Telling a teenager the facts of life is like giving a fish a bath. ~ Arnold H. Glasow

I was being completely rebellious while living with Sharon and stayed intrigued by what was forbidden when I was living at home. No way was I waiting to have sex. For me, that closeness was about being needed and and wanted.

Stephen loved me. He said he needed me. I needed him too. I loved Stephen. I wasn’t casual in my attitude toward sex, nor was I educated. I was madly in love and that is all that mattered to me. Stephen was my hero.

At 16, it didn’t take much. We weren’t promiscuous. We were in love. We were naïve.

It was my Sophomore year.

One day I turned to my lab partner and said, “We used a condom yesterday, and it broke.”

“Happens all the time,” she replied. “I’m sure you’re fine.”

Of course I was fine. I had to be fine. Life was too good right now.

Fantasies of being with Stephen forever filled my mind. However, what if I wasn’t fine?

A missed period wasn’t totally unusual. My menstrual cycle was immature. There were no physical signs a human was growing inside me – until one morning when my reflection surprised me. Had my fairy godmother come? My boobs looked fantastic.

A lightbulb went off. Suddenly all I could think was, I might be pregnant.

An ad for a clinic that just around the corner and that was offering free pregnancy tests grabbed my attention, and Stephen and I went together. I needed him to be with me and he was. A woman walked me through the pregnancy test.

Today, many women take it for granted that they can determine whether or not they’re pregnant in the privacy of their own homes — often in the very early stages of pregnancy. Things weren’t always so simple.

I had to give a urine sample in a little bathroom around the corner from the office where Stephen waited. We then had to wait ten days for the results. The long wait inspired nervousness. Stephen and I went back to the clinic and a doctor told me I was pregnant.

At first, I was numb. My world was crumbling. I put on a fake smile and Stephen reached over and grabbed my hand in his. I needed that and he knew. I wanted to appear normal.

I was petrified as the doctor said I was roughly twelve weeks pregnant. He notified me that he had placed a call to my father, as that was the law since I was a minor child.

My days of quiet contemplation came abruptly to an end. It was only a matter of time before Al would summon me back to the house. My breasts were growing; my stomach would soon follow. Would morning sickness kick in?

This was my body, my future — I wanted the decision to be mine and Stephen’s.

Stephen and I made a plan in the next 48 hours. We would have the baby. Get married.

Stephen would enroll in the Navy. That way he was employed and we had benefits.

I would live with his parents. Yes, this was our plan and we called his parents first and said we had some news for them. They invited us to dinner. I wasn’t sure how his parents would react. At dinner we spelled it out, exactly as we had planned, and although they were a bit disappointed, they agreed to the plan. From their house we called Al and invited him over. He refused and said Stephen and I needed to come to his house, alone, and not with Stephen’s parents. It felt odd as we pulled across the street from the house on Covington Road and parked. I had not been here for almost three months and it didn’t feel like I belonged. We walked to the door and rang the bell.

Dotti answered.

The first words we heard as she swung open the door, “An abortion is being scheduled.”

Stephen and I stepped inside the door and sat on the sofa across from Al. We let Al and Dotti know the plan we had and that Stephen’s parents were willing to support our plan.

Al said no. He was making arrangements for me to go into the hospital, the one right around the corner, and have an abortion. He said I needed to have the abortion right away. I was infuriated!

I did not want to have an abortion. It was my baby and this was none of their damn business. To me, in my gleeful hormonal state, it seemed a no-brainer. The baby was mine. Mine and Stephen’s. We were a family. I needed us to be a family.

Also, it was illegal to have an abortion in California at that time. That didn’t stop Al from getting what he wanted. Stephen and I ran out of the house and drove back to Sharon’s.

Stephen called his parents and told them what happened. They were inevitably distressed about the pregnancy, and now shocked at Al’s response.

Women have had abortions throughout recorded history, dating back to 2500 B.C.E.

Almost half of American women have terminated at least one pregnancy, and millions more Americans of both sexes have helped them, as partners, parents, health-care workers, counselors, friends. Collectively, it would seem, Americans have quite a bit of knowledge and experience of abortion. In one of the many curious twists that mark the history of abortion, the campaign to criminalize it was waged by the same professional group that, a century later, would play an important role in legalization: physicians.

A week later Al had me picked up at Sharon’s by the local Mountain View police and had me delivered to nearby El Camino Hospital. I was hiding in the little closet room around the corner from the kitchen. Because Sharon didn’t want the police in the house, she convinced me to come out and go with the officers. She needed to protect her mother.

At the hospital I was told I was getting a D&C. Dilation and curettage (D&C) is a procedure to remove tissue from inside your uterus. Doctors perform dilation and curettage to diagnose and treat certain uterine conditions — such as heavy bleeding — or to clear the uterine lining after a miscarriage or abortion. I was getting an abortion and argued with the nurses that this was illegal. They didn’t listen. I needed them to listen. They didn’t.

All these years later I can still hear the scream I let out. I called Stephen from the bedside phone and we made a plan for him to come and get me about 11pm that night and we would run away. I waited and watched for the nurses to get busy and for them to think I was asleep.

Stephen had the car packed, money from his college account, and we were heading to Denver. That seemed like a good place to go and raise a child Stephen said. I got dressed and waited for a clear moment to make my escape, and then I ran to the elevator at the end of the hall. No one saw me, I was free. I needed to be free. As the elevator door opened on the main floor, a policeman was standing there and grabbed my arm.

Stephen came walking into the door at the same time to see us standing there. No words were spoken as the officer took me back up to my room. He remained outside my door.

The nurse came in and gave me a sedative.

“She’s from a fairly prominent family and we need to keep her here or her dad will raise hell,” the nurse said to the officer.

What was the point, then, of making abortion a crime when Al could make it happen?

I was three months pregnant. I was scared to death. From there, things only got worse.

In the morning the nurses took me to another exam room where the doctor put my feet in stirrups and performed a “very rough,” painful gynecological exam. He then sedated me for the abortion procedure. When I began to wake up, I realized that I could see blood and a black bag on a table over in the corner of the room. I was of course very drowsy. I had just barely opened my eyes, and I then immediately closed my eyes. I could hear voices talking about the disposal receptacle.

When does the Soul meld with the fetus and what happens to the Souls of those aborted?

I went ahead after a little bit of time and acted like I was coming out from under the anesthetic. The nurse told me I’d had a little boy. I was choking back tears. I was given another sedative and taken back to my room. I didn’t like the IV in my arm.

I knew there was nothing I could do that would bring back my son. I was so cold as I drifted off to sleep again. When I awoke, I asked the baby to forgive me. I held my tummy and cried.

I slept for two days and then I was picked up by Al and taken home. I was not offered any professional counseling.

Its been 50 years since I had my abortion.

Even though I have been set free from the bondage of that time in my life, the memories of that time still hurt so deeply upon remembrance.

My breasts were filled with milk, I was very sick, and I felt very alone. At home no one talked about “it” and I was homeschooled for the next two months as my breasts were leaking milk. I could not go to school that way. The secret needed to be kept.

Nothing was ever spoken about my abortion. It was a new day. It was like it never happened. During this time, Al totally checked out of the situation. He almost became numb to the whole thing. He had his own demons to deal with and couldn’t handle mine.

I was allowed to go spend a week with Grandpa Bell. I needed my Grandpa. My room was just around the corner from his room., I always felt safe in his home. He spoke to me so kindly and he showed me love. I was desperate for any sign that I was lovable at that point. He seemed so wise. Tears were pouring down my face as I fell to my knees sobbing, crying into my Grandpa’s lap.

“What is wrong with me Grandpa?! I am at the bottom and can’t go any lower. Please help me Grandpa.”

Darkness crept all over my spirit and I was worn down. My eyes were going dim and my bones could barely hold up my flesh. I was in a pit of despair. I was detaching from life.

Grandpa Bell was a wonderful, kind, gentle and loving man. He gave me a safe place to unabashedly experience all of my emotions – anger, denial, depression…(yes, I was a perfect example of the stages of grief). I was able to mourn my loss. I was so walled up against Al and Dotti.

Stephen did leave and go into the Navy. I never saw nor spoke with him again. I started drugging myself into un-awareness and drinking to the point of making myself sick.

I made a decision that year never to have children. The thought of ever losing a child again was more than I could even bare thinking about. The trail of misery went on.

I wonder if when I die I’ll get to meet him?

I think we’ll look back on the abortion war as one of the greatest embarrassments in human history and an incredible source of pain for so many people. We have cultural trauma around this. That’s why it’s so hard for people to talk about and hear new ideas about abortion, why people tune out discussions or nervously change the subject.

Many offerings for support after abortion are fraught with political intrusions or people assuming to know exactly why we are suffering, what will make us feel better, and what our opinion of abortion should be when we leave. What’s missing is space for authentic conversations and deeper examinations of our experiences in the context of our entire lives and our culture–with the possibility of being happy and free.

I think every experience with abortion is unique. I just shared mine as honestly as I could after all this time.

Everyone faces the challenge of finding meaning to their suffering. Phil McGraw

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What harsh truths do you prefer to ignore?

Was, Is and Yet-To-Be

Doré Frances

Posted on October 14, 2018

“I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.” ― Edgar Allan Poe

I left the house with my school books, clothes, friends phone numbers, bathroom supplies, make up, jewelry, and anything else that I did not want destroyed at the time. I hid the hundreds of Vietnam letters in a box and buried them in the back of my closet.

I was sure once Dotti got home from jail she would want to destroy anything in my room that she could get her hands on. Al assured me he would not let that happen.

I didn’t trust either one of them.

Sharon drove me over to her house and Al said he would see us in three days.

Sharon’s mother, Amelia, was a drug dealer. It was no secret to her family. Her husband was in Mexico and would ship drugs to her in stuffed animals and toys. She packaged them and sold them. Mostly to high school seniors who came by the house. You had to be 18. It was her rule.

Amelia and Sharon lived just down the street from Mt. View High School.

Very convenient.

Sharon was to drive me to my high school each day.

She did. Some days I went to school and some days I didn’t. Stephen was at Sharon’s every day and we had a room together that we shared with Sharon and her boyfriend. For me as a teenager looking for an escape, this was as good as it could get. No parents, all the drugs I needed, my boyfriend and I sleeping together, no one watching over me, no abuse. The challenge was to get the house cleaned up over the next three days and have it look like ordinary people, living an ordinary life, so my dad would feel comfortable leaving me there for as long as possible. I had a guarantee of 90 days. That is something we agreed upon with the police.

The are many reasons people deal drugs, and they are generally pretty simple.

Some do it because they don’t have any other way to survive. Some do it because it gives them power, or it gives them the trappings of status, wealth, and control that can result from the hustle. A few do it because it seems easier and more fun than a “normal” job. Whatever the reasons, dealing of drugs for Amelia had a way of complicating her life, her daughter’s life and many relationships.

It was yet-to-be determined their outcome.

We spent three days getting the word out that no one was to come by the house until they saw a red banner on the front door, or they would be banned. No more drugs.

We cleaned the yard and planted flowers, swept the porch and added chairs with cushions, cleaned the inside from top to bottom and bought new linens and drapes for the bedroom so it looked like just Sharon and I shared the room, opened all the windows and aired out the house, added a few new lamps for light, added new curtains in the kitchen, and Amelia also cooked so the house smelled like a home of a family.

The bathroom got a new shower curtain. Every room was spruced up to look beautiful.

Amelia and Sharon bought new clothes and the situation looked wonderful to an outsider. Amelia knew this was important. Why did Amelia do all of this for me?

At the heart of Amelia was a woman who loved children and although she provided drugs to adults, she would not sell to anyone under the age of 18 and she absolutely felt physical abuse was worse than selling drugs.

She and Sharon had a close relationship that I envied.

At night I would hear them talking and laughing and often see them hugging.

The evening Al came over, everything was perfect.

Amelia, my dad, Sharon and I sat at the dinner table and enjoyed some homemade pizza.

None of what my dad saw or heard was true other than Amelia said she would care for me and Sharon said she would drive me to school each day and pick me up.

Al bought the whole package, and agreed to me being there 90 days and then we would see how things were at home. I never wanted to return to that house.

Al wanted Amelia to call him weekly and let him know how I was doing in school and that homework was being completed. He then offered to pay Amelia $100 per week for my care. She refused.

Amelia was making about $5,000 a month and really did not need the money. Of course, the was not shared with my dad. She just said her husband was a truck driver and traveled a lot and they were financially okay.

She agreed to let Al know if she needed anything extra. Al left money in an envelope so I had $10 per week for whatever I might need. It’s easy to convince someone of anything when they want to believe it so badly.

That is what happened that evening.

Amelia was dealing cocaine, LSD, marijuana, mushrooms, PCP, and quaaludes.

I was high almost all the time and lying to my dad the entire time I lived there. He had some suspicions, however, he was caught in a situation and this was the easiest option for him. My dad and I had an unannounced mutual agreement: He didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.mThe story was very basic, and he bought it. He had to.

I am pretty open with everything now. It was just a chapter in my teen life that I moved on from. I have no problem being honest today about my teen years.

Once Al saw how self-sufficient I seemed to be, good school reports, and no one was asking him for any money, he seemed to look the other way. Dotti was happy I was gone as well.

I never did any drug dealing myself. It scared me. And I was never asked to.

Amelia really did care about me in her own away and cooked wonderful meals for many of us. She also was busy on a daily basis with here “job” and had to keep up appearances. Drug dealing has inherent dangers – you could be assaulted, robbed, threatened, or arrested. Nothing happened to Amelia while I was living there. It was after I left that she was arrested along with Sharon. The FBI had been living across the street for about 8 months watching everyone and everything.

It hit the front page of the newspapers. When Al and I saw it, neither of us said a word to each other.

I was extremely grateful I was not living there when that took place.

Amelia and Sharon lived in Mountain View which was the city right next to Los Altos.

Downtown Mountain View was kind of a ghost town. We would literally rollerskate down the middle of Castro St. on Saturday’s with no problem.

Mountain View High School was on Castro Street next to JC Penney.

San Antonio Center was a mall. The North Bayshore area was still farms. Housing was affordable and the city was considered working class.

Downtown only had Chinese Restaurant’s except for the Weinersnitzel on the corner of Castro and California Street. As teens we felt safe walking anywhere in town even at midnight. Mt. View was a great town back then.

P-3’s flew over almost hourly from Moffett Field and the Blue Angels Air Show was there annually with Fireworks on July 4th. Cuesta Park had an artificial lake and Stephen and I were there every day talking, laughing, walking hand in hand.

I felt accepted, beautiful and cared for by Stephen. He had great parents and we had dinner with them weekly. They were Catholic and saw us as the typical young teenage couple. They asked about my parents and we just kept avoiding that conversation.

There was a drive in theatre on Grant Road and a Rainbow Record Store at the light on Grant Road as you approached the shopping center.

Ken’s Pancake House was a favorite hang out for teens. I loved their bacon and blueberry pancakes as well as their home-made sourdough toast. Linda’s on El Camino was the place to go for lunch – Parisian burgers $.30, tater tot fries $.10.

St. James Infirmary was the local place in which teens went for medical care. They were not suppose to treat you without your parents consent when you were under 18.

Sometimes they did and we all knew they were a safe place to go.

When it comes to LSD, I have to confess, I took it about once every two weeks while living at Sharon’s. This hallucinogen infused the exhalations of activists, advertisers, musicians, and philosophers. There seemed nothing “counter” about this culture; it was prevalent. Acid rock played in those darkened spaces to acid heads, as beams of black light caused DayGlo Op-Art images to shimmer dizzyingly. Typefaces ballooned and swooped, melting across posters and album jackets in drug-induced swoons. The era’s hallmark drug was championed with as much messianic fervor as the era’s countercultural politics. And I, and seemingly everyone else I knew, ingested that culture. I had spiritual adventures under the influence, and never had a “bad trip.”

Dr. Hofmann was the discoverer of LSD when he was a brilliant young Swiss chemist working for Sandoz Laboratories; he was identifying and refining the medicinal properties of various plants. In 1943, after synthesizing a chemical derived from the ergot fungus found on rye kernels, he noticed some unusual sensations.

He entered a dreamlike state, as he described it; when he closed his eyes he saw an “uninterrupted stream of fantastic pictures.”

His real eureka moment came a few days later when he deliberately ingested a minute quantity (0.25 milligrams) of that synthesized chemical — lysergic acid diethylamide — and had the world’s first bad acid trip. Its components included a horrifying bicycle ride, the frenzied drinking of two liters of milk, a neighbor who appeared as “a malevolent insidious witch,” and an emergency call to the family doctor who could see nothing wrong, even though in his autobiography Dr. Hofmann said he felt like “a demon had invaded me, had taken possession of my body, mind and soul.” But the next day everything glistened in a fresh light: “The world was as if newly created.”

I don’t recommend people go experiment with drugs. I’m certainly not a fan of how people use MDMA as a night club drug and abuse it.

A good trip can feel pleasant—the world can seem beautiful, life can seem wonderful, human interactions can seem deep and meaningful. In contrast, a bad trip can bring overwhelming feelings of fear—the world can seem harsh, cold, and ugly, life can seem painful, people can seem superficial and cruel.

I was needing to escape my reality of a bad life and I ran the risk of developing an addiction. I didn’t think about that as I didn’t care. Most people who take pain killers are fine, and then you have a group who just goes crazy with it and it ruins their life.

Same with alcohol.

Some people can have 1 or 2 drinks and other people become alcoholics.

Since I’m not a partier and I’m extremely content with my life without drugs or partying, I see this time in my life as an experience…just an experience. With LSD, it’s very hard to know what strength you’re getting. It’s anywhere from 30-100mcg per a tab. The first time I took it was a Saturday night with Stephen. I took a half of a tab that time and I felt a very interesting sensation across my body. It was relaxing and my mental state was certainly altered. LSD made me more emotional. I was too incapacitated to walk and go anywhere. My whole body kind of shut down in a relaxing way. I now understood what it means that LSD changes you. Once you pop that tab there’s no escape.

The emotions that accompany an acid trip, whether good or bad, can seem overwhelming, difficult to control, and as if they will never go away. While this experience can be pleasant when the trip is going well, a bad trip is unpleasant and frightening for the person going through it as well as for those around.

There can be a fear of going crazy or “losing one’s mind,” as well as intense feelings of paranoia. Instead of choosing to jump, it felt like someone just pushed me over a cliff into oblivion. LSD isn’t for the faint of heart. When you take it, you need to be ready to commit. My experience with LSD was extremely different and I’m glad I took it. LSD is the strongest drug I’ve ever tried. It’s stronger than any amount of alcohol you can drink.

Alcohol is a different animal.

A typical trip lasts eight to 10 hours and there’s no respite or way out once you’ve popped that tiny scrap of blotter in your mouth.

Little did I know life would never be the same again. I went down the rabbit hole.

Though I was quite hesitant at the idea initially—dropping acid with Stephen, sitting together in room about to go into an unknown state of consciousness—it was the perfect opportunity, and as somewhat of a risk taker and thrill seeker I gladly put the tab on my tongue and allowed it to dissolve. 45 minutes later we both turned to one another in tears, staring deeply into each others eyes. Up until that moment in my life, I had no idea it was possible to have such a deep emotional connection with somebody. It was overwhelming to say the least. From that point, we very quickly transitioned from sadness to arousal. Overall, it was a very intimate drug induced bonding session. For the remainder of our journey, we decided to hit the streets at midnight and roam around until sunrise. We saw trees that looked like massive growing broccoli’s, a very alive natural environment that we could communicate with, and wrapped up by contemplating the nature of our existence in the middle of a school football field, holding hands, looking up into the stars in the freezing cold.

During another LSD experience with Stephen, the first question he asked me was: “If you can’t love yourself, how can you love other people?”. This made me burst into tears immediately. It was quite a moment actually. A situation I would have never expected.

The reason this made me burst into tears was because of how accurate it felt.

Another time we took LSD, Stephen and I drove to San Francisco and went to the rose gardens in Golden Gate Park. We took it once wer arrived. I wanted to be close to my mother and because of her love of roses, I felt this was the perfect spot. With the sun peeking through a cluster of trees lining the road beside the Rose Garden located at Golden Gate Park, an award-winning spread of flowers greeted us. A unique variety of roses bloomed and I was enjoying the beauty, fragrance, and sight of hybrid tea roses and various miniatures, to name a few.

To go and view for yourself, to reach this fascinating rose haven, you need to head for the garden situated between John F. Kennedy Drive and Park Presidio Drive. It is there that a breathtaking view is discovered.

On this day I had a few really weird moments where I thought I was experiencing joint-consciousness, or able to perform telepathy. That is, I felt like I was literally talking to my mother, as she stood behind a rose-bush, even to the point that I experienced her talking back to me. It’s such an odd thing to happen. It’s quite a transcendent feeling.

Though most of my psychedelic experiences can be described as enlightening, there’s certainly the odd recreational trip. I always was with Stephen. He was the love of my life at 16. He cherished and gave me what I thought was missing in my life. He was my hero in the moment.

One time that we took LSD a big hunger set in. Pizza was on our mind. We walked a few blocks to the local pizza place and for a good hour we sat there together, staring into space, completely forgetting to do what we came there to do… order pizza!

This was not the most exciting feeling in the world. Forgetting why you are somehwhere.

I am a massive hypocrite for suggesting this – do not take LSD – it’s dangerous. There’s a psychological risk. The risk is that when you have underlying anxiety, depression, or generally when you’re somebody who freaks out easily in unpredictable and difficult circumstances, you could really freak out and have a whole episode which could throw you off for weeks. WOAH what a mammoth of a post!!

Although I believe I’ve come a long way and evolved substantially as a person over the past 65 years, there is still a LONG way to go and much progress to be made.

The year was 1969. What happened after my 90 days? Once again Al navigated the system to meet his needs.

You don’t teach morals and ethics and empathy and kindness in the schools. You teach that at home, and children learn by example. ~ Judy Sheindlin

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What do you spend your time on?

What Does It Mean To Be An Old Soul?

Doré Frances

Posted on October 7, 2018

“It doesn’t matter what world you live in; what really matters is the world that lives in you.”- Learning Mind.

One of the most beautiful things to witness as a father or a mother is to watch the slow growth and maturing of a new soul, born into this world with fresh eyes and a playful, childlike understanding of life. What happens when, as a father or mother, you bring into this world a child who displays a variety of unusual and incongruous traits with that of being a youngster?

Instead of being fresh and uncomplicated, your child is experienced and intuitive.

Instead of being naïve and spontaneous, your child is sensible and knowing.

Instead of being wide-eyed and simplistic, your child is perceptive and complex.

Although strange and perplexing, the Old Soul child is one of the greatest unexpected blessings life has to offer not only because of their innate wisdom, also because of the level-headed stability they have to offer.

You may be unaware of this – your soul ages.

In the same way that we age through this life, gathering wisdom, knowledge and experience, we also age through our soul’s journey. When we talk about an old soul, you probably associate the term with an old person.

An old soul is quite different.

You probably see an old person as being frail, slow, perhaps worn out emotionally, mentally or physically.

An old soul is a much more elevated position. When a soul has experienced a large amount of its journey, it picks up experience and knowledge of a spiritual nature.

We tend not to take our memories from one life to the next however, our soul’s experience stays the same.

There is a special kind of person in our world who finds themselves alone and isolated, almost since birth.

You’ve probably heard the phrase “old soul” before.

Maybe you haven’t given its meaning much thought.

When you or someone you know is withdrawn and thoughtful, it might signal an old soul.

Old souls have trouble fitting in sometimes, yet they often have unparalleled wisdom to share.

I never quite fit the mold of those around me.

I felt isolated and alone. I wasn’t in the same realm as my peers.

The truth is, age has no bearing on whether someone is an old soul. When your soul has been incarnated many times, it’s had more experiences.

Most old souls feel a certain disconnect from the earth, and most are inherently aware that they’re different.

I was often uninterested in what other people in my age group found exciting. As a result, I wasn’t satisfied making friends with people I couldn’t relate to, and I found myself on my own a lot of the time. This is still true today.

The old soul’s tendency to think a lot about everything also leads them to a more solitary existence. This reflection is hugely positive, too. Old souls can learn from their actions and the actions of those around them, which gives them insight into countless situations, which is one of the reasons why they feel so old at heart. Old souls have learned many lessons simply through their own thoughts. Spiritually inclined and with an inherent sense of life’s transience, old souls gravitate towards intellectual pursuits. Old souls see the power in knowledge and the happiness that comes from wisdom. Going after this kind of satisfaction is much more fulfilling for old souls than engaging in gossip or anything materialistic.

When you or someone you know is particularly intellectual, it may signal an old soul. Yes, children, perhaps your child, perhaps you yourself can be an old soul.

Like their adult counterparts, children with old souls are typically dreamy, withdrawn, and thoughtful.

There’s no one way a child with an old soul acts. They relate well to people much older than them, yet they can also get into trouble with adults because they don’t like listening to authority.

Likewise, children who are old souls can underachieve or overachieve. About 10% of the world’s population are made up of old souls – and when you aren’t an old soul yourself, you’ve most likely met one.

Bono, Cameron Diaz, Denzel Washington, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson, Ellen DeGeneres, Elon Musk, Hope Solo, Jim Carrey, Kathy Bates, Keanu Reeves, Leonardo DiCaprio, Leslie Mann, Matthew McCaughey, Nelson Mandela, Oprah Winfrey, Robert Frost, Robin Williams, Russel Brand, Socrates, Eckhart Tolle, Nick Jonas, Tom Cruise and even Will Smith have been called old souls. Perhaps even you have? When you have not yet discovered whether you’re an old soul, read some of the revealing signs.

You aren’t materialistic.

Wealth, fame, status and the latest version of the iPhone … they just bore old souls.

The old soul doesn’t see the purpose of pursuing things that can be easily taken away from them.

Additionally, old souls have little time and interest for the short-lived things in life, as they bring little meaning or long-lasting fulfillment for them.

You are / were a strange, socially maladaptive kid.

This is not always the case, however, many old souls exhibit odd signs of maturity at young ages. Often, these children are labelled as being “precocious”, “introverted”, or “rebellious“, failing to fit into the mainstream behaviors.

Usually, these children are extremely inquisitive and intelligent, seeing the purposelessness of many things their parents, peers and teachers say and do, and either passively or aggressively resisting them. When you can talk to your child like he/she’s an adult – you’ve probably got an old soul on your hands.

You are who everyone comes to for advice.

This is a good thing, and it has a struggle. Who do YOU turn to when you need advice?

Your problems aren’t usually “Why did Alan talk about me to my girlfriend behind my back?” or ” Betsy’s selfie on Instagram copied mine.” So who do you turn to when you feel your life is getting heavy? Exactly. Here’s where a few good friends come in handy.

You forget how to have fun.

Or at least the type of fun your peers are having.

People your age don’t understand you, and sometimes you don’t understand them. This usually makes making long-term friends hard, and you don’t need a lot of friends. Just a few good ones.

Needing a mass of friends goes away and as you age and mature you really understand the concept of quality vs quantity. However, watching a ton of your peers go out and do things that look fun remind you of your differences and kind of alienate you from them.

You can watch it happen and know you wouldn’t get an ounce of enjoyment out of it and wonder why not?

You kinda feel jipped of your childhood and “fun” years because you enjoy other things.

You have spiritual awareness.

Old souls tend to have a grounded sense of spirituality, the result of many lifetimes of spiritual experience.

According to spiritual awakening,

“The old soul might be spiritually aware from birth or experience a spiritual awakening any time from childhood into young adulthood. For the very old soul, it’s usually sooner rather than later.

The old soul is spiritually activated and the life plan that it chose before birth becomes subconsciously remembered.”

You just “feel” old.

Before putting a name to what I felt, I experienced certain sensations of simply being an “old person” inside. I was also born with old hands. As a child I was teased by kids saying I had old lady hands.

The feelings that accompany being an old soul are usually: a feeling of world wariness, mental tiredness, watchful patience, and detached calmness.

Unfortunately, this can often be perceived as being aloof and cold, which is only one of many Old Soul Myths.

You like to help others.

Old souls will actively need to help the planet or other people, setting up charities or teaching others some of their wisdom. Others are much more simple and only help when they see someone who needs it in their life.

However, they all like helping others in some way.

You love knowledge, truth and wisdom.

Yep … this seems a little grandiose and overly noble, however, the old soul finds herself / himself naturally gravitating towards the intellectual side of life.

Old souls inherently understand that knowledge is power, wisdom is happiness and truth is freedom, so why not seek after those things? These pursuits are more meaningful to them than reading up on the latest gossip about some actresses latest boyfriend, watching MTV or knowing the most recent sports scores.

You may struggle finding a significant other

Old souls are basically immediately eliminated out of the dating pool. Based on the maturity difference it would require extreme patience from another person and the odds of it working are slim to none so it’s just not worth wasting anyone’s time. Really you just have to wish for the best. You just want to love, and to be loved back in the deepest possible way. You are wired to love deep, and to fall even harder.

You’re harder on yourself.

Because you feel different you want to use the traits you have to just get ahead.

When you aren’t going to have the “wild” years then might as well use them to get on in your life and move towards your goals. So when you want to progress faster than life allows it can be frustrating and discouraging.

You see the bigger picture.

Rarely do old souls get lost in the superficial details of getting useless degrees, job promotions, boob jobs, hair extensions and bigger TV’s. Old souls have the tendency to look at life from a bird’s eye view, seeing what is the most wise and meaningful way to approach life.

When confronted with issues, old souls tend to see them as temporary and passing pains that merely serve to increase the amount of joy felt in the future.

Consequently, old souls tend to have placid, stable natures as a result of their approach to life.

You’re spiritually inclined.

More emotional old souls tend to have sensitive and spiritual natures. Overcoming the confines of the ego, seeking enlightenment – as modeled by the Awakened Souls – and fostering love and peace are the main pursuits of these young-in-body old souls. To them, it seems the wisest, most fulfilling use of time.

You’re thoughtful and introspective.

Old souls tend to think a lot … about everything.

Their ability to reflect and learn from their actions and those of others is their greatest teacher in life.

One reason why old souls feel so old at heart is because they have learned so many lessons through their own thought processes, and possess so much insight into life situations from their ability to quietly and carefully observe what is going on around them.

You tend to be a solitary loner.

Because old souls are disinterested in the pursuits and interests of the people in their age groups, they find it dissatisfying to make friends with people they find it hard to relate to.

This is one of the major challenges Old Souls experience. The result is … old souls tend to find themselves alone a lot of the time.

Abusive, badgering, clingy, depressed, hateful, insecure, judgmental, unkind, unloving, mean, nasty people just don’t cut it for them.

You understand the transience of life.

Old souls are frequently plagued with reminders of not only their own mortality, also that of everyone and everything around them. This makes the old soul weary and at times withdrawn, and wisely dictates the way they live their lives.

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Just as some old people describe themselves as being “young at heart”, so too can young people be “old at heart”. When you are an old soul, embrace it. Make friends with grandparents, who cares!

Enjoy your alone time, walks in the park, your book on the porch, and your glass of wine with dinner!

Do what makes you happy and the right people will enter your life.

REMINDERS TO NON-OLD SOULS.

We are NOT boring. We like to have fun too. It just might not be what you would choose. It doesn’t mean we don’t want to be included. Please remember us.

We are still young and at times we also make mistakes. We make mistakes just like everyone else. We don’t know everything and it doesn’t make us superior.

We aren’t weird. We aren’t overly deep. We aren’t old people.

In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on. ~ Robert Frost

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What are your strengths?

Families Keep Secrets

Doré Frances

Posted on October 1, 2018

Never, never, never give up. ~ Winston Churchill

Children deserve parents who want them.

As with most domestic abuse, physical torture was only a part. Dotti destroyed what mattered to me. She did her best to destroy what mattered to me.

Attempted murder within families happens more often than most people realize.

What you are about to read is very personal and extremely difficult to write. I don’t even talk to my friends about these details. My childhood left me in emotional pieces. Keeping those pieces together requires a careful balance. Talking about my experiences unsettles my emotional balance.

Families keep secrets when one or both parents attempt to kill one or more of their children. After murder attempts have failed, parents must keep their murderous actions secret. Keeping their attempted murder secrets becomes the focus of the entire family, even when other members of the family do not know about the murder attempts. Parents recruit unknowing family members into protecting these secrets.

Al and Dotti did so by teaching all of our relatives on Al’s side and her side, as well as neighbors to ignore what I said and discount what I did or said. They didn’t know they were protecting a criminal at the expense of the victim.

My family became an attempted murder secret family just after Thanksgiving during my sophomore year of high school. Once again Al was not living in the home.

It took me 14 years to fully admit to myself and a therapist that an abundance of emotional, mental, and physical clues meant that my step-mother had attempted to kill me. I started talking about the murder attempt slowly, to my trusted therapist.

The attempted murder secret became completely unavoidable during a two-year stretch of intensive therapy. I happened to be keeping a journal so I wrote about the therapy sessions every week. Part of that journal is in this book. Writing this book has taken me far longer than I expected because I am on my own coping with my memories and all the secrets within my life.

Dotti did not want me. I knew that from day one. She made no secret about it. After her attempt to kill me physically failed, she spent the rest of my childhood trying to kill me emotionally, physically and spiritually. Most people I talked to about my childhood ignored me. I was blessed with a few dynamic therapists over the years who went well beyond a typical therapy session.

The myth is that birth satisfies the right to life. Birth requires breath.

Life requires food, nurturing, health care, shelter, and safety. The reality is that children who can breathe do not automatically receive food, nurturing, health care, shelter, or safety. I had little nurturing from my step-mother and no feelings of safety. Al was also a victim of my step-mother’s emotional abuse. That is why he would leave and get his own apartment for months at a time. Dotti was an alcoholic and Al did not know how to stop the abuse or cope with it. Periodically, she erupted in rages that could last for days. Those rages meant I could not feel safe.

The reality for children who survive neglectful and abusive parents can be an adulthood of continuing difficulties. While I was attempting to cope with my attempted murder memories, other people looked at me and saw a bitch, a depressed person, a loser.

People who look like good parents can easily hide their attempted murder secrets because no one believes they are capable of wanting to kill their children. It is a trauma that can spill into other lives.

For years I was unable to cope. My inability to cope with overwhelming trauma was challenging for many years and affected many people.

Some of this may be uncomfortable to read. You will also read about a life that unfolds into some happiness. I never expected any sort of happy ending. I do not feel guilty about coping with my life as best I could. Failing to live my life like others expected meant something was wrong with me, in their opinion. I had to overcome that as well. I do not feel guilty about living my own life in the way that I choose. You will see what I have been able to accomplish in spite of my childhood.

Just a few days after Thanksgiving, Dottie went out to the club where she sang. As she left the house she told me to take care of the boys, and use the holiday leftovers to make us all dinner. I had been taking care of the boys for a few years, so this was nothing new.

We had a delicious dinner that evening, almost like a second Thanksgiving.

Roasted turkey, roasted sweet potatoes and I melted more marshmallows over them, salad, mashed potatoes and gravy, dinner rolls and pumpkin pie with whipped cream for dessert. It was so very enjoyable, having dinner with no stress or yelling. After dinner the boys went to watch TV and I got on the phone like a typical teenager.

All the dishes were still on the table and I knew I had plenty of time to clean up as Dotti came home late, after midnight most times. I called my boyfriend Stephen and we made a plan to speak again later again that evening.

I also called my girlfriend Sharon. I told her that I had an uneasy feeling and asked her to call me later and check in on me. She knew I was somewhat intuitive and although was not sure how it all fit together, she took my feelings to mean something and promised to call me later. I got back on the phone with Stephen and just hung out in the kitchen enjoying the evening. It was so nice to be with the boys and hear their playing laughter.

Stephen and I had the most interesting conversation that evening.

“Stephen, do you know what the scariest thing is? It is to not know your place in this world. To not know why you are here. That’s just an awful feeling.”

“What are you talking about?’ Stephen asked.

“I feel like giving up. I am not sure I see any hope for my future. I ask myself every day, ‘who are you?’ and I don’t have an answer.”

“One day you will know who you are. I don’t know who I am either. We are young and we have time to figure that all out.” Stephen was feeling uneasy and wanted to change the subject. It was not unlike me to get into these deep thoughtful conversations.

They did make most people uncomfortable and they usually backed away.

“I’m not a mistake like Dotti says. I know one day it will all make sense.”

“I love you. Don’t give up hope. I’ll call you again later.”

Just as I was getting up from the floor where I had been sitting while talking on the phone, the front door flung open and hit the wall with a bang. It was Dotti. She walked around the corner to the kitchen and saw all the dirty dishes spread across the table along with some still left over turkey. As I stood up she trapped me in the corner and started yelling. I could smell an intense breath of alcohol.

“I don’t deserve to come home to a messy house. What the fuck have you been doing?” she angrily screamed. From the side I could see George ready to walk through the doorway and into the kitchen. Dotti yelled at him to go back onto the family room and then she slammed the door behind him. Ron, Rick and George were at least safe for now.

I was slapped, which was nothing new, and just walked over to the table to start clearing the dishes. Tears ran down my face as no matter how many times this happened, my soul just ached. Each trip from the table to the kitchen was met with a hit from behind on my head. I knew if I said anything it would get worse, however, I could not help myself this time. “STOP!” I said. “PLEASE STOP!!”

As soon as the words left my mouth I hated myself as I knew I had just escalated the situation. Dotti just stood there and watched me load the dishwasher. I didn’t look at her yet could feel her glare burning into the back of my neck.

“I’m afraid I am going to have to call your father and have him come get you,” she said.

“Let’s see how much he loves you. Let’s see if he will come and get you. He loves his slut more than he loves you. I want you out of here. Tonight!”

Dotti picked up the phone and called Al. Then she laid the phone down and said she would continue the call in the back bedroom and for me to hang up the phone when she picked up. I picked up the phone.

“Dad, can you come over? It’s pretty bad here right now. I’m scared.”

“Oh Doretta, I’ll calm her down. It will be okay. I have dinner plans and can’t get there right now.”

I heard Dotti pick up the extension and I hung up. Both Sharon and Stephen had been calling and got a busy signal. They called each other and knew I was not speaking with either of them. They had decided to head over to the house and check on me.

After I finished cleaning up the kitchen I was heading to my bedroom. Just as I entered the hallway that went one way to the front door and the way into a dining room area, Dotti came out in a huff screaming that not even my father wanted me, no one wanted me, and I needed to be gone.

She rushed past me, swung around, pushed me down onto a big green high back chair, picked up the chair pillow, and sat on me with the pillow covering may face and her full weight on top of me. I was about 5’3″, 90 lbs.

Dotti was nearly 6′, not sure of her weight, however, it was lot more than mine. Both her hands were holding the pillow down on my face. She was pressing as hard as possible against my face. I thought I was going to die. I could not catch a breath. I kept fighting.

I was going into shock and was about ready to quit fighting, release, and let myself go.

Then, all of a sudden, I heard voices, and Dottie went flying off of me and onto the floor.

It was Stephen and Sharon. As I gasped for breath they grabbed me and said, “Let’s go!”

I was panicked, not quite knowing what was happening. Gasping for breath I looked around. “Let’s go,” they said. “We need to call the police.”

They pulled me out the front door and we got into Sharon’s car and drove just around the corner to El Camino Hospital.

We found a payphone and called the Los Altos Police department. This took all off about 15 minutes. The police told me I was a reported runaway and that my friends had attacked Dotti. They asked that we come back to the house and meet them out front.

I was afraid to be back at the house. I never knew what Dotti might attempt and the boys were there. I was afraid for the boys as well as Sharon and Stephen. As we rounded the corner there were two police officers standing in the driveway.

I could see Dottie standing at the front door. We pulled across the street and got out of the car. One of the officers walked into the house and the other came over to us.

He asked Stephen and Sharon for their ID’s, and they fully cooperated.

Sharon was 19. Stephen was 18. They were adults. The officer took Sharon aside and spoke to her for about five to ten minutes. Then he took Stephen aside and spoke to him as well. Next it was my turn and we stepped away so he could talk to me privately. I am sure he was comparing stories. He took notes on all three conversations. The officer from the house emerged and the two spoke briefly in the driveway.

Then one of the officers asked me to come into the house with him as he wanted to speak with Dotti and I together. I refused.

“I’m terrified of her. I’m not going back in there. She tried to kill me. Are my brothers okay? They are afraid of her too. Can you take me to juvenile hall instead?”

“Juvenile hall? You want to go to juvenile hall? Have you ever been there?”

“Yes,” I said, “and I would rather be there than here.”

“Will you come in with me and call your father? I’ll ask your mother to stay in the back bedroom while you use the kitchen phone.”

“She’s not my mother! She’s my step-mother. And I don’t trust her She tried to kill me!”

“I hear your concern. I’ll be right there with you. It will be okay. Let’s go call your dad.”

I looked back over my shoulder at Stephen and Sharon, and then walked with the officer to the front door. The other officer walked back out to Sharon and Stephen and they all stood there at the edge of the driveway. The officer and I walked into the kitchen and there was no sign of Dotti. “Go ahead and call your dad,” the officer said.

I dialed his number.

“Hello?” Al said.

“Hi dad. The police are here at the house. You better come over right away. I can’t stay here. Dotti tried to kill me. Please come right away dad.”

“Doretta, what are you taking about? Dotti called and said two of your friends attacked her. Are your friends drink or high and beating up on Dottie? I’m busy and all of this stuff can wait until tomorrow.”

“No Dad, it can’t. Sharon and Stephen are adults and they want to press charges against Dotti. She tried to kill me. They saw it. They saved me. They can you know, they can press charges the police said, they are adults. I think Dotti can get arrested.”

“I don’t belive this. Let me speak to the police.”

I started to turn toward the officer to hand him the receiver of the phone. As I glanced past him I saw Dotti come running into the kitchen.

She was screaming “Fuck you. You bitch. You slut. How dare you. Get out of here!”

She pushed past the officer and grabbed the phone from me. Dotti raised the phone up above her head and flung it full force towards my face. My instinct was to duck, and I did. The phone flew past me and hit the officer square in the forehead. In an instant he grabbed Dotti, pushed her up against the kitchen brick wall, handcuffed her, called for his partner outside, and then looked at me.

“I’m sorry” he said. In that moment, he was my hero. As the other officer came in the door, hand on his gun, he was directed to pick up the phone and talk to my dad.

“Sir,” he said, you need to come to the house and be with your children. We are taking your wife to the police station along with your daughter and her friends. How soon can you be here?”

Another police car pulled up and two more officers were now in the driveway.

One officer walked me out the door and told Sharon and Stephen to follow him to the police station. He told me he was placing me in the back of the car, however, I was not under arrest and I was not in trouble. He just wanted to keep me safe.

“Can my brother George come with us?” I asked.

“No, an officer will stay here at the house until your dad arrives. Once he can get someone here to be with the boys, he will meet us at the police station.”

Once at the police station it was explained to me that Sharon and Stephen were wanting to file charges against Dotti. They were believed. I was believed. And this was now very serious. I was given a Coke and a cookie.

Sharon and Stephen were in another room talking to an officer and I was sitting with an officer waiting for my father to arrive. Three hours later he showed up.

Al, myself and the officer sat together talking and it was explained that Sharon and Stephen had the right to press charges against Dotti, they were adults, and because of the officer being injured, they themselves also had the right to press charges. This meant Dottie could be arrested right then and there and not be allowed to return home.

Al would need to get her an attorney, have bail posted in the next 24 hours, and he would need to take care of the children in the meantime. He also needed to have a safe place for me to be, and not at home. Were there any relatives in the are? “No”, Al said. A lie.

For the first time in a very long time I felt calm. Al, well, he was pale, almost white.

He looked at me and knew this time it was serious. Very, very serious. Al asked to speak with the officer alone and they walked outside the door and sat at a desk where I could see them. They spoke for about an hour. I started to become scared. What if my dad talked the police out of this whole thing? I believed he could.

When we are hurt as kids in a certain way, throughout our lives we will tend to unconsciously seek out relationships in which we are hurt in the very same ways. This is not necessarily because the situations from our youth felt good. It is because it feels familiar. Our defenses are tricky, because they drive us toward familiarity in an effort to shield us from the pain of our past. They may seem like they will protect us.

In truth, they tend to protect the people who hurt us.

Why was Al so determined to protect Dotti when she was hurting me? As I watched, he got up and came into the room where I was sitting.

“I understand that Sharon and Stephen want to press charges against your mother and that means she would be arrested and jailed. Is this what you want?” he asked.

“She is not my mother! Frances was my mother. You know that. You married her, and adopted George and I! Remember? And, yes, I want Dotti locked up!”

“Can we talk about another option?” Al asked in a low voice.

“Sure,” I said.”You can let George and I go live with Aunt Dorothy.”

“You can go live with Aunt Dorothy,” he said. “Not George.”

“I’m not leaving George.” Al knew I would not leave George.

“Perhaps there is another option. I am wondering if Sharon’s mother would let you live with them? You would still attend school, be responsible, and we can see what happens in three months, as Dotti will attend therapy.”

Well, that was an interesting possibility. Obviously Al knew nothing about Sharon or her mother. And even if he did, he was desperate. There was no way he was going to take responsibility for the boys. He was not even living at home during this time. His life would be interrupted. He needed Dotti to take care of the house and the kids.

“Shall I bring Sharon in and we ask her?” Al said.

I had never seen him so desperate. I figured, why not? I’d be free.

“Okay,” I said.

This just broke my heart however.

My dad was not my hero. He was not even being a dad.

After Sharon spoke with my dad, being her most adult-like self, and agreeing not to press charges and allowing me to live with her and mother at least for the next 90 days, the police gave me one hour to go home with my dad, gather my things, and leave the house.

Then Dottie would be released. She could take a cab home as they wanted Al at the house with the boys and he was to stay there, at least for the next 48 hours.

I needed my dad and he was not able to be there for me. I lost hope. My heart was breaking. I was excited to go to Sharon’s, and not for the reasons my father thought.

He said he would come by in three days to visit me at Sharon’s and meet her mom.

Sharon, her mother and I had a lot of work to do in the next three days.

“Sure,” Sharon said,”that will be nice.” And she wrote her address and phone number down for my dad.

I’m old enough now to realize that Al walking away from me wasn’t my fault. It was his fault. It was his own anger, resentment and selfishness that caused him to give up on me.

There will always be an enduring emptiness in my heart.

However, now it is an accepting emptiness. It is an emptiness that is able to be filled.

Al was not a great father. A great father would not have given up on his daughter.

Into my adult years I thought I was screwed up. I thought I needed to be medicated or at least self-medicate myself with cutting, alcohol and drugs to handle my anxiety and feelings of depression. I’m not screwed up. I don’t need to cut myself or abuse alcohol or drugs. I just need people in my life to care about me. I need a support system. I need laughter and silliness.

I am smart and I am successful because I have realized that success is not measured by how much money I have or by how many people know my name.

brave, My success is measured by happiness and love.

My heart will always feel that sting when I think about how different things could have been for our family if Al hadn’t given up.

However, I would never be the person I am today if he hadn’t given up on me.

I wouldn’t be as brave, determined, independent and strong. I figured things out the hard way and I made mistakes, a lot of mistakes. I cried a lot and I sometimes felt like giving up too: however, I overcame. I was able to make it through the hardest times in my life.

My step-mother tried to kill me. Making it through that, I decided that very night I would be able to make it through anything.

They say that abandonment is a wound that never heals. I say only that an abandoned child never forgets. ~ Mario Balotelli

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Who do you want to be and what experiences do you want to create?

Being Raised by a Mother / Step-Mother With Borderline Personality Disorder

Doré Frances

Posted on September 22, 2018

I don’t know what it’s like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely.~ Doré

At first glance, our family probably seemed normal to the outside world — Dotti was beautiful and talented as a singer and bowler.

Al was well-educated, owned his own veterinary practice and was the president of the Lions Club. Our exterior distracted others from the addiction and abuse that lay beneath. No one on the outside thought to look closer.

The devastating effects of untreated borderline personality disorder (BPD) can severely restrict the functioning of people with the disorder, create extraordinary emotional distress, and lead to chronic psychological instability. The impact of BPD is not limited to the person with the disorder; symptoms bleed into the lives of those around them and deeply shape the quality of interpersonal relationships. Often, the most seriously affected are the children of a mother with borderline personality disorder, as the disorder interferes with normal, healthy parenting behaviors and parent-child dynamics, while increasing the risk of environmental instability, drug and alcohol exposure, and poor family cohesion.

As a result, the very foundation of your formative psychosocial development may be compromised, leaving you vulnerable to ongoing psychological, behavioral, and interpersonal difficulties that interfere with your capacithy for joy, sense of self, and quality of life.

What would you expect to see in a mother (or a dad) with borderline personality features? Alas, you would see widespread domestic violence of the verbal variety.

That’s because one hallmark of a borderline personality is unpredictable raging.

In addition, you would see narcissism, that is, inability to attune to others’ needs, including the children’s. Instead of attunement to the children’s needs, whatever happens would be experienced as ‘all about her.’

“I wish my step-mother was dead…is that a terrible thing to say… am I a horrible person … am I going to Hell?”

I was a tortured child trapped in a form of emotional abuse and I made this statement many times to school counselors, doctors, friends, the janitor and youth counselor at my church, and therapists.

According to James Masterson (1988 ), there are four types of BPD Mother Personalities.

These four are The Waif, The Queen, The Hermit, and the Witch

The Waif personality is the one who often portrays the helpless victim in an instant, exhibiting how everyone is treating them so awfully and how they need protection. Waifs often look towards their children or others for constant reassurance, for them to “save her” like the helpless damsel in distress she believes herself to be.
The Queen personality says ‘Pay attention to me! Love me, love me, prove to me you love me and do everything as I say! Aren’t I such a wonderful mother? Oh, and have you done all those things I wanted you to do for me to prove to me you love me? Everything is about the Queen, as she is the end-all-be-all person for you to please. The Queen is vindictive and has no problems with blackmailing you, and yes, this does include her own children and husband.
The Hermit personality is the mother who is easily explained as the paranoid one, fearful of everyone and the whole world
The Witch personality is the Evil Step-Mother from Snow White. After all, off-ing your husband’s daughter just because she is the fairest is not a good enough reason to hate her.

Dotti made me feel guilty for reacting to the abuse.

A BPD mom can behave in any number of ways, ranging from neglect to over-involvement. Let’s take a look at some of the many ways BPD often manifests itself:

Blame: Children of a BPD mother may be made to feel that they are to blame for their mother’s sadness or anger. People with BPD have trouble taking responsibility for their own feelings.
Criticism: Mothers with Borderline Personality Disorder often hurl put-downs and insults at their children. As children are often seen by their BPD mothers as merely extensions of themselves, this may reflect feelings the parent has about themselves and represent a form of projection.
Enmeshment: People struggling with Borderline Personality Disorder have a deep fear of abandonment. Sometimes a BPD mother may develop a relationship with her children that is stifling to the children’s attempts to become individuals. She may look to her children for comfort and validation rather than the other way around.
Neglect: People with Borderline Personality Disorder can be so absorbed in their own pain that they are incapable of putting even their own children’s needs before their own.
Over-control: It is quite common for parents with Borderline Personality Disorder to attempt to control their children’s behaviors, feelings, and actions to a degree that inhibits their children’s ability to develop independently.
Parental alienation: A mother with BPD may not be able to tolerate a loving relationship between her kids and their father. She may feel that this love threatens her own relationship with their children. Sadly, it is not uncommon for these mothers to speak poorly about the other parent in an attempt to turn their children against them.
Rage: Parents with BPD can have reactions that are wholly disproportionate to the perceived infraction. Occurrences of prolonged rages and angry outbursts are common.

It’s normal for parents to get mad or slightly stressed throughout the day.

Dotti’s BPD-related anger was always on a whole different level. When she got angry she got loud, physical, and even a bit paranoid. Her anger scared us all and we never knew what would set her off.

Our mothers are our first examples of what love looks like. George and I were blessed to have Frances. I knew what a loving mother was like.

Rick and Ron knew nothing different.

When you are raised by someone with Narcissistic or Borderline traits, here are some common difficulties you may still face as an adult:

You are hyper-attuned to other people’s emotional needs at the expense of your own.
You are more likely to choose partners who are self-absorbed or emotionally volatile.
You are more vulnerable to anxiety, depression, and having a personality disorder yourself.

Dotti had a strong fear of being left alone or abandoned by Al. His actions and behaviors did not help alleviate these strong fears.

She went to extreme measures to avoid possible separation or rejection.

Dotti was so caught up in her own emotional needs that she was truly not aware of her impact on her children.

She was an emotional wreck.

Her basic message to the entire family was: If you love me, you will do something to make it better right now.

She splashed everyone around her, including all of us children, with her emotional distress and impossible demands. We grew up in a chaotic environment in a household that centered around Dotti’s moods.

Instead of having a mother sho soothed us and helped us learn to manage our emotions, we were expected to soothe her. Al did not step in and help.

All of us kids spent our childhoods feeling somehow to blame for Dotti’s feelings.

George and I had each other’s back, the way siblings sometimes do: and our main goal was survival.

We followed the rules out of fear, and kept our opinions to ourselves.

Al never took charge or provided a safe haven for us children, and he was an inadequate parent as well.

He sometimes added to our guilt by blaming us for his wife’s hysteria and rages.

We were told: “Don’t upset your mother.”

Childhood is full of challenges and discovery.

It is the time in our lives when we are most vulnerable to the environment in terms of our development.

It is important to remember that each child experiences ups and downs in childhood. There is no such thing as a “perfect” mother, whether or not BPD symptoms exist.

There is no such thing as a ‘normal’ childhood.

As much as Dotti was stubborn, deceitful and conniving, she was equally charming, passionate, and generous.

I can hear her humming and singing Louis Armstrong while dancing with the watering hose in the backyard.

I can see her leaning over a simmering pot of chili that was to be dinner, stirring it with one hand, and holding Ron in her arm with the other.

The back yard pool and the kitchen were her sanctuary, and they were also her dominion over which to rule.

She could exert her wishes over ingredients that had no words or free will. Her cakes were never dry or burned.

People, on the other hand, she could not control.

Dotti treated anyone disagreeing with her or disobeying her wishes like an enemy combatant, especially her loved ones.

According to the Mayo Clinic website, this is a common personality disorder, with roughly 3 million reported cases a year. The National Institute for Mental Health estimates the number of BPD cases in the U.S. at roughly 1 percent of the population.

There is mounting research that those with BPD lack brain chemical functions related to empathy, the ability to relate and understand the feelings of someone else.

In college, I finally grew brave enough to tell her she had a drinking problem. After the birth of my daughter and a Christmas holiday in which she verbally attacked my child and physically attacked me, I stopped speaking to her altogether. I stepped back into her life once after she was arrested for hitting and killing a young man while drunk. She called me, begging for assistance. I said I would assist her if she promised to never contact me again.

She kept that promise.

It took a long time for someone else to point out that Dotti might have had an actual disease instead of what I referred to as her homemade recipe for crazy. For me, the tools I’d developed to deal with Dotti cost me the ability to navigate conflict in a healthy way, to stand up for myself, and to allow someone else to take care of me when I needed it. Educating myself about her struggles, working with multiple therapists, and becoming aware of her effect on my behavior set me on a path to build the much-needed emotional resources I lacked.

I learned to take responsibility for what was in my control and let go of what wasn’t. It was not my job to fix everything. Essentially, growth only comes when you recognize your childhood for what it was.

Understanding her, having empathy, was something I could give her more fully, even when she didn’t have much to give in return. It allowed me to see the whole her, and the whole me.

She is no longer on this earth. I have a card Dotti sent me just prior to her death.

Essentially, growth only comes when you recognize your childhood for what it was.

Just remember, while searching for your hero, you are NEVER alone.

A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles. ~ Christopher Reeve

__________________________________________________

How will your life be different in a year?

Rebel, Troublemaker, Warrior

Doré Frances

Posted on September 16, 2018

We are all rebellious teenagers. Sometimes we grow out of it, and sometimes we don’t. ~ Kelly Asbury

My parents and I never really saw eye to eye about anything. They called me a rebel.

I have been called a rebel most of my life. I wear that badge proudly. Not paying attention to your inner voice makes it impossible to know what you want to create. Or to create in a way that is uniquely yours. What’s more, not listening to your inner voice makes you a prime candidate for creative block. Do you know who will show up when you don’t check in with your inner voice? The Inner Critic. And you can bet the critic will be spouting that list of ‘shoulds’ when they show up.

It was just one day after returning home from having run away to attend Woodstock, which was a rebellious act. The attack came. My brothers were told that I was a troublemaker and would be going away for a while.

We have been taught since we were tiny kids to stay in line, keep our mouths shut and do what we’re told. Out in the real adult world, many tend to do the same thing. That’s not always a great idea!

There are real advantages to speaking up when you feel strongly about something.

There are advantages to speaking your truth even when people around you don’t like it.

You won’t gain more latitude with anyone else by staying quiet when you want to speak.

We often think that a troublemaker is a negative influence, however, that is not always the case.

It was just after breakfast, Al had left for work, and the attack came.

I had been getting ready to shut myself in the privacy of my room when I heard Dotti walking towards the door. She opened the door with a wide fling, stepped in and firmly shut the door behind her.

Dotti was wearing one of her, “Don’t mess with me because I mean business” looks, so I turned immediately to face her and braced myself for the worst. My ‘warrior” was standing in place, waiting for what was coming next.

I expected her to grill me about running away, lunge at me, hit me, throw something, however, what she said was much worse.

“I have called the police and they are on their way to take you to Juvenile Hall.”

I shut my ears to her voice. Looking down, I saw that my hands were beginning to shake.

I concentrated on taking deep, steady breaths until I could hold myself upright without trembling. I let her go on for several minutes, hoping this would all just disappear.

I calmed down, and then my mind began to race again. What had brought this on in the first place? Running away? I had run away before for a day or two and all I got was a beating. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans and did my best to look her in the eye.

She settled back against my door frame, seemingly satisfied with herself. The anger began to boil up inside of me. Who was she to send me to Juvenile Hall?

“I’m having a rough time. If you think I am such a troublemaker here in this house of craziness, then let’s just do it. What does dad say about this decision?” I asked.

No response. She stayed in my room until the police pulled up in front of the house, as if to guard me from running away.

I was arrested in my bedroom and handcuffed on a disobedient runaway charge.

Dotti made it seem to the police like I was this bad kid.

She told then I was rebellious, a troublemaker and uncontrollable. I just wanted to go to Woodstock and have some fun. Why did I come back? Because of my brother George.

Dotti’s form of discipline was just to get rid of me. She had tried before. My father would not let George and I go live with anyone else. He kept us for what seemed like selfish reasons. Or was he feeling guilty? It made me mad he was not there while this was happening. Once again he choose to leave the situation. I ended up spending two weeks in Juvenile Hall in San Jose.

When I arrived at Juvenile Hall, I was expecting guards, watch towers, basically the setting of the adult prisons I had seen on TV. The police took me to a small waiting room just off the lobby, which separated me from the outside world. There they took off the handcuffs and told me to sit and wait. They left and the door locked behind them.

While waiting, I saw a few other kids in another waiting room across from me.

I wondered what these kids did. I looked at each one, trying to guess their crime.

Maybe they robbed a store, maybe they beat up somebody, maybe they were selling drugs, maybe they ran away like I did. Who cares? I decided this is what happens to kids who didn’t have direction or anybody who cared, who had to learn about life the hard way. Rebellious kids. Troublemakers. After about 15 minutes a social worker came into the room. She told me she was there to guide me through the facility and be present during the psychiatrist interview and medical check up. The psychiatrist interview was five minutes. The medical check up was peeing into a cup to see if I was pregnant.

We then walked outside and sat down on a bench in the middle of the yard. She told me that high-risk offenders wore orange shirts and I needed to avoid them, and those wearing gray and yellow shirts were minor offenders like me or those who violated their probation. I was given a gray shirt. While we sat talking, a few teens walked by with a guard, their heads facing the ground and their hands behind their backs. I watched them walk across the yard. Then one of them turned to look at me, and I turned my head to avoid eye contact. I didn’t want to be looked at by anyone. I felt ashamed.

I felt uncomfortable that day, like I didn’t have any clue what these kids had been through. With my mirror neurons firing all day long – feeling and absorbing the fear, stress, and sadness of the kids and people working there – I started to feel flooded and overwhelmed. I was soaking in all the suffering.

Here’s the thing about intuitive empaths: the emotions of others are contagious.

When our empathetic “immune system” isn’t robust, then the boundaries between ourselves and those we are exposed to may become very blurry. And at some point, we may not be able to feel the difference between what someone else is experiencing and what is happening in our own bodies. We feel it all.

Did I feel sorry for them? The kids? Not right away. I was surprised by the innocence of their faces, like they didn’t belong there. I was really shocked when I saw a girl who looked like she was about 11 walking in a line with other kids, wearing yellow shirts.

I didn’t know what to expect. Would I cry? Would I be angry? Would I rebel?

Though I had no emotional outburst, some questions during the interview caused me to pause and hold in my emotions while thinking about painful memories.

The first two girls I met at lunch were Jennifer and Michelle. They were two feminine and pretty girls. What could they have done? Both were smiling and saying hello to me.

They seemed calm and laid back. Though they were the same age as me, they seemed older in their ways. They had experienced a lot and you could see it in the way they carried themselves.

Jennifer was more to herself, the day-dreaming type; Michelle was tougher, more independent. Jennifer was a little heavy in size, yet you could see the sensitivity in her eyes; and Michelle was thoughtful, no doubt. They both had drifted into a negative lifestyle at a young age. It seemed as if it was impossible for them to overcome their problems. The two girls said they had been physically and sexually abused by family members. Both said that leaving home at a young age was the only thing they could do to save themselves from future torment. They had run away and managed to stay on the streets of San Jose for about a year. Jennifer said she wanted that wild lifestyle of living on the streets and they both felt they could manage all on their own. Michelle confessed to having been ignorant and making bad choices.

What I learned from talking with them is that there are some things we have no control over—our families, where we live and who we know. It was simple for me to see that all of us had no control over our lives at this young age. Or did we?

Life as a teenager can be chaotic, especially when needing to balance a long day at school, extracurricular activities, relationships with friends and family, and homework.

To gain some control, it’s important to manage your time and maintain your health.

Keeping deadlines and schoolwork organized is essential. It’s also key to understand the changes you’re going through, as well as how to keep your body energized as it undergoes those changes. Finally, living a well-rounded, balanced life will help you establish healthy habits that’ll get you through your teens and keep you in control of your life far into the future. I got sidetracked, lost my focus, and put things off until the last-minute. I had no back-up plan, and almost always set myself up to be overwhelmed.

I did not get the recommended amount of sleep, which is at least nine to 10 hours a night for a teenager.

Jennifer and Michelle said they just did whatever felt good at the moment. That meant being a rebel and a troublemaker most days.

There are a lot of negative aspects about Juvenile Hall, yet some positive things can come out of being locked up. There is a lesson in everything that happens to us.

Juvenile Hall, for many out of control teens, is stopping them in their tracks so they don’t go further with a criminal and violent life. Juvenile Hall allows these teens to stop and think. My time in Juvenile Hall allowed me to figure out that I was a “really cool person.”

I don’t think the system expects or encourages kids to change their lives around.

Talking to Jennifer and Michelle, I realized they had many problems growing up and they had both been in Juvenile Hall before. Jennifer had no friends at all, and both, like me, had dysfunctional families. They were strong and I saw them as warriors.

After three days in Juvenile Hall, it’s just you and time. Six o’clock in the morning we get up. We keep our clothes outside the room in a bin. We have to get up and grab our clothes and put the PJ’s in the bin. We have about 4 or 5 minutes to go the bathroom and get ready. Breakfast is at 7 o’clock. That’s usually disgusting. Powdered everything.

Then we go to school for a couple of hours, go to lunch, go to school again, come back, eat dinner, we get one hour of recreation, take our showers. Wake up, wash up. Same thing, different day. That’s how it is. All kinds of things were going through my mind. Just like shock. I couldn’t even cry when I met with the Social Worker. I just sat down quiet.

It’s really boring in Juvenile Hall. We rarely even got to listen to the radio at all. TV, we get only one hour a day with no choice. We didn’t get the news so we didn’t know what was going on in the world.

From Woodstock and a man on the moon to the Manson murders and the Stonewall riots, the summer of 1969 was a tumultuous and eventful time.

During a two-night rampage, pregnant actress Sharon Tate and seven others are killed by Charles Manson and his “Family.” Manson and four others — Susan Atkins, Patricia Krenwinkel, Charles “Tex” Watson and Leslie Van Houten — were later convicted of murder and other charges. Their death sentences were commuted to life imprisonment in 1972.

The New York Mets fall nine games behind the Chicago Cubs in the National League race but, led by future Hall of Fame pitchers Nolan Ryan and Tom Seaver, stage a comeback in the months that followed to capture the pennant. They went on to defeat the Baltimore Orioles for the Word Series title.

More than 250 people are killed in Mississippi and Louisiana when Hurricane Camille strikes the United States mainland. At its peak, Camille was a Category 5 storm, packing winds stronger than 200 mph and leaving tides measuring higher than 20 feet in its wake.

Having my freedom taken away while being in Juvenile Hall was the worst thing that ever happened to me. For a while I didn’t know when I was going to get out. It felt like the whole world was going on without me, and I was stuck. I made a promise to myself that once out, my goal was to get out that house, legally in some way. I would create a back up plan. Al came out to see me and the Social worker on day five. It was mandatory that a legal guardian show up at least once a week for a therapy session. Dotti never adopted George and I, as Al never let her, and so she was not a legal guardian.

Thank goodness.

The three of us talked for about 45 minutes.

‘What’s going on in your life?’ she asked me. I was just trying to figure out what was going on. I was asked if I regretted running away to Woodstock.

I said “No. It was fun. I felt free.”

I told the Social Worker and Al that Dotti tried to control me all the time. That she hit me.

She hit me with anything she could find. After she hit me or whipped me, she would tell me don’t cry, why are you crying, I’m going to hit you harder. I had to hold it in, I couldn’t cry because she’d hit me more. So I had to hold my tears in and it built up.

I couldn’t let a woman like her take control of my life. I said I would have liked for my father to do something. He did nothing. I would like for him to stick up for me. I felt too grown. I was too stubborn, hardheaded. A rebel. Al just sat, denied the abuse, said I was a troublemaker in the home and he needed me to learn a valuable lesson before returning home, and then I was asked to leave the room. The social worker said we would meet again next week.

I didn’t want people to see me cry so at night when nobody could see me, I would cry into my pillow. I needed my mother. I needed when I went to sleep to have her next to me and tell me everything’s gonna be okay. I prayed for that. I was kind of scared.

As an empath, hypersensitivity and awareness are pulled inwards, and a protective shield came up to block out the never-ending waves of hurt, worry, despair, anger, and other emotions that slammed into me each and every day. I felt like I had only two options in this situation: put those walls up, or burn out completely. Being an empath has its benefits, and it also has an enormous cost: when you’re so attuned to what literally everyone else is feeling, conditions like severe anxiety, depression, eating disorders, and even physical pain can manifest on a constant basis, and none of it originates inside you!

It’s like a thundering torrent of external influences thumping into you from all directions and it never seems to let up.

When you’re dealing with that kind of situation, withdrawing and creating a protective cocoon just seems like the smartest and safest bet, doesn’t it? That is hard to do in a Juvenile Detention center.

Shutting down and retreating inwards is just as dangerous to one’s emotional and psychological wellness as being a raw, exposed nerve that’s constantly zapped by everyone else’s energy. Sure, it might feel safer and more comfortable to go numb, however, you’re doing yourself more harm than good. I started withdrawing into an apathetic cocoon to spare myself pain and emotional overload.

There is nothing great about going to Juvenile Hall. I took the experience and learned what I could and made decisions about my life going forward. Everyone there is labeled a troublemaker. No one believes that it’s going to be a fun experience. No matter what, the fact that you’re in juvenile detention means that something has gone horribly wrong.

While something went wrong, the whole point of Juvenile Hall is to help you return home and have things be better. And you won’t be getting out until they let you out.

83% of juveniles arrested are confined by at least three locked doors. Which is to say, they’re in a locked building inside another locked building that is itself inside another locked building. I actually asked the social worker to not let me return home. I asked to be sent to a foster home and have George go with me. My request was denied. The rebel inside of me grew and became stronger.

At any give time there are over 65,000 minors locked up across the country. There’s a stigma to juvenile delinquency, suggesting that they are career criminals in the making, that they are long-term trouble makers, however, most who go out of juvenile detention across the world don’t come back. I only went once. I wanted to be a warrior and never return. It’s next to impossible to handle juvenile detention alone, and while it isn’t a pleasant place, many who’ve been inside have said that, even just to cut away the loneliness, people managed to establish friendships of varying quality. Us rebels and warriors stuck together.

Jennifer and Michelle were my Juvenile Hall friends. There were my warrior friends.

I never saw them again after I left. They were still there when I left after two weeks.

Many people going into detention think that, due to the social stigma, there will never be a chance they will have a successful life outside. Let me tell you that you and only you are in control of your life. My opinion – children do not belong in lockup, so let’s find another solution. There are lives at stake. The U.S. locks up children at more than seven times the rate of all other developed nations. The U.S. spends more than $7 billion annually on youth detention.

During my time in Juvenile Hall I was entering into an unhealthy belief about codependent relationships. I felt needy. I looked for people who needed me. I wanted to need relationships. I wanted people to need me. This set up a pattern of co-dependence, of becoming a giver only, and of attracting takers (aka narcissistic people) into my life.

I got into a pattern of giving and giving endlessly, depleting myself more. No matter how much I went through for many years, I never felt worthy. You can’t heal unworthiness by reading a blog post, however, you can get a sense of the mechanism of it that keeps you stuck, and the steps required to heal.

When you set out to heal your sense of unworthiness, you will still feel unworthy, and hence will be tempted to give up and give in. This vicious cycle is what often keeps empaths stuck in a wounded healer pattern: able to give to others while not being able to receive that which they need to heal themselves.

You cannot heal yourself through giving. You can only heal through allowing yourself to receive what you need in order to heal. Healing unworthiness happens in steps, in layers. You take action to take care of yourself, you set a boundary with a needy person, you acknowledge the sense of “not deserving support” that gets triggered, and you learn how to let go of that. Then you set another boundary, do another nice thing for yourself, more unworthiness surfaces etc.

The point is, you can start anywhere with breaking the vicious cycle, as long as you understand not to let your feelings of unworthiness sabotage your steps towards better self-care. Be a warrior. We must learn how to take good care of ourselves. Only then can we truly be there for others in a way that is truly supportive (and not enabling). As long as your helping efforts are driven by guilt, shame and unworthiness, you’ll more easily be doing others a disservice.

Being a troublemaker, feeling unworthiness is an experience, not a god-given truth about the nature of your being. It’s a program you’ve got running. It’s powerful, yet it’s not who you are. Be a warrior. Don’t let it take over your whole system. Don’t let it dictate your choices and abilities.

I spent years being overwhelmed by other people’s thoughts and feelings and it took time to learn how to differentiate which were mine and which were theirs, and also to sort out what makes me feel happy, healthy and safe.

We are all capable of adopting a warrior mindset, it’s just a question of commitment.

Most people don’t understand what being a warrior means. They think of it as the sort of thing selfish pricks would say about themselves, the kind of people who need to justify how poorly they treat others. That’s the opposite of a warrior mindset. Warriors put themselves on the line for the people they serve. A warrior is completely focused, disciplined, and aggressive not out of selfishness, rather on behalf of others.

Every movement comes with risk. Every warrior as a ritual they follow before going into battle, and when you find yours, you make yourself that much more likely to emerge victorious. The only thing between you and being a warrior is your commitment.

So commit.

Every great warrior must learn to endure and overcome the adversities of life.
~ Lailah Gifty Akita

__________________________________________________

What would you stand for if you knew no one would judge you?

All In The Family

Doré Frances

Posted on September 9, 2018

“The Italians are called “Children of the Sun”. They might better be called “Children of the Shadow”. Their souls are dark and nocturnal.” ― D. H. Lawrence

My own childhood was lousy in the Cascinai family home. Dotti constantly questioned every element of my reality. I knew I had gifts, however, she was afraid of my intuitive abilities. Dottie would tell me I was crazy, and that none of it was real.

It left me so mixed up and confused. I often didn’t trust my ability and slowly it left me.

The Cascinai family, Al and Dotti, Aunt Angelina and Uncle Ray, Uncle Dante, Grandma Carrie and Grandpa Mario, and others, all hid the truth from us kids for their entire lives.

Everyone had so many secrets!

George, Rick and Ron believed that they were growing up in a “normal” home, where Dad worked as a veterinarians and Mom took care of us kids. Things seemed really traditional, unless you knew where to look for the cracks in the facade.

Frances was not supposed to divorce Al and Dotti never did. Dotti was expected to fulfill an old-fashioned role. She stuck around, despite major reservations. She gave up a lot and was angry because of it. I do understand that part of her life. Frances got out and was punished with revoked child support, shunning, threats, and violence.

Frances suffered and so did George and I. Dotti then had to take us on. This was not in her life plan.

Al was unfair to everyone in the situation. It was a scary environment for us kids.

At Dotti’s most cruel moments she would tell me that “God” wanted me to die!

Al had a situation where he was kidnapped. He would never tell the police or the FBI anything. At least that is what I was told. What was the truth? Where was he really?

We didn’t always get the attention that we needed from Al because he was leading a complicated double life which required a lot of time away from home. We were all cut off from Dad. Even his wife. The boys especially wanted to spend more time with him.

Our childhoods were filled with insecurity. Having lost my father and everything I had once before, I always felt it could happen again. That always seemed a very real possibility to me.

As I got older there were a lot of unpleasant confrontations between my father and I.

The last one happened the weekend before he died.

I was trained as a child to not ask questions and to keep secrets. All of us within the home saw violence and had trouble handling it, however, we were expected to keep quiet about it.

All of us kids bottled up a lot of negative emotions about our family. Some people made attempts to help.

I ran away from home several times. Once a service in Palo Alto for run away kids made an attempt to assist.

Dotti was very good at manipulating these situations. She knew she had to keep the family secrets. That was part of her responsibility.

I think the boys loved their Dad and Mom.

I loved my Dad. I hated the life he made us all live.

All of us kids ended up with stress-related illnesses and psychological problems, including anxiety, depression, eating disorders, OCD, severe stomach pains, panic attacks, PTSD and stress.

For me the toll of keeping secrets took my body and mind to feelings of fear, frustration and helplessness.

When you grow up thinking that you’re in a nice, normal family and then begin to realize that your family is not nice and not normal, you go through a psychological phenomenon known as cognitive dissonance.

Cognitive dissonance is the psychological discomfort that comes when someone has two beliefs that contradict each other. Memories of being safe in a “normal family” clash with the truth. I never felt safe in this house.

Dotti ruled with fear and punishment. George and I were a target for her anger.

She scarred his face and broke his arm.

We all grew up around violence and knew that bad things could happen in a split second. Dotti was in the hospital because Al broke her leg. She pulled a knife on Al and chased him around the driveway. Living with this kind of fear stressed us all out.

The fear of my Dad dying always haunted me.

What would happen to George and I then? Who would take us – who would want us?

Our family conflicts got really crazy. Things could and did get out of control fast in our family. Dotti had a short fuse and Al refused to assist or to be there for us kids when needed. We were all told so many lies and it took me many years to get it all figured out.

For each truth I learned, I had to mentally erase a childhood of false stories.

There were so many “cover stories” and Dotti told me once it was because Al believed it was best for us kids.

The cover stories told were often very convincing and the boys especially, being so young, generally trusted these parents. When the truth was uncovered by me, it was the weirdest feeling … like nothing that I knew and believed and cared about was ever really real.

One Saturday we all went to a house in Half Moon Bay.

Al and Dotti, Aunt Angelina and Uncle Ray, Uncle Dante, Grandma Carrie and Grandpa Mario were all there along with a host of other people. It was a very large house near the beach. You could walk to the sea-side trails and hear the sound of the waves from the front porch.

The home boast many custom features such as soaring ceilings, custom iron work, a formal dinning room plus a large kitchen and a breakfast bar. The women were in the kitchen cooking, laughing and drinking wine.

Carpet was in all the bedrooms which were all on the main floor. Some of the younger kids visiting were taking naps and the older kids were responsible for babysitting.

The office with a fire-place and double glass door was were all the men spent their time.

The door was kept closed for most of the day, as the men were “in a meeting,” drinking, laughing, smoking cigars and playing cards. All the kids were able to visit one by one throughout the day. After your visit you were given an envelope and a piece of candy and told to give the envelope to your mom.

The yard was beautifully landscaped. The home was luxurious. That night there was a fireworks show for everyone to enjoy. It was an enjoyable and fun day. I only went once. I am not going to write a lot about this day in Half Moon Bay, other than to say, years later, I saw a similar scene in a movie.

I managed to get away from the Cascinai family.

Ron and Rick grew up knowing nothing else. I had a life with my father before them.

When I did leave the family at 17, my father punished me. I think the boys stayed connected because it was easy. They needed the support.

I was serious about finding another way to survive.

Not all the ways I choose were healthy choices. In order to survive I had to put some distance between myself and this toxic family. I did whatever I felt I needed to do at the time. I stopped talking to my toxic parents and built some very sturdy emotional boundaries to protect myself. It was amazingly hard and did not happen all at once.

It was small steps away, then returning, then more small steps away, then returning and then more steps away over many years that were important steps toward building a happier, healthier and spiritually fulfilling life.

I would be lying had I told you it happened all at once.

It didn’t. It’s not easy. I wanted to be accepted, to belong. I wanted a family and I wanted to be loved.

As an escapee from a dysfunctional family situation, I know that the legacy of a toxic family takes time to shake — especially since you’re dealing with some very real emotional and mental health challenges due to the upbringing.

Of course, it’s not a rule that all children raised in dysfunctional environments grow up to have emotional or mental health problems. Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, as they say, and you’re the best judge of your own experience.

Sometimes, we can be so busy needing to push away the memory of our childhoods that we forget to look out for our own mental health.

Going into therapy to cope with your challenges is often the most important first step for the adult child of a toxic family to move on — and doing it doesn’t make you “damaged goods” or someone who is “whining about your childhood.”

There are things about my father that absolutely terrified my Aunt Dorothy. When I begin interviewing her for this book 9 years ago, she made me promise I would not write it until after her death. Although Al died years before her, she still asked me to promise her this one thing.

I promised. I kept that promise. She too was pressured to keep secrets and lived a lie for so many years. She told them what they were. I forgave her.

There are 3,000 census records available for the last name Cascinai.

There are 642 immigration records available for the last name Cascinai.

There are 1,000 military records available for the last name Cascinai.

Being that I am not a blood relative of the Cascinai family, I am not sure how much more in-depth research I will be conducting, or writing about, as that is not the story of Holding Out For the Hero.

No matter what their particular background, children from toxic families often have trouble letting other people get close to them, even after they’ve put space between themselves and their families. Most adult children of toxic parents grow up feeling tremendous confusion about what love means and how it’s supposed to feel.

My parents did extremely unloving things to me and to all the kids in the family.

I came to understand love as something chaotic, confusing, dramatic, and often painful — something I had to give up my own dreams and desires for. I had to give up my Empathetic Intuitive gifts while in the house with Al and Dotti so as not be beaten.

Obviously, that’s not what love is all about.

Loving behavior doesn’t grind you down, keep you off-balance, or create feelings of self-hatred. … Genuine love creates feelings of pleasure, safety, stability, warmth, and inner peace. Things might never become perfect for any of us. Things can get so much better when we just recognize the ways that we are hurt, and begin to let ourselves heal.

I believe that the greatest gift you can give your family and the world is a healthy you. ~ Joyce Meyer

___________________________________________________

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