“I know all about baggage, sweetheart. I have enough of it to fill up a 747 and then some.”
― K. Bromberg, Driven

Too much of a good thing can be dangerous.

It can drive you to an edge that is uncomfortable.

Are you someone who lives on the edge? Let’s face it, we all need that adrenaline rush from time to time.

That feeling of excitement you get when you’re doing something you’re passionate about.

It’s a great feeling to have this constant buzz in your veins. To feel your heart pumping fast and to be happy about being so…well, “on-edge”. For some, it is a way of life. To not have time to be bored. To not even have time to consider the fact that 24 hours in a day are not enough.

For others, it is just too much going on. For those who are used to being constantly engaged with stuff to do, with emotions, and with never-ending obligations and passions, living “on-edge” is routine. The danger comes when you suddenly find yourself forced to step back and take a deep breath.

I met, dated and became engaged to Tyler. He lived on the edge every day.

He was rich. He had a nice sleek blue convertible sports car, wore a gold Rolex, ate dinners at restaurants every single day and was the owner / along with his father of a couple of hair salons in California, the most profitable one in Beverly Hills. He always wore designer clothing.

Dating a rich guy is different: Our first date was very different for me. Tyler took me to five-star restaurants and I ate what I had never eaten before. Each meal came in bits and pieces, rather like a five-course dinner. The waiters were sharply dressed in uniform. We had champagne and wine. Dating Tyler meant no worries about finances. It also meant I feel access to cocaine. Tyler didn’t partake much, however, his father did. I always had a supply. The there were days I’d be chatting with Tyler, and I would say my rent just got increased. He would ask me how much rent I was paying. Then he would pay my rent for the next one or two months. Dating Tyler also meant he was the boss and he would call me names when I messed up…he wouldn’t mince his words..he actually called me stupid and dumb in front of my friends. Nothing that I had not experienced at home. This time I had benefits so I allowed myself to be okay with the disrespect. I let him push me to the edge, would snort cocaine, and just keep going. Thankfully, he was not a violent person when he lost his temper.

Dating Tyler meant being kept on my toes. In many ways I had to be perfect. I was constantly being rated on some invisible scale. He kept me on the edge of always questioning myself – am I a valuable person and how is being a valuable person being measured?

He put a premium on education and paid for my first year of college.

Tyler said “his lady” needed to be highly educated and it was his plan for me to have a college education and a professional career.

When I messed up, he always would say, “I can’t believe you did that, for an intelligent young woman you’re behaving rather dumb.”

I needed to be well read in current affairs, so Sunday’s were spent reading lots of newspapers. I was always being pushed to the edge of needing to do more and know more.

Dating Tyler also meant that all my interests were no longer important. My friends were measured to see if they were good enough. I was constantly judged.

Spending time in San Francisco was no longer allowed unless Tyler made the plans.

He had an agenda. I had to be available when he was available, and not the other way around. I was subject to a rigid calendar. When he called and said we were going to dinner in two hours, I needed to be ready. I had to be available. He took me to meet his parents one day with an hours notice. I could never ask Tyler to be available for me.

He arranged a dinner with my father a week after I met his parents. Just the two of them in San Francisco.

He let my father know he was going to move me into his house in Los Gatos, we would be engaged, and we were going to get married. My father absolutely adored Tyler.

Tyler was Italian and he had a lot of money.

Nothing else mattered to my father.

Shortly after that dinner with Al, Tyler convinced me that we were meant to be; convinced me to move in quickly with him. He started planning for our future. I quit my job at his request and my days were filled with what Tyler wanted me to do. I felt like I was living on the edge of no return. Inside our bedroom walk in closet I had a shelf with a small beautifully painted ceramic container of cocaine. On a white silk cloth laid a silver nose spoon. I could engage at anytime, and the container was always full.

I was drawn to his gregarious warmth, dapper style, self-possessed confidence, natural air of authority and open candour.

Tyler told me he was drawn to my intelligence, style, class, sass, demeanor, idealism and everlasting faith in humanity. He saw in me the kind of spirituality that material wealth is opposed to.

Tyler would tell me that I was internally rich in ways he was hungry for. When we would have those in-depth soulful conversations I felt drawn closer to him, and the edge of no return seemed to fade away. Then he would pull back, and I would pull back. That spiritual connection never quite manifested.

As similar as we were in our zest for living and eternal optimism, we simply were opposites who attracted. While he was fundamentally kind and sweet towards people he cared about (all house staff and service staff included), he was also arrogant, entitled, and thought little about splurging as he saw fit (we ate expensive—to me, it was—club and hotel dinners almost every night, simply because he wouldn’t accept second best).

He was a hard worker and would get up at 6 am and get ready for the work day, and would come home around 9 – 10 PM. I was not to ask about his schedule.

Tyler would boast about people he knew in Beverly Hills and places he had traveled.

Basically, his identity and self-worth revolved around high places and people plus the quality of his possessions. He always wanted to be out and about and be seen. He liked me being seen, especially. He took pride in being with someone like me, like I was some kind of acquisition. To him, his ideas were the best, and I was his model for showcase and implementation. He threw out all my clothes and bought me everything I was to wear, from underwear on out, and jewelry, including a beautiful large engagement ring.

He had someone come to the house and teach me how to wear makeup and how to style my hair. Once, he spent hours having a photographer take nude photographs of me, and then wanted to sell them to someone in Capitola who offered to buy them for a few thousand dollars for his own personal gallery. I was aghast.

“Nobody can tell that it’s you!” He had argued heatedly. “The shadows block your face!”

My beautiful brother George quit high school and left home. He was struggling and kept getting pulled over for drinking, lost his license (although he kept driving), and spent some time in jail. I visited him and was worried about him. Tyler brought him in to live with us, and bought him a used car after he got his license back. I worked to get him job interviews, and he just never showed up.

After about three months George just up and left one day. He left us a note saying he needed to find his own way, would repay us for the car (never happened), and would be in touch. I did not hear or see George again for about 8 years. Both Al and Dotti said they did not know where he was. I found out years later that Dotti knew, and was meeting George in bars. They drank together and she gave him money. She and George were drinking buddies and she kept him living on her edge of life.

It was important to Tyler how his friends and family saw us. He boosted how mature and sophisticated I was for someone just age 20 (He was in his early 30s.) We lived together for a year. On my 21st birthday he took me and four of my friends to San Francisco for a private dinner and Tony Bennett performed. The next day he started planning the wedding. Let’s say that when the novelty of living the high life wore off, there was little in the way of our incompatibility. Not to mention, he assumed that money would resolve whatever that was inconvenient. Tyler bought me a car for my birthday. He didn’t like the idea of me driving, however, as it gave me too much freedom. He was always more open to paying for my cab fare, no matter how expensive the ride was. It became weird for me.

I realized I could not take it anymore. I felt as if I was standing on the edge of a ledge. Again, I went out and got a job, an apartment, bought my own car, and also went out and bought myself some clothes I wanted to wear and had them at the apartment.

I sat at home waiting for him to arrive.

The engagement ring sitting on the counter.

This was 3 weeks before the wedding. The invitations were out, the announcement was in the paper, and presents had started arriving. I realized that I would never be happy with him. I was not even allowed to buy my own wedding dress. It was purchased for me and was hanging in a closet at his parents house. I was crying as I told him I was breaking up with him and leaving.

He called my father. My father was not too busy to drop everything and talk to me on the phone, doing his best to convince me this was the biggest mistake of my life. I took nothing with me when I left. Okay, not true. I took the ceramic container of cocaine and the silver spoon. On the day of the wedding Tyler showed up at my apartment, in his tux, limo in parking lot, my wedding dress in his hands. He was absolutely convinced I had learned my lesson and would drop everything and marry him. I didn’t. We ran into each other about four years later and I went to his house for dinner and we talked. He was alone and felt lost in life. I stayed the night just hugging him as he cried and then left in the early morning hours after he finally went to sleep.

I found him a few years ago through research. He has spent a lifetime with various illnesses, married four or five times, never had children, and is seemingly unhappy in his life. I have no regrets for my part in his life.

When you’re used to paying your own way, sharing your life with a man in the 1 percent can be a challenge.

I didn’t expect Tyler to pay my way, however, he had a lifestyle I simply could not afford to split 50/50. And this imbalance stirred in me a surprising internal conflict.

There was no semblance of financial equality for us.

And while some people are thrilled by the prospect a $500 meal several times a week, I just couldn’t seem to relax into it at that time in my life.

Some of my friends simply wouldn’t go out with a guy who wasn’t prepared to fund every dime of every date, however, I was a ferociously independent young woman.

I experienced a wave of anxiety every time a restaurant check came. Sometimes I was so uneasy that I hid in the bathroom. There was an imbalance that inflamed my sense of myself as a self-sustaining young woman. There was just no way around that.

Tyler was fine with the financial arrangement, however, I was often conflicted. I take great pride in taking care of myself. I always have.

And money is not the sole basis of a happy marriage.

It is dangerous to live a life in constant agitation.

It is equally hazardous to live one which you don’t enjoy to the fullest. The key is to find the right balance between the two.

To know when to run and when to walk, when to dance and when to sit, when to stress out and when to relax. I am much happier today, even though I am single.

If you want to be truly understood, you need to say everything three times, in three different ways. Once for each ear … and once for the heart.
~ Paula Underwood Spencer

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What was your best purchase for under $100?

One Drop of Truth At a Time

Doré Frances

Posted on December 23, 2018

What can I do to always remember who I really am? ~ Juan Ramon Jiminez

Married at 17, finished high school on my terms and living with Dennis and a cat in a one bedroom second story apartment in Mt. View, California.

I worked as my father’s office manager along with his long time mistress Randi.

Dotti and Randi would have fights in the back office while we all just worked away. It is funny thinking about that now. Two grown women fighting over a man like my father.

Dennis was attending real estate school with his father. They had a very close relationship. Dennis would come home and study for hours.

Marriage had allowed me to escape the life of being a teenager and living at home with Dotti and Al.

I escaped being a normal teenager, dating, going to prom, and having a group of friends that had shared interests. I escaped being caught by Dennis using drugs while he was at school. Like my father, he could not tell when I was high. I escaped any close relationships with peers by being married.

I was as an escape artist.

I had developed a chronic level of pain and wounding.

I wasn’t really aware of it, yet what I was aware of was a constant drive to stimulate my senses, whether through alcohol, drugs, sugar, wine, TV, whatever. Even though I first identified my issues with drugs as an addictive behavior quite early on, I failed to see the myriad of ways I sought to escape the depths of my self and the associated pain. Can you relate?

Dennis graduated and he and his father got their real estate licenses. It was a grand celebration with the family. We then moved to Milpitas so Dennis and his dad could start a job together in the same real estate office.

We had a brand new two-story apartment with a yard, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a Siamese cat, and I had a job at a local newspaper placing ads.

I truly was numb to my feelings.

Numb to everything. Numb to my relationships with people and how they affected me.

Numb to what was going on inside my own head, heart and soul.

Basically, I was numb to the very core of my being.

I was completely out of tune with myself and the world around me and I didn’t allow myself to consider how I felt.

I didn’t allow myself to think about why I reacted the way I did to circumstances and what my reactions meant. And ultimately, I didn’t allow myself to feel much of anything.

Even when I did feel something significant, I quickly found a reason to invalidate the way I felt so I could go back to being numb.

It’s not that I was a robot or that I didn’t care about other people or that I was an asshole.

I understand now that I was unconsciously taking the emotional path of least resistance at every possible turn.

Whenever anything got too difficult or painful or uncomfortable, I shut down.

Shutting down became my go-to characteristic in life.

No one noticed. Every day was the same.

I would sit and stare out the window for hours and feel like I was not where I was supposed to be. It was as if I was living in a foreign country. I did not feel close to anyone or have any desires to do anything. People all around me, wherever I went, felt like strangers. Neighbors, going to the grocery store, getting the car tuned up, eating in a restaurant, all felt foreign and I felt displaced.

Dennis felt as if our married life was blissful. We went to church with his parents every Sunday and then dinner at their house. It was the same week after week.

Along with this realization came embarrassment and shame because being numb was a heartbreaking and irresponsible way to go through life. I knew that in my heart.

I was stuck in a loop, repeating the same shitty days over and over and over. I was dying inside.

I had thoughts about adventures, traveling to foreign countries, even different states, being a writer, an artist, a song writer, doing something creative, engaging in work, a career, going to college. There was no one I could talk to about these things.

Everyone in my life loved their life just the way it was.

I survived by staying numb.

I got really good at pretending to be happy. So good in fact, I almost convinced myself.

My dreams at night when I could be with myself kept me alive. In my own dreams, I quite frequently found myself living in a city or a country where I used to live, doing the things I might well be doing had I stayed in a former line of work and a certain life situation. In these dreams, I was my current age, however, my life had followed a different path from the one I had taken in my waking reality. Sometimes it seemed I had joined a parallel self who had been following a path I abandoned – through my life choices. There was a “just-so” feeling about these dreams.

I returned from them thinking, “Well, that’s how things might be if I had made a different choice.”

It’s fascinating to speculate on what may happen should parallel selves, and their parallel worlds, bump up against each other. Could we combine the gifts of different life experiences, or would we compete with each other?

During my daily awake life I was numb to the point where I didn’t even know how I felt, and since happiness is such an omnipotent presence in our culture, I assumed I was happy because that’s what gets shoved down our throats at every stop along the way.

The more I think about the way I was going through life, the more I realize that I could have remained numb for a few more decades until I died a seemingly somewhat unknowingly happy, numb old woman. I am seriously grateful that did not happen.

I lost my job at the newspaper after a few months for being too aggressive with ideas and pushy in staff meetings. My entrepreneurial spirit was beginning to develop. I always wanted to introduce new and creative ways to do things. No one liked the fact I was 18 and making such suggestions.

After I lost the job I started horseback riding in the woods every day while high on mushrooms. I had a connection to get mushrooms with a young man who worked in the stables. The stables were owned by friends of Dennis’ family. They had quite a few horses and needed them ridden as they traveled. They owned several restaurants around the country. I could drive up to the stables, about 30 minutes from the apartment, and go ride any day I wanted. The days were painfully lonely except for my connection with the horses. Otherwise I was numb because it was easy. I was numb because it protected me.

When you don’t allow yourself to really feel things or think about things, life is truly simpler. At least I convinced myself of that. It allowed me to get through the day without breaking down and crying. There were times when I was faced with circumstances or events and I was able to shrug my shoulders, say “fuck it.”

Of course, a numb life isn’t an especially well-lived life. It did prevent me from feeling the lowest lows that life had to offer. It also prevented me from experiencing the highest highs. Dennis was doing well in real estate and 6 months later we bought a condo and got a dog. Now we had three bedrooms and two and half bathrooms in a nice neighborhood. We had two cars and a closet full of nice clothes. One of our neighbors worked in the TV industry, another was a banker and there were neighborhood BBQ’s, cocktail parties and lots of adult socialization. The men went golfing and the women, well, I’m not sure. I was not often invited. I was 18. They were at least 27. I would hear jokes about why they thought Dennis and I were married. I was celebrating survival.

At this point, it might sound like I’m getting ready to tell you about how amazing and vibrant life was and that I was no longer numb. No, that’s not where this is going.

Some days I would get in the car and want to do a road trip. No one I knew took road trips. And where would I go? I could drive up into the mountains for about an hour and then I had to turn around and come back.

I could drive two hours to San Francisco, and then I had to come back. I felt like I was on an island. My soul was dark. Not dark in a bad way. More like hiding as the life I was living felt detached.

One day I decided that I truly wanted to write a book.

I had thousands of letters, coins, detailed maps, and pictures from all the different people who I had written to in the Vietnam war. I had kept them in a box knowing that someday these letters, these memories, these people, would come alive in some way. I opened the box and I laid everything out all across one of the spare bedroom floors.

It took weeks to put them all in chronological order.

I then placed rubber bands around the piles, made envelopes for the coins and dated the maps. I stood there and looked at a room full of thousands of letters. I was ready to let them speak. I had an idea for a book.

There were timeless stories to tell. I spent many hours during the day and at night in that bedroom with yellow writing legal pads and lots of pencils and pens. I was excited about the stories of these men and women. They could still speak through me. Whether alive or not, they had stories to tell. I started writing. I went to the library to research on how to write a book and started a outline. I had 12 yellow pads of writing.

Where this is going is truly heartbreaking and shows how intense life can be.

Dennis could not reconcile the fact that I was spending all my time on wanting to write this book.

He had no connection to these letters and how important these people, these stories were to me. They were a lifeline to me at times when I was at home. They distracted me from the abuse.

I was beginning to feel things again and I was truly thinking deeply about myself and my life and the world around me. I was starting to have days of feeling truly happy and pleasant. I was smiling and I was functional.

This project permitted me to be relatively productive. And because of this, because I was obsessed with this project, with the people in this room that I felt connected to, Dennis was jealous. He didn’t understand.

I did my best to explain that I could feel the energy from the letters as if the people were speaking to me.

Dennis became angry and uncomfortable with such statements. He was not a great supporter of my vision or of my intuitive feelings which were returning. I was no longer numb, or at least not nearly as numb as I used to be.

Dennis said I was spending too much time on this project and we began to have small fights about my desire to write a book.

Then … one Sunday afternoon I came home from grocery shopping and there sat Dennis burning all the letters in the fireplace, all my yellow pads of writing. He threw in the maps and the coins as well. He burned and destroyed everything. I dropped to the floor and just started crying.

Normal people don’t go around destroying other people’s dreams and goals.

Dennis had a dream to have children. I blocked this attempt and foiled his plans by secretly taking birth control. The last thing I wanted was children and especially not with a man who just destroyed my dream. I ignored Dennis as much as possible. Why deal with people who will drain you of your dreams? I felt I now had control.

I would not get pregnant. Dennis found the birth control I had hidden in the bathroom several months later and put his fist through the wall in our bedroom. I screamed at this action. It scared me and reminded me of Dotti.

Things were different for me now. I felt vulnerable and ambitious and I wanted to go to college and be around people who were adventurous in learning. A big shift was taking place in my soul.

Dennis was not at all open to a discussion about me going to college.

He wanted a wife, children and a mother for his children who would be at home.

I truly felt like I was about to lose my mind and it was a slightly exhilarating, and slightly terrifying place to find myself.

We all have our own defense mechanisms.

I needed to leave to feel safe.

Over the next few months I started saving money, secretly. I found a job in Sunnyvale and a small old one bedroom furnished apartment on a third floor building. It was about 45 minutes away from where we were living in Milpitas. The job I had found was at Sunnyvale Lincoln-Mercury as a front desk receptionist. I now felt comfortable in leaving Dennis.

I packed up my car with some things I would need – clothes, a few dishes, pillows, an iron board, anything personal. I did this while Dennis was at work and made two trips to the apartment before he got home. I got everything all set up and knew exactly what I needed to do.

Finally, I packed up my suitcase with the last bit of clothes in the dresser and waited for Dennis to come home from work. I was truly ready to leave and the pull to do so was very strong.

As I heard his car drive up, I closed my eyes and prepared myself for what I was about to say. I had not planned anything specifically to say. It was just there, ready for me, as if someone had given me the script. I did not want to hurt Dennis. I felt compassion for him and knew our dreams and goals were at opposite ends of life. As I looked toward the back kitchen door, I saw Dennis open and step in, and then I saw his dad right behind him. “Oh shit!!”

They both walked in the door totally engaged in conversation and I took a deep breath and just stood still. As if together in unison, they stopped, looked at me, looked at each other, looked back at me and saw the suitcase.

“I am going to go, son,” his dad said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With that Dennis’s dad left. He never turned to look back at me. It was as if he knew.

I truthfully felt relieved to be here at this moment in time and I was ready.

“I can’t do any of this anymore. I’m have come to believe I am done. I have made a decision.” I said. “I’ve tried my hardest, and I don’t want to lie to you, or to me, or to your mom and dad. I just can’t seem to make this marriage work. Please understand. I want a divorce.” And then I took a step back, as it was a natural reaction to be prepared for a battle, like when I was teenager back at home.

Dennis was devastated. “All marriages have ups and downs,” he said. “What have I done? Are you angry about something? You have my full attention now. We can fix this.”

“We want different things in life. I married too young. I have thought this out thoroughly and I am certain it is best for me and for you to end things. I’m ready to go today.”

“Are you fucking serious?” he asked. “This doesn’t make any sense at all. Are you crazy? Depressed? Lets get a marriage counselor at the church to help us. What are you going to do anyway? Where are you going to live? You will be all alone. You can’t take the animals. I won’t let you.”

That was a hit from being hurt and I realized that. I could not take them anyway.

The apartment had a no pet rule and I could not take them with me. That was so very hard for me, as they would have been great comfort.

“I have a small apartment and a job and I am going to enroll in college. I don’t know how it will all be. I just know this, here, is not where I am supposed to be in life. I’m not happy. You don’t even realize I am not happy. ”

I wanted to be as compassionate and gentle as I could be, empathetic, yet firm in my decision. I felt it was a good decision for me. I was prepared to go and picked up the suitcase. I handed Dennis the keys to the house and the second set of car keys along with a list of care needed for the cat and dog. I had gone grocery shopping and the kitchen was well stocked.

“I don’t understand,” Dennis said as he dropped to his knees. “Are you angry with me about something? Tell me what I need to do and I will do it. I will do anything. I have been the best husband I know how to be and am still learning.”

“I’ve given this a lot of thought Dennis. I have been thinking about it for months. I want to go to college. I want to work. And I don’t want children. I don’t feel I will be a good mother, and I have no interest in being a stay at home wife like your mom. It’s a nice life for her. It scares me. It’s not my dream.”

The look of hurt ran across his face. “I’m shocked,” he said. “With more time you will change your mind. I truly believe you need me more than you realize. I am providing for you. You are just 18.”

A ton of emotions were racing across my mind. I knew I needed to stay calm. He was saying things that were pushing my anger buttons. I don’t like getting angry.

“I don’t want to fight with you Dennis. I will be okay alone. I can take care of myself. It may not be easy, however, I will be okay.”

Dennis broke down and started sobbing. I almost gave in at the site of him crying so hard, however, I knew in my heart we would be back to this same place again in a few months if I did give in. I needed to be elsewhere in the world. I had to be strong.

“Can we just separate for a few months? 6 months?” Dennis asked. “Then let’s see where things are at. I believe you will see how good I am for you. You will miss me.”

I made that agreement with Dennis. 6 months. It was better than staying there in turmoil. I picked up my suitcase and left out the same back kitchen door he had just entered. I also left without looking back.

I absolutely enjoyed my job. It was fun. The people were fun. I enjoyed dating and going to lunch with the girls in the office and the office parties. I enjoyed my freedom and coming and going as I pleased.

Dennis went to Dotti and Al and begged them to convince me to come back to him. Al did not get involved. He stayed silent. Dotti and I had lunch a few times. She loved eating at the Sizzler and it was right next door from where I worked. I listened to her. She was doing her best to give me motherly advice. It was fun to sit there with her and be an adult. She said Dennis had lost a lot of weight and looked terrible, like he had not been sleeping.

Dennis even went to my apartment manager and asked her to evict me.

He was desperate.

On the very day, 6 months later, Dennis called me at work.

“Are you ready to come back now?” he asked me. “Have you realized how much better life was here where I can take care of you? Do you have it out of your system now?”

“No,” I said. “I want a divorce. I have not changed my mind. I am ready to move on and yu need to as well.”

“Okay,” Dennis said. “I hope no one ever hurts you in the same way you have hurt me. This is a pain I never want anyone to feel,” he cried. “I’ll file for a divorce and send you the papers.”

As I hung up the phone, those words made a place in my heart that would come back to haunt me in later years. That night I went out with some people from work and got drunk. I wished all the best for Dennis and I was still sure of my decision.

I know Dennis felt blindsided. He was.

He didn’t see it coming. Life was blissful for him.

At least there was no screaming and yelling between us. There was no personal attack of each other.

I just withdrew. He never even noticed.

It was beneficial for me to find out many, many years later that Dennis did remarry, had five children, and continued in the real estate business with his father.

That made me happy. That was not the life I wanted. I have no regrets.

Thinking about having five children makes me feel exhausted. It truly was the right parting for us both.

Divorce is a time of change. It really rocks a foundation of most people’s lives. When we have our heart-broken or our dreams taken away from us, it is a time of growth and change. ~ Debbie Ford

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Which moment would you most like to relive?

Time and Again

Doré Frances

Posted on December 16, 2018

Fitting in is unnecessary. Embrace who you are. You will go through rough times in high school, but always stay strong, and never deny yourself! ~ Neon Hitch

Does everything happen for a reason? When people have to cope with difficult situations in their lives, they sometimes reassure themselves by saying that everything happens for a reason. For some people, thinking this way makes it easier to deal. It can be distressing to think that bad things happen merely through chance or accident.

Yet they do.

Anxiety, depression and hormones were a part of my daily life this entire year. My life was my own and yet did not seem my own. I stood out and did not fit in. My future seemed uncertain. In fact, it became increasingly hard to predict whether I would be alive for another day, another week, another month or another year.

So much happened over the next year it could all be a book unto itself.

My friend Mark was killed in Vietnam. He was two years older than I was and was drafted into the war. There were a few of our classmates who died in the war. Mark was the only one I knew personally and had a friendship with. So many stories. So many lives touched by the Vietnam War. Mark was just a good ol’ boy. Just a good ol’ down home boy, and we had a true friendship. Mark’s death was painful for me. We had exchanged letters with each other while he was in Vietnam. I just broke down crying when his dad called to tell me. Mark had begun his tour just a little over five months before he was killed in combat. He was 19 years old when he died. The Vietnam War stretched nearly two decades and claimed the lives of some 58,220 Americans. Those of us who can vividly remember the late ’60s remember how divided our country was because of the war. In 1973, President Nixon withdrew U.S. forces from the war, and for many, the wounds of Vietnam – both physical and invisible – will never fully heal. I still cannot watch any biographies or movies about that war. It makes me angry and sad.

I cut my hair short for the first and only time in my entire life so far. There is nothing like the adrenaline rush of telling someone to take it all off and then watching as those locks fall to the salon floor. I got a pixie cut. I felt like it allowed me to hit a reset button. My long hair had become a security blanket. It was comfortable. I knew it would grow back. It did.

I “dated” two EMT’s who just used me for sex. Dating is a loose term as we really never went anywhere except their house or did anything except have sex. And yes, they used condoms. I also had started taking “the pill” for birth control. I had decided I was never going to have children. I had no faith in my ability to be a mother. I could not see me mothering a child. I had no faith in my abilities.

I did a lot of drugs and sat at the dinner table with my family while high on LSD. I just smiled. I convinced myself that the more I did drugs the better I could handle my life at home and conversations with “these people.” I started to become comfortable with the tripping version of myself and it was no longer, “oh shit they’ll know I’m high because I’m not myself”. It was more like, “this is a part of who I am”.

I had my first car accident in my father’s brand new green mustang that he won from Publisher’s Clearing House. Yes, people do win. First off, no one was injured, although when I called my dad, he asked about the car, not me. Both myself and the person who ran the red light and hit me were fine. My dad’s car, California license plate, 219 BOO, however, had a decent-sized crunch on the passenger side door. I was on my way to the Goodwill and had a front seat full of donated clothes. One second I was driving, carefree, and the next tires squealed and SLAMCRASHCRUNCH. The accident was pretty minor, really, however, the shock of it was astounding. I remember thinking very clearly; I understood everything going on, and I was hyperventilating with my left hand stuck in a death-grip on the wheel and my right clamped over my mouth like I was trying not to scream, while clothes from the front seat flew all over the dashboard of the car. A simple fact of life is that all teens will probably be involved in an auto accident at some point in their lives. So if you haven’t already experienced something like what I did, you probably will. I hope that you do not. As terrifying as that moment was, I will forever remember the great kindness of the helpers who came out of the corner grocery store to help me. I was so very grateful to them. Two men helped me to get the car off of the road. Things can change so quickly. An instant will change your life forever. I am fortunate in the fact that I was not physically altered by my incident. I could have died or lost a limb. I did have teen friends who died in car accidents. It happens.

I met an Angel named Bruce. I was 16 and Bruce was 23. He was one of the men who helped move the car off the street after the accident. We exchanged phone numbers. A few weeks later we met at the local shopping center for lunch. Over the next few months we went to the movies, drove to the country, and he helped me with my homework. He was a complete gentleman. He kissed me on the forehead, or my cheek. Never my lips. One day after picking me up from school, Bruce asked me if I wanted to meet his mother. As we arrived at the small house, I wondered, is this real, is this when we will have sex, is this what was taking place? We walked in to the front door and Bruce asked me to sit on the small blue sofa in the front room while he went upstairs. I could hear him and his mother talking in soft voices. Bruce then came to the top of the stairs and motioned for me to come up. As I turned the corner at the top of the stairs I saw a woman in a wheel chair. Bruce had been combing her long gray hair and placed the brush down on the nightstand table. I looked around the room and I saw pictures of Bruce in uniform, medals from the Vietnam war, and a folded flag, the kind you get at a military funeral. Next to the flag was a picture on another young man. I learned in conversation that day that the young man was Bruce’s younger brother, who had died in the war. I sat silently looking at all the pictures on the wall. Pictures of Bruce, his brother and his mother. Bruce went down to the kitchen and made us all tea and brought it up on a tray. A beautiful tea set with delicate cups. Was Bruce my hero? This all seemed surreal. Bruce’s mom spoke as we sat enjoying our tea.

“I don’t know you. My son said you were someone important to him and he wanted me to meet you. You must be someone very special.”

“Mom,” Bruce said, “Dore needs a message from you. She is special and she is being pulled away from her gifts.”

Bruce and I had never spoken about my gifts. In fact, I had forgotten all about them. His mother rolled her chair over to me and sat almost knee to knee. I could “hear” sweet music or perhaps low singing and yet as I looked around the room I could not locate the source. I felt comforted and supported. I felt encouragement and strength, and I felt loved. I do not remember any words being spoken. I do remember feeling like I had received a message. Quite simply, I felt that I was in the presence of an angel (or angels). I felt warmth, light, and an overwhelming feeling of love. A ray of sunlight filled the room and I could feel the warmth on my face. I also felt a feeling of intense love and gratitude, and as if someone was caressing my face. Then the feeling slowly left me, and for the first time in a long time I didn’t feel sad. We all finished our tea and then Bruce said it was time for him to take me home. I wanted to be with Bruce forever. As we pulled into the driveway, may father walked out the front door. He asked Bruce his age. He then said I was never to see Bruce again, and if we did see each other he would call the police. My father had never cared about who I was spending my time with until this day. I was crying and asking ‘why?’ Bruce walked me to the door and handed me my school books and binders.

“It’s okay,” he said. He kissed me on the forehead, and repeated, “It’s okay. My mom and I will pray for you. This is how it is supposed to be. Trust me.”

He then walked over to my dad and spoke to him. I could not hear. My dad just turned and walked into the house. Bruce gave me a hug and got into his truck and drove away. Have you ever felt like you were in the presence of angels? It’s very possible that you were and you didn’t even know it. Angels bring us guidance through people messengers. Angels are sent to us to deliver messages of encouragement and inspiration. They will use people in your life, or sometimes complete strangers to tell you exactly what you need to hear in that very moment. They often show us when you’re contemplating an issue or decision and need someone to guide you through it. Sometimes, a random person you meet will mention something that you desperately needed to hear or know, that you wouldn’t have otherwise heard had you not come across their path. When you are feeling divinely guided by someone, angels may be reaching out to you. My father never spoke about Bruce again. I was asked not to speak about him. About a year later I went looking for Bruce’s house. The house I thought was his, was sure was his, had a doctor and his wife living there and they said they had lived there for 7 years. They did not know of anyone named Bruce.

I took care of my Grandmother Carrie who had Alzheimer’s. Mario died in 1964 and slowly each year Carrie started becoming more and more disconnected with reality. My father had live in help for her at her home for a while. One day he got a call from the neighbors saying she was wandering the streets. He knew then she needed to be in some kind of care home. However, he just could not make the decision all of a sudden. I saw compassion in my father for the first time. He came to me and asked me to take care of Grandma Carrie in our home until he could find a proper place for her. He would pay me $100 per week. It was summer months so I had no school. For my dad, it was all about the money. He felt he could buy anything. I had to schedule my days starting with changing grandma’s diapers, getting her bathed and fed and then a walk across the field and back for exercise. She was still very mobile. She talked about things from long ago, knew my name sometimes, and called everyone else by names we did not recognize. Once a week I got a day off. Dad would take care of her. Dotti refused to help other than to cook meals. Grandma still remembered how to play the piano and would do so, and sing, and laugh. She liked TV, The Ed Sullivan Show, but not much else. At the end of summer, dad found a home for her where she lived until 1977. She was 73 when she died.

I ran away twice this year. Some days I would hitchhike to San Francisco and live the hippie life, panhandling on the corner. No one came looking for me these two times. I stayed at a teen runaway shelter for two weeks and slept with one of the staff who gave me drugs and took me on motorcycle rides. His name was Jimmy. He was in his late 20’s. The other time I stayed on the streets and slept in laundry rooms for heat. I still went to school each day. When I finally returned home each time, no one said anything.

I met Dennis Hager at Kinney Shoe Store and got engaged at age 16. He fitted me for a pair of white boots, we dated, we got engaged. I remember what it was like at 16. I felt a lot older. I was welcomed into his Baptist family with open arms. He had a sister my age. Dennis went to my father and asked to marry me. Dennis was 20, had been engaged once before, and his fiance ran off with the best man / his best friend the night before the wedding. That was just a year before. Dennis didn’t take drugs. never had. The moment we talked about marriage I knew he was my hero. My way out of the house. My father bargained with me. He offered me full college expenses, apartment, car and $250,000 upon graduation. I would pay for nothing, if I was to not get married. He wanted me to go to veterinary school in Colorado and work for him in his practice. I did not trust my father. Colorado seemed a world away from California. I turned him down. He then said, after the wedding, I would get nothing, ever. I didn’t care. I knew I was 16, would be 17 and married in my senior year of high school, and felt like I was 25.

“Why would you want to throw your life away this early?” my father asked.

“He’s the one,” I would say. The hard part was knowing I would leave George behind in the house with Dotti. Dennis and I went to Baptist marriage counseling. It was required for us to get married in the church. That was important to him and his family. We had a full on white dress with veil, 4 bridesmaids, groomsmen, wedding with rehearsal dinner, ceremony after the wedding, honeymoon and moving into our first apartment. I think it’s easy to get caught up in the term “the one.” After you say “I do” that person is “the one.” We married on June 13, 1971. Dennis’s parents were all for the marriage. They married when they were young. It was fun being married my senior year of high school. I was “playing house.” Dennis and I laughed a lot together. Neither of us could cook. We had my dad over for dinner once. After that, my dad took us out to dinner. Just because we got married didn’t mean we all of a sudden knew what we were doing. Neither one of us had any idea what marriage meant.

When you’re a teenager, life feels more intense because you’re starting to enter the adult world and everything is new and exciting, plus you have all these hormones racing around your body so that just adds to the intensity. I do miss that. As an adult, it’s not easy to find experiences that hit you like when you’re younger.

I don’t think though that these years are the peak of life’s happiness.

It’s just a different kind of happiness that you experience as an adult.

The more life you live, the more self-assured you become, since you’re no longer a newbie at life. As a teenager I was painfully self-conscious, and nowadays I’m a lot more comfortable with myself. And there are experiences that one rarely can fully appreciate when young. So I don’t see it as better or worse.

I think the hardest part about being a teenager is dealing with other teenagers – the criticism and the ridicule, the gossip and rumors. ~ Beverley Mitchell

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Of which personal achievement are you most proud?

I Laid My Head Down

Doré Frances

Posted on December 12, 2018

The coming to consciousness is not a discovery of some new thing; it is a long and painful return to that which has always been. ~ Helen M. Luke

How could I have any faith at all after losing my mother, losing my baby, being abused, being raped, having some of the soldiers I was writing in Vietnam die at such young ages?? I believed in God, and then I didn’t.

I was feeling numb and disoriented.

I felt anxious and had trouble sleeping. Sudden outbursts of tears were common.

One Sunday I was at church and in my silent prayer I was asking God tough questions.

I laid my head down on top of the pew and just kept on asking questions in anticipation of an answer.

The pastor came and sat next to me and I shared my concerns of losing my faith in God.

“How can I have faith after the death of my mother?” I asked. “How can I have faith after being forced to have an abortion?”

“I’ll try to answer you as best I can. We all experience pain in this life, and the only thing worse than the pain of losing a loved one is the pain of never loving or being loved in the first place. In a way, the pain of grief is a gift to us because it is evidence of the presence of love,” he said.

“I blame God. Where is God when I am being abused, having my hair pulled out from the back of my neck?” I said.

“If you want to blame God, go ahead. God can absorb our feelings and words of blame without personal harm or injury. We cannot hurt God,” said the pastor.

“”I feel, in a way, that I am searching for something that isn’t here,” I said. “I am looking for that laughter and that incredible time that I had with my mother. I am by myself now. Where was God when I was being raped?”

The pastor looked at me in surprise. “I will pray for you,” he said.

“Please leave,” I said. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“God has a plan,” he told me as he walked up to the front of the church and lit a candle at the alter.

I thought, how can you possibly understand the pain I have? I think that was a turning point in the whole religion thing for me. As I walked out of the church I actually wished I would get a sign so that I could believe in God again. I didn’t get a sign.

I just remember thinking, ‘That’s it. I’m done with God.’

I really came to the realization that, yeah, I’m alone in this and I need to save myself.

I have never been a big fan of the “paste a smile on and pretend it’s okay” club. I was feeling angry. The crushing unfairness of it all began to sink in.

I used to think that people of true faith accepted everything quietly and calmly. This day I was not so sure.

I wrestled with my decision, however, I left the church that day and did not return for many years. I let go. I held on to no beliefs. I lost my faith. Or perhaps, a better way to say it is that I choose to reject that God was in my life any longer. I still had a very long and hard journey ahead of me. Grief was exhausting, messy, and misunderstood.

Anger and confusion were normal parts of my daily life. I was stuck in a dark place.

Had I been given a choice, I would not have chosen this path, as it has been hard and painful. That being said, I took all I could from it and it did change me for the better.

My faith was challenged many times over the years. I was mad at God!

I was searching frantically for anyone, anything that would help me get through this.

I was searching for a hero to save me. I realized I would have to go it alone. As a coping mechanism, I began to write a journal. I have been writing in some form ever since.

Most often, tragedy shakes your faith and doesn’t destroy it. Faith is generally challenged in some way. It was many years for me to come back full circle to a place of spiritual belief and faith.

My experience was that religious leaders are really bad at comforting people in grief.

Grief is so overpowering – it consumes you.

First the numbness and autopilot mode then the heaviness of despair, then the oceans of tears, then the questions of the pointless, futility of life. Then anger, then deep despair, then numbness and repeat. This repeated for many years. My life has changed drastically. since that day.

I see my life in two parts; my old life and my new life; one I didn’t want or choose and one that I’m embracing.

I live my life as I want, enjoying the little things.

This year just during the Spring time months, I noticed a robin that would watch me when I was gardening.

The robin visited the garden most days and would look towards the house. There are some people who think that symbolises that a loved one who has passed is okay.

That brought me some comfort. I like seeing robins in the garden, even when they are being fiercely territorial.

I think most people find it hard to talk about death either due to a trauma or the death of a loved one.

Though it’s been 55 years since my mom left I still weep during the holidays as if she just died.

She was my hero.

Death has shaped my entire life. Loss of loved ones. Four near death experiences myself.

Of course there is the awful reality of loss in all our lives. Grief is a personal and intense journey that all of us will experience at some point in life.

Through the entire time I rejected faith, I still said my prayers every night, starting with ‘Now I lay me down to sleep…….”

I felt better when I prayed.

I had a beautiful and profound experience when I returned to the same church years later, laid my head back down on the pew in the same place I had been before, and explained to God my gifts and how I was choosing to live my life and what I believed.

I made spiritual progress by turning around and retracing some steps. Sometimes, this is exactly what progress looks like: Turning around and heading back the other way.

Think about it, we can hardly call going further down the wrong road progress.

“Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: You don’t give up.” – Anne Lamott

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Is free will real or just an illusion?

Feeling Your Feelings With Animals

Doré Frances

Posted on December 9, 2018

“A small pet animal is often an excellent companion for the sick…” – Florence Nightingale (1859)

We live in a world where good news is often outshone by bad.

Every day, thousands of people work to make this world a better place. Such things as courage and self-sacrifice, however, are inherent not only in people; also in our smaller, four-legged and furry friends, and sometimes not so furry friends. Animals have pretty much no reason to like us.

Sure, there are a few instances where the relationship between man and beast is beneficial to them.

Cats, for example, live a pretty cushy life because they were smart enough to dominate the human race (is that not how it went down?). By and large, though, with all the various tragic things that humans do to animals in the name of “progress,” it makes little sense that the animal kingdom is as sweet to humanity as it is.

Yet, they are. There have been many occasions where animals have gone above and beyond to help the people surrounding them.

Most children love animals. I love all animals. Animals allow me to feel my feelings.

Animals play a major role in the human experience. My father knew this long before AAT – Assisted Animal Therapy was “a thing.” Since the day I was born I have had animals and my father created animal therapy in my life. He loved animals more than people and he knew their healing gifts. He knew animals could feel our feelings.

Al’s favorite dog was a German Shepherd.

We had a wonderful German Shepherd named Baron when I first came to live with Al and Dotti. Baron followed close behind me most days. When Dotti would go on her rampages she would lock the dogs in the back yard and you could hear them barking at the door and windows.

A year later Al brought home a charming half-breed of German Shepherd and Collie named Charlie.

George was playing on the street with Charlie when suddenly a truck rushed onto the pavement at high-speed, racing straight towards George.

Charlie instantly pushed George aside and took the brunt of the blow from the advancing truck. Charlie was thrown onto the road, and the truck, seeming to want to escape from the scene, ran down poor Charlie one more time. Al was home and rushed Charlie to his emergency pet hospital.

The brave dog miraculously survived, however he received several internal injuries, and his legs and spine were broken.

Thankfully, my fathers timely veterinary care saved Charlie from death, however, he had to undergo lengthy treatment and rehabilitation.

Cats, dogs, fish, goats, lizards, birds, horses, chickens, llamas, pigs, rabbits, turtles were all a part of my life and my father knew how to add healing to a life with animals.

We learn so much from animals, and most of us may not realize how much they actually help us. Animals can help us emotionally and psychologically. It is not a new idea to have animals be a part of the mental healing process for human patients in therapy.

What is rather new and is growing is the widespread acceptance and volunteerism that follows Animal Assisted Therapy (AAT) nowadays. AAT has roots that trace all the way back to the ancient Greeks. As history would have it, they were the first to use animals, specifically horses, to lift the spirits of the severely ill.

Then, in the 1600s, physicians were reported to have been using horses to improve the mental and physical health of their patients.

Farm animals were also used in the 1940s by the American Red Cross on a farm where veterans suffering from injury or illness could take care of the animals to further their recovery.

It was said that working with the farm animals helped the veterans put their minds on something besides war and other associated traumas.

Pet animals were first used for therapeutic use in medieval Belgium.

Interestingly enough, in this Belgian society, animals and humans were rehabilitated together.

The animals were used for the humans’ therapy.

It’s likely that interacting with humans provided the animals with a companionship that mirrored what they could offer. In reaction to practices such as this, animal therapy became a hot topic in academia.

In the 1800s, Florence Nightingale observed that small pets reduced the levels of anxiety and stress in adult and youth psychiatric patients.

This began a wave of informal experiments involving animal interaction with humans to produce a calming effect on patients suffering from anxiety.

An Austrian Nobel laureate in Physiology and a psychologist were so intrigued by the connection between animals and humans that they developed an idea called the Human-Animal Bond.

This theory described how humans need interaction with animals and nature to normalize the busyness of daily life.

Dr. Sigmund Freud even used his pet pup in his practice. He believed his dog could tell the truest character in a human. The dog would remain close to patients who were free from stress and tension, and remain on the other side of the room from those who were not. Freud also used his dog to calm young patients with anxiety. During the 1960s, the first formal research involving animal therapy began.

I know my father followed this research.

Dr. Boris Levinson found that his dog had a positive effect on mentally impaired young patients.

Specifically, he discovered that these patients were more comfortable and likely to socialize with his dog than with other humans.

It wasn’t until Freud’s findings were translated and published years after his death that Levinson’s findings were considered valid.

This demonstrates the controversy surrounding the topic of formalized animal therapy and makes it even more impressive that today it is so extensive.

The noticeable changes in human behavior when interacting with animals is the main reason why AAT has become such an integral part of today’s therapeutic practices.

Pets have had a positive effect on my emotional and mental health. And yes, animals can help you outside of clinical therapy.

Studies show that owning a pet can help you live a happier, healthier and longer life. I am an absolute believer of this because of first hand experience.

Animals allow me to feel my feelings.

Dogs, specifically, have been shown to reduce the risk of heart disease in their loving owners. For those who had suffered a heart attack, owning a cat or a dog decreased the risk of enduring another heart attack.

Additionally, owners were alive for at least a year after the heart attack, regardless of the severity. So it would seem that animals know the way to our hearts.

Pets are also especially helpful to the elderly, who may be struggling with feelings of depression and loneliness. Pets ease aggression presented by those with dementia and Alzheimer’s.

They also provide the elderly with companionship and someone to take care of, reducing feelings of helplessness that is so common among the old and sick.

Furthermore, pets are great for teaching children responsibility. In 1989, the Delta Society, a group focused on animal education, invented a certification program to ensure the proficiency and success of animals providing AAT.

More certifications have since popped up, and the basics remain those laid out by the Delta Society.

Because many children, teens and adults enjoy working with animals, animal-assisted therapy can be particularly beneficial for individuals who are resistant to treatment or have difficulty accessing their emotions or expressing themselves in talk therapy. Animals speak with their bodies, however.

Modern Dog Magazine puts it this way, “Although dogs do use sounds and signals, much of the information that they send is through their body language, specifically their facial expressions and body postures.” Children don’t have to talk to communicate with animals. And that’s probably part of what creates the draw. Or perhaps it’s that the children can talk in whatever way they prefer, and the animals don’t talk back.

National Geographic says that after the Sandy Hook Shootings, “One boy confided in the gentle-faced golden retriever about exactly what happened in his classroom at Sandy Hook Elementary School that day—which his parents said was more than he’d been able to share with them.”

I grew up around animals big and small. Over the years, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told my woes to my furry friends.

My animals have often been my therapists. They made me feel like I was their favorite person, like every word I said mattered. Whether I was having trouble with family, feelings of abuse, friends, health, life, school, or work, my animals listened. My dogs licked my face when I cried, and they snuggled close and slept with me. My cats cuddled close. My horses nuzzled me and let me bury my face into their side and hang on them and hug then as I sobbed.

As a child with lots of anxiety, I needed all my animals so I could feel my feelings.

Even today, I find endless comfort in animals. I have two cats currently, Aimee and Chloe and they bring so much life into our home.

I got to pet a super soft koala bear once a wild life park. I cried.

I’m so grateful for all of the lessons animals have taught me through the years, and all of the heartfelt connections I’ve been able to make.

“Until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened.” –Anatole France

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What harsh truths do you prefer to ignore?

We Are All Frail

Doré Frances

Posted on October 20, 2018

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.

It’s 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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	Doré Frances on Often We Are Driven to the…
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	Doré Frances on A Great Battle Raging
	Ryan on A Great Battle Raging
	Doré Frances on A Legacy of Sadness
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