Sunday, January 24, 2010
Oh. My. Goddess!
I've kept this blog and called it "Archived Writings" in a link on my website. I spent some time today reading drafts of various posts that I started and never came back to. A little treasure chest of angst and therapeutic writing. So, it's all been posted. I set the intention this year to let it all out. That Southern Woman 101 training I got has pretty much melted away at this point, and I have found my empowered voice.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Peaches
There’s a ceremony in Tantra that involves naming your genitalia. Some Native American teachings contain information about reconnecting to your genital sense of Self. I was intrigued with all this when I first began my studies. There are so many layers of shame and confusion that prevent us from having a relationship with our precious most private parts, and I thought the naming ceremony was a brilliant way to reconnect…a baptism, of sorts. My lover of that time was such a lucky man, as I was trying out the things I was learning with him. The summer of 2000 was one of the best in my memory. We were playfully, innocently loving each other and enjoying the lightness of our loveship – no expectations, no plans, no demands – that was our motto.One brilliant, crisp July morning we headed for a stream in South Boulder that we’d visited earlier in the year, when there was still ice along the edges. We’d spotted a boulder in the middle that looked smooth and even, the perfect place for a picnic. Removing our shoes, we waded into the icy cold water, carrying our essentials. We had the makings of mimosas, champagne and orange juice, a comfy blanket and some pillows, some fruit, a little primo chocolate, and a copy of “Jitterbug Perfume,” by Tom Robbins.
The rock was the perfect spot for some kissing, some reading and some culinary indulgence. We’d picked up some of the biggest, most luscious looking peaches I’d ever seen at the farmer’s market on our way out. We dropped them into the stream for chilling as we read a bit and enjoyed the sun and the sounds of the rushing water. After a while, we pulled the peaches up beside us. I suggested we both take a bite out of one at the same time, as we gazed into each other’s eyes.
We’d been talking about the naming of my yoni for a while. Nothing we’d come up with so far had seemed just right. As our eyes met with that peach between our lips, taking an intoxicating, juicy bite, we both said, through the mouthfuls, juice dribbling off our chins, “Her name is Peaches!” Gasping, gulping, giggling, I rolled off the rock and into the icy cold stream and we baptized her right there. And Peaches is her name.
Fast forward to the grim, gray, bone-chilling coldness of a central Texas January, 2004. Since leaving my home in Boulder, I’d been through a weird kind of chaotic instability, floating without a home, traveling in my new old truck, and suffering through a living situation that had ended with a long-term friendship blowing up, causing me to find myself homeless again at the end of the year. On top of this, I was in the last throes of menopausal hell. No health care, no money to get herbal help, feeling fortunate to have food stamps. I’m of the opinion that menopausal women should be carried around on satin pillows, with a hot young stud working the fan. This is not what I was getting. But I did get a temporary place to live in a little bungalow cabin in the woods. In front of this cabin was an ancient looking tree that I suspected was dead. It was squatty and broken and was probably a fruit tree of some sort, I thought. It held a certain kind of comfort for me somehow, and I’d stumble out to it and lay in its low branches, breathing deeply and asking for help. I needed to feel like I had something still to offer. I needed to know that my heart could still love after being so broken, so many times, by so many tragedies. I needed hope, and it seemed there was none.
As the weeks wore on, I visited this tree almost daily, telling it my troubles. In early March there were buds on it. By mid-March is was obvious that this was, in fact, a fruit tree and I delighted in bringing armfuls of the blossoms into town and distributing them to everyone I saw. I knew that if the fruit were as plentiful as the blossoms, it would break the tree apart. And that’s just what happened. The tree filled with hundreds, thousands of tiny peaches, and I watched them grow into the juiciest, prettiest little things you’ve ever seen. Tasty, too. That tree broke completely apart, in spite of my call to friends to bring buckets and harvest all they could. And I did gain hope. If that tree could bloom it’s little old heart out like that, in its last season, surely my life could blossom again.
(c) Jade Beaty
Luscious artwork courtesy of Dakini Di: www.dichromosarts.com
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Death of My Libido
Once lovingly deemed "Sex Goddess of the Universe," I was the last person I ever thought would lose interest in sex. And it happened to me.
I found sacred sexuality at the age of 48 and learned that there were unexplored depths I had only briefly touched, in a few outstanding encounters. Now I had tools and techniques to cultivate awareness of the presence of the Divine, instead of just having the innate knowing that She was somehow in the room, watching from a corner.
My fascination with sex has always had a spiritual component. At age 12, I was pretty much done with Christianity, as it was presented to me in a tiny Methodist church in Kress, Texas. Reverend Secord was a dear old man, but his only answer for all my questions ("Why are babies born blind? Why do people have to suffer and die? What's up with all this suffering?") was, "It is God's will." I'd sit back in the chair across from his huge desk, my feet dangling, and think to myself, "And I'm supposed to worship this dude?" Fortunately, a book about Edgar Cayce, "Many Mansions," by Gina Cerminara, crossed my path about this same time and my lifelong love of the possibilities of reincarnation was born (or reborn, perhaps).
I was wildly curious abut sex and got zero information from the supposedly caring adults around me. I figured I was just going to have to learn by doing. I found a willing participant and suddenly I shifted my obsessions from horses to boys. Exploring in the back seat of a car is better than nothing...no, better than lots of things. I knew in my bones that there must be something mystical/ magical about sexual encounter. I just couldn't find anyone that understood my quest until I found tantric teachings.
As I approached menopause, the emotional content of unresolved identity issues arose. It seems I reviewed my late teens and twenties, which were filled with turmoil and confusion. My emotional states became imbalanced and my body seemed to jump at the opportunity to fall apart, piece by piece. It was grim. I was saved by bio-identical hormones and a hot, young man who became my lover after a long dry spell. Saved! And now that things have settled down I find myself with a different sexuality. One based in respect, exquisite attention to detail, and thankfully, a slower pace. Not a hot, cute chick anymore, but still a hot momma...make that hot grandmamma.
Friday, August 10, 2007
An Old Young Man
He rose to shuffle to the front of the room. His khaki work clothes were freshly pressed, the top button of the shirt fastened neatly at his neck, the lapels stiff and starched looking.
This week’s class had not gone as planned. Our topics for the session were gratitude and humor, and those themes had inspired my guys to tell their personal stories. The stories we’d heard so far finished up with a dramatic event of spiritual redemption, or a religious experience that had made them see the light, and the folly of their criminal behavior. I had the feeling, as I often did in my years of working in prisons, that the inmates were saying what they thought would be acceptable to get them through the program. Sometimes I felt like patting them on the head and saying “good little prisoners,” but I had managed to resist so far. They were running a scam, like they’d done all their lives, and we all knew it. I forgave them for it. It’s how they’d managed to survive the horrendous childhoods most of them had lived through. I held tightly to a cherished illusion that maybe just one of them would catch something that was said in a class and remember it at some point down the road, when the need was great.
He started his monologue in a soft, singsong voice. His eyes were fixated on the floor in front of him. His arms stayed clamped straight to his sides, as he swayed slightly, side to side.
“When I was young I was the meanest baddest ass there ever was. I joined my gang when I was ten and I was the youngest, but the meanest baddest mutha fuckah in town.”
“Uh, could we leave out the most colorful language, please?” I requested quietly.
Without acknowledging me, he continued.
“My boyz, we all took care uh each other. I saw guys shot. My boyz got shot. I got shot once, too, when I was young. The bullet bounced off my breast bone ‘n went sideways.” He lightly touched the tips of his fingers to the area of his chest where the bullet had struck, and showed us the route it had taken, to the left. His eyes remained on the floor.
“I laid in the street for a long time, bleeding, and this lady drove by in a car and asked me if I wanted her to call the po-leece. I said, “No, call a amb’lance.” I guess she called 911, ‘cause the cops came and there weren’t no amb’lance. They started askin’ me a bunch a’ questions, like who shot me and I was bleedin’, layin’ there in that street. I had to grab a cop and say, “get me a amb’lance, you mutha fuckah.”
I squirmed, recrossed my legs, but said nothing. Everyone in the room was awake and seemed to be listening, a rare event in this mandatory drug class.
He continued. “I finally got took to the hospital and I was there for ‘bout a week or two. The doctor said it was a mir’cle I didn’t have that bullet go in my heart. I got out o’ that hospital and went home to my momma’s. I had to smoke some dope. I yelled at my momma, “get me some money so’s I can get some dope,” but she wouldn’t, so I had to get up and go steal somethin’ to get some dope, and I went home and smoked it and smoked it. I was mad.”
He looked up for the first time and seemed to notice everyone was listening intently. He swayed a few times, looked like he was going to say more, but then just started toward his chair, saying, “I got back with my boyz and lots more shit happened...”
He stopped, hesitated, looked around. “Then I came to this here prison and that’s what’s happene’ so far,” he finished.
He sat down and grinned at me with his four gold front teeth. One of them had a star cut out of the gold and a gleam of white tooth showed through. His face was smooth and calm, his eyes clear and bright and totally cool.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Antoine DeLeon,” he said quietly as he looked deeply into my eyes for the first time. I realized I hadn’t seen him in class before and didn’t recall his name from the register.
I felt mesmerized, suddenly. His eyes were light green and beautifully framed in long dark lashes.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“And you talk about “when you were young.” Do you feel you are not young, now?”
“Ah, my momma tol’ me I was a ol’ man when I was ten,” he answered as he studied the floor.
“And what do you think about where you are in your life right now?”
“You mean in dis here prison? Aw, man, if I wunn’t here now, I’d be dead, no doubt in this boyz mind. I’m glad I’m here. Comin’ here, it saved my life.”
“Do you think there’s a reason you didn’t die when you were shot?” I asked. “Do you think there’s a reason that you made it to dis here, ah, this prison?”
“Doun know, ma’am, I’ve had lots of es’perience maybe I can share with other ol’ boyz my age.” That big grin flashed again as our eyes connected. I felt thrown off base, uneasy, intrigued with him and wanting to know more.
I broke eye contact with him, reluctantly, and looked around the room. Many of the older prisoners had sad looks. I thought I caught one with a tear in his eye, before he looked away.
“I hope you get to do just that,” I said quietly to the old young man.
It seemed like a good time for a break.
Written June, 1998, about a class at FCI Bastrop, Winter, 1996
(c) All Rights Reserved Jade Beaty
This week’s class had not gone as planned. Our topics for the session were gratitude and humor, and those themes had inspired my guys to tell their personal stories. The stories we’d heard so far finished up with a dramatic event of spiritual redemption, or a religious experience that had made them see the light, and the folly of their criminal behavior. I had the feeling, as I often did in my years of working in prisons, that the inmates were saying what they thought would be acceptable to get them through the program. Sometimes I felt like patting them on the head and saying “good little prisoners,” but I had managed to resist so far. They were running a scam, like they’d done all their lives, and we all knew it. I forgave them for it. It’s how they’d managed to survive the horrendous childhoods most of them had lived through. I held tightly to a cherished illusion that maybe just one of them would catch something that was said in a class and remember it at some point down the road, when the need was great.
He started his monologue in a soft, singsong voice. His eyes were fixated on the floor in front of him. His arms stayed clamped straight to his sides, as he swayed slightly, side to side.
“When I was young I was the meanest baddest ass there ever was. I joined my gang when I was ten and I was the youngest, but the meanest baddest mutha fuckah in town.”
“Uh, could we leave out the most colorful language, please?” I requested quietly.
Without acknowledging me, he continued.
“My boyz, we all took care uh each other. I saw guys shot. My boyz got shot. I got shot once, too, when I was young. The bullet bounced off my breast bone ‘n went sideways.” He lightly touched the tips of his fingers to the area of his chest where the bullet had struck, and showed us the route it had taken, to the left. His eyes remained on the floor.
“I laid in the street for a long time, bleeding, and this lady drove by in a car and asked me if I wanted her to call the po-leece. I said, “No, call a amb’lance.” I guess she called 911, ‘cause the cops came and there weren’t no amb’lance. They started askin’ me a bunch a’ questions, like who shot me and I was bleedin’, layin’ there in that street. I had to grab a cop and say, “get me a amb’lance, you mutha fuckah.”
I squirmed, recrossed my legs, but said nothing. Everyone in the room was awake and seemed to be listening, a rare event in this mandatory drug class.
He continued. “I finally got took to the hospital and I was there for ‘bout a week or two. The doctor said it was a mir’cle I didn’t have that bullet go in my heart. I got out o’ that hospital and went home to my momma’s. I had to smoke some dope. I yelled at my momma, “get me some money so’s I can get some dope,” but she wouldn’t, so I had to get up and go steal somethin’ to get some dope, and I went home and smoked it and smoked it. I was mad.”
He looked up for the first time and seemed to notice everyone was listening intently. He swayed a few times, looked like he was going to say more, but then just started toward his chair, saying, “I got back with my boyz and lots more shit happened...”
He stopped, hesitated, looked around. “Then I came to this here prison and that’s what’s happene’ so far,” he finished.
He sat down and grinned at me with his four gold front teeth. One of them had a star cut out of the gold and a gleam of white tooth showed through. His face was smooth and calm, his eyes clear and bright and totally cool.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Antoine DeLeon,” he said quietly as he looked deeply into my eyes for the first time. I realized I hadn’t seen him in class before and didn’t recall his name from the register.
I felt mesmerized, suddenly. His eyes were light green and beautifully framed in long dark lashes.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty.”
“And you talk about “when you were young.” Do you feel you are not young, now?”
“Ah, my momma tol’ me I was a ol’ man when I was ten,” he answered as he studied the floor.
“And what do you think about where you are in your life right now?”
“You mean in dis here prison? Aw, man, if I wunn’t here now, I’d be dead, no doubt in this boyz mind. I’m glad I’m here. Comin’ here, it saved my life.”
“Do you think there’s a reason you didn’t die when you were shot?” I asked. “Do you think there’s a reason that you made it to dis here, ah, this prison?”
“Doun know, ma’am, I’ve had lots of es’perience maybe I can share with other ol’ boyz my age.” That big grin flashed again as our eyes connected. I felt thrown off base, uneasy, intrigued with him and wanting to know more.
I broke eye contact with him, reluctantly, and looked around the room. Many of the older prisoners had sad looks. I thought I caught one with a tear in his eye, before he looked away.
“I hope you get to do just that,” I said quietly to the old young man.
It seemed like a good time for a break.
Written June, 1998, about a class at FCI Bastrop, Winter, 1996
(c) All Rights Reserved Jade Beaty
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Response to Anonymous
Anonymous said...
Just curious do you not understand the fiancée
Tue Sep 05, 06:03:51 AM PDT
Yes, thank you, Anonymous, for mentioning the fiancée. I know my viewpoint was slanted, probably because the gentleman was the one that was my client.
This couple was an example of how crazy many relationships are, especially in the age bracket of 28-36. I believe that all women these days are "hormonally challenged" (to be politically correct!) because of the stresses we are under, the artificial hormones in our food, water and air that confuse the (especially female) body, and the concept of "having it all," that feminism brought to the scene.
Even though I felt personally, unjustly attacked, my heart also hurt for the lady. I feel for her immediate need to blame someone that was outside the situation, the pain of her man’s betrayals of her, and what I know both of them will go through in breaking off the relationship.
Most of us are still deeply programmed by what I call 'romanticized idealism.' We believe that there is one 'soulmate' that should meet and fulfill all our needs. I believe we are pioneering a new vision in close partnerships, one that honors both the masculine and feminine gifts, in balance. Please consider coming to one of my events to learn more about these perspectives, and this task for these times: healing the ancient wounds of confusion and distress between men and women (or, for same-sex couples, between masculine and feminine energies). Thanks so much for your comment.
Images courtesy of www.osho.com from the Osho Zen Tarot card deck.
Monday, September 04, 2006
A Jerry Springerish Nightmare
Being a sexual healer is fraught with problems that spring from misunderstandings about what we do. We walk a balance between discretion and truth telling, as we clear the culturally installed shame of being ‘out there,’ working in a realm that holds many layers of distress and confusion. We are involved in an occupation in twilight, being courageous, and at the same time, as careful as possible. Here’s a true story to illustrate the sort of thing that can, and does happen to those of us in this most exacting field of healing.
The players:
D-The Client
R- The Fiancée
N- The Fiancée’s Sister
A new client arrived at 3 on a Friday afternoon, for a two-hour session. There’s an obvious cloud of despondency and despair around him, so I inquire about what might be up. D- starts into a saga of an on-and-off six-year loveship, a recent engagement, and much confusion about his ability to make a commitment of marriage with this woman. In other words, he was having serious doubts.
About 20 minutes into our conversation, there is a knock at the door. I’m thinking it’s the maintenance man, so I foolishly swing the door wide to find two blonde and obviously angry women. The vibes emanating from them were pretty poisonous.
The older one, who was hanging back, begins to pierce me with the nastiest look I believe I’ve ever received from anyone and stayed conscious to tell about. The other one advances as if she’s coming through my door, diverts to the right at the last minute and starts working herself up, wildly cursing and screaming. “You lying m…..f…..,” she starts. “Whoa,” I say, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry. You have to leave.” And I shut the door.
The rest of my time with D- was spent in conversation about making the relationship work, or taking care of himself if it collapses. He was embarrassed by the intrusion and guessed that R- must have gotten into his e-mails, read the letter I sent him, and followed the directions to my place.
When he leaves, I go to the grocery store. On my way home, my cell rings and it is N-, owner of the killer-nasty glare, who I learn is the sister of R-, the fiancée. The conversation starts with her demanding to know what I do, and what D- said and why he was in my apartment. I explained confidentiality and suggested she read my website. We talked for a while and I felt she gained some understanding that I was trying to help, not hurt. She softened and eventually apologized for the intrusion. I asked her to have R- call me.
And she did call. She started into what a liar and cheat D- is and I gently suggested that if she wanted to work on her relationship she could come to see me in a session, preferably with him. Is it really high ethics to get into someone’s e-mail and cause a scene at the home of a total stranger? There seemed to be breaches of trust on both sides. She apologized, too, more than seemed necessary to me, and we hung up.
Once home, I get a call from D-. He is very sincere with an apology as well, saying R- won’t speak to him and he thinks this is the end of the relationship. As we are finishing the conversation, he says, “Oh, by the way, just to give you a ‘heads-up,’ R- went to the office of your apartment complex and told them you were selling sexual services from your apartment.”
His statement hit me like a ton of bricks. I was completely overtaken with fear. My legs were trembling and I had to sit down. A part of me realized I was overreacting, but I went straight from “I’ll be evicted.” to “I’ll be homeless again.” It felt like such a deep betrayal and a threat that struck at my core, at survival level. I was being triggered around the previous trauma of being without a home. I sat and shook and cried for a while and finally got it together enough to call R- and leave her a message. (Of course, she wouldn’t answer a call from me, knowing, I’m sure, that I had found out what she’d done.)
I told her in my message that I viewed all women as my sisters and her actions were very hurtful and sadly unkind. I let her know that I had just lost my blood sister to cancer and that this felt like a huge betrayal. She had known nothing about who I am or what I do when she did this damaging act. I was unfortunately in the middle of a bad scene, and she wanted to punish someone, so she struck out at me. I let her know that if there were financial repercussions from what she’d done, she’d be hearing from my lawyer. I spent the rest of the evening crying, heart aching, fear running rampant through me.
By the next Thursday, I’d decided R- had lied to D- about going to the office here, as nothing further had been done. Then there was a knock at the door and a 'notice of violation of the terms in the lease.' I went in the next day to meet with the manager and calmly explained myself. It has blown over. And I can see how I was served in releasing a tremendous amount of survival level fear.
This is an example of just one of the many challenges those of us in this field have to face, every day.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Sister Dede and Life on the Cat Farm
1964
Dedra Desaire "Dede" BeatyDecember 19, 1957 ~ July 15, 2006
Check back soon for writing about Dede's walk with breast cancer, and the way that our culture causes us, as women, to dissociate from our own breasts. There are so many layers of cause of this terrible disease. It's time for us to look at the emotional and psychological factors.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Practicing Presence
Photo courtesy of www.andeesmits.comA friend says in February she’ll call in a few weeks. Never did. In July, I sent an electronic birthday greeting. No response. While in her area one day recently, I left messages, expressing a desire to connect and visit. No callback to date. What do I assume by this non-attention? Yes, we are all busy: that’s a given. The kind thing to do would be for her to pick up the phone and say, at least, “Eat s**t and die.” Or “I never want to hear from you again. Leave me alone” Or “I haven’t been in touch because I’m completely overwhelmed, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
I was seeking help in the twilight time between attending my sister’s deathbed, and returning for her funeral. Looking for some bodywork, every bone in my body aching, I called a friend and was immediately told she was very busy with an important project and couldn’t talk right now. Honey, why the hell did you answer the phone?
A friend in a separated state from his wife calls and talks non-stop about his troubles and his joy in finding a new life. I patiently listen, hoping to share some of what has been going on in my own life at some point, but the opening never happens, the question is never asked, “So, how are YOU doing?” Yes, I do listening for a living, which is an especially good reason to inquire to learn if it’s a good time for me to visit. I will lovingly hold space for friends to discharge distress, if I feel I can count on the same from them when I need it. We don’t know if someone needs it until we ask. This takes a two-way conversation.
I’m at a recent memorial service. The widower had even talked about how we all need hugs. I joyfully approached a friend I hadn’t seen in a while and just as I was fully engaging her delightful essence, she pulled back to acknowledge a woman going by. “Hi, there.” She returned to give me a flash of her attention, and then she notices this woman is moving on, so she grabs her and says, “I really want to talk to you.” I guess she didn’t really want to talk to me. Obviously. She did ask me how I was doing on the way out, but in a rush, so it seemed there was not a chance to reengage and actually connect. On top of the loss we were there to acknowledge, this left me feeling especially sad.
I don’t know if I’m the only one having these sorts of experiences. I’m sure I have done all of this and more to others at points in my life. It certainly plays right into my sense of isolation and separateness and the deep wounding I’ve experienced in my family. It seems to me that if we were really taking on the task of spiritual evolution, there would be more loving kindness and conscious connection in all our interactions. And yes, I fail at this every day. Each person in front of me is a miraculous expression of the Divine, and a treasured Beloved Other. I’m setting the intention, now, to be more present and conscious with every encounter I have. The eastern Indian man at the gas station; the fierce looking black dude on the street corner, sign in hand, telling his story; the friend that’s been on and off in our friendship for 30 years, with much wounding, both ways, in the past; the new friend that has such tragic stories from his past: all the acquaintances of a lifetime, everyone, is a multi-faceted mirror of my own Self, as I spin through this world of illusion, density and pain. Could we bring a bit of solace to each other, just in a glance or a kind word, with full, loving presence? I’m setting the intention, now, to be more present and conscious with every encounter I have. (c) Jade Beaty, 2006
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Write Write Write
I've just added some short stories and previous writings to this blog and hope you enjoy your visit. My intention is to write often here, now. This picture is from a photo shoot this year in January. I've got nudes from my 20s, 30s, 40s and now my 50s. Will I be so brave in my 60s? I do love the camera, even as I've fattened and wrinkled. Lighting, makeup and wardrobe can do wonders. I've worked on an article, off and on for years, about my relationship with my body throughout my life. I can remember being in my mid-twenties and in a yoga class. I managed to accomplish a shoulder stand and it seemed like my stomach fell in my face. "I've got to do something about my stomach," I remember grousing. I weighed around 118 #. Ah, the good old days. Now I would likely smother if I attempted a shoulder stand.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Blanket Apology
For All My Relations...
This is a note of amends for the future and the past, to both ex-husbands, and my former and current lovers, cousins, blood (and I do mean blood) kin, soul sisters, daughter and her sweet family, acquaintances, friends, enemies, editors, teachers, students, clients, customers, inmate buds, therapists, and most especially to my mother. I'm sure you may feel wronged by some of my writings. We all have our own viewpoint on the things that happened, and as my favorite childhood buddy, Popeye, used to say, "I yam what I yam." But I'm always willing to talk about it. And I love you.
Having the position of truth seeker in a family system and cultural environment that clings to denial no matter the storm, is not a popular place to be. I refuse to be a good girl and sit quietly. After years of therapy, and questioning my own sense of reality, I don't really care whether you love me or not. I need nothing from any of you, and I feel blessed with the liberation in this attitude. My voice is now entirely free, and I will write my perceptions and viewpoints, even if it disturbs the status quo - in both my family and in my culture.
The one that asks the hard questions in a family system or a dominant culture that is full of incest and violence is labeled 'crazy,' called the 'black sheep,' and ostracized by family members and by society. Insanity is a logical choice when faced with overwhelming trauma and confusion. There are many layers of repression and denial that most people choose to live under. To look honestly at the dysfunction would take each individual owning their part in it - the victim and the perpetrator. The dark side is the side that requires secrecy, and controls by shame and guilt. Every one of us has a dark side. And it's time to shine the light, sweeties.
So, know that my writings are at the point of brutal honesty. My truth may not be your truth. If you find yourself offended by something I've written that you think may be about you, first, please, check your ego, then find your sense of humor. If you are thinking of suing me, please be aware that, as always, I am dedicated to getting rid of money as fast as I make it. Thus, I don't have anything you would want, plus, think of the time and energy wasted. Let's just all get along, instead. We can talk about it. OK?
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
The Beginning
Chapter One - "Heart Wide Open ~ Journey of a Lover"
It was a busy, early summer Saturday afternoon at McDonald’s and it had taken a long time to get our hamburgers. As we sat down, seven-year-old Michael said he liked lots of pickles. I looked at the long line.
“You can have the pickles off my hamburger,” I offered, making the transfer with my fingers.
Marlynn shot from her chair, face flushed and eyes snapping. “I can’t believe you would endanger my son like that. Don’t you know the germs are everywhere? We’re leaving right now.”
She gathered his Happy Meal and their things and stormed out, looking back over her shoulder with a final, heart-breaking glare. Marlynn was getting much worse.
The next day, I got a phone call from her. Tentative at first, and then firm, certain she was making the right decision. “You tried to kill Michael yesterday. You are the one person I thought I could still trust. Luckily, he doesn’t seem sick yet. You can’t see him, us, anymore.” There was a rare finality, an assurance in her voice that made me wince.
“Marlynn, honey, this is not rational thinking,” I said. “Please get in touch with the therapist you were seeing. I’ll go with you, if you want me to.”
“No, I just need to stay away from people, and especially you.” She hung up the phone with a bang, and I sat there thinking about what I should do.
About a year prior to this, Marlynn had started remembering a brutal sexual attack by her father’s father, which occurred when she was four years old. She recalled nearly bleeding to death, and the women in the house taking care of her.
At first, she tried to work through it with a therapist, but the horror of it, the nightmares, the difficulty she had believing that it had happened blew her out of therapy. She tried to pretend that she had not remembered. We talked about it some, me always urging her to get back into therapy, get into a support group, find all the help she could. One day she looked at me and asked, “Do you think I’ll go crazy because I know now that this happened to me?”
“Of course not, Marlynn,” I said. “You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known. You can survive anything. But you need to find help, OK?” She would never agree.
Now, as I gently returned the phone to its place, I realized that if she was going to choose to isolate, there was not much that I could do about it. Michael’s birthday in October came and went. So did Christmas. The cards and gifts I sent were not returned, but not acknowledged either. I routinely called her apartment, always getting my old answering machine, that I had given her, with Michael’s sweet voice on the tape. I would leave loving, pleading messages for her to call me, that I loved them, missed them, and wanted us to be in each other’s lives. She never returned one call.
In October of ‘96, as I was driving away from a grocery store near her place, I saw them walking out the front door. Michael, having just had his ninth birthday, reached Marlynn’s shoulder in height. They looked great, dressed sort of chic-grunge, both with caps turned backwards and baggy shorts. I stopped right in front of them. Michael’s face lit up and he grabbed for the back door handle. Marlynn pulled his hand back. “Let me give you a ride home. It’s so good to see you,” I called through the open window of the passenger side.
“No, we want to walk, we’re getting our exercise,” she said, pulling Michael close, her arm around his shoulders.
“Well, how are you? How is school? Are you still living at Travis Park?”
She shrugged and grinned her old grin. “I have one more class to get my degree. I’ve been looking for work.” I had been watching in the rear view mirror as a car was approaching. I was blocking the drive in front of the store.
“Marlynn, please call me,” I said. “Here’s my card. I’ve moved since we talked.” I looked her in the eye for a moment. “I love you both very much. Please call.” She shrugged again, and I had to drive on. That was the last time I saw them.
The holiday season seemed long and tedious. I thought of them often, putting their Christmas gifts in the mail. I called a few times, but gave up on leaving messages, since they were never returned. I hoped Michael might answer the phone sometime, but he never did. Sometime in early January, I drove by her apartment, seeing that her car was there. I thought about knocking on the door, but it seemed too intrusive. Maybe she’s just working through some things and will get in touch when she’s ready, I thought, deciding not to go to the door.
On February 3rd I was in my bedroom, trying to get enthused about my wardrobe, matching skirts and tops in different combinations, experimenting with scarves. I’d turned on the local 6:00 news -- something I hardly ever do -- for background noise. I had just pulled out a beautiful orange scarf that had been a long-ago birthday gift from Marlynn, when I caught a word or two on TV about a woman who had stabbed her nine-year-old son and herself to death. How could someone stab herself? I wondered as I watched the film clip. The shot was of the outside of the apartment and, with growing alarm, I realized it looked like Marlynn’s apartment. They gave the name of the complex, and it was Travis Park. They gave the ages of the mother and son, which matched Marlynn and Michael’s ages. Names were not given, “pending notification of next-of-kin.” The story ended.
The scarf slid from my hand as I moved to the phone in the office. My mantra, my prayer, started: “Let it not be them, please, God, let it not be them.” I felt like I was on auto-pilot, moving underwater. I remember thinking, this is what it must feel like to be in shock.
I dialed 911. Speaking slowly, I said, “This is not an emergency, but I need to know the name of the woman that murdered her son and killed herself. Their bodies were found this morning, and I think it’s my cousins.”
“We do not have that information available, as it is still pending notification of next-of-kin. Let me connect you with homicide,” her formal, brisk voice offered. I waited through a series of clicks, my heart pounding. A mechanical voice came on to inform me that no one was available to take my call, inviting me to leave a message so someone could call me back.
I slammed the phone down before the tone sounded and tried to think. Where would the bodies have been taken? I picked up the phone book and found the number for the Travis County Medical Examiner’s office and dialed. Another mechanical voice. As I gently returned the receiver, I realized I was going to have to drive over there. I dialed my good friend, Jan’s number. She wasn’t home from work, yet, and I left a message for her, saying I’d seen the newscast and was on my way over to Marlynn’s. I felt like I needed contact, support from somewhere, if it really was them.
As I slowly drove through the neighborhoods between Marlynn’s apartment and mine, I remembered a neighborhood ‘cop shop’ in a small corner shopping center. I parked outside the darkened plate glass window and swung open the heavy door. A line of desks along one wall had several uniformed officers sitting behind them. I approached the first desk and repeated the query I had made to the 911 operator, twenty minutes earlier. A female officer spoke up and gave me about the same response. “We don’t have that information, pending notification of next-of-kin,” she said as if she said this phrase many times a day.
“What if I’m next of kin?” I asked, barely holding back my anger.
“Then you can call homicide in the morning and they’ll help you.”
I felt like asking her if she could just go home and go to sleep if she believed members of her family were dead, but I decided I didn’t need to be a smartass. I turned on my heel and left.
I continued my drive, slowly, carefully (please God, let it not be them), pulling into the parking space next to Marlynn’s car. It seemed a hopeful sign that her car was there. Wouldn’t it have been impounded or something? I rounded the corner of the laundry room, and there was the yellow crime scene tape, and a bright orange form sealing the door. Marlynn’s door. I felt my knees give way and I sat down hard on the sidewalk.
My mind filled with images of Michael. His bright eyes and sweet disposition, his precious big smile. And always near him was his mother, looking at him with adoration and such incredible love. He was her life. How could she have done this? What darkness had descended upon her, to cause her to take their lives? I realized, sitting on that cold sidewalk, that I would never have answers, that there would be no simple explanation, ever, and I would live with this event for the rest of my life, always wondering how it could have happened, what went so terribly wrong, and what I could have, should have, done to prevent its happening.
Eventually, I got up off the sidewalk and stumbled to a neighbor’s open door. A sweet Hispanic woman with many kids underfoot offered me the phone, and the operator at 911 gave me a back line at the medical examiner’s office this time. I was told that one of the doctors who had attended the autopsy would be able to call me back within an hour. I also called Jan and this time she was home. I asked her to come in and be with me and she said she was on her way.
The woman gave me a big hug as I left. Her grandsons had played with Michael. For the first time I thought about how this would affect the people in the apartment complex and at Michael’s school. I couldn’t let myself think too much about that right now. I drove back home as carefully as I had driven over. My prayer changed to “Please, God, give me the strength to get through this.” I knew that my life would never be the same.
(c) Jade Beaty All Rights Reserved 2006
It was a busy, early summer Saturday afternoon at McDonald’s and it had taken a long time to get our hamburgers. As we sat down, seven-year-old Michael said he liked lots of pickles. I looked at the long line.
“You can have the pickles off my hamburger,” I offered, making the transfer with my fingers.
Marlynn shot from her chair, face flushed and eyes snapping. “I can’t believe you would endanger my son like that. Don’t you know the germs are everywhere? We’re leaving right now.”
She gathered his Happy Meal and their things and stormed out, looking back over her shoulder with a final, heart-breaking glare. Marlynn was getting much worse.
The next day, I got a phone call from her. Tentative at first, and then firm, certain she was making the right decision. “You tried to kill Michael yesterday. You are the one person I thought I could still trust. Luckily, he doesn’t seem sick yet. You can’t see him, us, anymore.” There was a rare finality, an assurance in her voice that made me wince.
“Marlynn, honey, this is not rational thinking,” I said. “Please get in touch with the therapist you were seeing. I’ll go with you, if you want me to.”
“No, I just need to stay away from people, and especially you.” She hung up the phone with a bang, and I sat there thinking about what I should do.
About a year prior to this, Marlynn had started remembering a brutal sexual attack by her father’s father, which occurred when she was four years old. She recalled nearly bleeding to death, and the women in the house taking care of her.
At first, she tried to work through it with a therapist, but the horror of it, the nightmares, the difficulty she had believing that it had happened blew her out of therapy. She tried to pretend that she had not remembered. We talked about it some, me always urging her to get back into therapy, get into a support group, find all the help she could. One day she looked at me and asked, “Do you think I’ll go crazy because I know now that this happened to me?”
“Of course not, Marlynn,” I said. “You are the strongest woman I’ve ever known. You can survive anything. But you need to find help, OK?” She would never agree.
Now, as I gently returned the phone to its place, I realized that if she was going to choose to isolate, there was not much that I could do about it. Michael’s birthday in October came and went. So did Christmas. The cards and gifts I sent were not returned, but not acknowledged either. I routinely called her apartment, always getting my old answering machine, that I had given her, with Michael’s sweet voice on the tape. I would leave loving, pleading messages for her to call me, that I loved them, missed them, and wanted us to be in each other’s lives. She never returned one call.
In October of ‘96, as I was driving away from a grocery store near her place, I saw them walking out the front door. Michael, having just had his ninth birthday, reached Marlynn’s shoulder in height. They looked great, dressed sort of chic-grunge, both with caps turned backwards and baggy shorts. I stopped right in front of them. Michael’s face lit up and he grabbed for the back door handle. Marlynn pulled his hand back. “Let me give you a ride home. It’s so good to see you,” I called through the open window of the passenger side.
“No, we want to walk, we’re getting our exercise,” she said, pulling Michael close, her arm around his shoulders.
“Well, how are you? How is school? Are you still living at Travis Park?”
She shrugged and grinned her old grin. “I have one more class to get my degree. I’ve been looking for work.” I had been watching in the rear view mirror as a car was approaching. I was blocking the drive in front of the store.
“Marlynn, please call me,” I said. “Here’s my card. I’ve moved since we talked.” I looked her in the eye for a moment. “I love you both very much. Please call.” She shrugged again, and I had to drive on. That was the last time I saw them.
The holiday season seemed long and tedious. I thought of them often, putting their Christmas gifts in the mail. I called a few times, but gave up on leaving messages, since they were never returned. I hoped Michael might answer the phone sometime, but he never did. Sometime in early January, I drove by her apartment, seeing that her car was there. I thought about knocking on the door, but it seemed too intrusive. Maybe she’s just working through some things and will get in touch when she’s ready, I thought, deciding not to go to the door.
On February 3rd I was in my bedroom, trying to get enthused about my wardrobe, matching skirts and tops in different combinations, experimenting with scarves. I’d turned on the local 6:00 news -- something I hardly ever do -- for background noise. I had just pulled out a beautiful orange scarf that had been a long-ago birthday gift from Marlynn, when I caught a word or two on TV about a woman who had stabbed her nine-year-old son and herself to death. How could someone stab herself? I wondered as I watched the film clip. The shot was of the outside of the apartment and, with growing alarm, I realized it looked like Marlynn’s apartment. They gave the name of the complex, and it was Travis Park. They gave the ages of the mother and son, which matched Marlynn and Michael’s ages. Names were not given, “pending notification of next-of-kin.” The story ended.
The scarf slid from my hand as I moved to the phone in the office. My mantra, my prayer, started: “Let it not be them, please, God, let it not be them.” I felt like I was on auto-pilot, moving underwater. I remember thinking, this is what it must feel like to be in shock.
I dialed 911. Speaking slowly, I said, “This is not an emergency, but I need to know the name of the woman that murdered her son and killed herself. Their bodies were found this morning, and I think it’s my cousins.”
“We do not have that information available, as it is still pending notification of next-of-kin. Let me connect you with homicide,” her formal, brisk voice offered. I waited through a series of clicks, my heart pounding. A mechanical voice came on to inform me that no one was available to take my call, inviting me to leave a message so someone could call me back.
I slammed the phone down before the tone sounded and tried to think. Where would the bodies have been taken? I picked up the phone book and found the number for the Travis County Medical Examiner’s office and dialed. Another mechanical voice. As I gently returned the receiver, I realized I was going to have to drive over there. I dialed my good friend, Jan’s number. She wasn’t home from work, yet, and I left a message for her, saying I’d seen the newscast and was on my way over to Marlynn’s. I felt like I needed contact, support from somewhere, if it really was them.
As I slowly drove through the neighborhoods between Marlynn’s apartment and mine, I remembered a neighborhood ‘cop shop’ in a small corner shopping center. I parked outside the darkened plate glass window and swung open the heavy door. A line of desks along one wall had several uniformed officers sitting behind them. I approached the first desk and repeated the query I had made to the 911 operator, twenty minutes earlier. A female officer spoke up and gave me about the same response. “We don’t have that information, pending notification of next-of-kin,” she said as if she said this phrase many times a day.
“What if I’m next of kin?” I asked, barely holding back my anger.
“Then you can call homicide in the morning and they’ll help you.”
I felt like asking her if she could just go home and go to sleep if she believed members of her family were dead, but I decided I didn’t need to be a smartass. I turned on my heel and left.
I continued my drive, slowly, carefully (please God, let it not be them), pulling into the parking space next to Marlynn’s car. It seemed a hopeful sign that her car was there. Wouldn’t it have been impounded or something? I rounded the corner of the laundry room, and there was the yellow crime scene tape, and a bright orange form sealing the door. Marlynn’s door. I felt my knees give way and I sat down hard on the sidewalk.
My mind filled with images of Michael. His bright eyes and sweet disposition, his precious big smile. And always near him was his mother, looking at him with adoration and such incredible love. He was her life. How could she have done this? What darkness had descended upon her, to cause her to take their lives? I realized, sitting on that cold sidewalk, that I would never have answers, that there would be no simple explanation, ever, and I would live with this event for the rest of my life, always wondering how it could have happened, what went so terribly wrong, and what I could have, should have, done to prevent its happening.
Eventually, I got up off the sidewalk and stumbled to a neighbor’s open door. A sweet Hispanic woman with many kids underfoot offered me the phone, and the operator at 911 gave me a back line at the medical examiner’s office this time. I was told that one of the doctors who had attended the autopsy would be able to call me back within an hour. I also called Jan and this time she was home. I asked her to come in and be with me and she said she was on her way.
The woman gave me a big hug as I left. Her grandsons had played with Michael. For the first time I thought about how this would affect the people in the apartment complex and at Michael’s school. I couldn’t let myself think too much about that right now. I drove back home as carefully as I had driven over. My prayer changed to “Please, God, give me the strength to get through this.” I knew that my life would never be the same.
(c) Jade Beaty All Rights Reserved 2006
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