I have never liked processed meat, and that flavor of tortured meat and spices laden with green olives and pimentos made no sense to me. The meat had a pungent, hot dog-like flavor (As this thing is basically bologna, that makes sense.), but much stronger. This was not food for a child. I would start to gag when I would open the lunchbox and smell the bologna on steroids. I would quickly scan the lunchbox for something edible and then I would close it quickly before I had to smell it anymore.

And yet, they would pack it in my lunch every single day. Did nobody ever see the untouched sandwiches in the box, or did I quickly throw all that out so that nobody would know that I rejected the efforts of my brothers? I couldn’t get up the nerve to complain about the disgusting stuff, so they continued to pack them. 

Any time I get near processed meat, it tastes like sorrow and neglect. 

Speaking of strange meats, people used to serve beef liver at least once a week. In the 50s and 60s, liver was considered a health food, with its high iron content, whereas it is actually an unhealthy choice because the livers of those animals had to filter all the poisons in the animal’s environment. 

Beef liver was cheap. And so there it was at Celeste’s table every week. Celeste cooked liver like she cooked everything else—by tormenting it.

Look, there’s nothing good I can say about liver. But it can be nearly edible if it is handled correctly. Cooked liver can taste bitter. When overcooked, liver can get rubbery and tough. Everything Celeste touched was overcooked.

There was Celeste, frilly apron covering her tweed suit, cooking liver until the meat capitulated and admitted its wrongdoing. She served the creation on her fancy Spode china and put it down in front of me. I attempted to cut the meat and a chunk of it flew off from the main dry chunk, soared through the air, and landed pathetically on Celeste’s white dining room carpet. 

In a real home, a dog would be there to snarf up the piece of liver.

“Eat that liver.  I cooked it and you will eat it. You will not leave the table until you have eaten the entire piece of liver.”

I just couldn’t. It was dry as a pile of wood chips and stuck in my throat making me gag. And the smell! 

So I started taking the part-chewed pieces of meat and putting them into a paper napkin. At the end of the meal, I rolled the napkin up and forced it into slats under the table. 

She’ll never find that.

But she did. A week later, she discovered the napkin full of partially chewed liver pieces and she made me sit at the table until I had eaten every single piece. 

I should have puked it all out.

But then, I would have to clean it up.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer and Terms of Service.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

In the early days of my marriage, we moved to a different state every year for five years because that’s what my husband wanted. In Iowa the second time, I spent most of my time cooking, baking, and cleaning for Tom’s brothers and their friends.

I went along with Tom’s constant sexual demands because I couldn’t handle the abuse and hostility I would have gotten had I said no. At this point, he didn’t hit or assault me. He didn’t need to. The abuse came from his mind and his tongue. The constant put-downs and insults combined with my absolute financial dependence and isolation were enough to keep me quiet.

I felt violated at such a deep and intimate level, I lacked the capacity to even discuss this. I was afraid that if I told the truth about how much I hated our sex life, the world would explode. Or more accurately, Tom would explode. An implicit threat of violence loomed over me and I feared retaliation if I spoke up or sought help. Nobody knew better than I did about the short distance between verbal and physical abuse. Tom didn’t start to hit me until a couple of years after Iowa 2, but I knew the danger signs.

I lacked the ability to talk about it. How could I discuss this thing that made me feel so disgusting and unsafe? It took me decades to be able to use the name rape for what was happening to me. Like other forms of domestic violence, marital rape is about exerting power and control over your partner. And it is also about sex. It was about Tom being so horny that he couldn’t control his behavior and about me being repelled by those behaviors.

“Approximately 10-14% of married women are raped by their husbands in the United States. Approximately one-third of women report having ‘unwanted sex’ with their partner. Historically, most rape statutes read that rape was forced sexual intercourse with a woman, not your wife, thus granting husbands a license to rape. Marital rape was first declared illegal in Nebraska in 1975 but did not become fully illegal in the United States nationwide until 1993 when it was finally declared illegal in Oklahoma and North Carolina. On July 5, 1993, marital rape became a crime in all 50 states, under at least one section of the sexual offense codes.” (Minnesota Coalition Against Sexual Assault. https://mncasa.org/ Accessed February 25, 2023.)

The push for sex comprised the total attention I got from Tom. I finally became so distressed that I called the minister who had married us.

“Madelon, it is good to hear from you,” said the Pastor. I was surprised that he remembered me. He probably remembered the shell-shocked, very young girl who was folded into the family and didn’t really want her. “How are things going?”

“Not well, Pastor. Not well at all. We are renting a horrible old house out in the country. I don’t have any friends. I don’t have anywhere to go, much less the means to travel. I don’t have anything to do but housework. We came back here because Tom’s parents made us, and I just don’t understand it. I feel like second fiddle to Tom’s family. Tom is always with them doing whatever they want him to do. It’s like I don’t exist. Tom’s brothers and their friends are here all the time. They treat me like a servant.”

I didn’t have the words

I did not tell the pastor about the sexual situation. I just couldn’t. I was so ashamed, I didn’t have the words.

The pastor called Tom and requested that he come to his office to speak, and Tom complied. He told me about it when he got home.

“Well, what did the pastor have to say?”

“He said this,” answered Tom: “Now, Tom, remember, you married Madelon. You did not marry your brothers. Or your mother. Or your father. You promised to put your wife above all others. That is what marriage is about.”

“Well, what do you think about the pastor’s advice?”

“I think he’s right. I did make those promises to you.”Tom agreed (Such an agreeable young man!), but none of his behavior ever changed. This would be the first time that Tom lied to a therapist I was seeing. He could be very convincing.

Nothing changed. It was the army of young men and I was in the background.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

I was 19 years old, barely out of high school, and trauma had eaten away at my psyche like burning frostbite.

Colorado to Alaska, Alaska to Iowa. Iowa to Montana, Montana to Colorado, Colorado to Iowa. Wherever he went, my dog, Abraxas, and I followed. In January 1970, Tom was talking about traveling to Alaska to work on the pipeline instead of enrolling in the spring semester at the Colorado State College, where we had met. 

We went on the hare-brained adventure, driving the Alaska Highway with a friend. Kenny had a 1965 Ford F250 pickup truck with a baby blue chassis and a white roof and skirting. The men intended to get work and get rich working on the trans-Alaskan pipeline. I don’t remember making plans so much as simply agreeing to go along, being certain that the man I thought I loved would take care of me. 

I was 19 years old, barely out of high school, and trauma had eaten away at my psyche like burning frostbite. What I had endured up to this point was beyond what my brain could process. I was exhausted from trying to make sense of things, and I passively decided to turn my will over to Tom and let him make the decisions because I couldn’t. I was easily triggered and once I was triggered or in a flashback, I found it very hard to regulate my emotions. Trying to make rational decisions was about as effective as that frostbite victim with three fingers trying to insert a tiny screw into a delicate item. 

Experts say that safety is a core issue for survivors of CPTSD

Of course, we didn’t know about PTSD or Complex PTSD (CPTSD) at that time. Research about CPTSD was a long way off. Judith Herman didn’t even coin the term until 1992. 

Experts say that safety is a core issue for survivors of CPTSD. Safety means feeling secure, and that risk, danger, or injury is reduced from occurring. Safety exists not only in the physical sense, but also includes feeling safe emotionally, mentally, and psychologically. I can say without hyperbole that I had never experienced a day of safety up until this point.

I thought Tom was my safety, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him leaving me.

He was older. He was so smart. He had wealthy parents who worshipped him. He loved me. I could trust that what he said was true. He said there were great jobs in Alaska, so we threw things into bags and loaded Kenny’s pickup. I didn’t want to be in college, anyway, and I sure as hell didn’t want to live in the same town as my father and stepmother.

America was in chaos between the many protests against the Vietnam War, the protests by marginalized people who sought social justice, and the conservative backlash against the tumultuous 1960s.

Let me on that truck.

From the perch of the Ford’s blue and black plaid upholstered cab, we picked up the Alaska Highway outside of Dawson Creek, British Columbia. Winding and rolling through the wilderness, Tom and Kenny took turns driving and shifting the four gears on the column. Although I was perfectly capable of driving a stick shift, “The Little Lady” was not allowed to drive the big boy truck.

Winter is the best time to travel the two-lane Alaskan Highway. Canada still had permafrost, and we bounced over chuckholes, loose gravel, and frost heaves relatively easily. The last 33-mile-long passage was the dirt Yukon Trail that wound through rustic, wild country. Thousands of acres of evergreens. Old buildings that looked like they belonged on a Western movie set. Tiny towns growing more rural and Northern. Hard-drinking, funky taverns with ungulate antennaed heads staring lugubriously from walls. Scruffy bearded men gaped at me as though I were some kind of confection ready to be consumed.

We snaked through the wilderness. On our stops for gas in northern Canada, we started to see a stomach remedy similar to Alta Seltzer being sold under the name Madelon Bromo. We couldn’t help but notice this product, as the spelling of my name is unique. Tom thought that a Canadian stomach product with my unusual spelling was incredibly funny and something to tease me about. Thus, I became known as Madelon Bromo. At first, I thought it was funny, too. But after days of being called Madelon Bromo, I asked Tom to stop because it hurt my feelings.

“Oh,” out came the falsetto voice. “Little Madelon has her feelings hurt. Oh, that’s so sad about her feelings (His voice went up at least two octaves and dripped with contempt on that last word, as though feelings were something so dirty the word could hardly be spoken.).” He spoke with a combination of superiority and disgust. I kept a blank face, but my insides were twisted in intense shame. I never said another word about mocking nicknames. It was easier to let him pick away at my minuscule self-esteem. I quickly learned that expressing my emotions or needs just made me a bigger target. Well, that was the way I grew up. I did whatever I thought I had to do to stay some kind of safe.

The farther north we drove, the meaner Tom got. Sandwiched between two big men, I fought off panic and flashbacks and was fully aware of my helplessness in this untenable situation. This started out as a fun adventure. I quickly came to realize that my life was in the hands of two hefty men I hardly knew. Rolling through the extreme northwest corner of Canada, we passed Grey Mountain southeast of Whitehorse, Canada. As we drove into Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory, we decided to stock up on some groceries. I knew how to do this, so I started loading basics into the grocery cart. The selection was poor, but I purchased what I could and brought it back to the pickup.

“This is what you call butter?” sneered Tom as he picked up the sticks of margarine, his mustached lips curled in disgust. I looked at him in confusion. “Ummm. Isn’t that butter?”

“No, Madelon. Read the label. This is not butter. It’s margarine. Marg. Are. In.” He then superciliously began reading off the ingredients: “vegetable oil blend, water and whey, artificial flavoring, beta carotene, citric acid, diglycerides, monoglycerides, salt, soy lecithin, and vitamin A palmitate. Does that sound like butter to you? For fuck sake, it’s not even food. Why would you want to eat this?”

“I don’t know. It’s what my family always bought. And it’s a whole lot cheaper than real butter.” 

For god’s sake, man, just let it drop. 

I have to wonder now where Tom got his information about the vast money to be made in Alaska, as we traveled there in 1970. It wasn’t as though one could hop on the Internet and get the scoop. I have just recently learned that the construction of the Trans-Alaskan pipeline took place between 1975 and 1979. I guess that answers my questions about why he never got any work in Alaska.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

Once you come to your senses…

Sarah and I kept in close contact after they moved, and I expected her support when I finally made the decision to leave my marriage. I was wrong. I had fallen in love with another woman. I think of this affair as more of a catalyst to leave a miserable situation than as a reason. Sara did not approve. “My God, Madelon. What are you doing? You are not a lesbian. Once you have come to your senses, you can date my son Steve and we can all get back to something that makes sense.” I never did “come to my senses,” but neither my lesbian affair nor my lesbian identity lasted long. In the Winona years, I stopped drinking to excess, and I entered therapy and 12-step groups. I finally became able to face the demons of my background. I knew it would be hard, but I needed to show my little girl that the cycle of abuse ended here with me.

The Willows’ stint in Indiana was short-lived.  After my divorce, I was living in Winona, Minnesota, and the Willows moved to an exurb of that small city a couple of years after they left Houston County. I met their return with much joy, and they came just in time to decorate for Christmas. I personally didn’t have much use for Christmas, but Sarah loved it. “We’re gonna do Christmas up right this year.” The lights, the tree, the decorations. Although Sarah hardly ate anything, she prepared food and served it at her beautifully appointed table. Although none of us had any money, we exchanged presents. 

All the joy left by summer, was when my daughter, Becky, and I went on a camping trip with the Willows. On the first evening of the camping trip, Sarah was very drunk and in a foul mood, and she made an inappropriate, mean comment about my daughter. I don’t remember the context or exactly what she said, but it was to the effect that I gave the child too much leeway, she should be disciplined, and I needed to reign her in. Maybe give her a good slap. 

I had never said anything about the way that Sarah parented Angie, but I hadn’t approved since the day Sarah got that child. I knew she used corporal punishment and that was non-negotiable for me. What did Becky do on the camping trip? Be a 4-year-old. What did I do? Swallowed my shock and anger and went to bed. The next morning, I packed up our gear and left, announcing that I did not care to be around people who did not accept me or my daughter.

Expectations

In a follow-up phone call, I told Sarah, “You have crossed a line. Nobody tells me how to handle my child unless that child is in danger of hurting herself or someone else.” Sarah bitterly unloaded all her disappointment about me: I was queer, I was a bad mother, I was selfish, I had no direction, and I didn’t meet her expectations. 

So you liked me better when I was under Tom’s thumb? Right? 

“Well, you don’t meet my expectations,” I countered. “I expect my friends to be kind and supportive. And Becky and I are a package deal. If you don’t like her or the way I handle her, you don’t have to be around us.” Sarah then hung up on me.

Many years later, I heard from David, and I traveled to Houston County to attend a memorial for Sarah. I had a good visit with David and Patrick. Patrick told me that his mother, who had died (not surprisingly) of lung cancer, had a breakthrough in her dying days. She saw the error of her ways and said she had regrets. I found that news to be earth-shattering. I never heard Sarah say she was wrong all the time I knew her. 

I agreed with Patrick that Sarah having these realizations was healing and remarkable. Patrick and David were back living together in Houston County. And Angie, who had given the family a lot of grief with her acting out, was settled and well-employed in the area. 

I drove back home that bright autumn day, with red and gold leaves, and red and gold flowers in the fields. I was grateful for the fun times I shared with Sarah. I wished her well. I was proud to have stood up to her. 

I never went on to do those Great Things that Sarah said I would achieve, but I did grow a spine, and that has served me well.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

Dad worked as a pharmaceutical representative, and all of his friends outside of the Knights of Columbus were doctors. If the Country Club was Dad’s church, doctors were his pantheon. Dad had made plans for the two of us to go to lunch with some of his doctor friends at “The Club.”

The day before, Dad had come into the house with a sack in his hand and a highly self-satisfied look on his face. “You won’t believe this. I brought you some new pantsuits. I got them from a doctor friend. They are really nice, and you can wear one to the Country Club for lunch tomorrow. Here you go. Try these on.”

“Dad, I brought nice clothes for going out.”

”No, no. I want you to wear one of these beautiful pantsuits. One of them will be just the thing for lunch tomorrow. More appropriate for The Club.”

I reached into the bag and pulled out three “pantsuits:” one pink, one white, and one aqua. 

Nurses’ uniforms! Blocky, elastic-waisted abominations of petrochemical fabric.

“Go ahead. Try them on.” I was mortified as I gazed upon the disgusting items, fully aware of the depth of the insult from a person who would rather see me dressed like a 55-year-old waitress than wear my own clothing. 

“I will go along to get along. I will go along to get along,” I chanted to myself. Dad left the room, and I tried on the aqua-blue two-piece uniform, the least nasty of the three. Of course, it fitted perfectly. I walked into the room where Dad was. “That’s incredible! It looks like it was custom-made. You look really sharp.”

I did not look “sharp.” I looked ridiculous. I had a well-toned, trim but curvy body that was totally obscured by the garment. How fascinating that Dad’s idea of me looking appropriate was to essentially neuter me.

I didn’t want to wear the uniform, but I knew that any other choice would result in a screaming match, so I wore the odious ensemble to the Greeley Country Club, the place that symbolized everything I hated. The place where I had suffered countless humiliations. So what was one more? I was unlikely to see anybody I knew and it was just easier to wear the damned thing and not fight about it. 

Riding west of Greeley, past countless cornfields, we rolled into the parking lot that flanked the big, recently rebuilt Club. The manmade pond with its spurting fountain and Olympic-sized swimming pool arose defiantly out of semi-arid land.

The two of us walked into the Country Club’s dimly lit dining room. Very few people were seated at fussy tables with their tablecloths, cloth napkins, and oh so many pieces of flatware.

What a contrast the two of us made as we walked into the dining room of the Club. Dad was decked out in fine 70s fashion, with a burgundy leisure suit, a burgundy polka-dotted shirt, white shoes, and a matching white belt around his protruding belly.

One of the docs looked up from his menu and said, “Joe, you look a lot prettier than she does.” I snorted, but the humor was lost on leisure-suited Big Daddy. The luncheon passed in a haze, as I was so filled with shame and loathing, I could hardly keep my soul in my body. Although I was of age and a married woman, nobody offered me any booze to numb the pain.

Of course, this became a great story to tell my friends when I got back to our farm in Minnesota. As was my pattern, I would turn all this pain into a joke. I had a good friend who was a dental assistant and my same size, so the offending clothing was put to good use. But the damage done to my spirit was profound.

In a year, Mr. Leisure Suit was dead of a barbiturate and alcohol overdose. I had lost both of my parents by the time I was 26. The rift between us never healed.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

I didn’t know much, but I knew that if this foolish marriage was to have any kind of chance, it was best to be as far away from both sets of our parents as possible.

Toward the end of the summer, Tom suddenly announced that he wanted to move back to Colorado because he missed his best friend there. Tom’s proclamation that we were to return to Greeley was almost more than I could bear. It was unbearable because it was so ludicrous and unnecessary. I ran out of energy trying to make Tom see how much I wanted to stay in Montana. He began making arrangements for our return to Colorado. 

I thought about telling Tom that he could move back to Colorado without me. I loved it in Missoula, and I could just stay here. But those ideas simply died inside of me because, as out of touch as I was, I knew that I had no way to support myself. I knew one couple in town, and that could hardly be counted as a support system. I was dependent on Tom, or more precisely, his parents, to keep a roof over my head. Looking back on it, I wish I had had the courage to stay in Missoula. I honestly think I could have been very happy there. I had not learned to trust myself or my ability to take care of myself. So I swallowed my disappointment and grief and went along with what Tom wanted. Again. 

One day after the pronouncement about our return to Colorado, Tom and I were walking along the river, and as we approached our car on the side of the road, Abraxas dashed out into the road.

No, no, no, no, no!!!!

He was a crazy little animal with his own agenda. He was chasing a rabbit and did not see the car approaching. Tom and I looked on in horror as the car hit the dog and left him there, a soft heap in the middle of the road. Tom dashed to the side of the dog and scooped him up in his muscular arms. Despite the callousness with which he treated my feelings, Tom could be a kind man with a good heart. He loved that dog almost as much as I did.

When we reached the car, Tom wrapped the unconscious Abraxas in a blanket and we drove across town to the veterinary clinic. We had not called ahead. We simply hoped that the vet could help him when we walked in. We got to the clinic, and Tom picked up the dog wrapped in a blanket. Abraxas appeared to be dead, and blood was flowing from his mouth.

Oh no. Please no. Please, please, please, no!

As Tom approached the door of the clinic from the parking lot, suddenly Abraxas came to life and started struggling against the blanket that wrapped him. I watched in horror as his little body fell from the blanket, blood streaming. 

The damned dog then ran off. Although we scoured the neighborhood there on the opposite side of Missoula from our house, Abraxas was nowhere to be found. I was certain that he had crawled into the bushes to die.

We cried all the way home and into the evening. Once again, Abraxas was all I had. I couldn’t imagine living without him and his yipping and garbage stealing. 

I walked around in a haze of grief, giving into frequent fits of weeping. I cried so hard, I thought I might pass out. I did not think I could face life with Tom without my little dog at my side. 

The disappearance and probable death in the bushes of my precious dog gutted me. I had waited my entire life to have a dog of my own.

But only a portion of the deep grieving I did for Abraxas really had to do with him. I mean, it all had to do with him, but so many other layers of grief wrapped around the Abraxas onion, that I couldn’t begin to parse the difference.

Abraxas loved me no matter what.

Abraxas never made fun of me.

Abraxas heard all my troubles while I held his little red body next to mine. I would feel bis body heat and I would breathe in his doggy essence and it calmed my amygdala. Abraxas was my connection with the earth, as dogs always are.

We conveyed the harsh news to our friends, the neighborhood children, about the car, Abraxas, and his disappearance. Cori cried. I cried with her. 

I cried like I hadn’t cried since I was a child. Sobbing from deep in my gut. Racked with grief, I could not stop, I could not breathe. This pain was from a lifetime of pain, especially what had occurred after my mother died.

I didn’t cry when my father told me that he had found my mother dead in her bed.

I didn’t cry when my father married an obviously mentally ill woman.

I didn’t cry when my father and stepmother sent me off to Catholic girls’ boarding school to get rid of me.

I didn’t cry when I was sent to live with a stranger when I was 15. 

I didn’t cry when my foster mother released me from her care when I was 17 and I had nowhere to go.

I didn’t cry when Tom mocked and neglected me.

But I cried over Abraxas. Big, messy, ugly wads of snot sobs. Shaking and trembling and more sobs. Nearly 10 years of extreme grief and trauma came out in those sobs.

I was numb and without joy for three days until I heard a familiar sound outside of our windows.  Yip Yip Yip! High, piercing, loud.

No. It can’t be. Abraxas is dead!

Yip Yip Yip!

Then came the pounding on the door. “Mr. Wise! Mrs. Wise! Come here quick! Mrs. Wise, your dog is back. Abraxas is back!!”

I ran down the stairs and to the front door. And there, right next to Jimmy, the child who had knocked on our door, was my little dog—just as alive as I was. 

“Abraxas! Abraxas! Oh my boy, how is this possible?” 

I picked the mutt up in my arms. 

And Holy Shit! Does he stink.

As I clutched the beloved dog in my arms, my nose was assaulted by the odor of garbage and the worst farts on the planet. And I noticed that my dog was fat and bloated. Abraxas kissed my mouth with his garbage-scented breath.

“Buddy. You found your way back to us from miles away. You found your way back to us having never been in that part of town before.”

Abraxas wriggled, wagged his tail, and farted. 

“Buddy. You ate your way across town! You must have hit every garbage can on the way. That must have been your idea of a terrific vacation.”

I felt Abraxas all over. No broken bones. No visible injuries. The only thing Abraxas had to show for his adventure, other than his fat belly, was a sizable scab on his chin. I think Abraxas had been knocked upside the head—his chin, to be exact. I had mistaken the blood from his chin for blood coming out of his mouth. I had mistaken a knock-out for death.

Here was a piece of Grace amongst my sorrow. My little dog was back. My little dog was resurrected after three days. What a dude. He really was the god of light and dark.

Despite my joy at the return of my little dog, I left Missoula with a broken heart. I knew that moving back to Greeley was a terrible mistake.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

I think that she died of a broken heart. All I know was that I woke one morning to an eerily quiet house. I stayed in my bedroom feigning sleep very late that morning because I was so afraid. The coroner removed Mom’s body as I cringed in my bedroom. I didn’t see or hear any of this.

When I finally emerged, my two older brothers were nowhere to be found, and Dad wanted to talk to me. He told me he found Mom dead in her bed. The day before had been terrifying. My Mom was an alcoholic, and she was mean. I tried to disappear somewhere where I could hold my disappointment and fear. Things had been going so well since we had moved into this house. It had been months since Mom had taken a drink, but now she was at it again. 

And now she was dead. How was this possible? How does a man find his wife dead in her bed?

We buried Mom in a service in the church she despised and hadn’t attended any time in my life. My maternal grandmother came to bury her only child, and with one exception, that was the last I saw of her for years. 

I don’t know how he managed it, but my father sent me to Girl Scouts a couple of weeks after my mother’s death. I don’t remember if this camp experience was planned previous to Mom’s death, but I think it was something Dad thought should be done. He probably didn’t know what else to do with me. Perhaps he wanted me out of the way while he attended to adult things following her funeral. If he knew anything about me, he would know this camp experience would overwhelm me. I had never been away from home before.

The camp was somewhere in the mountains. I loved the mountains with everything in me, but I was numb with grief and misery for the entire week. Extremely shy and introverted, I was afraid of everything, and the exertion required to hike and interact with strangers was almost more than I could bear. 

We were Coloradans. We were Girl Scouts. We were supposed to hike, right? I was an active child, but every step of that hike on that day was so wearying I feared I would pass out on the trail. My heart pounded and I could not catch my breath. My chest felt like boulders were piled on it. The day was hot and sweat was running down my back.

God, could this just be over with?

I think other girls were having fun, but every activity was exhausting. I wet the bed and my sleeping bag stunk of piss. I was unable to care for my long, thick hair, and when I returned to Greeley, it was so matted, it had to be cut off. My long, curly hair had been integral to my identity.

Great. Now I can go back to school looking like a hay mower had passed over my head.

My Dad, my brothers, and I limped along in silent sorrow while a series of housekeepers came and went. Years later, when I read Sybil, the later discredited book about multiple personality disorders, the author said that the young girl went crazy because she was forced to kiss her dead mother. I was, too, but it did not drive me mad. It was distasteful, but not as distasteful as never speaking my mother’s name again. 

Is this how we deal with death? Do we pretend like Mom never existed?

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

Sadly, I was taken in by that hip persona. It was clear that my dad and stepmother thought I was a problem, but I didn’t know what I was supposed to do to win their approval. I was very immature and I did not understand that I needed to be careful about what I shared with Aunt Sue. I had no idea why I was in California staying with her. I did not know that my father had some kind of plans, but he did not bother to share them with me. Instead of understanding or even trying to understand, I was so flattered by being around an adult who actually showed an interest in me, I opened my way up to Sue and later learned what a mistake that was.

Nobody explained to me the reason why I was going to stay with Aunt Sue. My dad allowed me to buy a few new clothes for the first time in the three years since my mother died and put me on a plane to San Francisco. It was exciting to fly and I felt very grown up, although I was not yet thirteen.

Later Dad told me that I was sent to Aunt Sue more or less on approval. I later figured out the Dad was so intent on warehousing me somewhere that he would actually approach a relative of my dead mother. If I had “acted right,” I learned later, I could have stayed there to live, But Dad told me, “You blew it,” spitting out his disgust at my failure as if it were some rotten, maggot-infested fruit that had landed in his mouth.

“Blew it.”

Did it ever occur to you to inform me about this great plan ahead of time? I can lie with the best of them. I didn’t think I had to do that here. If you wanted me to “act right,” did it ever occur to you to provide some guidelines?

Sue introduced me to a girl my age named Maureen. If good behavior was that summer’s objective, Maureen was not the companion to encourage it. She was a preacher’s kid, and with her bleached blonde hair; tight, short skirts; and sullen, made-up face, Maureen could smoke, drink, swear, and flirt with more vigor than anybody I knew. I was very impressed.

As Sue had introduced me to Maureen, and as Sue continually drove me to Maureen’s house to hang out, I assumed that Aunt Sue was cool with whatever Maureen and I did. I later did not understand why Aunt Sue introduced me to this girl and encouraged me to hang out with her if she expected me to act like a Girl Scout. Mind you, we weren’t doing anything all that shocking. Smoking a few cigarettes, wearing too much makeup, flirting with boys, wishing we could get our hands on some booze. I didn’t think these behaviors were all that terrible, so I didn’t lie about what we were doing.

Maureen and I hung out with her older brother and some of his friends, including I boy named Roger who “liked” me. He was a couple of years older—a real teenager—and he was not very smart. I remember that he scared me with his dull mind and big male body, but because the ultimate accomplishment in my pubescent mind was to have a boy—any boy—notice me, I encouraged Roger’s interest as best I knew how.

I remember the beauty and the excitement of California. It was 1963, and it was a young and golden place, just like the Beach Boys said it was. I was sure that something incredible was bound to happen at any time. There was a sense of life and immediacy to California that transcended the uncertainty outside me and the turmoil inside. 

Little surfer little one

Made my heart come all undone

Do you love me, do you surfer girl

Surfer girl my little surfer girl

I have watched you on the shore

Standing by the ocean’s roar

Do you love me do you surfer girl

Surfer girl surfer girl

(Little Surfer. Written by Brian Wilson. 1963. The Beach Boys).

But no sooner than I started to feel some kind of safe, I was put right back onto that plane and sent back to Denver. It’s amazing I didn’t get a whiplash from that boomerang, it all happened so fast. It was as though the entire summer had never happened. 

“I just can’t have you here,” was the only explanation offered by Aunt Sue.

What did I do wrong? What was going on? 

I saw no reason to ever trust an adult again.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

I spent most of my time outside, playing under the bridal wreath bushes with stuffed animals and flowers. I was also delighted in borrowing my older brothers’ record player and 45-rpm records. Bo Diddley, Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry. I loved that music. I would sit on the floor for hours feeding one 45-rpm disk onto the player at a time. Carefully lift that arm and place the needle on the 45. Pop. Click, click, click. Certainly part of the magic of the record player was that these precious items belonged to my brothers, whom I idolized. The music carried me away.

Carried me away from the screaming. They were at it again. The walls seemed to shake as the angry words bounced off of them.

“Money!”

“The house!”

“The Church!”

“That (other) woman!”

The fighting was intense and I would cringe in my room while my parents screamed at one another.  

The screams flowed through the house: loud, tremulous, high-pitched. “Church,” “Knights of Columbus,” “Country Club,” rang out like a pop music refrain. 

Occasionally, I could make out an entire sentence in the screaming, “I don’t know why you wanted to have these children when now you never want to spend any time with them!”

“I would spend more time at home if you were not drunk all the time.”

Mom was not drunk all the time. My mother would binge on beer sporadically while maintaining sobriety most of the time. A law was enacted at the end of Prohibition and lasted until the 1970s, rendering Greeley a dry town. No alcohol of any kind was sold in Greeley. But oh boy, cross the southern city line! We would drive to the tiny hamlet of Evans, where taverns and liquor stores seemed to be the only reason that Evans existed. And indeed, Greeley people would go “over the hill” into the taverns south of town to drink and dance. 

I’m like a one-eyed cat, peepin’ in a seafood store.

(“Shake, Rattle and Roll” written in 1954 by Jesse Stone and performed by Bill Haley and the Comets, among many other artists.)

On summer days, Mom would take the big old station wagon and drive to Evans and then out to the country where I would help her by flinging empty beer cans out of the windows while she drove and sipped on a fresh cold one from the Knotty Pine Liquor Store in Evans. These excursions were meant to be secret, but they were not.

I was very close to my father and thought he was God himself. He called me Cubby and I called him Grrr. 

Daddy Bear gave me the dubious job of spying on my mother and reporting back to him just how much she was drinking. I understood that the drinking was not a good thing because she was so mean, and I thought I was doing the right thing. 

“Just keep an eye on her and tell me what she’s doing. Is she hiding any liquor in the house? When was the last time she drank? We are doing this to help her.”

When the walls rocked with furious screaming (Shake, Rattle, and Roll!) I wondered how my telling on Mom was helping her. My hands shook and the room quivered with anxious, volatile energy as I ratted Mom out again. He was my Grrr, and he loved me. Right? He took me into his lap and he cuddled me. I loved his warmth, his gentle hands, and the Old Spice smell of him. He told me he would help her. I thought I was doing the right thing. I knew that she knew I was spying on her, and I knew it made her angry. Why was I the one given this job?

How did my brothers stay out of all of this? They remained elusive and semi-independent characters as they were 6 and 8 years older than I was. They got all the privileges and no accountability because, as my parents continually said, “It’s different because they are boys.” To me, they were great heroes, even though they teased me cruelly. The family said they were infallible and were operating under special rules, so I, too, thought the boys could do no wrong. Sometimes they were tender and protective, but mostly they enjoyed having power over me. They loved calling me names, and they loved making fun of me.

Oh no, not again. Not again.

My vertebrae were poking into the hard floor as were the sit bones of my skinny ass. I saw their large boy hands circled around my tiny wrists, and I knew they would hold me down and tickle me until I cried. At 14 and 16 years old, the boys had hit their growth spurt and had man bodies. They loomed above me and moved in closer to intensify the hold. Dave held my shoulders down and I gazed into his raw acne outbreak while the citrus smell of Brylcreem crawled up my nose. “No, no, no, no! Please don’t tickle me. Please don’t,” I screamed. Mike, a gleeful sneer splashed across his face, moved in and poked at my ribs with his wicked fingers until I sobbed.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/

The first house I lived in with my family was in one of those neighborhoods that sprung up after World War 2. There a group of us kids ran wild through the alley and backyards. One day, a neighborhood friend offered me advice. “I know a girl who has one of those scapulars around her neck and she never gets hurt on the playground or anywhere else,” she whispered excitedly in my ear. That sounded good to me, so I started wearing the dingy brown scapular, festooned with some tortured saint or another, every day—waiting for that protective miracle, wanting some level of safety in my frightening world. 

I must have gotten the strange object from the nuns at Catechism. The scapular comes from the Latin word scapula, which means shoulders. Originally, monks wore shawls to symbolize their devotion and piety, and eventually, the garment morphed into a string with a square of itchy felt featuring a glued-on colorful patch with the Blessed Mother or some saint on felt. I was neither pious nor devoted: I just liked the sound of something that would protect me from the chaos that surrounded me every day. 

Making this decision resulted in all kinds of sneaking and contortion to ensure that my mother did not know I was wearing the thing. She had contempt for all things Roman Catholic, whereas my father was deeply devout and made sure that his children attended all Masses and Catechism classes. The Church was one of the major reasons for the screaming matches between my parents and having Mom see that scapular was asking for sarcasm or verbal abuse. I did not trust my mother, as my father had singled me out as his favorite, and my mother scared me when she was drunk. She was a binge drinker, so her behavior was unpredictable. Her angry, vicious tongue, however, was totally predictable when she was drunk.

One day when I was 6, I didn’t make it to the bathroom in time, and I could feel the feces collected in my underwear. Sticky and crunchy. I was afraid to approach her, but worked up my nerve and reported, “Mom, I think I pooped my pants.” She responded kindly, “Well, let’s have you take off your panties and we will see.” I never knew how she might respond and I tried hard not to ask her for anything in case my request might set her off.

Suddenly upon this request for help, I had to change my clothing. I was, of course, wearing a dress, and that garment had to come off, as I always changed out of my school clothes and into jeans after school. Mom appeared in my bedroom before I had an opportunity to hide the scapular away. “I know you wear that thing,” she sighed, “and I don’t care. Go ahead and wear it if it makes you feel better,” she said resignedly. These were the only words we ever exchanged regarding the sacred object, and after a time, I ceased to believe in its magic. My shameful secret was revealed and Mom did not react with the wrath I had anticipated. At the same time, Mom was matter-of-fact and compassionate about the streaks in my undies. “It happens to all of us,” she assured me, as she cleaned my bottom with a wet, warm washcloth. The gentle wiping with the warm washcloth felt like love and care. This was a rare day in my relationship with Mom. She didn’t really touch me that much as a rule.

I was always torn in matters of the Church. I loved Jesus and his message, and I liked the candles, incense, and the Holy Mother. I also had a special relationship with my father, who clearly favored me over my brothers. It took many years for me to realize that my most valued status with my father was strictly transactional. He chose me to spy on my mother and to report back to him exactly how much she was drinking, what she was drinking, and where. 

I would report to him, and that night the walls of the house shook with screaming.

“We’re doing this to help Mom,” he lied to me. Mom knew I was Dad’s spy, and this did not endear me to her. The situation was entirely confusing for me.

In my bid to please my father, I embraced the Church and all its rituals. I had a special affinity for Easter, likely because it meant pretty new dresses and the arrival of the Easter bunny. I studied the stations of the cross when Dad took us to confession and I found them bloody and gruesome and unbearably sad. The idea of Christ rising from the dead had little meaning to my 6-year-old mind, but a new dress and the Easter bunny were theology I could grasp and hang onto. 

Mom and I were out shopping, and there it was: The Dress. The most beautiful dress I had ever seen. The tiny garment was made of white satin with a tulle overskirt of rainbow colors. I longed for that thing with all my heart, but Mom said we could not afford it. I entered into a sulk that seemed to linger for months. I could not think of anything else but the enchanted rainbow dress. My resentment toward Mom was likely misplaced; I am sure that Dad controlled the pursestrings, but as Mom had said no to the dress, I blamed her.

Then one day, I returned from kindergarten, and there it was, hanging in my room. I do not know what negotiations or fighting may have occurred to make this purchase possible but I knew that Mom bought the dress. There it was, my Easter miracle. 

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Madelon Wise

Gardening grandma riddled with radical biophilia in the nice Midwest. Animism. Permaculture. Social Justice. Beauty. Dogs. Photography. Retired Writer-Editor working to raise awareness of child abuse, child neglect, and CPTSD.

I am writing my memoir.

uttgardhag.wordpress.com/home/blog-posts/