+’WHEN SEPTEMBER COMES’

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Rosanne Cash – September When It Comes

Rosanne Cash (born May 24, 1955 in Memphis, Tennesee) is an American singer and songwriter. She is oldest daughter of Johnny Cash and his first wife, Vivian Liberto, born shortly before the release of her father’s first single. She is also the stepdaughter of June Carter Cash and the stepsister of country singer Carlene Carter.

If a film would ever be made of ‘this story’ some of the sound track songs would come from the album ‘Rules of Travel’ including ‘September When It Comes,” “44 Stories,” and “Will You Remember Me.”

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And

Ian Anderson (Jethro Tull) / Kathrin Troester – Griminelli’s Lament (2005)

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+DOES MY BODY BELONG TO A DANCER?

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A few years ago I stumbled upon this 2005 Israeli research study on the genetics of dancers.  I am working toward adding another component to my exercise right now because this isn’t the season (due to monsoon rains) that lets me go do my hard work building adobes outside.  I want to do more than my 45 minute job, so I have decided to start adding time at home dancing.

I remember when I was 18 and had just entered the big wide world having existed both my home of origin and the next step of boot camp.  When I landed at the Naval base in San Diego for my further training, I discovered the enlisted club there had a live band and a dance floor.  I don’t remember how many nights a week the band played.  But I do remember that when they did play, I was there from the first note they played to the last one.  I danced.  I loved it.  I never danced with anyone.  I didn’t even notice if anyone was there.  It must have been very few people because I basically had that dance floor to myself.

If I remember the Israeli dance research correctly, the defined a performing dancer as one who danced ten hours a week.  I want to see if I can work up to that.  I want to reawaken my dancing self.

I was thinking about this because I am alive.  My mother did not kill me.  She did not take my life, though there certainly times she would have it I hadn’t become so proficient and competent at receiving her beatings I could not avoid so as to protect my head, etc. to avoid being killed.  So, she did not take my body from me.

She took my hope, my trust, my safety, my security, my peace, my happiness, my curiosity, my ability to wonder or to fight back – etc.  But here I am with my body, and if my body actually belongs to a dancer, well, then……. I want to find out.

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+DISSOCIATION: THINKING THROUGH SOME IMPLICATIONS

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I just took a break and did my jogging — plus — which I will get to in my next post.  But before I move THAT far forward, I want to think through some implications that are dawning on me know from my last post:  +DISSOCIATION: MY MOTHER’S AND MY OWN STORY SHARE IT.  What if I think about the the paper, the snake skin and the snake as I described in that post as if I am thinking about myself in relation to my mother.

First, my guess is that human newborns are programmed from birth to ANTICIPATE being loved.  That means that I was born to be loved and to love.  I was born to expect the best.  Mother was naturally safe to me and someone to ‘reach for’.  I would say natural “unless proven otherwise,” but it took a whole lot of convincing for me to actually understand my mother was not safe.  Yet my baby book record of my before-age-two sentence, “I didn’t mean to,” lets me know I was certainly afraid of her attacks already by that age.

Our species would not have survived very long if our inherited patterns were to destroy the offspring rather than to promote their well-being.  So, it would have been completely in alliance with nature for me NOT to expect harm from my mother.  I would naturally have seen her as being more like the beautiful piece of paper than to see her as a deadly viper.  That was my natural state.

It took me a very, very, very, very long time from the time I was born to be able to begin to anticipate my mother’s attacks.  Actually, because I could NEVER predict what was going to ‘set her off’ to turn her from being like the beautiful paper into the coiled viper who attacked me, it was impossible for me to anticipate her changes before they happened.

Neither could I ALWAYS live in that state of awareness of the viper.  So, as I went along just being natural me in my body, and as she interjected her madness upon me without warning or provocation, I simply had to switch into a dissociated state when she did!  It was like I ‘forgot’ the viper existed unless I was under direct attack.  As a result nearly all of my abuse memories are ‘somewhere else’.  This might be related to why I was almost always taken completely by surprise by her every new attack on me — as if it was the first time it had ever happened.

Rarely did I see her transformation taking place, like I could see the one that happened as I watched my brain let that harmless piece of paper, transform into a harmless snake skin, and then into a full-bodied very living and very deadly snake.  My mother offered me no transitions and no transitional states — which is essential for a well-balanced and well-adapted brain, mind and self to form.

If I knew how, I could set this line to music:  “There was a whole lotta switchin’ goin’ on.”

My mother lacked transitional states.  She rapidly and drastically just – switched.  Did SHE know she was doing this?  I don’t know.  Did she have a choice?  Could she have stopped herself?  I doubt I will ever be able to figure out what was going on inside of her — but inside of me?  Perhaps I always expected the best and got the worst.

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+DISSOCIATION: MY MOTHER’S AND MY OWN STORY SHARE IT

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Dissociation.  Without spending time digging around in my back stockpile of previous research I have done on the brain to detail this information, I will simply say that various regions of the brain are usually involved in every brain action in cooperation with each other.  Most regions are designed to be involved in multiple and differing kinds of actions and are not confined to do just a ‘one thing’.  Many of these variable patterns of connections and possible purposes for these regions introduce ‘places’ where dissociation can happen.

Now, I am going to mention a dissociated experience I had about a year ago that I wrote about on this blog.  But before I do so, I want to add that my current difficulties with dissociation happened after my chemotherapy disrupted my brain’s ability to make good use of all the ADULT LEARNED ways I had evidently come up with to diminish the ability my brain has had to dissociate from nearly the time I was born.  Dissociation was not only built into my earliest forming, growing and developing brain, in some profound ways IT BUILT IT.

I will bypass here all the various arguments presented about who dissociates and under what circumstances.  All I want to do is present this example of dissociation in slow motion:

I went out for my daily exercise and walked along the stretch of old rail bed that had its rails and ties recently removed as  part of the national ‘Rails to Trails’ project.  The rocky bed of black chips dumped there from the copper smelter many years ago is still there.

About a mile out there’s a bridge that takes the rail’s bed across a fairly deep desert wash.  Under that bridge lives a good size rattlesnake.  I had seen the snake out there in various spots around the bridge as it came up to warm itself on the sun-heated bed.  Now, what I am going to say next defies reason.

One day I was on my return from my usual turn-a-round spot, having marveled at the beauty of the landscape, the quiet serenity that spread itself around me across the high desert to the distant mountains in all directions .  Suddenly my eyes scanned something on the ground at the end of the rail bed.  My thoughts were, “Oh, my!  Look at that beautiful piece of paper.  How did it get there?  It looks like parchment, like oiled parchment, light weight, almost transparent, and what a beautiful pattern it has on it, and look at those beautiful colors.”

At the same time these thoughts were following one another in my mind my body was in motion without my conscious attention.  I had approached the spot and had my right arm extended with my hand only about two feet away from touching and picking up this ‘beautiful paper’ before my OTHER brain regions kicked in.  First my brain began to recognize that this was not paper, it was a snakeskin.  My brain then followed a series of thoughts about how intact the skin was, and when did the snake leave behind that skin, probably recently because it hadn’t blown away.  I was still reaching NOW for the skin before the next transition in my brain’s activity took place.  Fortunately I next watched that paper swell itself up, get fat and plump, gain dimension, and grow before my eyes into that good sized very live rattlesnake coiled to strike.

Just in time I froze.  Then I retracted my body every so slowly from the space surrounding the rattler.  But even then I did not have a stress response reaction.  I was completely calm, as if I was in another world.  I backed quietly and slowly to the opposite side of the rail bed and continued my walk home.  I have not taken a walk on that rail bed since, and don’t expect to.

Suddenly something CLICKED and I stopped just as my brain said, “Look.  See.  That is a coiled rattler.”

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I don’t believe that prior to my experience with how chemotherapy changed my brain that this kind of dissociational experience would have happened to me — as an adult.  I also believe that it was not the chemotherapy that ‘gave’ my brain the ability to dissociate its operations in this way.  It was the unimaginable trauma, terror and abuse of my infant-childhood that put these patterns into play.  As the circuitry, pathways, and region-to-region operation of my brain was built in the beginning the dissociation was built into me at the same time.

Had I not had to build a brain in the midst of such trauma from birth, dissociation would have been the exception rather than the rule — or it would not have built itself into my brain in the beginning.  Because there WAS enough trauma to build the dissociational information processing patterns into my brain, I needed to learn as I grew up to function in the world in spite of it.

Chemotherapy interrupted my memory of those learnings to the point that my brain’s operation NOW is far more similar to how it was actually created than I have ever known before as an adult.  I am very careful of what I do, where I go, and the situations I expose myself to now.  I live a very simple life, as simple as I can make it.  I no longer trust my brain to give me information in the order I need it, or trust what my possible reactions might be.

I cannot view my present condition as being anything less than a terrible loss of the potential life I COULD have been living if I had not been built in trauma the way that I was.  This topic of dissociation is important for me to keep close in my thoughts as I enter these next stages of my writing.  There is no possible way that my mother could have done what she did, lived the way she did, had the story of a life that she did without dissociational patterns being the entire undercurrent of how she was in the world.

As I work closely now on finding out both how my mother’s story became my story and how it did not, I need to be able to spot the dissociation in both of us.  At the same time, I have to fight my own dissociation every step of the way.  The process I am and will go through to write the story of my childhood is an important one — and will appear as topics within future blog posts.

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+INSIGHTS ON MY MOTHER FROM HER LONG TIME ‘FRIEND’

From the second telephone interview with Joe Anne Vanover, by Linda Ann Lloyd Danielson, August 7, 2010

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“Did you hear about how your mother died?  At the end of Mildred’s life she was living in a miserable, miserable place off of Cordova in Anchorage in one unpleasant room with a bed, a curtain over the window, a little shelving and cabinets to put stuff in, I think a chair, with a shared bathroom and kitchen – cheap room.

I am remembering why I had gone in there.  She wanted something.  I had seen her a month before and had agreed to meet her to go someplace to eat.  She needed to go to the store, and when I got there she was on the floor and couldn’t get up.  I called 911 that time but when they got there they said they could not take her as long as she was coherent and clean even if she couldn’t get up.

So I had seen her on the floor before, and I helped her up and went and got her some stuff.  I went back the day after to check on her and she wasn’t there.  I asked others who lived there where she was and they said she had knocked on her door and asked for someone to help her get up.  When they opened the door and found her another boarder called the paramedics who took her.  Her room was a mess.  She had been using newspaper for toilet paper and there were feces all over.

She had a strangulated bowel so that feces was backing out of her mouth.  I went over to the hospital and found her in one of the emergency room’s cubicles.  She would not agree to surgery.  She WOULD NOT let the hospital call her sons and had kept telling the hospital personnel that Joe Anne would be there to see her.  She was glad to see me.  I left the cubicle and called your brothers anyway and the boys came right over.  They were very kind.  They asked me if I would back them for institutionalizing your mother after surgery and I said yes.

With her boys there she agreed to surgery, but she died under the prep.  The anesthesiologist was devastated.  He had never lost anyone before, but Mildred had so abused her body for so long it was not his fault, and I told him so.  The boys went to collect her stuff.”  Died January 28, 2003

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I have no idea where Mildred’s money went.  [Bill’s retirement gave her $3000 per month to live on.]

Years before she started starving herself for four days at a time.  Mildred said she needed to practice so she would know if something happened she could live that far, for that long and survive for four days without food.  I would find out and then take her out to eat and she would overeat, gorge herself because she would be starved.

She had no idea – she loved her kids but not you, obviously, but the others until they got old enough they could question her.  She had no idea how to go about being a family or a mother.

[I asked her what she thought about Mildred’s mother.]  My impressions on your grandmother was that she was very businesslike.  One year when she came up to Alaska she did testing on both of my boys [related to their schoolwork].  She was not unfriendly, but not real friendly.  I think she was a very weird lady.  What she did to Mildred was horrid because Mildred did not know how to love.

[During the homesteading years] Mildred would work out these fantasies.  One time she told me she had built a fire down by the creek [where Bill filled our water cans for our drinking water] and pretended she was an Indian princess, washing clothes. [My thoughts are growing about early infant-child damage to my mother as it involved her imagination, ‘pretend play’ that never moved through the Theory of Mind developmental stages required to differentiate ‘true reality’ from ‘pretend reality’.  Remember that I include the operation of DENIAL past the childhood stage of pretend play as being a reversion back to that stage of childhood thinking.]

Mildred had never been loved.  She had been told her dad was dead when he was alive all those years.   Her mother did her such disservice.  All of your family is very smart – but her mother drained out of her everything that would have let her know how to be happy.

Her mother didn’t want her to be happy.

When your father had his stroke, Mildred was extremely concerned he get the best of treatment.  [This was long after their divorce.]  I never heard her say a hateful word about Bill.

Your mother had the most fascinating ability to take any place and fix it up and make it look homey and nice.  That’s why it was such a shocker at the end.  It was terrible!  I knew she was sick, it was terrible, just terrible.  She wouldn’t take help from your brothers, from anyone, I am one of the few people.  [Joe Anne expressed regret repeatedly that she didn’t force someone to intervene on Mildred’s behalf.  I believe Joe Anne did all that was humanly possible considering my mother’s insistent and belligerent refusal to have contact with family, or with anyone else other than Joe Anne at the end of her life.]

I have great compassion for Mildred because I have had wonderful life, loving parents, a great family, a good life.  I have been in the same house since 1951.

The year before she died I knew she hadn’t been anywhere for a long time and I took her to Hatcher Pass.  She loved it and it gave me much pleasure.  Your brothers were so kind as to give us the pictures we took that day.

Underneath she felt really sorry for herself.  She expected more of everything, wanted more of everything, yet had no idea how to achieve it, how to have a family.

Her brother Charles was mean to her.  Underneath I don’t think Mildred was sure about anything .

One time [long after I had left home and after their divorce, when my youngest son was a teenager] Mildred got $20,000 from some relative.  She bought a horse, hired guy to do stuff on homestead, didn’t know how to manage money.

Your mother was probably attracted to Bill because he was kind, quiet and gentle and a heck of a worker – times he worked away from home because it saved his sanity.

I think she was afraid all of her life.  For years she had a set of pearl suitcases, and kept her things in them and took them everywhere with her.

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I remember when I first met your mother, when your family first came to Alaska.  I would go over to see her right after you older ones got on the school bus in the morning.  The house would be perfect, too perfect, that always amazed me.  I never understood that.  And when I would go over your little sister [Sharon, just turned two] would always climb up in my lap and just sit there.  I never understood why she did that, either.

Your mother used to tell me that she would have you girls and nightgowns and she’d have your father brush you girls’ hair.  She never said Bill did anything, but I took it she was setting him up to do something.  The way she told the story about having him do it and how much he enjoyed it, she was wanting to see what would happen, what he would do.  Took it, even then, she was trying to provoke something.  [No matter what our mother said about our father molesting his daughters from the time we were very young, even babies, Joe Anne adamantly said, “It was not true.  Your father never, never, never could have done such a thing.  He didn’t.]

I knew your dad had a temper, but I never saw it.

I remember one time when your family was homesteading your mother told me she had taken dirty clothes down by the creek where your father got water.  She said she had built herself a camp fire, and had pretended she was an Indian princess living there in a camp, washing her clothes.  [Joe Anne expressed amazement and puzzlement at this, that she never understood this, but I didn’t write down her exact words.  I will ask her again later.]

Toward the end Bill could hardly stand her.  Their divorce?  She egged him on.  I think she wanted the divorce.  When everything went down in the 80s she had the money. she could have bought a condo.  Back before your brother started his bookstore, when he was selling real estate, your mother had money and he tried to get Mildred to buy something, like a condo.  She would not consider it.  Your brothers used to invite her for holidays, to dinners, but at the last minute she would say she couldn’t go, say it’s too difficult.

But Mildred used to really worry about your brother Steve that he would never make it.  She really enjoyed you brother Dave’s two girls.

Mildred used to tell me that the only time remember happy when she was growing up was when she was walking out in the woods.  She told me how much time she spent walking – that’s where she found her comfort.  [I think that’s why she liked Alaska so much, it reminded her of that.]

She told me she was very uncomfortable in high school, but after, when she went to work in a hospital, she really enjoyed it and had a good time.  [I mentioned to Joe Anne my memories from my mother’s stories that she wanted to study theatre and go on stage, and her Bostonian mother and grandmother told her, “NO!  Only whores and harlots are in the theater.”  Nursing was THEIR choice, not my mother’s though Joe Anne said that Mildred enjoyed the nursing.]

All her life she was thwarted on what she wanted.  She didn’t know how to get it.  She had a terrible, terrible crush on her shrink, such a crush on him, it was pitiful, pitiful.  {I asked Joe Anne if she believed the ‘shrink’ ever responded back to my mother inappropriately and Joe Anne said, “No.”

Much later, when she was living on Government Hill she invited me over.  At first it was empty and she slept on a mat on floor.  I called paramedics but they wouldn’t’ take her.  The she got the bug and fixed it up like a doll house and asked me to come over to meet this Guatemalan she liked.  He wanted to marry her.  I went up there, and met them.  He had worked on a crab fishing boat but he was getting too old.  I couldn’t believe it.  Her actions were wanton –  I don’t know if she was aware of how sitting, posturing, what she was saying.  I talked to her afterward.  I told her he won’t marry you, unless he thinks you have money or he wants to bring a family into the country.  I was totally amazed, aghast, it was so out of character for her.  She was like a teenager trying to entice a boy she wants and would do anything to get.

After the divorce she used to go to dances.

[Now this statement for difficult for Joe Anne to tell me, and I am glad she felt ‘safe’ enough with me to do so.  It is an important one.]  I felt sorry for her.  She was so squirrelly.  I had never met anyone like your mother.  I never knew what to make of her.  She fascinated me, but to me she was like a bug I had on in a pin.  I have felt guilty for feeling this way.  But she was beyond anything you could imagine.  I liked to watch her.  I felt terribly sorry for what she was doing to herself.

[I reminded Joe Anne that if she ever directly confronted Mildred on what she saw and M didn’t like it, M would not only ignore here, but would disappear – sometimes for years.  As far as the ‘bug on a pin’ image, I realized last night as I talked to my daughter that it really was my mother’s mental illness that Joe Anne nailed on the head of a pin — which is what I wish COULD happen to the icky, nasty, invasive, consuming kind of mental illness my mother had!  I think inside herself Joe Anne DID care for the WOMAN, the individual person my mother was.  It is no small testimonial to the importance that Joe Anne played in my mother’s life that it was Joe Anne she knew was coming at the end of her life, was Joe Anne that my mother was glad to see.]

[I noted another comment I will ask her about again:  When Mildred, her mother and grandmother were driving across country from Boston to Los Angeles in 1945 when she was 19, they ran out of money for gas in Nevada and had to sell Mildred’s pink record player which made my mother very sad.  Joe Anne said my mother never got over this.  Considering that the family sold or left behind them many ‘nice’ possessions for this move, this record player (I seem to remember when Joe Anne mentioned this that it was a gramophone) would have been one of only a very few most important and prized possessions that they were able to fit into the car as they traveled.  I suspect even this experience fits into my mother’s ‘psychosis’ and continual moving, and is tied to her losing any sense of a safe and secure attachment connection with her entire childhood life ‘back East’.  I believe as I carefully examine the words that survived about my mother’s story, that this move was just about the worst thing that could have happened to her in her ‘condition’.  In insecure attachment disorder terms, Mildred’s record player was probably a ‘transitional object’ connecting her with her past attachments – not in itself a ‘bad’ thing.  But according to Joe Anne, my mother never got over losing this object.]

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I didn’t stay glued to my computer during this interview when it seemed to slip into conversation, so much of what Joe Anne said over the span of these two hours did not get recorded.  I am not worried because I know there will more interview-conversations in the future.  Joe Anne (widowed) is about as opposite from my mother as she could be.  She is in her mid-80s, busy, active, involved with family, entertains guests, has lots of friends, has a large and beautifully kept home she cares for herself, lots of lush plants and flowers both inside and out, travels, is close to her children, and is healthy and very, very happy.

She believes that part of what kept my mother in touch with Joe Anne for 45 years was that Mildred believed that Joe Anne the kind of ‘family’ and ‘home’ that Mildred imagined for herself, yet never had any idea how to ‘get’.

+URGING INFORMED COMPASSION FOR OUR ABUSERS – AND LINK TO MY BABY BOOK

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There.  I did it.  I scanned my baby book, and now knowing that task needed to be done will not be keeping sleep away from me tonight.  But ahead of the link to it that I will post below I want to say something extremely important.

I have mentioned JV here on this blog before.  She knew my mother for 45 years and now in her mid 80s this life long Alaskan is giving information in telephone interviews about what her experiences were with Mildred over all those years.  Today I called JV to check in with her about the four volumes of my mother’s writings in ‘Hope for a Mountain’.  The first two volumes have been printed by an also mid 80s homesteading neighbor named Dorothy, who DID NOT end up wanting to read them.  She sent them on to JV.

How ‘up close and personal’ does any severe infant-child abuse survivor feel they want to be with their abuser?  Personally, my entire process of healing now involves getting as close as I can to understanding my mother.  I want to share something here that is part of the interview information Joann gave me today.  In fact, as soon as she picked up her phone and found out it was me calling, this is what she told me:

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“Did you hear about how your mother died?  At the end of Mildred’s life she was living in a miserable, miserable place off of Cordova in Anchorage in one unpleasant room with a bed, a curtain over the window, a little shelving and cabinets to put stuff in, I think a chair, with a shared bathroom and kitchen – cheap room.

I am remembering why I had gone in there.  She wanted something.  I had seen her a month before and had agreed to meet her to go someplace to eat.  She needed to go to the store, and when I got there she was on the floor and couldn’t get up.  I called 911 that time but when they got there they said they could not take her as long as she was coherent and clean even if she couldn’t get up.

So I had seen her on the floor before, and I helped her up and went and got her some stuff.  I went back the day after to check on her and she wasn’t there.  I asked others who lived there where she was and they said she had knocked on her door and asked for someone to help her get up.  When they opened the door and found her another boarder called the paramedics who took her.  Her room was a mess.  She had been using newspaper for toilet paper and there were feces all over.

She had a strangulated bowel so that feces was backing out of her mouth.  I went over to the hospital and found her in one of the emergency room’s cubicles.  She would not agree to surgery.  She WOULD NOT let the hospital call her sons and had kept telling the hospital personnel that Joann would be there to see her.  She was glad to see me.  I left the cubicle and called your brothers anyway and the boys came right over.  They were very kind.  They asked me if I would back them for institutionalizing your mother after surgery and I said yes.

With her boys there she agreed to surgery, but she died under the prep.  The anesthesiologist was devastated.  He had never lost anyone before, but Mildred had so abused her body for so long it was not his fault, and I told him so.  The boys went to collect her stuff.

I have no idea where Mildred’s money went.”  [Bill’s retirement gave her $3000 per month to live on.]  I just had my mother’s death date confirmed.  She did not die in 2002, but rather died January 27, 2003.

from an August 7, 2010 telephone interview with Joann Vanover

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So here in this post I am including information about the beginning of my life of 18 years of suffering at the hands of my mentally ill, disorganized-disoriented insecure attachment disordered mother — at the same time I tell you of my mother’s ending.

What matters to me is that nowhere within me, not in the tiniest molecular corner of a single cell in my body, not in any corner of my heart or mind that I know of, did I hear this first detailed description of the end of Mildred’s life in January 2003 and feel, “The monster got what she deserved.”

She did not.  Her life, her mothering, her death was a horrific tragedy.  No human being deserves the life she had.  No, no child deserves to be unwanted, unloved, neglected, abused, mistreated or traumatized — but that not only includes ME, it included my mother.

NOTE:  My mother’s twisted intestines, an extremely painful condition, would have been corrected through a surgical procedure had Mildred sought medical attention when the problem originated.  My mother’s words to the medical staff attending her in the emergency room were, “I just want to be left alone,” repeated over and over again.  Those are the same words she had told the other boarders who had called 911 for her against her wishes, but she was too weak  to get her way.

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*SCAN OF MY ‘NONEXISTENT’ BABY BOOK

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+WORD WARRIOR NEWS: WHOSE STORY IS WHOSE?

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At one point during my intensive chemotherapy treatment for my breast cancer the chemotherapy affected my vision.  I had previously heard a man who had this experience with his treatment say that once the treatment was finished, he threw away his glasses and retained perfect vision.

How strange it was on those days, sick sick sick sick from the chemo, that I could look at the trees on distant hillsides and actually see their individual leaves.  Not even with glasses could my vision have been this corrected.  My eyes did not keep their distance detail ability.  Yet today in the midst of my inner turmoil I think about this experience I had.

As strange as it might seem to many, I truthfully cannot say that I can tell right now the difference between my abusive Borderline Personality Disorder mother’s story and my own.  I do not have that detail ability to pick out which parts of this story I am looking at and say, “This detail belonged to me as a child and therefore belongs to me now as an adult.  This detail was not and is not my mother’s.”  At the same time I cannot look at ‘the story’ and definitively or definitely say, “This detail belonged to my mother and it is a part of HER story, not mine.”

I hate this fact.  I hate the feelings, the thoughts, the questions, the doubts and the confusion that are a part of this inability to distinguish myself from my mother.

I was born into this state.  I was designed, built and developed within this state.  This state is a part of my story, and I hate it.  This essentially means not that I hate my mother, but that I hate what happened to me — and yes, I hate those parts of myself that were affected on their most basic molecular, neurological level by what my mother did to me.

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The closest I can come to truthfully and seemingly accurately describing both WHO I am in the world along with HOW I am in the world is to say that I am closer to being like a ‘wild child’ than I am to being like anyone else.  I was ensconced (meaning sheltered and concealed) within my mother’s delusional universe.  ‘Sheltered’ seems like a strange word to assign to the insane and abusive ‘place’ I grew up in from birth.  Yet for as horrible as it was, I could not escape it and my mother did everything in her power to keep EVERYONE else out of this ‘shelter’ she kept me in.

This shelter was the wilderness I was born knowing nothing about but was taught to accept from my first breath.  I had very little chance to experience anything outside of the range of my mother’s reality that had put little tiny me at the core-center of the mad hate and fear and pain filled hell that SHOULD have simply been hers alone, and had nothing REALLY to do with me at all.

But I had to live ‘in there’ with her.  For 18 years I lived in her hell.  She built her hell into every fiber of my being, beginning with my growing and developing brain.

How much of her hell is still inside of me?  As much as she could humanly cram into another person who was not her own self.

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When looking at a group of trees in the distance, even if a person does have the vision to see the details of their individual leaves, it is impossible to tell which leave exactly belongs to which tree.  Only by moving ‘up close and personal’ could we make these distinctions.

I know I have before me a daunting task.  ‘Daunting’ – ‘tending to overwhelm and intimidate’.  I hate this task.  Yet I know this hatred is just the other end of the bizarre umbilical cord of contamination from my birth still connected to my bizarrely messed-up mean mad mother.

I think about what it might be like should I have to dive deep under water without aid of oxygen supplement to retrieve something critically important lost down there.  Or what it might be like to have to enter a raging inferno to do the same.

Yet it doesn’t feel this simple:  I am going ‘in there’ to retrieve myself.

Myself is sitting right here, right now.

Yet what exists, with the exception of the external information contained in my mother’s papers and photographs, DOES lie within me.  Myself has the memories and the intelligence to pick my way through these old shards, these old skeletal remains, these old cinders and ashes — for what?

For two things:  (1) my own story as separate from my mother’s, and (2) the factual truth as far as I can discern it about my bizarrely messed-up mean mad mother.

But wait!  There IS a third component, and this is the hardest one:  (3)  In what ways am I like my mother?

As an infant lies within the womb of its mother’s body it would take a professional expert to be able to know and describe exactly where the mother ends and the infant begins.

Under normal circumstances after birth the infant is allowed and assisted to develop its own self.  Once the shelter of the mother’s womb has been left behind, the offspring is meant to become its own entirely separate entity.

My mother never let me go.  Leaving the shelter of her body in no way allowed me to escape the hell of a shelter that her mind kept me captive within.

I strongly suspect that this pattern is true for any infant-child that experiences severe abuse and maltreatment from its mother.

‘The chord that binds’ these infant-children to their mother was never correctly severed.  Such a mother still believes her offspring not only belongs to her, and is an extension of her, but in severe cases fundamentally IS HER.

As I wrote this sentence I realized that on a foundational level ALL insecure attachment patterns-disorders happen because some degree of inability to recognize the infant as being separate from the mother has occurred.  If a mother does recognize the separateness of her infant fully, she will respond to it as such.  If a mother does NOT recognize the separateness of her infant fully, she will contaminate her interactions with her infant with her OWN — well — CRAP!

The crap that exists within the relationship between a tiny infant and its earliest caregiver does NOT COME FROM THE INFANT.

According to attachment experts the end-goal and consequence of safe and secure early attachments is the development of a healthy AUTONOMOUS self.  Any problems in the earliest relationships an infant has with its caregivers is taking aim at this ‘end goal autonomous’ self of the infant — and wounding-damaging-altering it.

On its most basic level these facts SHOULD not be that difficult to understand.  Dr. Allan N. Schore describes the correct attachment process for infants and their caregivers perfectly in his articles I frequently mention:

Here:

EFFECTS OF A SECURE ATTACHMENT RELATIONSHIP ON RIGHT BRAIN DEVELOPMENT, AFFECT REGULATION, AND INFANT MENTAL HEALTH

At http://www.atlc.org/members/resources/schore1.pdf

And here:

Early organization of the nonlinear right brain and development of a predisposition to psychiatric disorders

At http://www.allanschore.com/pdf/SchoreDP97.pdf

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In approximately half of our population these optimal safe and secure attachment patterns DO happen, and those offspring DO grow into adulthood being mostly whole, healthy autonomous selves.

That leaves the other approximate half of our population with some degree of damage which has created trauma altered development in their entire body-brain  which leaves them in their lifetime being LESS THAN AUTONOMOUS.

When an infant’s earliest caregiver is NOT a fully autonomous self, they will NOT form a safe and secure attachment with their offspring, and will pass onto their children not only a lack of whole, healthy autonomy, but also the insecure attachment disorder itself.

The ONLY way these repeating patterns can be avoided is if the infant has MORE than one primary attachment, and SOMEONE important to the body-brain development of the infant IS AUTONOMOUS.  With that autonomous caregiver the infant can form a safe and secure attachment (which then builds THAT circuitry into the body-brain).

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I am therefore saying that in every case where an insecure attachment disorder exists within a person’s body-brain, a corresponding degree of non-autonomy is present — and BOTH conditions exist in response to some degree of toxicity and deprivation within an infant-toddler’s unsafe and insecure earliest caregiving malevolent environment.

My story, and the story of my mother, is an extreme example of the patterns I am describing.  My mother was not ever able to let me be fully born.  She was not able to let me leave the shelter of her own existence.  Her lack of autonomy as a self translated into depriving me of mine.

Yes, plain and simple that means the work I am doing right now is a LABOR that has the potential to set me free so that I can give birth to my own self as a differentiated person autonomous from my mother.

That all sounds nice and fine, but in reality, it is only possible to degrees because by being my mother and my primary earliest caregiver,  her interactions with me built my body-brain and the same time they built themselves into me.  It is this non-autonomous body-brain that I must use as I attempt to create my own autonomy.  There is no magic here.  It is not possible to go back to the beginning and start this entire story over again from the start.

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I have in my possession my baby book.  Some of you already know something about the significance of this fact.  I have written about it before, and I am now very near the point where I will have to unequivocally find out within myself my own truth about what is in this book.

To review, all of my childhood, and my sibling’s childhood, we were all told that “Linda does not have a baby book.”  My siblings had one.  My mother repeated over and over again as a part of her abuse litany:  “Linda, you were such a bad, horrible, difficult, impossible child from the time you were born that I could find nothing good about you to write in a baby book.  If one has nothing good to say it is better to say nothing at all.  Therefore you do not have a baby book.”

Fast forward to 2002, the year my mother died and one of my younger brothers retrieved  a massive amount of her belongings from a long term storage unit she kept for many, many years in Phoenix.  (There were three other storage lockers full when she died.  One was in Tucson, and two were in Alaska where she died.)

As my brother and I went through this collection, three baby books showed up in that locker.  One belonged to my youngest sister, one to my oldest brother, and one to me.  (The other three books were stored elsewhere).

There it was.  The nonexistent baby book.  I mailed the other two off to my siblings.  When my brother received his in the mail, he told his wife, “If my sister Linda does not have a baby book, I don’t want mine, either.”  He threw it in the trash without opening it.  His wife secretly retrieved it.

I sent my baby book home with one of my daughters years ago for safe keeping because I feared I would destroy it.  Last month when she came to visit me I asked her to bring it back to me, and here it is.

I took it to show a friend of mine when we had lunch last week.  After she carefully read it and looked at all the pictures, she said, “Linda, if I didn’t know you and your story personally, and I looked at this book your mother made, I would not believe a word you said.”

I will probably scan the baby book and post it here, though the small writing on the pages might be hard to read — and it is in my mother’s writings that I can clearly see her madness — though few others would or could.

This all matters to me NOW as I begin work on my own story as it is all blended into my mother’s.  Where is the beginning of this story?  I can’t simply say that my story began with my birth — though I would like to.  Yet I was born into a pattern like a single note appears in the midst of a song.  That pattern was of BOTH of my parents’ insecure attachment disorders — and their corresponding lack of whole, healthy autonomous selves.

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When I visited my oldest brother last summer his wife surprised him by bringing out his baby book.  My brother and I sat side by side and went over every picture and every word our mother had put in it.  All the while my sister-in-law sat across the room from us and watched and listened in her very wise silence.

When we were done oohing and aahing over the book, my brother’s wife said, “You don’t hear it, do you?  Neither of you.  Neither of you hear it.”

“Hear what?” we asked her.

She responded, “I can hear hysteria within every word your mother wrote in that book.”

I found this experience comforting.  It helps me to know that someone on the outside of our family, herself sensitized by severe abuse in her own childhood, could detect my mother’s madness in the words she wrote about her darling, precious, much favored first born son even BEFORE she gave birth to me.  Of course anything Mother wrote in his book after he was 14 months old (his age when I was born) would also have been further influenced by whatever happened within my mother when she gave birth to me.

But there my brother and I were, completely oblivious to any shade or tone, any flicker of a clue that our mother’s madness had found its way into HIS baby book.

It is only by finding and recognizing the clues that I find in my work with my story and my mother’s story that I can even begin to know what questions need to be asked.  I have done my research up to this point the best I can about attachment disorders and what trauma altered development can do to a person so very early in their developing years.

At the same time I find patterns that show me what kind of damage was done to my mother, I will also find how her patterns affected my own development (and that of my siblings, although what happened to them is not my story).

Right now I have to give myself permission to accept the fact that I don’t know whose story is whose.  What I do know is that as I looked carefully last night at my baby book, I wanted to snatch that beautiful baby and toddler ME right out of those pictures and whisk her away from her monster of a mother.  As strange as it might seem, I know that the work I am doing right now has the power to accomplish  exactly that act — as much as is humanly possible.

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+WHAT MATTERS MOST – NOT THE ABUSE, BUT WHAT IT DID TO US IN OUR BODY

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The Ripple Effect, and how we are all connected and related — I so thank this morning’s commenter for his words!  I was brought back circle at this critical juncture in my work to remembering what this is all about!

I had just been sitting with my morning coffee in my backyard under my gangling tree thinking with self pity, “I can’t do this work!  I don’t want to allow my thoughts to even turn in its direction!  I want to find something meaningless to do, and spend my days dawdling.  NO!  I won’t go ‘back there’ for my truth or my story!  I will not ever turn my eyes again upon the words my mother wrote!”  I could have just as well imagined myself in Calgon’s “Take me away” commercials!

Then I came inside and sat down at my computer screen, and there was the PLEASE MODERATE COMMENT email — and here I am.

When I wrote my last post, +REMEMBERING WHAT REALLY MATTERS ABOUT ALL OF THIS, what I am most reminding myself is that AGAIN I KNOW that it isn’t the thousands of individual beatings my mother did to me, it isn’t the forced isolation and confinements, it isn’t the continual and effective verbal erosion of my entire sense of self (let alone my esteem, worth, concept, etc.) that mattered.

It wasn’t having my mother bash my head in the toilet when I was four that matters.  It wasn’t being chased across our wilderness mountain fields by her brandishing a log intent on killing when I was ten me that matters.   It wasn’t even that she never called me “darling.”  It wasn’t that she prevented me from playing.  It wasn’t ANY of this that mattered, over the entire 18 year span that she so brutally abused me that matters MOST to me, or that lies as the motivation behind the work I have done and have yet to do.

WHAT MATTERS is that during the moments running into hours running into days, then weeks, then months of my VERY EARLIEST time on earth that matter to me most — that hurt me the most.  Her madness, complete with her psychosis, prevented her from interacting with me in a resonating, Linda-mirroring way that would have reflected back to me my own self in my own emotions as I was expressing my own inner needs.

The social-emotional dysregulation built into her own infant brain by malevolent and neglectful caregiver-infant interactions were directly downloaded into MY FORMING AND DEVELOPING infant brain — along with all the patterns of severe dissociation that affected her.

From these earliest beginnings not only was my brain development completely altered away from ‘optimal’ and ‘normal’, so too was the development of my entire nervous system and my immune system.

I don’t think I have mentioned it here, but both of my sisters who were able to be included in the massive 50,000 ‘subject’ Sister Study after I was diagnosed three years ago with my advanced, aggressive breast cancer receive a thorough assessment once a year.  This year my sister told me for the very first time this study has included a HUGE number of questions about these sisters’ earliest years PRIOR to the age of 6.

My sister who told me this and I celebrated this addition of these questions to the once-a-year survey the Study requires.  My guess is that it is that the study is accessing financial support now from the Center for Disease Control who no doubt finally mandates that this information be gathered in all studies that use their resources.

(Do a blog search on this site for ACE study and for Center for Disease Control)

ALL aspects of a traumatized and neglected, abused and maltreated infant-young child’s development are affected and CHANGED — and that is what matters to me of ALL the horrendous treatment that my mother did to me.

In the end it doesn’t matter one single HOOT what we ‘name’ any of this.  What matters is this rock bottom truth.  It isn’t even degrees of secure versus insecure attachment that matter.  It isn’t what we might call mental illness that matters.  What matters most are the very concrete and very real ACTUAL interactions an infant prior to the age of one year old has with its primary caregivers AS THE BRAIN, THE NERVOUS SYSTEM INCLUDING THE STRESS RESPONSE AND VAGUS NERVE SYSTEM, AND THE IMMUNE SYSTEM IS BEING BUILT.  These earliest interactions determine how our genetic DNA information will manifest in our body.  It will tell the machinery that tells our DNA what to do — what to do!!

These earliest interactions are feeding into the infant as it grows and develops information about the state of the world — be it benevolent or be it malevolent — that will last for the rest of that grown up infant’s life time.  Once these earliest trauma-affected changes have happened, down the road we will see patterns that we name as insecure attachment disorder, mental illness, etc.

We need to name it for what it is:  Trauma Altered Development.  We need to know what these changes are, how they affect us, and what we can do to moderate, modulate and live better with these changes — that can NEVER BE REVERSED.

As I summon the courage and willingness I need to plow ahead in the creation of the text of my own horrific childhood of abuse, I must not lose track of the importance of what I am saying in this post.  THIS is all that really matters.  It is what lies at the core for all of us who did not receive the benefits of early caregiver interactions in a safe and secure, LOVING world that would have let us build our best body possible — not for a continued life of trauma, abuse, turmoil, scarcity, deprivation, pain, suffering and misery — but for a world of safety, security and plenty.

The fact that we were resilient enough to stay alive has given us the chance to learn for ourselves as survivors what this MATTERS MOST actually means and what we can do about it.

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+FOOLED BY AN ABUSIVE BORDERLINE? – MY MOTHER’S EXPERT DISTORTION OF REALITY

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see also:

+MY ABUSIVE BPD MOTHER LOST HER WINGS – AND NEVER GREW UP

How expert are you at being able to detect the twisted reality presented by a severely abusive Borderline?  The clues to the truth do not lie with the Borderline, they exist within the empathic abilities of outside observers to know the truth from a lie.  This ability to know true reality from the lies of a deceptive reality so marginally exits within an abusive Borderline that I would say it does not exist at all.

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For example:

Brain Scans Clarify Borderline Personality Disorder

By Rick Nauert PhD

Using real-time brain imaging, a team of researchers have discovered that patients with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) are physically unable to regulate emotion.

The findings, by Harold W. Koenigsberg, MD, professor of psychiatry at Mount Sinai School of Medicine suggest individuals with BPD are unable to activate neurological networks that would help to control feelings.   READ ARTICLE HERE

(NOTE:  In later posts I will write about my father’s participation in my mother’s distorted reality.  I believe he had an avoidant-dismissive insecure attachment that meant his brain could regulate emotion to the extreme — but not in a normal way.  His brain, which could overly activate ‘neurological networks’ that helped him overly control his feelings, was the perfect compliment to my mother’s Borderline brain.)

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WHAT HAPPENS WITHIN THE BORDERLINE BRAIN?

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Perhaps the most important piece of information those of us who were severely abused and traumatized by a Borderline Personality Disordered mother need to understand is that our mothers had/have a completely different kind of brain.  These severe Borderline brains are expertly created through completely natural (and possible) processes of distortions in early childhood that in the end make the brain differences most difficult to detect unless and until we know what we are looking at when we consider the Borderline behaviors that manifest themselves as a result of early brain developmental changes.

We also need to understand that as a consequence of early traumatizing experiences a Borderline’s entire nervous system development (the brain is ‘just’ one component of the Central Nervous System) were changed and altered as well.  This means that my mothers Autonomic Nervous System, which regulates both stress-defense responses through its ‘GO’ sympathetic arm and the connecting, compassionate, caregiving and seeking responses through the calming arm of the ‘STOP’ parasympathetic branch (think ‘pair-a-brakes’) were changes, as well.

I now understand that everything about who and how my severe Borderline mother was in the world was different from ‘normal’.  What is harder to understand is why it took me so long to figure this out, and why nobody – not one single person including my father and grandmother – was able to detect the incredibly severe, consistent, perpetual, and horrible trauma and abuse my mother perpetrated against me for 18 long years.

What makes an abusive Borderline mother’s violence and horrible treatment of her offspring (most often, I suspect, of a ‘chosen child’) so nearly impossible to detect?

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I am presenting here a letter my mother wrote to her mother just prior to the first visit to Alaska to see us that my grandmother made after we left Alaska in August 1957 a month before my sixth birthday.

The distortion in my mother’s thinking about me that really shows how subtle and pervasive her psychosis was is present in this letter as I describe it in my comments within the text.  My mother’s Borderline reality, and her psychosis regarding me (age six at the time this letter was written) would be impossible for an outside reader to detect.

The same processes that make her psychosis (and the abuse it engendered toward me) impossible to detect are the same ones, I suggest, that made her abuse of me undetectable to others all during the 18 years of terrible suffering my mother caused me.  If readers think ‘undetectable deadly toxins’ as they read this, perhaps they will be able to twist their own thinking back to a normal-reality perspective as the proceed through the following words.

The biggest problem contact with a severe Borderline psychosis creates is that people with Borderline brains are so complete in their distortions of reality.  They spin such a believable story, weave such a believable lie, that nobody but the most trained observers can possibly begin to detect the deceptions the psychosis contains.  When a person encounters a Borderline such as my mother was, all rules of human decency are suspended, and the outsider does not have a clue – not a single solitary clue – that these rules have been changed.  Everyone outside of the Borderline’s skin becomes instantaneously consumed within the distorted reality.

I can say here that I don’t give a solitary damn myself about anything I write here.  My concern is for those poor, pitiful, unbelievably tortured other people who grew up being the victim of a twisted Borderline’s reality – and with all those helpless, powerless suffering children who are trying to endure a Borderline parent’s torture at this present moment in time.

I know what I am talking about here.  My mother was probably among the best of the best of the best of abusive Borderlines.  Her web of deceptions was as impeccable as it was sinister and destructive.  And it was invisible, evidently, to all but her single chosen prey – me – and my poor siblings who had to live within the darkened home she controlled and ruined.

Because I was born into my mother’s hate-filled psychosis – and I mean this literally because the core of the psychosis formed during her labor with me – I had no possible way to begin to understand that my mother’s reality was not real.  The discoveries of REAL reality I uncover as I work with her 50-year-old-letters only come to me because I have found a way to take a safe stance as I read them.  That safe stance is ONLY possible now because I have enough information, finally, about Borderline brain changes to detect the clues that show me the presence of my mother’s invisible psychosis when I encounter them.

I am able to make the invisible visible.  There is no action more empowering for a severe early infant-child abuse survivor than this.  As you read the following you will be a part of experiencing this process in action.  Turn up the volume of your sensitivities here – turn it WAY up.  The truth contained in the deceptions of an abusive Borderline’s lies – that create the reality they BELIEVE – are so subtle as to actually exist exactly at that BORDERLINE the name of their disorder suggests.

The BORDERLINE appears, like a line drawn in invisible ink, exactly at the place where the observer can detect THEIR OWN INTERNAL EMOTIONAL CLUES that a deception of such grand proportions actually exists that it seems beyond belief.  It is at this BORDERLINE where what does not possibly seem believable is in fact BELIEVABLE that the expert Borderline brain’s creation of distorted reality becomes no longer invisible.

A Borderline such as my mother was does not possess within the operation of their brain or entire nervous system-body the capacity to detect the deceptions that form their reality.

The detection of the deceptions can ONLY come from those aware observers from the outside who have the capacity to – actually – experience the near outer-limits of EMPATHIC ability.  Observers have to know their own self, be able to sense with exquisite, accurate sensitivity what they are themselves feeling – within their own body – as they interact with an expert, professional Borderline like my mother was.

My mother’s Borderline deception-reality was NOT ACCURATE, but it was profoundly presented as such, as it is in this letter.  The clues to the truth do not lie here within my mother’s words.  They lie within the body-brain-mind of the outsiders who read them.

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An example of the pervasively subtle psychosis my mother had about me — along with my comments.  My grandmother was soon to come for her first visit since we had left Los Angeles and moved to Alaska in August of 1957 a month before my sixth birthday:

June 4, 1958

Dear Mother,

Imagine – 10 more days and you’ll be here!!  Does it seem possible?  Yesterday morning I looked at the calendar and was amazed to see that the happy day falls one week from this Saturday.  But then I became concerned.  It’s the best day for you to come but also the day I planned John’s party for the boys.

This is going to be a business letter as I’ll see you to chat in no time at all now.  I do feel he needs a party.  I wrote you about his shyness and Jo Anne’s remarks etc. and I’ve had quite a time overcoming this.

Then this summer I knew he had to have boys to play with and yet he didn’t want to go to Vanovers.  They’re big boys for their age, bossy and dominating – like her and he’s too young to understand their talk and sarcasm – and far too sweet and sensitive.  I knew he needed self-confidence this summer.

Well, I encouraged him to go to Headlows who I found out that they have 3 girls and one boy – perfect match?  He’s a darling boy6 and John and he hit it off from the first.

Then another boy Johnny Johnson moved to the hill.  His Mom owns the Department store at the shopping center.  She’s nice and so is he – I like the Headlow boy better but they’re both nice.

Now yesterday Gerry Vanover came over but he’s loud, bossy etc. but I was nice and John was happy but still prefers others.

Now his party will be perfect.  He needs it and I’ve promised.  I want it late afternoon and a BBQ – hot dogs and rolls so it won’t interfere with your arriving except this:  it will be an all boy party out doors and I don’t want the girls here. [She drew a little sketch for invitations that ‘John can draw’ showing person at BBQ.]

So last nite Bill and I talked it over and arrived at the conclusion if it suits you.  At first I was afraid it would be too much for you to arrive midst a child’s party but you could rest indoors.  Your plane is due to arrive around noon – give or take one hour!  We’ll take girls over to Le Verne’s house.  Her mom takes care of children anyway and I adore Le Verne.  I’ll talk it up to girls – give them new color books and some ‘party food’.  They’ve never been to her house and they’ll enjoy it.

I’d rather we all met you but plane could be one hour late or early so this way Bill and John will meet you – OK?  And I’ll wait home.  We’ll take you sight seeing Sunday and have family party Sunday too.

You’ll be here for that and meet boys too!  Then after party we’ll all go get girls!!

Oh Mom, I get so excited!  I’ve missed you so!  Won’t it be wonderful?  I’m working like mad to get house all clean, waxed and fixed so we won’t have a thing to do.

Bible School starts 9th through 20th and 3 older ones will go so you can rest and we’ll visit first week – only Sharon will be home.  Even she knows you’re coming and talks about it constantly.

Now does this plan meet with your approval.  I could go too if I was sure plane wouldn’t be late – we’ll see.  I’ll have his party at 3:00 – 7:00 or could be 4:00 – 7:00.  I’ll have house clean and food ready, potato salad, cake, etc.  He’ll be in 7th heaven and deserves it.  Will give him our gifts on Sunday.

Now I haven’t asked Le Verne yet.  Let me know your reaction right away!!

We’re planning lots of things to do on week-ends and Bill is going to buy a jeep truck today – good buy, only $600 and he needs it to get back to homestead – then I’ll have the car!!

First week relax.  2nd week-end trip to Girdwood Road and Portage Glacier and visit gold mines and pan for gold!!!  This is road will connect with our Eagle River Road when put through.  [Linda note:  2010, the road was never ‘put through’.]  We’ve never been to these places but have saved them for when you get here!!

Next week = you and I and children to Palmer and Valley.  Nice ride, paved road and we’ll take picnic and visit Rusty Dow – a character and painter.  I want to get some for art shop.  Fun?  Bill’s been to Palmer so we’ll go during week.

Week-end trip and stay over night – to Homer, Alaska.  Colorful, interesting beautiful scenery but rough, dirt road and long trip but FUN.  Another week-end to Seward.  A long day trip and picnic!!

Evening – Fire Lake Lodge and Spring Creek Lodge for dinner at nearby places.  Chart Room in town at Hotel.  Music Festival in Anchorage.  We’re going first Monday to visit gift shops with Alaska Woodcrafts – Mr. Bockstahler’s new wife – you’ll like her.  We want ideas and you’ll enjoy it.

So much to do and see.  Weather is coolish in 60s and 70s – I think you’ll need sweaters and blouses with sleeves.  Nights are light and cool!

We have beds all planned.  Children go to bed as usual and when we all turn in – we transfer Cindy to cot in John’s and Linda’s room and you sleep in Sharon’s room on folding bed.  It’s full size and comfortable – roll-a-way OK?  There that’s settled!

I’m not planning on having neighbors over – you and I will visit them!  I want to enjoy your visit and not plan parties OK?

One Saturday or Sunday we’ll drive in to see country back in but no need to hike

Remember, I wrote you I was to be Brownie Leader’s Assistant – sounds funny.  I hate not to keep my promises (like a Good Brownie) and had hoped to do it with Linda but I got so worried.  Kathy P. was to watch children.  She’s nice but just turned 14 and a flitter budget.  I got worried and this morning wrote a note saying I couldn’t help.  I feel terrible but better!!  Creek has risen so it’s not recognizable as same gentle stream.  It’s overflowed and is fast, dangerous and deep.  They never go there without us but might.  At night you can hear water rushing even in house.  The rapids and current is so strong – a child could never stand up and would be washed to river immediately.  Makes me shudder!!  I couldn’t leave Cindy and Sharon with her.  I told her I could help after 14th.  She’s expecting and wanted me to take troop while she had baby in July.  Also I’d be gone 4 hours and that adds up in baby sitting $ and I don’t trust neighbors.  What a worrier I am!!

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[Linda note 2010:  Doesn’t surprise me she would find major reasons not to do something with me – and not to admit that she hated doing anything with me.  I am really surprised she let me go – but having there would NOT have been good for me at all, either, of course.  Her tone here is completely different than when she just wrote about doing a birthday party for John, even though at least here she is not ‘slamming’ me directly (at least).

My mother very rarely writes such a single long paragraph, either – confirming my suspicion that her unconscious would in no way allow her to participate as a loving mother in anything that had to do with me.  Very cunning, sounds so legitimate.

Another side to this is that no doubt it SEEMED like something a GOOD mother would do, help with a Brownie troop.  I putting together her Borderline public façade, her public persona, being seen as THIS KIND of mother would have been a good thing – like a prop in her pretend mother play.

Yet at the same time my mother lacked the capacity to ever concern herself, truly, with someone else’s needs.  It became apparent to my mother that this would not have been a pretend activity.  She would REALLY have had to take over this troop, REALLY and actually HELP, do something real outside of her own kingdom, her own range of control and influence.  She knew she would not have been allowed to be her own true controlling self in this outside environment.  The light of day would have shown up both her true intentions (that she did not see or comprehend) and her actions.

In addition, she certainly would not have been allowed to act toward me as she always did.  She would not have been able to control and overrun me in the public setting of a Brownie troop group.  At the same time, if she were away from her home, she could not have controlled what happened there, either.  That faintly, perhaps, her precious doll-baby-children MIGHT have gone too near the creek and MIGHT have been endangered was NOT a concern for her children’s safety.  It was a concern based on her obsession that her children were not only her possessions; they were extended parts of her self – her mind, her psyche and her sickness.

It is never the sign of a healthy, normal safe and secure parent-child attachment when the truth that lies within the attachment is that the parent’s deep psychological needs are involved in ‘getting met’ in the relationship.  When this happens it is an activated parental insecure attachment disorder that is operating.  When this happens, true caregiving for others is not possible.  My mother was, as my sister recently noted, her children’s and her husband’s ‘puppet master’.  She could not be in true relationship with anyone, not even with her own self.

These altered patterns of relationship are so subtle, at least within a very disturbed Borderline, that they are nearly impossible to detect unless the observer KNOWS what they are looking at.  Because I have spent the past six years carefully observing my mother’s thinking and behavior as it appeared in her letters, all constructed with few exceptions for an outside ‘public’ audience that I can begin to notice where the deceptions in her thinking appear.

Even though my mother was purportedly writing to her mother privately, these letters, preserved as they have been for over 50 years, were written by my mother with the intention that someday they would be used to write ‘an Alaskan book’.  On those very few occasions where I can see, touch, taste, smell my mother’s distorted thinking within these letters, I cannot ignore what I know.  This small description of why my mother suddenly could concoct a completely believable (to her or to anyone else) reason why she could not assist as a Brownie scout leader in a troop with her daughter in it is one of those times I can see how pervasive her psychosis truly was.

My mother mentioned the creek to her mother in a letter written the day before this letter was, and she mentions nothing risky or sinister about it:  “The creek is full and deep now as glacier and snow melts.”  But the presence of too much water in the creek gave her the perfect alibi when she needed it.  I don’t for one instant believe any of her children, especially Cindy who was extremely responsible as she approached 5 years of age, especially with John in the house when my mother was gone as he approached 9 years of age, would ever have gone near this creek alone – nor let sister Sharon approaching age 3.  That my mother is saying she could not trust a 14-year-old sitter to watch her children safely is hog wash.  Just plain Borderline-psychosis-constructed nonsense.

A Borderline does not have the capacity to conceive either of self or of others in a normal way.  Everyone outside of my mother was an extension of herself, a living prop in her drama-play at life.  That she – and everyone else – did not see or know what was going on in our home, in her life, or in her psyche did not take away from the fact that her psychosis touched and influenced everything she ever did.

My mother evidently somehow decided for this one year of my young life that it served her purposes to let me participate in Brownies.  I have no reason to believe that this one experience would have been her single exception to her rule of making Linda’s life perpetually miserable.  Somehow my being a Brownie made my mother look good in the public eye.  This was my only childhood experience that let me get away from her influence and be around something meaningful and positive, and to interact as a child (age 6 here) with adults who treated me as the child I was.

For anyone reading these words who doubts the accuracy of what I am describing here in regard to my mother’s sickness, let me mention that one of the hallmarks of the Borderline mother is that NOBODY is supposed to ever detect the presence of the abuse these mothers so expertly enact upon a child.  A Borderline like my mother was is an absolute professional at deception.

Part of the reason why deception like is being presented her in my mother’s account is so effective is that it comes from a completely constructed invisible, unconscious reality that exists BECAUSE the ‘owner’s’ psyche is completely contaminated by their disease.  This pervasive contamination is like a highly effective contagion.  It contaminates the growing mind’s of such a parent’s children, and it contaminates the psyche (unconsciously) of everyone who comes in contact with a professional-psychotic Borderline.

I encourage any reader who disagrees with my hard-earned ability to decipher my mother’s mental mess to take a look at how this kind of deception, so carefully constructed that it legitimizes whatever the Borderline mother turns her thinking toward no matter how insane, how out-of-touch with actual reality it might be.  If you doubt me here, you believe my mother’s version of reality.

It is for the same reason you might doubt me (and my reality) while believing my mother’s lies that nobody ever detected the 18 years of severe abuse my mother perpetrated against me.  My mother was very, very, very good at what she did – creating an alternate reality based upon her distorted brain’s operation that seemed to make sense to everyone, her own self included.

I am the only one alive who knows the truth about how this Linda-being-a-Brownie scout chapter of this story progressed, and more importantly, how it ended.  Our family moved out of the Log House by the end of the summer of 1958, eventually into an apartment in Anchorage for the winter, and back to the Log House in 1959 by which time the homesteading saga consumed our lives in earnest.  By fall 1959 I was back in Brownies, and had sold the essential Brownie Scout Cookies.

The afternoon I collected the money for the cookie sales, put it into a Milk Dud box, and then had it all fall out through the faulty bottom of the box without my noticing this was happening, before I returned home, marked the ending of this story with unspeakable, and unbelievable distortion and violence.  My mother accused me of stealing the money, and because after hours in the evening twilight of retracing my every step through the neighborhood of Eagle River searching for the fallen coins I could not find them, I was accused of being a thief and a liar and was beaten afterwards severely – not once, but every time my mother brought up my ‘crime’ until I left home at 18.  ]

++

Now John for first time is old enough to come and go and is so good about coming back in one hour – etc.

Children need me at home and I can spread myself too thin.

I trust you and Bill in day time and Le Verne at night and 3rd choice days.

Golly so much to write.  I only earned 1.75 imagine – Sunday!  People looked but didn’t buy.  Tell you more later!!

Children still asleep.  I’ve been writing this in bed.  Got Bill’s breakfast and got back in.  They sleep late mornings til 9:00 or 10:00!  So you’ll rest too – of course Bible School starts at 9:30 so will have to get them up early.

Guess what?  Methodist bought Briggs new 30,000 house for the new parson for the new full time Methodist Chugiak Minister.  Now what do you think of that and new church to be built!!

Mrs. Pottle wants me to help with tea for him Sunday?  Probably will take children here if improves as never get to [words washed out here] visit both while you’re here.  Must close!  Love, Mildred.  PS.  Can hardly wait – you know me.

June 4, 1958

Dear Mother,

Imagine – 10 more days and you’ll be here!!  Does it seem possible?  Yesterday morning I looked at the calendar and was amazed to see that the happy day falls one week from this Saturday.  But then I became concerned.  It’s the best day for you to come but also the day I planned John’s party for the boys.

This is going to be a business letter as I’ll see you to chat in no time at all now.  I do feel he needs a party.  I wrote you about his shyness and Jo Anne’s remarks etc. and I’ve had quite a time overcoming this.

Then this summer I knew he had to have boys to play with and yet he didn’t want to go to Vanovers.  They’re big boys for their age, bossy and dominating – like her and he’s too young to understand their talk and sarcasm – and far too sweet and sensitive.  I knew he needed self-confidence this summer.

Well, I encouraged him to go to Headlows who I found out that they have 3 girls and one boy – perfect match?  He’s a darling boy6 and John and he hit it off from the first.

Then another boy Johnny Johnson moved to the hill.  His Mom owns the Department store at the shopping center.  She’s nice and so is he – I like the Headlow boy better but they’re both nice.

Now yesterday Gerry Vanover came over but he’s loud, bossy etc. but I was nice and John was happy but still prefers others.

Now his party will be perfect.  He needs it and I’ve promised.  I want it late afternoon and a BBQ – hot dogs and rolls so it won’t interfere with your arriving except this:  it will be an all boy party out doors and I don’t want the girls here. [She drew a little sketch for invitations that ‘John can draw’ showing person at BBQ.]

So last nite Bill and I talked it over and arrived at the conclusion if it suits you.  At first I was afraid it would be too much for you to arrive midst a child’s party but you could rest indoors.  Your plane is due to arrive around noon – give or take one hour!  We’ll take girls over to Le Verne’s house.  Her mom takes care of children anyway and I adore Le Verne.  I’ll talk it up to girls – give them new color books and some ‘party food’.  They’ve never been to her house and they’ll enjoy it.

I’d rather we all met you but plane could be one hour late or early so this way Bill and John will meet you – OK?  And I’ll wait home.  We’ll take you sight seeing Sunday and have family party Sunday too.

You’ll be here for that and meet boys too!  Then after party we’ll all go get girls!!

Oh Mom, I get so excited!  I’ve missed you so!  Won’t it be wonderful?  I’m working like mad to get house all clean, waxed and fixed so we won’t have a thing to do.

Bible School starts 9th through 20th and 3 older ones will go so you can rest and we’ll visit first week – only Sharon will be home.  Even she knows you’re coming and talks about it constantly.

Now does this plan meet with your approval.  I could go too if I was sure plane wouldn’t be late – we’ll see.  I’ll have his party at 3:00 – 7:00 or could be 4:00 – 7:00.  I’ll have house clean and food ready, potato salad, cake, etc.  He’ll be in 7th heaven and deserves it.  Will give him our gifts on Sunday.

Now I haven’t asked Le Verne yet.  Let me know your reaction right away!!

We’re planning lots of things to do on week-ends and Bill is going to buy a jeep truck today – good buy, only $600 and he needs it to get back to homestead – then I’ll have the car!!

First week relax.  2nd week-end trip to Girdwood Road and Portage Glacier and visit gold mines and pan for gold!!!  This is road will connect with our Eagle River Road when put through.  [Linda note:  2010, the road was never ‘put through’.]  We’ve never been to these places but have saved them for when you get here!!

Next week = you and I and children to Palmer and Valley.  Nice ride, paved road and we’ll take picnic and visit Rusty Dow – a character and painter.  I want to get some for art shop.  Fun?  Bill’s been to Palmer so we’ll go during week.

Week-end trip and stay over night – to Homer, Alaska.  Colorful, interesting beautiful scenery but rough, dirt road and long trip but FUN.  Another week-end to Seward.  A long day trip and picnic!!

Evening – Fire Lake Lodge and Spring Creek Lodge for dinner at nearby places.  Chart Room in town at Hotel.  Music Festival in Anchorage.  We’re going first Monday to visit gift shops with Alaska Woodcrafts – Mr. Bockstahler’s new wife – you’ll like her.  We want ideas and you’ll enjoy it.

So much to do and see.  Weather is coolish in 60s and 70s – I think you’ll need sweaters and blouses with sleeves.  Nights are light and cool!

We have beds all planned.  Children go to bed as usual and when we all turn in – we transfer Cindy to cot in John’s and Linda’s room and you sleep in Sharon’s room on folding bed.  It’s full size and comfortable – roll-a-way OK?  There that’s settled!

I’m not planning on having neighbors over – you and I will visit them!  I want to enjoy your visit and not plan parties OK?

One Saturday or Sunday we’ll drive in to see country back in but no need to hike

Remember, I wrote you I was to be Brownie Leader’s Assistant – sounds funny.  I hate not to keep my promises (like a Good Brownie) and had hoped to do it with Linda but I got so worried.  Kathy P. was to watch children.  She’s nice but just turned 14 and a flitter budget.  I got worried and this morning wrote a note saying I couldn’t help.  I feel terrible but better!!  Creek has risen so it’s not recognizable as same gentle stream.  It’s overflowed and is fast, dangerous and deep.  They never go there without us but might.  At night you can hear water rushing even in house.  The rapids and current is so strong – a child could never stand up and would be washed to river immediately.  Makes me shudder!!  I couldn’t leave Cindy and Sharon with her.  I told her I could help after 14th.  She’s expecting and wanted me to take troop while she had baby in July.  Also I’d be gone 4 hours and that adds up in baby sitting $ and I don’t trust neighbors.  What a worrier I am!!

[Linda note 2010:  Doesn’t surprise me she would find major reasons not to do something with me – and not to admit that she hated doing anything with me.  I am really surprised she let me go – but having there would NOT have been good for me at all, either, of course.  Her tone here is completely different than when she just wrote about doing a birthday party for John, even though at least here she is not ‘slamming’ me directly (at least).

My mother very rarely writes such a single long paragraph, either – confirming my suspicion that her unconscious would in no way allow her to participate as a loving mother in anything that had to do with me.  Very cunning, sounds so legitimate.

Another side to this is that no doubt it SEEMED like something a GOOD mother would do, help with a Brownie troop.  I putting together her Borderline public façade, her public persona, being seen as THIS KIND of mother would have been a good thing – like a prop in her pretend mother play.

Yet at the same time my mother lacked the capacity to ever concern herself, truly, with someone else’s needs.  It became apparent to my mother that this would not have been a pretend activity.  She would REALLY have had to take over this troop, REALLY and actually HELP, do something real outside of her own kingdom, her own range of control and influence.  She knew she would not have been allowed to be her own true controlling self in this outside environment.  The light of day would have shown up both her true intentions (that she did not see or comprehend) and her actions.

In addition, she certainly would not have been allowed to act toward me as she always did.  She would not have been able to control and overrun me in the public setting of a Brownie troop group.  At the same time, if she were away from her home, she could not have controlled what happened there, either.  That faintly, perhaps, her precious doll-baby-children MIGHT have gone too near the creek and MIGHT have been endangered was NOT a concern for her children’s safety.  It was a concern based on her obsession that her children were not only her possessions; they were extended parts of her self – her mind, her psyche and her sickness.

It is never the sign of a healthy, normal safe and secure parent-child attachment when the truth that lies within the attachment is that the parent’s deep psychological needs are involved in ‘getting met’ in the relationship.  When this happens it is an activated parental insecure attachment disorder that is operating.  When this happens, true caregiving for others is not possible.  My mother was, as my sister recently noted, her children’s and her husband’s ‘puppet master’.  She could not be in true relationship with anyone, not even with her own self.

These altered patterns of relationship are so subtle, at least within a very disturbed Borderline, that they are nearly impossible to detect unless the observer KNOWS what they are looking at.  Because I have spent the past six years carefully observing my mother’s thinking and behavior as it appeared in her letters, all constructed with few exceptions for an outside ‘public’ audience that I can begin to notice where the deceptions in her thinking appear.

Even though my mother was purportedly writing to her mother privately, these letters, preserved as they have been for over 50 years, were written by my mother with the intention that someday they would be used to write ‘an Alaskan book’.  On those very few occasions where I can see, touch, taste, smell my mother’s distorted thinking within these letters, I cannot ignore what I know.  This small description of why my mother suddenly could concoct a completely believable (to her or to anyone else) reason why she could not assist as a Brownie scout leader in a troop with her daughter in it is one of those times I can see how pervasive her psychosis truly was.

My mother mentioned the creek to her mother in a letter written the day before this letter was, and she mentions nothing risky or sinister about it:  “The creek is full and deep now as glacier and snow melts.”  But the presence of too much water in the creek gave her the perfect alibi when she needed it.  I don’t for one instant believe any of her children, especially Cindy who was extremely responsible as she approached 5 years of age, especially with John in the house when my mother was gone as he approached 9 years of age, would ever have gone near this creek alone – nor let sister Sharon approaching age 3.  That my mother is saying she could not trust a 14-year-old sitter to watch her children safely is hog wash.  Just plain Borderline-psychosis-constructed nonsense.

A Borderline does not have the capacity to conceive either of self or of others in a normal way.  Everyone outside of my mother was an extension of herself, a living prop in her drama-play at life.  That she – and everyone else – did not see or know what was going on in our home, in her life, or in her psyche did not take away from the fact that her psychosis touched and influenced everything she ever did.

My mother evidently somehow decided for this one year of my young life that it served her purposes to let me participate in Brownies.  I have no reason to believe that this one experience would have been her single exception to her rule of making Linda’s life perpetually miserable.  Somehow my being a Brownie made my mother look good in the public eye.  This was my only childhood experience that let me get away from her influence and be around something meaningful and positive, and to interact as a child (age 6 here) with adults who treated me as the child I was.

For anyone reading these words who doubts the accuracy of what I am describing here in regard to my mother’s sickness, let me mention that one of the hallmarks of the Borderline mother is that NOBODY is supposed to ever detect the presence of the abuse these mothers so expertly enact upon a child.  A Borderline like my mother was is an absolute professional at deception.

Part of the reason why deception like is being presented her in my mother’s account is so effective is that it comes from a completely constructed invisible, unconscious reality that exists BECAUSE the ‘owner’s’ psyche is completely contaminated by their disease.  This pervasive contamination is like a highly effective contagion.  It contaminates the growing mind’s of such a parent’s children, and it contaminates the psyche (unconsciously) of everyone who comes in contact with a professional-psychotic Borderline.

I encourage any reader who disagrees with my hard-earned ability to decipher my mother’s mental mess to take a look at how this kind of deception, so carefully constructed that it legitimizes whatever the Borderline mother turns her thinking toward no matter how insane, how out-of-touch with actual reality it might be.  If you doubt me here, you believe my mother’s version of reality.

It is for the same reason you might doubt me (and my reality) while believing my mother’s lies that nobody ever detected the 18 years of severe abuse my mother perpetrated against me.  My mother was very, very, very good at what she did – creating an alternate reality based upon her distorted brain’s operation that seemed to make sense to everyone, her own self included.

I am the only one alive who knows the truth about how this Linda-being-a-Brownie scout chapter of this story progressed, and more importantly, how it ended.  Our family moved out of the Log House by the end of the summer of 1958, eventually into an apartment in Anchorage for the winter, and back to the Log House in 1959 by which time the homesteading saga consumed our lives in earnest.  By fall 1959 I was back in Brownies, and had sold the essential Brownie Scout Cookies.

The afternoon I collected the money for the cookie sales, put it into a Milk Dud box, and then had it all fall out through the faulty bottom of the box without my noticing this was happening, before I returned home, marked the ending of this story with unspeakable, and unbelievable distortion and violence.  My mother accused me of stealing the money, and because after hours in the evening twilight of retracing my every step through the neighborhood of Eagle River searching for the fallen coins I could not find them, I was accused of being a thief and a liar and was beaten afterwards severely – not once, but every time my mother brought up my ‘crime’ until I left home at 18.  ]

Now John for first time is old enough to come and go and is so good about coming back in one hour – etc.

Children need me at home and I can spread myself too thin.

I trust you and Bill in day time and Le Verne at night and 3rd choice days.

Golly so much to write.  I only earned 1.75 imagine – Sunday!  People looked but didn’t buy.  Tell you more later!!

Children still asleep.  I’ve been writing this in bed.  Got Bill’s breakfast and got back in.  They sleep late mornings til 9:00 or 10:00!  So you’ll rest too – of course Bible School starts at 9:30 so will have to get them up early.

Guess what?  Methodist bought Briggs new 30,000 house for the new parson for the new full time Methodist Chugiak Minister.  Now what do you think of that and new church to be built!!

Mrs. Pottle wants me to help with tea for him Sunday?  Probably will take children here if improves as never get to [words washed out here] visit both while you’re here.  Must close!  Love, Mildred.  PS.  Can hardly wait – you know me.

++

If you have reason to question the kinds and amount of trauma-drama that is present in your life or present in the life of others you care about, beginning at the beginning by reading, studying and acknowledging the information at this link is of utmost importance:

EFFECTS OF A SECURE ATTACHMENT RELATIONSHIP ON RIGHT BRAIN DEVELOPMENT, AFFECT REGULATION, AND INFANT MENTAL HEALTH

By Dr. ALLAN N. SCHORE

SEE ALSO:

+WHY DID MY SIBLINGS NOT BELIEVE MY ABUSIVE BPD MOTHER?

+CHILD ABUSE AND BPD: TRACKING THE TRAUMA IN THE FAMILY TREE

+RATIONAL THOUGHT: POWER OF THE HUMAN SOUL BPD STEALS AWAY TO ENSURE SURVIVAL

+A NOTE TO CHILD ABUSERS WHO FIND THEIR WAY TO THIS BLOG

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