Dad

Blog 100!

My sister looked over at me during our thanksgiving meal last year (2019) and told me "How do you remember so much about our childhood?" I didn't have an answer. All I know is I remember so many things, vividly. I relive them often in my mind's eye, and struggle with those thoughts. If you too experience flash backs and regular high anxiety are a concern for your daily life, you may have PTSD, but you would need to be diagnosed by a mental health professional, as mine has. This is a long time coming writing project. The idea of this blog began almost a year ago. When the things written in my blog about my life and family received so much love, understanding and validation, I considered starting a "People" series of all the people in my life. Highlighting the good, the bad and ugly. I have also gotten a bunch of back lash from my blogs. I'm certain this blog will bring forth similar mix emotions of both understanding and confusion depending on where you stand with my family and it's upbringing.

A goofy stud on his wedding day. :)

So why didn't I talk about this earlier? Because then the abuse becomes real. If you don't talk about it you can pretend it never happen. Today we talk about my dad. And it's officially the longest blog to date!

He wasn't in a lot of positive memories as a young child. He worked and my mother stayed at home with us, per good" Molly Mormon" upbringing. My dad brought in the money, and my mother raised the kids, until the divorce that is.

I remember him building our log cabin, and bringing him glasses of ice water and towels to wipe his sweat, while he was up on tall latters working on our wrap around deck in Kyser WV. He'd ask me what time it was, I couldn't tell time yet, so I'd walk through the side door by the pantry, turn left to look at the numbers of the stove and read the numbers in a row to him. one, two, four, two. "Oh great quarter til 1:oopm" he'd say as he took his glasses off, wiped his sweat from his fore head on his cotton drenched T-shirt before taking a sip of water and put his glasses back on and went back to work.

I remember one day after our chocolate lab, Cocoa, got into the duck pin. She had one of our ducks around the neck with her teeth. My dad kicked the dog away from the duck, picked Cocoa up by the skin of her back in one hand and her tail in the other and threw her against the house. She hit the lattis work underneath the deck of the 3-4 wrap around deck of the house. I remember crying already, I knew what my dad's anger was capable of doing, and screaming from across the yard that we were chasing Cocoa at him "don't hurt her". He was angry and didn't hear me. She slid down the side of the house limp and just laid there as he screamed at her. Taunting her. He told us to leave her alone. I kept my distance but watched for a while until I saw her get up and limp away. I was around four years old.

I remember when I did something bad to my brother my mother would let my dad know that I needed spanked when he got home from work. Throwing aside his welcome home phase with wrestling and smiles, while I hid in my room awaiting punishment. They say kids don't remember those things as they age, apparently most don't. I think they just weren't beat often, or simply blocked it out as trauma. None the less, I remembered.

I would get spanked often, and usually without pants with underwear pulled down. I remember the guilt and shame that would come immediately after doing something that ended badly, knowing the punishment I'd get. And the screaming from my mother. That fear, shame and guilt settled down and almost disappeared from my 4 year old mind; until my dad got home. My mother would also taunt me occasionally with the reminder he would be "home soon" and as soon as we heard him pull into the gravel drive way and close the van door, my heart would sink to my stomach, and I'd hide in my room. I remember being asked to lay over his knee, and he would pull down my pants and underwear as I stared at the hard wood floor, already in tears, as my dad beat me for something that happen hours ago, and my siblings and I had made up already. I remember him afterwards telling me to stop crying, and do better. And telling me they, my parents, loved me. *barf* (sorry that last bit made current Kirsten, gag!) I have many intense memories of being spanked like this. Sometimes with pauses in between beatings, just waiting for when the next would come. I was told the anticipation of the "spankings" was also my punishment. I remember I was spanked by both parents for the same incident sometimes, of course waiting until my dad got home for my second punishment. Apparently a "healthy fear" of parents is required for child raising. Read more about the corporal punishment I was raised with in my blog Back in MY day.

So what did I do that was so bad for twice the beatings? Threw a ball in the house, breaking precious heirlooms, throwing fits in the grocery store, talking back. I also picked on my brother often. I pushed my brother down the stairs and broke his ankle once. We didn't have plastic-wear plates during my adolescence and my mother instructed us to not break her pfaltzgraff plates (pictured above) walking down the stairs to the basement where we had the TV and played, to eat. My brother was almost three years old, and walking slow as to not trip or drop and break his plate that held a peanut butter & jelly sandwich. His slowness bugged me, I thought he was doing it on purpose. I pushed him down the stairs, he went tumbling. He cried so hard and loud my mom ran to the top of the stairs, and I'll never forget what Quinn said through tears "Mommy I didn't break the plate! I didn't break it!", because he too was afraid of being spanked, even when he didn't do anything wrong and was in severe pain. His sandwich was all over the front of his shirt from keeping the plate safe. This accident began six weeks of his blue cast banging like a peg leg on the tile kitchen floor while we chased each other around in circles. It drove my mom crazy. A broken foot didn't stop my brothers playing though.

I was 100% a terrible sister as a young child to my brother and I didn't know why. I threw rocks at his head, I scratched his face with my nails, I stabbed him with a pencil in the thigh. And each time I was spanked either hand or belt. Most of that was done by my dad. Until one day I stopped bothering my brother and started hurting myself exclusively. This started around 10 years old. I jokingly talk about the "last time" Quinn and I fought was because he punched me in the nose and made me bleed while we were in the car alone in the Walmart parking lot. It was one of those "Don't tell mom or else- scenes". But really it was when my depression really started settling in. Thinking back, spankings were a lot more rare after nine years old when CPS was involved during the divorce. Thank goodness. I have only recently been able to open up in therapy about these childhood things, learning that in homes of "spankings" and domestic violence that children can and will become violent towards one another and themselves.

Parents honey moon. Those matching pants followed me around my childhood well into my teens.

I remember my dad would stop at a store as he drove us to school when I first started elementary school in the second grade. (I was home schooled prior.) He'd buy us (my sister and I) a oatmeal cream pie cookie for breakfast. Told us to not tell mom, or she would make him stop, and no more cookies.

I remember listening to screaming battles after we went to bed of my parents and my dad shouting and his voice cracking from strain of hours of screaming, "I'll walk out the door and get divorce papers right now." He didn't, but I remember asking my sister on the top bunk what divorce meant that night. What divorce papers were. I have no idea what they were fighting over.

I recall having homework to practice reading when I first started going to school in the second grade. I struggled, was overwhelmed and embarrassed as I made up words to the story by looking at the photos on the pages. I remember being sweaty and the back of the book sticking to my legs. My impatient dad was confused why I didn't grasp reading yet. My sister was reading full Harry Potter books by my age, and I couldn't even read Spot The Puppy unless it was from memory. I continued struggling with reading until the third grade. Mean while my dad got a job with Citi bank half way through my second grade and we said goodbye and sold our log home, 17 acres of tire swing, wooded: stove, floors and walls, for our new rented house closer to all of our grandparents.

It kind of looked like this!

When we got to Maryland I remember my dad helping me with several elementary school projects. Once he helped gather a penny from each year from 1993, the year I was born, until the present. We then made a wood box to put them in for my class project for a book we read. (second grade) Another time we made a Native American Hut together from sticks and grocery store paper bags. (fifth grade) My dad was always good with building/creating things and using his hands. I remember everyone else's projects always looking so much better than mine.

I remember my dad couldn't help me do my hair in the mornings. My mom left the house during the beginning of their separation that led to their divorce. We lived on East Cumberland street in Clear Spring the last house beside the fire house. I believe that separation lasted 6-8 weeks before our mom, who was staying with her parents, got a loan to rent our first home with her, away from dad. My dad never did learn how to do/help with my hair. I was only eight. . .

I remember my dad throwing the pots and pans out the front door and into the street, when my mom came back for "half of the cook ware". I was waiting in the car outside up the road. I don't think my dad knew I saw the entire thing.

Our "happy family" was no more. I wonder if it ever really existed.

My parents were separated, and we were getting use to this new arrangement of house jumping. Every-other-month, and during that month every other weekend the other parent would have us. We were gifted calendars each year for Christmas, we'd race through who could write "Mom/Dad" over each month, and "M/D" over each weekend first. When we got to holidays, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, we'd stop and ask who had us this year. I had a very hard time remembering where I was suppose to be and when.

I got angry when my dad often turned our white clothing pink/dark blue by washing all the clothing together. We often ate spaghetti three nights a week because my dad couldn't cook much. Spaghetti and Stoufers lasagna is still a staple in his go to "gourmet" meals ala Prego... He did his best playing both roles considering cooking, cleaning, hair, bod-talk, grocery shopping were all 120% my mom's jobs prior to the separation. Prior to the divorce, I never saw my dad cook anything ever. To this day I joke he could burn cereal.... My dad was mostly a blur from infancy to age nine, despite having a keen memory of many things in my childhood, he simply wasn't there. But when he was, he was constantly angry and abusive. I have very few happy moments with him.

This is when I recognized that more was expected of each of us children. I took over doing the laundry of the house to make sure our clothing stayed nice. My brother and I were still in after school day care together in elementary school. Once in middle school I made sure my brother and I made it on to the right bus. (every other month/weekend) Now, there are far more difficult rules that doesn't allow switching buses so frequently.

I remember constant court dates and both parents saying things like "I'll see you in court." and "I need to write this down to bring it to court." I remember talking to many CPS people coming to our schools from elementary into high school. I remember talking to the judge when I was about 13, when I wasn't sure which parent was best to live with. Both weren't great options. But they were my only. I choose mom.

I remember my dad coming to my volley games in middle school, my parents sat far away from each other. He pretty much refused to take me to piano lessons because my brothers wrestling season demanded him 4X a week. Wrestling that he coached, young children, screaming in loud gyms that I tried but struggled to do my homework in. Gyms with tournaments that he had been thrown out of a few times from being too aggressive and angry during. And so I didn't continue piano lessons anymore. Until high school, where my mother was supportive of me taking voice lessons. She paid and transported me to every single lesson of the year leading up to auditioning for Barbara Ingram.

Bare Foot Landing, Myrtle beach SC - Vacations with dad. I'm the awkward fuck on the left in orange. Puberty did me well. And orange is SO not my color.

He told me I was too emotional and cried to much, but refused to pay for his share of mental health services because he doesn't believe in mental disorders. He said things like "Stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about." And when confronted about his months of missed payments at my mental health services, blamed it on my mother. I was 14. I talked to the mental health staff at Brooke Lane myself because I had a say when my appointments were because of my school schedule. They wouldn't schedule another appointment because they didn't receive my dad's payments. They showed me the proof. He said I was brainwashed, but he was the one who participated in it.

My dad loves movies. Looking back I'm sure it was a pass time and a coping skill for him. Divorced single dads need pass times too. Sadly my dad would try and bring us along to his Rated-R movies. We were too young to be left home alone, and too young for R rated movies. I was, and still am, a very sensitive soul pertaining to media. I never liked scary, physically graphic movies he watched. I was bothered most that he made my younger brother tag along too. I asked for counsel from adult church leaders, they suggest that if we had to be here to see a movie, we could watch something on our own while my dad watched his. So that's what I did. My dad was annoyed and reluctant with the offer, but agreed. It cost the same money, and took the same time. My brother and I watched Chicken Little together that day alone; the first time we didn't anything in public without a parent. I was thirteen. I was nearing the time the judge would allow me to choose where I wanted to live on my own anyways. I was grateful I was able to stick up to myself, even just that once.

Whenever I would mention I was on my period because I denied wanting to go swimming, or help him with yard work, he'd get a vile look on his face and would use words like "gross", "yuck" and "that's your personal business" and "only to be discussed with your mother".

He hated me and my body so much.

As much as I disliked my over all experience with my Mom (click to read blog) raising me- I'm grateful she encouraged me to be open about my period, my body, or anything that was new and different/changing. Especially if it had anything to do with my health. My dad on the other hand found many things about the body and women disgusting. Which is one of the reasons it was an easy choice to no longer live with him.

How was he ever married to a woman and had children in the first place?

This book

I recall two specific moments that I made the decision to never go back. I was fourteen and I loved on National Pike right in front of the Hagerstown Speed way. The speed limit on the road in front of our house was 45-50MPH. My dad pulled his truck out in front, off the side of the road partly into the drive way. When I heard him pull up my mother asked me to take my new, pricey, music books she purchased for my voice lesson- solo and ensemble adjudication, and ask him if he'd be willing to pay half or compensate for them fully. He scoffed, rolled his eyes and said no. I got flustered and walled back in to grab my giant duffle bag. My siblings put all our belongings into these each month to live with the opposite parent. Mine was red, my brothers was light blue, my sisters was navy. With my head down I shared the news to my mom. She told me she'd come with me this time. She asked "Kenny, she needs these books for her music and voice lessons, are you sure you don't want to help support her in this?" And he grabbed my arm with the brand new books, and threw them into the street as cars raced by and blew my new pretty purple music book pages open. He looked me in the eye with his hand around my upper arm pulling me closer and pointing to my chest in anger "Do you see your breasts? Your mothers chest use to look like that when I met her... now look at THEM. THAT's where my child support is going that's, that's suppose to help with your damn books." 

I remembering wanting to scream at him that he hasn't seen her naked in at least 6 years, but I have. The woman's boobs touch her fucking belly button. No cosmetic surgeon would fuck up a boob job that bad. I'd ask for my money back! My mom did not have her breasts done. She just kept her 34/C cup from breast feeding three kids. (larger than his presumed "just nipples") On top of remembering how much my dad supported my brother in his many sports outside of child support- he just hated me. Countless trips to Dicks Sporting Goods for new shoes, apparel, and just to see what's new. My dad never once stepped foot in a music store. He didn't even know they existed.

Everything else became a blur, and I tugged free of his grip as I heard my mom try and defend me while picking up my books out of the busy road and chase me back into the house. He left without me that day.

The second incident was roughly eighteen months later. My mom tried to push me into his home again for a holiday weekend once married to her current awful husband. He was tired of his wife's daughter (but not her son) staying full time in HIS house. To this day, my mother still lives in HIS house not "their house". When my dad picked me up for the first time in roughly a year he was already in a bad mood. He got angry at me for something I said and uttered the words he has used under his breath many times- but this time I remember they were directed at me and only me; I was the only one in the car.

"You remind me too much of your mother. She's such a stupid bitch. I cant get over how much you look and act just like her."

As we got to my grandmothers, that were he was currently living since all three kids rarely visited, I was in tears. He said "you know what I should just take you back home, you don't even want to be here anyways with all your crying." And he took me home. We rode in silence, as I cried some more. My mothers husband was livid at my return, even while clearly still being in tears. I'm not sure who I hated more than, my mothers now third terrible husband, or my dad.

To this day I bet my dad doesn't even remember those two stories. I sure as hell do. Countless times he used the above quoted insult. He still does, as a last resort, though far less frequent the last time he said it to me was 2019 after picking me up from another mental health stay in the hospital. There are many things my dad is, but kind is not one of them. All three of his kids eventually stop living with him. I didn't return to his house until I was 21 years old.

I stopped visiting his house in 2007. I was done with him. Completely. We occasionally saw each other on holidays and combined sport events of my brothers. Other wise, our relationship was non existent, other than when my mother forced holiday interactions.

I didn't want to invite him to my graduation, so I didn't. But my mom gave him a ticket behind my back. He gave me flowers.

He sounds too peachy.... Email conversation screen shot of my dad writing to me on 6/04/2012. When I sent out a mass email to all family letting them I know I needed help after dropping out/being kicked out of BYU-I

When I moved to college I started a weekly email train to those who wanted updates of my life. It lasted two months, until I dropped out of college. I became homeless, I reached out to family, and my grandparents told me that "until you mend the relationship with your father, we will not help with anything." And ever since, my relationship to those grandparents, (I have three sets) has been confined to in-person communication during family events only, which is about 2X a year. I do not go out of my way to visit them.

While homeless I eventually moved back into my dad's house, on a whim. The church had been helping me with places to live, my phone had died and the nearest place I felt I could knock on a door and ask to use a phone to get a rid to church was my grandparents. I hadn't seen them in close to 7 years at this time. I lost weight, developed into a woman and my hair was cut short and colored red. My grandfather didn't recognize me when he answered the door, but my dad was working in the kitchen, hanging new cabinets, and heard my voice. "It's Kirsten" he said to my grandfather. Turning to me with a tool in his hand he said "what can I do for you bubby?" My life long childhood nick name I always hated. I grimaced through tears. How dare he use that name, he hasn't seen me in years. He drove me to church and said "I don't know where life has taken you or what is going on, but if you still need a place to live, my door is open." After talking to my bishop and him not knowing what else to offer me, I swallowed immense amounts of pride and moved back into my dad's after seven years. My three years of homelessness ended. (June 2014)

After his kids left him, I believe he was faced with needing to improve to ever see them again,

He didn't know who I was, and when he heard that I was running my Mary Kay business out of his home and inviting women I didn't know into the house for skin care classes, he freaked out. For all he knew, I could have been a criminal, or drug dealer/user. I didn't even have a key to his home yet. We literally knew nothing about each other. He asked me to stop, which is when I called my sales director, a family friend, in tears. She told me he was being ridiculous, and to keep going, "money talks" and she'd talk to him. We established a don't ask don't tell policy from there on out about all of my life.

I remember mowing the lawn one day in my typical unusual clothing choices.... I'm allergic to grass and pollen so I try and cover my entire body.

My dad grabbed the push mower to get the spots of the yard that the riding mower can't reach. I posted this entry (15th) to a private group on Facebook, and the one I let the public see on the day it happen, is shown below. I've been ashamed of my relationship with my dad for as long as I can remember. Even the positive memories are riddled with guilt.

I recall the moment I decided that if I ever had children that I would never leave my dad in supervision alone with them. It was when my friend Merrick was visiting me with her new born. (2016) She was struggling breast feeding when her oldest turned four months. I believe she had six teeth and was non stop biting her. My dad sat in the red chair in our living room, shook his head and said under his breath, as she walked back to the bed room to feed her daughter in privacy, "I don't know why she doesn't just slap her across the head when she does that. She will learn not to bite during feeding."

I argued that she was an infant and would not learn why she was being physically abused. He told me that I was wrong and that "if the child didn't learn, you weren't spanking it hard enough." I was mortified; but remembered this was how he raised us, until CPS came into our lives when I was nine.

Screen shot conversation between my sister and I confirming my dad's opinion about hitting children more frequently.

After another impatient psychiatric hospitalization while living with my dad, my forth one in a year, my dad has said things to me like,

"You are making me need therapy with how you are acting." -Kenny Rhodes (April, 2019)

(1) Needing therapy isn't an insult, even if he tried to use it that way. and (2) He always needed therapy. Even before I was born. I know he was projecting. And he certainly would need more professional care now after all these years of hiding those feelings and bottling them up. Frankly, if my parents were better humans, and had regular individual therapies during their hardships, I likely wouldn't have needed as many hospitalizations as I've had. I do have hereditary mental illnesses I'd still need help for, but here I am, searching for EMDR therapy for my PTSD from my childhood and life long traumas.

More corroboration between my sister and I.

While we were all together for thanksgiving in 2019, my ex boyfriend Sean can validate this story too, my sister gave an announcement update of my seven year old niece, her oldest daughters', mental and physical health after more recent and thorough testings. She told us while we were all here that the testings concluded that she is intellectually disabled. This is generalized as a neuro-developmental disorder characterized by significantly impaired intellectual and adaptive functioning. She asked us nicely to stop asking when she would be potty trained and to put things in perspective that it's possible it may never happen for her. I'm sure this news was difficult to share, and made her feel extremely vulnerable- but my memories jumped me back to my dad spanking my nieces bare butt and using "adult language" with her when she was four and a half during a diaper change. He told her she needs to learn to use the potty because she made a mess of her clothing. "I'm tired of wiping shit off big girl asses." I was completely disturbed watching him change my niece laying on the floor in the living room. The only power I had was to tell my sister what happen, and she cried. I'm immediately brought to the present when my dad speaks up and tries to blame her progress, or lack there of, on my sister and her husband during a family health update announcement. . . And proceeds to push potty training after my sister said not to ask about it anymore. While I am inclined to agree their parenting and people skills need improved, this was absolutely *NOT* the time to bring it up.

After my suicide attempt in Jan 2018, I believe he finally started to believe there *might* be something "wrong with me". He was speechless, angry, and couldn't understand why I'd drive my car, I worked so hard to purchase in cash, into a tree at 75mph trying to kill myself. His mother had a heart attack just days prior. He was a mess. He told me that I should come talk to him about my mental health struggles when I need help. I internally rolled my eyes. The one time I did open up to him and told him about how I felt about being suicidal he said that "If you kill yourself I won't claim your body and I will let the state have you and there will be no funeral." I replied with a general statement in response that "I'd be dead, so it's not like I'd care much." It only mad him more mad, the vein on the side of his head pulsing. Instead of actually seeing my view points, this conversation lead to him packing all my belongings up while I was hospitalized again, and instructing me to move out when I got out. (I didn't move out then.)

I had a heated discussion with my dad when he mentioned that Hallmark had a gay Jesus. I hadn't even heard of it or knew what was going on. He was wrong, on many accounts, though; it was Netflix, but Hallmark had shown a wedding planning website of two women kissing in an aired commercial. Nonetheless, he said "they need to read the Bible again, Hallmark has lost its way." and "there is something 'wrong' with people who are LGBT or whatever...." and "You can't be gay if you haven't been with the same sex." ending with....

"They should go kill themselves, I don't care if bad things happen to them. Now that it's legal to marry each other, they can't reproduce and make others gay." You can read the full conversation here in my blog "N Word and F Words". Plenty of ignorance to spread around!

If any of these events were single events, it wouldn't be so difficult to forgive and forget, but they aren't. They are continual. This isn't just a list of everything bad someone has ever done to me. It's a list of real painful memories I recall when I don't want to. A recording of my life with my dad. This isn't even everything I remember, these are the highlights.

I know my dad is disappointed in me, I know he'd be happier if I was someone else or someone different. Someone better. And because I'm not, he'd rather be dead. While he will tell you that he would be sad if I killed myself, he really only cares about me if I live my life according to what he feels is right. I fear this is a view both my parents and siblings have, sadly. My sister has been openly public about her views on my life recently. (see screen shot below or full screen shots in Proof)

Gee, tell me what you really think.

This blog has taken me almost a year to write. Digging deep to share these experiences was difficult. I have sprinkled in mentions of him in past blogs, but this is a chronological order, in depth dialog about my memories of him. Several therapists have told me to put this blog aside as they were working with me, because it is heavy work, but this covid-19 shut down bull shit has left me with no one.

Looking back with years of therapy under my belt now, as well as maturity, many of these events are expressed in a matter-of-fact way. Narcissists are so good at hiding their flaws in written documents verses things they say allowed, so I have little physical proof to validate these memories, aside from testimonies of those who witness my parents marriage fail, and journal entries when I was aware enough to make documentation if it. If you read the blog about my mother, you'd realize there are several overlapping difficulties during my upbringing that imprinted lasting scars. My dad was always spoken of fondly from church leaders and his peers while I was growing up. It's one of the reason I dropped using my last name at church and publicly went by Kirsten Danielle. They didn't the shame that last name gave me, and I no longer wanted to be affiliated with them.

He donates to several charities and attends several yearly fundraising events, he is a member of the Lion's club and worked with local youth athletes as an alumi to Williamsport for over 30 years. He works hard and plays harder and is a proud, patriotic american.

Adults in my life were constantly manipulating me to believe and do what they want you to say and believe, and for you to deny your own memories. (cult programming) Most of the the traumatic events that I struggle with are the emotions/feelings/memories that can't be screen shot for proof even though I do have several journal entries of my struggles with my upbringing.

His induction to the Maryland Wrestling Hall of Fame for a life time of service to the comunity.

So dad, if you ever find yourself reading this, please seek therapy. For yourself. For personal growth. For peace and to treat others better. I see your anger is still a ticking time bomb. We can't change the past, the things that were said in this blog are final. I know you may not remember all these things, from years passing, your anger black outs or denying my memories as if I made them up. I do remember *some* good times, the lack of them being mentioned here is not because they are forgotten, but because they never stood out to me compared to all the other harm that happen. Please know I am grateful for the help you have given me the past six years while living in your home. I do feel it has been almost like a little make up for how terrible childhood was when you weren't there. The goal is not to be forever indebted to a past of parental failure. I am working on forgiveness.

I know I'm one of your unsuccessful children and therefore not entitled to give advise to an elder, but if there is anything I ask of you, let it be encouragement of education and personal growth. If you have found this online blog somehow, read it, all 100 blogs of it. Learn about me. Learn about all the things about me you could ever want to know, and possibly many things you don't want to. You had my mom for what, 15 years of your life prior to divorce? I had her for 18. And if she did to you what she did to me, you need help too! That being said, from my experience of you, you were a terrible husband to her. You two 100% deserved each other. What you didn't deserve was to have children. How dare both of you....

I know the Mormon cult was the root of many of the dangerous life style that you raised your family in. As an adult I see that now, and I hope one day you too will recognize that. I hope you never return to Mormonism, I can't ever see you ever improving if you do. I know the divorce was hard and that you did love mom, at one point, and that your actions had a lot to do with a broken heart with zero coping skills for your uncontrollable rage and spite. I also learned some of that spite. . . Also, keeping friends with shitty homophobic, racist humans, like Mike Heavener spoke volumes to me when I was a child and now more so as adult. We all have that bad friend, but damn, let him go already!

Lastly, if you loved yourself and your children more, I believed that my childhood would have been different. Being self aware to know this hurts, which is why I think you block it out. Growth HURTS. You aren't ready for that hurt. I truly believe we were not loved enough.

So again, why didn't I talk about this earlier? Because then the abuse becomes real. If you don't talk about it you can pretend it never happen.

But it did happend. And here I am. H-E-A-L-I-N-G!