  I will say I am sorry for their behavior.  Because I am.  Sometimes they later apologize; sometimes they don't.  But when they do, they mean it.

And sometimes, even after all this, even with a sincere apology, forgiveness doesn't come.  The hurt individual stays angry.  And I am okay with that.

I think a sincere apology stands on its own, with or without forgiveness.  If I offer it with my whole heart, I am more concerned about healing a wrong I have committed than being forgiven.  Sometimes it takes a person a while to heal from a hurt.  If I am getting angry or bitter with them because they aren't accepting my apology as quickly as I think they should, how sincerely concerned was I about hurting them?  If I love them and am truly sorry I hurt them, then I have to step back and allow them the time they need to heal instead of demanding that they get over is so that I feel better.

Too often we don't allow people time to process their feelings as deeply as they need to.  We rush things.  We want to feel better now!  You need to forgive me so I can feel better!

Forgiveness is important and I accept an apology as quickly as I can.  Sometimes that's immediately.  Sometimes it takes time for me to heal.  A few minutes.  A few days.  Sometimes longer.  I appreciate the offer of an apology, but I won't fake healing.  I won't pretend I'm over it when I'm not.  Very few things offend me, but sometimes I am hurt.  Often by a repeat offender.  I won't cheapen myself by quickly saying it's all okay when it's not.  My feelings and pain matter.  If I don't value them, who will?

Doesn't everyone deserve that same freedom?

**********

My post was inspired by this post, by Beth Ann at It's Just Life.  Thanks, Beth, for making me think.

Why Did I Get Out of Bed?

Let me set the stage a little.  I was very dizzy yesterday so I took some anti-dizzy medication.  Mixed with the Xanax I am taking let's just say I was VERY tired.  However, I still didn't get to bed until about 12:30am. 

Since I am the human alarm clock in my house, my day started at 5:00am.  Wake up one daughter so she can study for a test.  6:30am start waking other kids.  7:00am wake son.  7:07 wake son again.  And 7:14.  And 7:21.  Son is already grounded from the computer for other infractions, so what do I threaten him with now?  Finally scare son enough (pretty loud yelling) that he gets out of bed at 7:28am.  Keep in mind that I have to walk down the hall on my very painful foot each time to do this.  To say that I am irritated with him does not come close.

Spend the next twenty minutes trying to get him to move faster than a sloth so that he will be ready when his ride comes.  As he purposely pushes every single one of his sister's buttons.  When his ride comes he makes them wait a minute or so while he hunts for his jacket.  I am just glad to have him out of my house.

I lock the doors and go back to bed.  I can barely keep my eyes open.  I am still feeling the effects of yesterday's medications.  I set my alarm for noon.  I will surely be able to get up by then.  Or not.  Many snoozes and alarm changes later, I finally get up at about 1:30pm.  My foot hurts so bad I can barely walk.  I have to eat something so I can take some anti-inflammatory meds without extreme stomach pain.  I stumble to the kitchen and have a bowl of cereal (after I wash a bowl and spoon because the dishes have stacked up -- again).  Of course, the kitchen smells of something really nasty that I'm sure is buried under all the dishes.  I get my frozen water bottle and take it to my room so I can put my foot on it.  I try to catch up on some blog reading.

Half an hour later, I take the water bottle back to the freezer.  Passing through the living room on my way back to unlock the door so the children can get in, I notice a discoloration on the carpet.  Not a subtle one.  Cat puke.  Of course.  So I limp into the kitchen and get what I need to clean up the cat puke.

I get a text message telling me my daughter is on no-credit status because of unexcused absences or tardies (which I know I have called and excused).  I get an email that another daugher is failing one or more of her classes (she says the teacher hasn't entered all her make up work).  I find myself in the basement looking for something and can smell cat poop.  Somehow, as strong as the smell is, I can't find it.  I eventually have to give up and decide to try again later.

One daughter comes home, very sick.  I send her to bed.  It's her turn for dinner so now I have that as well.  Did I mention that my foot is killing me and my meds are sending me into a depression?  Just walking around my own house is hard.  I need a shower.  But now I have to go out in public.

Two more daughters come home.  Aside from their irritating cheerfulness, things seem to be okay with them.  I realize it's getting kind of late and I haven't heard from my son.  I decide to give him a little more time to check in.

Oldest daughter comes home and collapses on my bed.  Super tired and stressed because it's finals week at college and she is pushing every limit she's got.

Finally decide I can't wait any longer and I have to track down my son.  I try to call the only friend I can think of and their phone isn't working.  I decide I'm going to have to drive to his house.  I look like death warmed over.  I drive up there.  She says they were there but they went to do parkour somewhere.  She doesn't know where.  She can tell by my face that he's in trouble.  We each promise that whoever finds them first will make them contact home.  It is now 2 1/2 hours since school ended and since it's winter it's dark.  He's fourteen.

I am a pretty relaxed parent in many ways.  My kids get away with a lot.  But I have one major rule (other than don't kill anyone) and that is that I must know where you are and who you are with.  Always.  You do not leave the school to go anywhere but home unless you call first.  You do not stay at the school to practice your instrument or work out in the weight room unless you call first.  You do not say you are going one place and then go to another place without checking in first.  You do not leave me wondering where you are.  Especially if you already ticked me off that day.

I drive around for half an hour checking parks.  No sign of him.  The street lights are now on.  I go buy Little Caesar's pizza because I'm in charge of dinner now.  Still looking like garbage.

I decide to go home and wait it out.  On my way, he calls.  Our conversation goes like this:

"Hi, mom." (sounding cheery and nonchalant)
"Are you at T's house?"
"Yeah."
"Get your binder (which he left there last week).  I will be there in five minutes to pick you up."  (It's now three hours since school has been out.)
"You mean I can't stay?"
"GET YOUR BINDER.  I WILL BE THERE IN FIVE MINUTES TO PICK YOU UP.  ARE WE CLEAR NOW?"
"Yup."

I pick him up.  I can't even speak because I am so angry.  (Okay, fine, the meds may have something to do with my aggression.  But this is also not a first offense for this boy.  He's been warned and grounded before.  Several times.  I have had it!)

We get home.  I kick his sister off the computer and tell him to log into his facebook account.  Then I send him to take out the over-flowing trash.  As he does that I change his facebook status to:  "This is Nik's mom.  He is grounded from any contact with friends for the next two weeks.  Do not invite him to do anything or call until after Christmas.  He is unavailable.  Thank you."

I go in to make sure he puts a new liner in the trash can only to find that someone spilled something nasty in the trash earlier when it didn't have a liner and just put a new one in anyway.  So whatever they spilled has now fermented.  I get the Lysol and paper towels and start to clean it out, only to find that there is also an entire serving of mashed potatoes in the bottom of the trash can.  Soft and gooey mashed potatoes.  This is a 30-gallon trash can so I have to practically climb inside to clean it.  Awful smell.  And now choking on the Lysol.

People eat their pizza.  Husband finally gets home.  I am a little irritated at him, too.  He forgot to charge his phone last night so it's been dead all day.  This means I couldn't call and ask him for help finding my son, to pick up dinner on his way home, or complain about the horrible day I was having.

I finally take a bath.  Now I no longer look like an unearthed zombie with a hangover.  I head into the kitchen to see if there's anything I can eat (I hate Little Caesar's pizza).  I finally make a couple peanut butter and honey sandwiches.  I go back into the kitchen to put my dishes away.  I don't have the heart to make the daughter in charge of dishes do them because she's the one studying like crazy for finals.  I have other daughter unload the dishwasher and I load.  In the process I find that both sides of the sink are clogged because my family simply cannot resist the urge to throw solid food into the sink.  Our disposal has been broken for over a year.  I have been lecturing for about that long.  They aren't getting it.  As I do the dishes I find chunks of curdled milk, soggy Cheerios, sandwich baggies, a box top, the sharp removed top of a tin can, and bits and pieces of no-one-wants-to-guess.  And a seriously disgusting rag that could easily be used for a science project in its current state of stench.  I end up using our mini-plunger just to get the sinks to drain.

My head is killing me.  I'm tired.  I have zero patience.  I have done no Christmas shopping because my foot hurts so bad and my meds are playing havoc with my system.  We don't even have a Christmas tree.

And my daughter just sent me a text asking me to wake her at 5:30 tomorrow morning.

Today, I am Scrooge.  And I am completely and 100% okay with that.  Wake me up in January; I'm skipping the rest of this holiday.

Pedmeregocide

Last Sunday was a little ugly.  I'm not afraid to admit it.

We're a go-to-church-every-Sunday family.  (Except for dad, although that only plays a small part in the story.)

I got up early to work on my lesson.  I'd been up for an hour or so showering, curling my hair, making cute little handouts.  Things like that.  I was in a pretty good mood.  It was going to be a lovely day at church.

Then it was time to wake others.  One daughter was out of town.  That took a little pressure off.  One daughter was exhausted from performing in the orchestra for her school play the night before, but she's kind of a morning person (at least compared to the rest of us) so she groaned and got up.  One daughter is in college.  She got up, looked at the clock, and said she was going to be late (I'm thinking, "Then why don't you get yourself up in time to get ready like an adult?" *grrr*).

The morning started to turn at this point.  Oh, did I mention that I started new meds a day or two before that have been affecting my moods?  No.  Well, that could possibly have played a part in the day as well.

Last two.  These two are the toughest.  They have never been morning people anyway and are both at that age when their bodies need a lot more sleep.  And they haven't gotten to the point where they will get up and do something they aren't dying to do if they are still tired.

I wake my son.  Four times.  Every five minutes or so.  The last time I am not pleasant.  "Get up here now or you are grounded from the computer for a week!"  (You've got to know their currency.)  He stumbles upstairs like the living dead.  I tell him to find his clothes before he eats.  He groans an assent.

I wake my youngest.  She tells me she is *cough, cough* sick.  I tell her she is tired and to get up.  We argue back a forth a bit, me getting more impatient every minute. 

My husband and I have a deal that I won't force the kids to go to church.  (And really, if you're forcing someone to go to church will they be getting much out of it?  The gospel isn't really about force; it's about choosing.)  I agree with this in theory but it's a little tougher to live up to Sunday morning as my stress is climbing.

I tell her that it can't be a decision every Sunday.  You just have to plan to go.  Otherwise you're going to choose to sleep in more often than you think.  Soon you won't be going at all.

I hear my son eating.  I ask if he found his clothes.  He tells me he did.  (Let me add here that he has grown many inches lately and now only has one pair of church pants and one church shirt.  I know, I need to get on that.)

The daughter refuses to go.  We are both grumpy and snapping at each other now (fairly loudly).  I tell her I am leaving and I am disappointed that she won't go.  Son is still eating.  I tell him he's going to be walking (only a few blocks) and he'd better get there soon to do his duties.  Two older daughters are ready and head out to the car with me.  As I pull out of the driveway son peeks his head out the door, gets my attention, and tells me he can't find his shirt.  I tell him good luck and he'd better look harder.  I drive away.  (I am now cursing my sleeping husband for not being up to help me.)

Youngest daughter gets to church just as it's starting and tells me her brother still can't find his shirt.  (I'm fairly certain there is smoke coming out of my ears now.)  I get in the car, drive back home, and start hunting.  I can't find it either.  He gets a lecture for lying to me about having found his clothes.  And another one about learning to put his clothes away. At rather high volume.  He finally ends up wearing one of dad's dress shirts (at least four sizes too big).

We drive back to church (son has missed his duties) and I am trying desperately to let it all go so that I can get something from the meeting.

Throughout this morning the thought that kept running through my head was, "I'm going to kill him/her."  I must have thought that ten times.  Maybe not the best mood to go to church in.  But, if you're in that mood, I guess church is the best place to go.

At this point, the wordsmith part of my brain kicks in.  What's the word for wanting to kill your child?  Homicidal is too general.  Fratricidal is wanting to kill your brother.  There's got to be one for wanting to kill your kid(s).  I can't come up with anything.

After the meeting, and before the others, I speak to a couple of my friends I know pay attention to Greek and Latin roots, like me.  I ask if either of them can think of anything.  They can't.  Although we consider Youth-anasia.  (I know, it's only funny if you're a nerd.)

By the time I get home I still don't have a word, but I've come up with a complex.  I declare that I have a Medea complex, which still doesn't entirely apply because she just killed her sons and I have daughters involved.

I mention to my oldest that I've been trying to come up with a word and does she have any idea.  (She's an English major so she's dealt with root words more recently than I have.)  She starts working on it.  Soon my other daughter and son are working on it as well.  They are on the computer, looking up root words.

And I just start laughing.  I have just told my children that I spent the day wanting to kill them and they are working to figure out what to call it.  As if I've just asked them to define the word shoe.

They said they knew I didn't mean it.  And that makes me happy.

The final word they came up with was pedmeregocide, a mix of Greek and Latin roots.  Ped - child, mere - part, ego - self, cide - kill.

And that's what teamwork looks like in our family.

Mama Bear Goes Crazy

I tend to be a very logical person.  I'm not super emotional most of the time.  I don't get flat out angry very often.  I get irritated.  I get frustrated.  I snap at my family.  But it takes a lot to provoke me into a full blown chew out of someone outside of my own home.

(I am a very direct person, so I think people feel like they are being chewed out by me more than I do.)

But every now and then something happens that I just can't let go.  I process it.  I stew over it.  I can't stop thinking about it.  If I can't let it go, I believe it's only fair to the person to let them know that it bothered me.  That way, if there's been some kind of mistake or miscommunication they can clear it up.

When this happens I try to really think about it first.  I try to make sure that I can communicate my feelings accurately without attacking or accusing them.  I try to find a place of peace in myself.  I try to communicate with love and a desire that everyone involved grows from the experience.

And then there's Mama Bear.  Every once in a while something will happen that I sense is a threat to one of my children.  Maybe it's a physical threat.  Maybe it's a spiritual threat.  Maybe it's a psychological threat.  Whatever the case, if you cross this line -- WATCH OUT!

This is when I lose my mind.  This is when I say something that is pure vile.  Totally mean.  With every intent to make the receiver incredibly penitent.  And sometimes I even take that jab in that tender place that I know will hurt their feelings.

My weapon of choice is generally email.  Words are my strength so I hit hard.  And that way the tears of anger I'm crying don't weaken my position or make it so that I can't speak clearly.

In an intense heat of fury I rattle off a scathing email.  I can almost feel the fire under my fingers as I type.  I feel as though I am channeling a demon out to destroy.

And I have that moment.  The moment when the email is finished, fully composed, and I have that little voice that tells me to think a little more before I send it.  Wait just a while.  You might regret this.

But my darker angels win and I hit send.

It is usually within a day that I begin to regret it.  And I compose another email.  This one says, while I still mean what I said about the problem, I do not think you are the devil incarnate and I hope we can still be friends.

I am not proud of this behavior.  It is animalistic at it's purest.  And so far people have been understanding and we've been able to work things out.

But I have learned one very important rule:  You'd better respect Mama Bear.