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+POWER AND GRACE

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Monday, October 20, 2014.  My dearest friend who I am now 1700 miles away from is suffering.  He finally called me yesterday to tell me the reality of his condition.  No trying to be upbeat and cheery.  The truth is that at 77 following spine surgery he is bedridden and in great pain if he moves.  He cannot walk.  He cannot sit.  And, as he has been emphatically told, he cannot sue his surgeon:  “Did you read the three pages of fine print at the end of the papers you signed before surgery?  You are an old man.  Be patient.”

If good things come to those who wait — what lies in store for someone like this arrogant surgeon who promotes his abilities as a surgeon like he is selling used cars?

My friend is brilliant with a charismatic, powerful personality.  He has worked extremely hard all of his life.  What can he do — NOW?  I was unable to sleep much last night, unable to escape the magnetism of the sadness of his dilemma.

Yet after finally dosing for two hours I woke at dawn resolved to challenge my friend in any possible way that I can.  CHALLENGE him.

Humans are designed to arise to a challenge with all resources at our command.  What resources does my suffering friend have right now?  Well, other than the immense powers he has inside of his personhood he also has ME!  It took me some time before I could “go off the air emotionally” enough that I could tell that my friend shared details of his situation now that he has spared me for months because in his own way he is asking me for help.

I am recommending some things that can improve his quality of life — and by doing so down-regulate the amount of stress/distress he is experiencing.  Those states are not beneficial to his healing.  I told him to ASK for help from members of his large family so that he can get Netflix going and a “t box” set up so he can at least bypass a gazillion inane commercials.

Asking for help  is NOT my friend’s strong suit.

Well, stew about THAT my dear friend!  Get those obstinate juices flowing as you look at the very real bad situation you are in.  Are you willing to go outside what has, thus far, been your comfort levels?  Aging forces most of us to grow “outside” the boxes we have allowed ourselves to be confined within for most of our lives.  “There is a time and a season.”

It’s box-smashing time!

Next I recommended that he send another of his loving family members off to the Saturday Farmers’ Market there in search of a fantastic and gifted Reiki massage therapist and energy worker.  She is from France, has a heavy accent, is a retired RN and does chair massage at market.  I am certain she would come to his home to treat him.

Oh my, red lights will flash “DANGER AHEAD” for my “old fashioned” friend.  I DARE YOU I am basically telling him!  No fear should stop him now from pursuing what can actually HELP him heal.

If he WANTS to heal.

I haven’t challenged him with that question yet.  “Do you want to live or die?”

(As I found out 7+ years ago when I fought advanced, aggressive breast cancer.  Deciding NOT to die is not exactly the same thing as deciding TO LIVE.)

I will wait to see what fuses light and burn with what I wrote to him today.  Boy, I can sure come up with more ideas, if nothing else just so he can turn them down!  I know I want to give him hope — and some sense of power he can orchestrate through his choices.  Grace happens through action.  I will do my best to wake up his will and shake up his Warrior Within.

Just because he is in so much terrible pain he can barely move doesn’t mean he can’t move toward healing in new ways he’s never thought of before and certainly — until now — would never have considered trying.

Want to try some GREEN JUICE?  Want to try reading BOOKS?  There ARE library services and audio books.  Turn off the TV sometimes and listen to MUSIC!  Acupuncture?

My friend, a man of great pride and great accomplishment, needs to let people come visit and sit beside him.  Hard to let people see him in this condition?  OF COURSE, but there is no shame in being — human.

Get over it.

Get over ALL of it.

Get well!

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother?

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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Saturday, October 18, 2014.  I mentioned in a recent post that I was swallowed up whole in a swarm of hives last September 23rd as I read a text message from my daughter that morning about a terrible car accident she drove through unscathed the night before.  My hives are still here.  Still acting up.  Still communicating with me via the largest organ in my body — my skin.

I just had the idea of Google searching “hives chakras stress.”  Very interesting.  As I clicked a bit, also, through the list of links that appeared as additional search avenues on “hives anxiety” at the bottom of the first search page I had to chuckle.  Get control of my anxiety BEFORE a stress appears?  Sure.  OK.  Yeah.  I’ll get right on that!

If I don’t want to drown, stay away from water.

I get it.

But, having experienced very little that wasn’t extremely traumatic from the moment of my birth I had more than my fair share of stress-related alterations confining my developing physiology every step of the way as I grew into this world.  I essentially live in an anxiety (terror) built home-of-a-body.

I am yet again reminded of an article I read and took notes on back in 2007

*Preschooler empathy

The study described clearly shows the alterations in empathy processes that happen with early disturbances in safe and secure attachment for little people.  I endured the horrors of abuse consistently for the first 18 years of my life.  I am an “insecurely attached” individual.  I have a serious “attachment disorder.”  Call it Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD).  Call it an “disorganized-disoriented insecure attachment pattern.”  It no longer matters to me one bit what I or anyone else might “call” the patterns my body-brain uses in its interactions with life in this world.

But I do know I will never have an optimally-operating attachment system OR a concurrent optimally-operating empathetic response system.

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Take a look through the information I posted at the above link.  “Rock-n-Roll” method of being in the world, and I am not talking about music.

I have so much pain, sorrow, suffering (etc.) built into me that I CANNOT escape feeling if I am within “contagion” distance of another human being that I become a living emotional backlash ocean of pained response.  Back to me comes all of my own only-slightly-masked pain.  I set to resonate with another person’s suffering as if there is no tomorrow.  And no yesterday.  Body memories related to suffering from trauma so easily becomes ALL THAT I AM.

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How do I pull back from the edge of that brink once I find myself reacting-responding-resonating so painfully with somebody else’s suffering?  Where are my boundaries that define MY reality as being separate from another’s?  We are all connected.  Reality IS that one person’s pain is SUPPOSED to be another person’s pain.

Humans, as shareholders within a social species, are SUPPOSED to be connected to one another.  We are SUPPOSED to recognize another’s suffering.  We are SUPPOSED to care.  And we are SUPPOSED to ACT APPROPRIATELY in response to another’s suffering so that we can HELP THEM not to suffer any more.

In today’s world, certainly within American culture, the circle is broken in significant ways.

Independent US?

Who are we kidding?

Humans are not supposed to be changed in development through early attachment traumas so that they end up TOO MUCH ALONE — or TOO MUCH TOGETHER.

When I cannot stop my pain, my anxiety – which is pain and a response to the existence of my own pain and pain-in-the-world – when my “boundaries” are breached and I am swamped as in overwhelmed – I am being, as is not uncommonly said, “a part of the problem and not a part of its solution.”

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Emotions and states of being are contagious.  Fear.  Anger.  Happiness.  (Yawning?)

Contagious.

I wonder why it has taken me this long to grasp a very simple fact?  Anxiety is CONTAGIOUS!

It takes an entire bank of resources, known and accessible, to create protection against being consumed by powerful, environmentally-profound levels of emotional cotangents such as anxiety is.

Or?

Well, certainly a very sophisticated body-wash of mobilized hives is not the WORST thing that can happen when “defenses” fail.  But my hives are certainly garnering my attention.  ZAP!  Hot poke at the very peak of my head.  Hot itches, too close to my eyes and flashing up my nostrils?  Flowing like red shadow patterns all over this body I call home-in-this-world.

My body is talking to me.  All “symptoms” talk to us.  We are designed optimally for optimal health.  Anything that comes to us that is NOT about optimal health is a twist of fate for humans.  A twist of consequence.

From what and for what reasons?

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One of the first and most important (to me) facts I uncovered a decade ago when I began to study the physiological responses in development due to early trauma was that someone with an early abuse and neglect history will most likely ALWAYS feel DISTRESSED in response to environmental circumstances that would cause “ordinary” people to feel STRESSED.  There are complicated reasons why this is so and many, many of these reasons are presented elsewhere on this blog.

Yet while I can kind of grasp the difference between STRESSED and DISTRESSED, I am at a stalemate in trying to think of any amped-up word to describe how what I feel of anixety– as a trauma-altered-development (TAD) person — actually IS compared to what “ordinary” people might simply be able to call anxiety (aka stressed).

Is it “disanxiety?”  Could it more accurately be described as DYSanxiety?  Early traumatic stress changes our development so that emotional (and physical) DYSREGULATION is built into us.  Anxiety that we cannot regulate in “usual” ways is a direct manifestation of that dysregulation – rather than regulation – built very early on into our body including into our rapidly early- forming (birth to age one) right limbic (social-emotional) brain hemisphere.

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It all comes down to being able or not able to downsize our discomfort and our experience of discomfort — and/or the discomfort of another person when appropriate (although we cannot literally alter somebody else’s own personal/inner experience of their own comfort/discomfort).

Trauma-built people have a nearly unbelievable, usually extreme disadvantage when it comes to being able to self-soothe.

What happened to us was the antithesis of soothing.

This absolutely DOES NOT mean that we can’t learn (A) when we need to comfort and care about/for our self, and (B) HOW to do this.

I think usually this process must begin with identifying when we are in an extremely uncomfortable state (my hives are doing this for me) and then finding healthy ways to create some kind of distancing for our self from any situation that is distressing us so much that our DYSanxiety is in full play.

We are aiming at a state of peaceful calm.

Most of us who were severely traumatized as infants and children BARELY know what this state feels like.  We have to LEARN how we know what it is, because we DO know!  We would not have remained alive if we had NO experience with this state.

We need to REMEMBER what this state of peaceful calm is and what it feels like.  This kind of knowledge was SUPPOSED to be built into our body as the natural point of rest, of balanced equilibrium for our nervous system-self.  Early trauma survivors DO NOT naturally have peaceful calm at the center of our life experience.

Or of our body.

There are times when we need to unplug from other people in ways that let us go off-the-air emotionally.  Being overwhelmed is not health-producing and is not helpful to anyone.  Survivors of early, devastating early trauma did not get a chance to form safe and secure attachment relationships that would have given us healthy, effective boundaries.  We have to LEARN what these boundaries are and how to utilize and sustain them.

My skin is “supposed” to be my natural boundary-defining limit of my physical body.  Yet Oriental healing processes powerfully recognize the error and limitations of this way of thinking.  We are FAR more than our body!  We are a complex of interacting networks and interfaces of which our skin might appear to be one surface that delineates us as an individual.

At this point I wonder if my body is actually doing a form of acupuncture on itself.  Yes, my body is trying to get my attention.  But more importantly I recognize that is trying to heal me.

I need to calm down and find any way I can to participate in this process.  Off-the-air I go.

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother?

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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Sunday, October 12, 2014.  I find myself for the first time in my adult life that I know of LONGING for the touch of my grandmother’s hand.  Longing for the sound of her voice speaking softly to me of NOTHING that has ANYTHING to do with the crazy abusive life I lived with her daughter, my so-sick mother whose illness made her so hate me.  I want my GRANDMA.

Long dead.  Since June 1971 when I was 19 years old.

Grandmother’s kindness to me could not reach me very often.  Mother did not allow it.  By the time we left Grandmother behind in Los Angeles when we tore off for Alaska when I was five there was very little Grandma could do to ever help or soothe me.  Yet I can imagine why memories of tenderness from her are surrounding me now.  Body memories, as most of our earliest most important memories always are.  Being a grandmother myself has blessings but it also has some very difficult challenges that I cannot write about here.  It has been a difficult week, a difficult day today as I try to sort out what it is I CAN do to live the love I have for my family.

Love is often a “working love.”  It is not passive.  It is not always soft and cushy and easy.  Tough love?  Yes.  Sometimes love IS tough.  Life can be scary without blueprints or road maps.  Insights and instincts.  Courage.  Knowing when to speak (what) and when to keep silent (about what).  How to encourage?  How to support without overwhelming?  How to remain true to self while allowing all others to do the same?

Where to shine the light?  How brightly?  How to help those we love increase their own light?  What do we do with the darkness when it appears?

Trauma on down through the generations.  Trying to spare the youngest, newest, sweetest, most loved?  What do we adults drag around with us that harms them even when we are doing our very, very best not to?

Who can tell the truth?  Who knows the truth?  Who looks farthest down the road searching for how what happens now is going to affect what happens THEN for these little people?

Sometimes life seems so very, very big.  I must feel small right now.  Small enough to fit onto my grandmother’s lap.  Her warm hand nesting against my cheek.  If she were here.  If I were small.  If she could get to me without Mother noticing.  Is Grandmother here near me now?  She COULD be!  She MIGHT be?

Oh, what would I say to her?  What would I want to hear back from her?

“I love you.  I have always loved you.  I will always love you.  No matter what.  I love you.”

But did she fight for me?  As hard as she could — FIGHT FOR ME?

Was she ensnared in a web she could not see, all tangled up, kept far, far from me?

How did that happen — exactly?

How did all that suffering HAPPEN?

Who could have stopped it?  How?  At what point?

How do I do my part now to stop the ripples, the aftermath, from moving one tiny inch into the future of my youngest family people?

What ARE our powers?

What price do I pay for the mistakes of my grandmother?  What price are my dearest grandsons paying for mine?

Oh, forgiveness.  Compassion.  Mercy.

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Daylight is dimming.  Clouds too thick to see the sun.  There is no wind.  Rains today left a sweetest scent in the air I don’t ever want to go away.

There is no wind.  There are no shadows.  Darkness is coming.

There is a natural order to things.  I am always seeking my place in it.  Grandmothered once.  Grandmother now.

Always I want the best.

I want to remember the best always happens in the little things.  Things I might barely notice.  One pure note from a piano key.  Put together with the one before it and the one after it.  A certain pattern.  A certain rhythm.  And there’s a melody.  A song.

I want to listen….

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother?

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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Tuesday, October 7, 2014.  This post is for me.  Someone reminded me recently that it is a spiritual truth that some things that can be said are better left unsaid, and that some things that have been said would have been better left unsaid.  As I mentioned in the post prior to this one

+ROADS TRAVELED

I struggle with what’s what regarding this “story.”

I told my daughter when I was able to first speak to her after she had sent the text recorded in the previous post that it’s natural to relive traumas, certainly when hardly any time has passed in between.  Her experience was including thoughts not only about what had happened — and it took some hours before it was really clear to anyone what that had actually been after police interviews with all witnesses — but was also including a large array of WHAT IF scenarios in her mind.

I assured my daughter that because traumas have so much to teach us about what we need to learn and know to PREVENT them from happening again much information is contained in EVERY kind of reaction people have during and after a trauma.

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My first reaction to reading my daughter’s text message was to develop a serious case of hives.  I am writing now because in these ensuing days and nights my hives show no sign of leaving.  In fact, within my massively trauma-sensitized body my hives are becoming quite interestingly sophisticated.

The spots come and go in places.  Their itch comes and goes, as well.  But not arbitrarily, it seems.

I found myself thinking about the music-sound communicating space ship in the movie years back, Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  My body is using its hive communication system to remove from me any illusion that I am ever really free of fear (anxiety).  As the days pass, depending upon what is specifically calling my attention in my life, certain patterns of these hives erupt in itches in different places.  Sometimes just on my ankles and feet.  Sometimes just the top of my head.  Sometimes only the back of one leg, or the back of the other leg.

I have decided that it’s best for me to fine-tune my attention so that I can detect exactly what kind of stressor causes which “section” of me to become aggravated.  In this process I have also decided to let myself see what I have to say about this whole situation.  This will not become clear to me if I don’t put SOMETHING into words.

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I came within at the farthest reach 60 seconds of losing my precious daughter to death.  My grandsons came that close to losing their mother.  If her car had arrived at this spot of hell first it would have been she and her driver that hit that moose and who would be dead.  That’s something to react to all by itself.  It is not something I can take lightly.  Too close.  A miracle.  Grateful.  Beyond words.

The first vehicle to arrive as the huge bull moose stepped onto the pavement of that dark highway was a semi-truck heading west.  When he saw the moose as he traveled 65 mph he instantly changed lanes.  Nobody was in sight in the oncoming east-bound lane.  The moose’s antler hit and sheered off the semi’s side-view mirror.  (Check a semi.  That was one TALL moose.  The driver in talking to police later felt terrible that he did not just hit the moose dead-on, thus sparing all that followed.  The police assured him that NOBODY would NOT react to spare the moose by instinct.)

The truck driver then slowed and parked on the shoulder of the east lane at least 100′ ahead of where the moose had been, got out, and witnessed the horror of what was happening behind him.  It was later determined that the neck of the moose had snapped at hitting the mirror, dropping the beast a little over the center line but mostly in the west-bound lane.  A car directly behind the semi could not see the hulk of the moose carcass lying like a massive wall in his lane in time to do anything but hit it at full speed.

This car flipped end over end over end over end.  Three more cars, all of them also traveling at full speed without time to stop or determine course except by instantaneous instinct, came up to the site of the crash and then drove through it.  My daughter and her driver Lori* were in the third car.

Lori is in her mid-20s, a North Dakota farm girl whose father made a determined point to teach his daughter to drive as safely as possible under any possible condition.  He made sure she knew how to drive through raging blizzards, storms of all kinds.  And this horrific “storm” this night found her instant reaction taking the path to the right of the wreck at nearly full speed without braking to send her car spinning out-of-control as she followed two cars ahead of her over scattered parts of the engine block, the front bumper, and every other strewn part of the smashed-off front end of the first car.  (It turned out there was only an opening narrow enough for these cars to whiz around the main wreck without hitting the dead moose thrown to the right shoulder.)

The only warning in the pitch blackness that appeared prior to being “on the scene” was a short section of shattered glass on the pavement.

These three cars pulled off onto the shoulder 100+ feet ahead.  Lori’s car lost its oil pan and was shaking badly by the time she stopped it.

Speeding through the darkness behind them came another semi and two other cars.  It was only determined by police inquiries later that these last vehicles, arriving on the scene without time to stop or even slow, ran over and killed the driver of the car that hit the moose.  Witnesses had seen the man standing there at his smashed car.  He did live through that crash.  How he could have survived that terrible tumbling, with no front end left of his car is completely beyond me (who knows nothing).  If he was cognizant at all he must have been desperately screaming for his children.

The 2nd semi coming along behind passed to the left of the wreck.  The two cars following him hit the wreck head-on.  They totaled their cars but were not injured.  Some one of these drivers did run over and kill the first car’s driver, a very difficult thing to live with, no doubt.  It was massively important to my daughter and to her driver to hear a mechanic report Tuesday afternoon that there was no blood anywhere on or under their vehicle.  The moose had been pushed off of the lane onto the shoulder by the car who smashed into it that no other car hit it.  Any blood found on anyone else’s vehicle would have been there from running over the man.

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My daughter was the one to call 911.  She could not begin to see anything clearly at this point so could only  report that “something really terrible is happening out here on Highway 2…..”  The EMT arrival time was faster than anyone could believe.  It was only once they began walking the scene that a baby was heard crying somewhere down in the road’s ditch.

The man driving the first car and his children were Native American from Spirit Lake.  When the media reports that none of them were wearing seat belts and that the children were thrown from the car a dark smudge can be left where it does not need to be.  It is often against the lifeways of Native people to use those constraints.

Many people seem to have a very narrow range of vision about such things.  They do not want to accept the truth, which is never reported by the press, that in cases like this one if the children had not been thrown into the safety of the far edge of the ditch they would have been killed.  If not by the initial impact and car’s rolling then by the impact of the two vehicles that then hit the rear end of that car.

As it was, there were three children, ages 3, 5 and 10.  The younger children were completely uninjured while the older one suffered a broken leg.

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Who is to say what fate or destiny is?  Do people have, as many claim, “a time to die?”  What is luck, serendipity, chance, divine intervention?  Are there guardian spirits and helping angels?

This man was planning to attend the same conference on Tuesday that my daughter was going to.  His brother was to chair the event.  And did, in spite of everything that had happened.  The children were in full custody of their father without a mother healthy enough to care for them.  Their lives had already been hard, and now their father has been taken from them.

Hopefully they were spared any knowledge of what took place at that wreck.  Hopefully they heard and saw nothing, as fast and brutally as everything took place.  Hopefully some loving, healthy family member will take all three of these children.  Raise them.  Heal them.  Help them into good lives ahead — no matter what.

If you find it in your heart, pray for them.

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother?

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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+ROADS TRAVELED

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Tuesday, October 7, 2014.  I am being haunted by a trauma that both exists and does not exist.  I evidently don’t know how to tell the difference.  As I now decide to write a post about this I realize that I am dealing with the difference between a minefield and a different kind of mine.  One that holds something of value.  Something desirable.  Something useful.

One of the significant problems with traumas is that while I continue to believe they hang around after their actual occurrence in time and space in large part because they contain information we need to know and make use of for the future.  Learning from the past in order to create a safer, better future is a good reason to mine the minefield of a trauma.  At this point in my thinking, then, my two images begin to merge and overlap.

There is always far greater danger for people who have been, as Dr. Bruce Perry suggests it, SENSITIZED by trauma.  We are the people with the long-term lingering and often overwhelming difficulties caused by how previous traumas altered our physiological make-up.

Perry also describes the far more desirable and advantageous response to trauma of increasing our TOLERANCE so that we can flexibly and positively respond to past and present traumas without being sideswiped or overrun by them when they happen or later as we heal from them and/or ever face another trauma that resonates with our past experience.

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I cannot deny that my extreme sensitization to trauma — because I suffered so much of it and because it began as my body was developing in this world post-birth — is hyper-active now.

I woke Tuesday two weeks ago to find the following text from my dear daughter waiting for me on my phone.  She had left late evening on Monday the 22nd in a fleet car from the university where she works, driven by her research assistant Lori*, to get an early morning head-start on arriving at a Tuesday morning conference on Spirit Lake Reservation.  They were 35 miles east of their night’s motel destination at Devil’s Lake when the unthinkable occurred as they drove through the pitch blackness of a moonless middle-of-nowhere west on a remote North Dakota (speed limit 65 mph, high quality two-lane paved) highway.

1:27 am September 23 – “Part of a major multicar accident on highway 2 on way to devils lake.  we are OK but there were fatalities.  Waited 3 hours for tow truck.  Now taking us to DL and will get car tomorrow so can go home.  Feeling very grateful, but sad.  No more travel in the dark for us.  Love you xoxox

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Man Killed, 3 Children Hurt When Car Hits Moose on North Dakota Highway

Fort Totten man killed, 3 children injured when car hits moose

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I pause in my writing at this point to consider a decision I will make here.  If I choose to protect readers of this post from exposure to horrifying facts about what happened in this accident I will write very little if anything past these words.

If I choose to give myself permission to write whatever comes to me past this point I risk exposing readers to TMI – Too Much Information.

Hummmmm……  Fork in my blog post road.  What path will I take?

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother?

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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Next post:

+ROADS TRAVELED – PART 2 (a read “at own risk” warning attached)

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Sunday, October 5, 2014.  I spent most of today clearing out the 8′ x 8′ closet in this small apartment to make a room for my 26-month-old grandson to take his naps in so I can have the only bedroom here for my sewing while he is sleeping and I have some time to myself.  My long handled bags are selling well and seem to finally be something I enjoy making that actually make enough money to pay for my materials!  The sewing is very therapeutic for me.  I need this creative outlet.  The room is draped with fantastic colors and patterns of fabrics from sale clothing I discover each week (while weather holds and I can walk there) at our new Goodwill Store.  I call this very full room my 3-D textured palette.

Before I began my work today I was writing a letter to my 89-year-old Alaska homesteading neighbor from my childhood.  I found myself writing some things that surprised me with their words:

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A butterfly transformation is in process.  Those stages can be difficult and painful.  Still vitally necessary.  (As in all aging.)

I am OK with being alive at this moment and unboundingly grateful for your being in my life, dear friend!  I worte a blog post last eve about my “last” drum lesson entitled Drumming My Spunk Back.  I have lost my self- confidence!  In many ways that part of me left when my dear friend passed out of my life nearly 2 years ago.  Then I outran all I knew in Arizona last fall that fed, nurtured, and sustained me — home and all.

Now here I am transforming a closet into a baby haven so I can have “a room of my own.”

Having our book in Dr. Perry’s hands is magical to me!  He is our best hope.  For this work to sprout I NEED him to take me and this whole story seriously.  Will he?  Time will tell.

I feel so fragile these days, in this strange land — dare I say writing to you today I almost feel OK?  Parts of myself, ME being a tree — these parts or aspects are like birds — all sent into a terrible flutter — some falling to the ground unable to get up — when I uprooted what I could and was hauled — lock/stock/barrel — hook/line/sinker — on that awful trip up here — up here — seem to perhaps have re-alighted themselves in my branches.

The part that writes you is here.  The one who loves plants and beauty and the sound of falling water are here.  A part of me took charge of my drumming yesterday.  Not to leave it behind or in the hands of another — but to bring it home HERE where I live.

I am taking charge of my vital need to create as I rearrange my space here — small as it is.  Bring home to roost these creative birds of my self.  These thoughts come to me as I change the built-in shelf in soon-to-be-baby’s room — four running feet of my odd (to me beautiful, bound hope) collection of old piano books and music.  I “love” those books — yet thanks to my connection with Brett [drumming teacher] I keep out only the one new one he suggested that I buy.

Hanon – The Virtuoso Pianist in 60 Exercises.

True, I’ve been practicing 20 minutes every day intensely on one of the keyboard exercise Brett gave me from this book three months ago to strengthen and speed up the last three fingers of each hand — drumming fingers — and only now am I seeing good progress.  But this winter I can add another 20 minutes a day practice session beginning at the start of the Hanon book.

Not to take away from drum practice but to bring home another bird of me to roost in my tee of self.  Those books on my shelf are about what I was told once by an astrologer:  The biggest issue of my life is about “reasons to keep the seed alive through winter.”

I am also focusing/claiming my main winter diet.  I have 25 pounds of organic quinoa I bought online and keep buffalo meat patties in my freezer along with frozen green vegetables for juicing — and of course, a supply of Snickers.  A bit more will come and go.  I found out about a local grocery store where I can order online and they deliver to the door.  [I am not driving and have no car to drive.  Can't afford one.  Have no inner resources left within me to drive.  As Dr. Perry describes in his book:  Too many changes.  Nothing in my life is currently ordinary.  I am on high-stress alert.]

Key and central things matter.  The homesteading daughter in me knows many things. — Perhaps more than anything else I was born and made to be a damn good survivor!

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother?

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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Saturday, October 4, 2014.  Last Thursday evening at 5:15 pm the seriousness of fall arrived.  I watched it coming.  I didn’t know in those few moments that was what I was seeing.  What I noticed after a warm perfect afternoon of no North Dakota wind and warm sunshine was a bank of blue clouds lining up in the west.  I have NEVER seen those exquisite shades of blue in any clouds, in any sky.

I was awestruck as if my heart stopped beating inside of me but rather beat within those clouds in the sky.   Oh, such beauty.

I was sitting on one of my worn chairs on my tiny cement slab outside my apartment door when five minutes later the wind came with chilling gusts.  The temperature dropped 10 degrees instantly and kept going down, down.

I am not surprised by fall but I am dismayed by it.  My life changed that instantly, as well.  What lies ahead of me from now until at least March is one series of hardships after another one as far as I am concerned.

Light vanishes from both ends of day at a rapid pace only beat in its rush by the nasty winds.  Yes, they belong to and on and over these great plains.  It is I who does not really belong here.  I recognize that.  Yet here I am with another lease signed in this city apartment until my 64th birthday next August 31, 2015.  This is where I need to be, for some reasons I understand but mostly for reasons I don’t.

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All the words I write in my posts feel to be more like punctuation marks with the actual sentences missing.  I cannot possibly keep up with all my thoughts and feelings.  They come like Tsunamis.  They follow me around like gaunt shadows.  The ensnare me if I let them.  So I am always on the run inside.  Always on the run.

But once in a while I stop by here.  Right now because two hours ago I completed what will be my last drumming lesson — possibly for the next five months until spring arrives.

I feel sad.  I feel sad the loss of these lessons in the here and now and sad for all that was taken from me as a child.  Everything I ever wanted.  Snatched.  Gone.  Intentionally so by my abuser.  I work to separate those sadnesses……

How much of the lesson-letting-go is MY CHOICE right now?  I won’t go into those details, those sentences for which these words are their end-dots.

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Jango radio has been a total miserable disappointing mess for me lately.  There may be a new compatibility issue with my Google Chrome browser but I don’t want to mess with adding Firefox or Mosilla just to straighten out that mess.  So I just switched back to Pandora online free radio because I need — ROCK’N’ROLL!!!!

I can’t play it LOUD in this dinky place (apartment) but when I am ready I will get myself a 50′ cord system going so I can walk around this place with my excellent headphones on when the baby isn’t here.  (As it is there’s so little space to walk in here let alone walk around together let alone walk around some CORD for heaven’s sake!)

I have barely been afford those lessons on my low fixed disability income.  Since March.  Every Saturday at 4:30 I have walked my mile and there I be.  Perched.  Drumming, or trying to, along with my so-good teacher.  How to get there without a car in the horrible winter chill and winds?

My anxiety is too busy to let me deal with figuring out the city bus schedule and stops.  My anxiety is just plain too dang busy, period!!  Good ‘ole PTSD!!  Where would I be without you?  (Another writing here alluded to with punctuation-words.  Sometimes their are oceans signified only by the smallest pieces of sand.)

Music says it better.

Rhythm says it best.  In my world.

I am on my own now.  I can do this.  I have plenty to practice.  After all, I have to turn those notes on these pages into INSTINCT.  I need CONFIDENCE so when I eventually get back to lessons — when spring comes — having hopefully saved enough from not paying lesson fees to make a big dent in the purchase price of a Vdrum (electronic drum) set I want to buy — I will not be nearly paralyzed by my “performance anxiety” that makes it so DAMN difficult for me to drum in the room with my teacher!

How dumb is THAT??  Four sticks, one tiny pad, one tiny room, me feeling about 2″ tall and couldn’t-be-clumsier ….

Or more afraid.

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I also have a long North Dakota winter to practice focusing on what I have rather than what I don’t have.  I don’t say that tritely.  In reading Dr. Bruce Perry’s book, The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog — and I am making slow, painful progress through the book —  I found the reason I can’t even drive since I moved here from Arizona last year.  TOO MUCH CHANGE!!!  TOO MUCH has changed.  Nothing is familiar.  And in my traumatized body-brain this is something I cannot fix.  I am overloaded.  I am on overload.

I cannot drive…..  I am trapped …….  and on it goes……  and then there’s music.

And maybe down the road — not too far — I can get my spunk back.  I can’t think of any other time in my life when my spunk was gone.  I will drum it back.  I will drum and drum and DRUM it back!

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Now.  The sentence writing and then erasing has begun……  Nothing left for now from here but the dots………..

But to eat buffalo burger and dig my winter clothing out.  Believe me.  I need a LOT of both.

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Click to listen with great links at the side

Drummer Kenny Aronoff – AWESOME Drumming!

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother?

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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Friday, October 3, 2014.  No matter what the outcome I would say that today is a landmark day.  First of all, it marks the 45th year anniversary of my escape from my insanely abusive childhood.  I had just turned 18.  My parents “put” me into the Navy.  I certainly had no choice.  I had never had a choice.  So off I flew October 3, 1969 leaving my beloved Alaska behind.  Off I went to land in Baltimore, Maryland to enter boot-camp which was – very literally – the best time of my life thus far.  I thought I was in heaven!

But there’s more.

There’s a great brochure picture — CLICK HERE — about the 2-day conference Dr. Bruce Perry is the main speaker for tomorrow here in Fargo, ND that my daughter is attending.  We are hoping he will be on-site today, but if not then tomorrow will be our significant day!  (It turns out the online brochure, strangely enough, is wrong.  Perry is speaking all day today in Fargo.)

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This is the letter coauthor Ramona will hand-deliver to Dr. Perry’s at some point during this conference, along with a printed/bound copy of a manuscript for our book:

Dear Dr. Perry,

I would like to take the opportunity of your speaking at this conference in Fargo that my daughter Ramona is attending to have her give you this letter in person about our book,Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother? which we have epublished on Amazon.com in Kindle format.

When I read your descriptions in The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog: And Other Stories from a Child Psychiatrist’s Notebook about how early traumatic stress can alter physiological development it helped me further decipher both what I know of my own process of surviving the horrendous abuse I suffered from my mother as well as the probable effects of the early abuse and neglect done to her.

Mother suffered a psychotic break during her difficult 24-hour labor with breech-me (in 1951) that left her forever believing I was sent by the devil to kill her while I was being born and that I was not human.  Because we both survived my birth she believed I was the devil’s “curse upon” her life.  To her I was the devil’s child.

Although I endured the trauma of her horrific abuse from the moment I was born and for the next 18 years with no adult to help me, this book is not directly my story.  Rather it is my effort to combine everything I know and suspect about Mother’s early life in an attempt to discover factors that may have contributed to her severe mental illness as it made her such a terrible monster toward me.  By my most basic estimate she would have deserved a minimum jail sentence of 15,000 years for her crimes against me, yet it is what I call my “informed compassion” for Mother that I sought to strengthen within the pages of this book.

It would be an honor for me if you would consent to previewing a copy of our book and, if you like it, contribute a few short words that we could use on the cover of the book, and on a web site and other promotional venues marketing this sensitive, thought provoking work.

I can be contacted via email at _______.  Thank you very much in advance for your kindness.

Yours Sincerely,

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My choice for a subtitle is direct and blunt.  It is also, from my point of view, exactly accurate for what I intend with this book.  (All my words about the cover art for this book have been removed.)

Ramona feels I am selling myself short with my subtitle.  Her suggestion:  A Survivor’s Compassionate Inquiry Into What Broke Her Mother.  What parts of “my story” that are in this book are not directly about me.  Never would I have such stories to tell, never would I have lived through what I did, if my mother had not been the sick, sadistic monster that she was.  My point in writing any part of “my story” was to amplify the seriousness of the suffering Mother’s illness was capable of causing her child — me.

I would far rather “undersell” this book than not.  Readers of depth and breadth will be moved by the sincere complexity of this story far beyond what they could have imagined had they not discovered it by their own efforts.  My thoughts are that anyone who knows a very troubled parent might be motivated to read this book once they find a point of resonance in the subtitle.

I just spoke with Ramona and the letter and manuscript have been delivered.  She said Perry was most warmly receptive to her approaching him and expressed certain interest in the manuscript.  He told her that he always values hearing from adult survivors such as I am and he assured her that I will be hearing from him.

It was an act of daring for Ramona to approach Perry on this mission and I thanked her with everything I am.  Perry is THE ONE PERSON ON EARTH I want to read this book.  He is the one person I am SURE will understand what I am saying.  Considering that there are at present nine more manuscripts prepared for edit except for their photographs and at least four more to be written — and considering that my writing heart has been woefully absent this past year — I take the fact that this manuscript is now in the hands of the most competent child trauma expert on this planet as a direct gift from God.  Thank you!  And thank you Ramona for being the angel YOU are!

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

Story Without Words:  How Did Child Abuse Break My Mother?

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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Tuesday, September 30, 2014,  I live within a society and a culture that touts a belief in free speech.  Unless one “complains.”  Then out come the big guns of mass social pressure to shame into silence any individual within that society who issues forth words that speak honestly of that person’s reality in the world.

Basically the pressure is to shut up.  Just shut up.  Shut up about what hurts.  Shut up about what’s wrong in your personal life let alone what might be wrong in anyone else’s life.  Nobody wants to listen to “a complainer.”  After all, wasn’t my psychotically mentally ill insanely abusive Boston-raised mother correct?  “Laugh and the world laughs with you.  Cry and you cry alone.”

Who wants to be alone?  Left all alone?

Maybe if we were not members of a mammalian social species alone wouldn’t matter to us.  But we ARE a social species.  We are supposed to be designed with empathetic compassion — with an altruistic response-ability — built into us.  We are supposed to CARE.  And we cannot care if we cannot speak our own truth and listen to others speak their’s.

What spurs others to take appropriate compassionate social action if they would rather silence any concerns that there are genuine troubles that greatly affect and very often terribly hurt people?  (Not to mention the earth itself and much of natural life upon and within in it.)  There is great prejudice in this culture against those who DARE to complain.  About anything.  Ever.

“Never complain” leaves a wide open field for rampant ignorance to flourish with its accompanying deterioration in the quality of life for the masses.  Where there are complaints there are problems.  It is very easy (and convenient) for the enfranchised to negate and diminish the importance and the reality of “complaints” made by the powerless, the oppressed, the disenfranchised, the suffering.

As an example, the simple perusal of statistics provided within the yearly Incentti Report Cards provided by the United Nations on the quality of life for children in the world’s richest nations clearly shows the huge and growing disparity between conditions of life for the haves versus the have-nots in America.  Are we shamed or embarrassed or remotely motivated to FIX this disgusting and morally WRONG condition within our nation?  Do we care that the adults in our disenfranchised children’s lives are disenfranchised as well?

Evidently not.  Not remotely.  All we evidently want is for those who suffer to SHUT UP!  After all, America WANTS to remain at the bottom of the heap just above Romania in caring for our children (or for anyone else?).  Everyone knows, after all, that if you are suffering in America it’s your own damn fault.

These are dangerous grounds, folks.  Dangerous waters.  We are polluting our “thought pool” every time we judge rather than honor, respect, care about and compassionately listen to those among us who are in pain.  I don’t care WHAT kind of complaint another person makes within my range of notice.  If someone is suffering enough to say so, ESPECIALLY given the courage it takes to stand up against the insane pressure in this culture to SHUT UP if you happen to notice something wrong, I owe it to everyone to LISTEN.

Listen with an open mind and an open heart.  How are we ever going to solve our social problems and concerns if we refuse to accept that they even exist?

I will not bow to damaging social pressure or control.  I want to be a better person than that.  I have suffered.  I had no voice.  I didn’t even have words for what happened to me.  I could not even THINK about it.

I will never allow myself to be lulled or forced into mental oblivion again.  If someone suffers I want to know about it the best that I can.  Listening may well be all I have to offer, but at least I care enough to offer that.

I would rather be a part of our nation’s wisdom than a part of its ignorance.  What we ignore — hurts us all.

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

STORY WITHOUT WORDS

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment »

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Tuesday, September 16, 2014.  I used to have a lot of tolerance for the truthful stuff about what early abuse and neglect does to change the physiological development of infants and children.  There are thousands and thousands of background pages on this blog about this kind of Trauma Altered Development processes.  Yet during the years I spent post 2004 studying neuroscientific development along these lines not one of the experts’ writings I pored through ever had the emotional impact on me that Dr. Bruce Perry’s does.  (see previous post)

There are dry scientific facts.  Then there are damp, moist, earthy facts that belong to the body itself.  To its emotions.  To its storehouses of memories.  To its blood and to its tears.  These kinds of facts, the kind that Perry works with and writes about, lie at the heart of matters of infant and child neglect and abuse and cannot be denied although they can be ignored.

Yet Perry himself did not live through the levels of life-changing early traumas he writes about.  I did.  Truth is, I hate that fact.  I hate harm to defenseless little ones.  Does hate ever heal?

My guess?  No, not by itself.  I have previously written about denial as a kind of immature childish magical thinking that allows humans to bypass the truth of circumstances they are not ready to face.  And certainly not ready to change.  Not ready to accept response-ability for.  “Somebody else’s problem.  Too messy for me.”  These patterns allow the taboos cultures hold about harming little ones to find their way into higher-level taboos against KNOWING the truths that tear apart the heart once they find their way — home.

Some things are too painful to contemplate.  So culturally we maintain taboos against accepting upon ourselves what adults need to care about because little ones are totally powerless to change what needs to be changed.  By vastly ignoring the truth about terrible harms done to the youngest among us we are showing our ignorance by ignoring what we don’t want to face.

I am finding that process operating within myself as I struggle to read Perry’s words.  The difference for me and for many of this blog’s readers is that I/we already know about this subject from the inside out.  Perry’s words hot-wire my reality between traumatic past and current “better” present.  Any hope of a buffer against the pain of abuse and neglect evaporates.

That kind of pain little ones being harmed feel is too big for them.  That kind of trauma is supposed to be healed by a whole society that HATES harm to young ones and stops it.  We don’t live in that kind of world.

Not yet.

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Here is our first book out in ebook format.  Click here to view or purchase –

STORY WITHOUT WORDS

It lists for $2.99 and can be read by Amazon Prime customers without charge.  Reviews for the book on the Amazon.com site are welcome.

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Leave a Comment

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