Pamela Taeuffer's Blog - Posts Tagged "alcoholism"
Finding Intimacy - A Little Girl's Voice Begins to Form
Shadow Heart Jenise and I make faces when our dad opens a can of creamed corn to serve us for dinner. He doesn’t care that this is the one food my sister and I hate more than anything.
I can see leftovers in the refrigerator and other cans of food stacked in the cupboard we like, but it doesn’t matter. It feels like we could’ve been given garbage to eat if that was the nearest and easiest thing for him to grab.
As the opener tears at the metal of the can, grinding jaggedly and twisting it a circle, we sit and wait, and quietly understand: we’re going to bed hungry.
But we also know tomorrow our mom will reward us with presents for being good girls. It might be a new doll, or maybe she’ll treat us to a movie, or her favorite . . . bringing home a supply of sugary snacks.
I can already taste my favorite candy bar—milk chocolate covering caramel and a cookie. But if she brings me a quart of chocolate chip ice cream, that’s just as nice.
“Yuck,” I say to myself as I take a spoonful of the cold, canned corn, forcing it down so I can please dad and get out of the kitchen as fast as I can.
We swallowed everything that way—one spoonful at a time to survive.
Jenise isn’t eating. “Jenise,” I whisper. “Eat.”
Why won’t she eat? She will not give in. No, my sister isn’t that kind of peacemaker. She doesn’t seem to hear his feet pounding the kitchen floor, waiting, angry, as he counts down the minutes to send us to our baths and then to bed.
I watch in dread, afraid for what’s coming as her little body becomes rigid, bracing for what even she knows will be a storm.
She’s daring him! Oh no, don’t!
She plants her feet firmly on the black and white squares of linoleum and refuses every kernel.
“We don’t like creamed corn,” my sister says stubbornly.
This night, there’s no protection from the explosion lying just under his surface. It’s ready to boil, ready to burst, ready to—punish.
“Eat it now,” my father warns. His voice is detached and cold.
But my sister, my hero, she will not back down, and now my father’s face is a brilliant red, and his demons, the ones I’ve seen before, take him over.
Perhaps my father’s anger came from the disappointment of failing as a good parent. Maybe somewhere deep inside he was hiding, protecting his vulnerability, still the nine-year-old boy who couldn’t be soothed when his own father died.
Maybe it was the guilt that consumed him when he looked in the mirror and saw a young man who refused to stay home and take care of his mother as she sought relief from her addiction to prescription pills. Instead of facing that, he had joined the U.S. Army.
Did that tear his heart into pieces? She ended up such a delicate and frail woman. Did he feel guilty about leaving her? Or worse, did he feel by leaving, he made her that way?
Whatever the reason, tonight, his spark ignites. I watch in horror as his flushed face knots up in hatred because we stand between him and his liquid candy.
* HOW DID YOUR VOICE BEGIN TO FORM?
* WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST MEMORY OF SOMETHING BEING A LITTLE OFF IN YOUR FAMILY?
I can see leftovers in the refrigerator and other cans of food stacked in the cupboard we like, but it doesn’t matter. It feels like we could’ve been given garbage to eat if that was the nearest and easiest thing for him to grab.
As the opener tears at the metal of the can, grinding jaggedly and twisting it a circle, we sit and wait, and quietly understand: we’re going to bed hungry.
But we also know tomorrow our mom will reward us with presents for being good girls. It might be a new doll, or maybe she’ll treat us to a movie, or her favorite . . . bringing home a supply of sugary snacks.
I can already taste my favorite candy bar—milk chocolate covering caramel and a cookie. But if she brings me a quart of chocolate chip ice cream, that’s just as nice.
“Yuck,” I say to myself as I take a spoonful of the cold, canned corn, forcing it down so I can please dad and get out of the kitchen as fast as I can.
We swallowed everything that way—one spoonful at a time to survive.
Jenise isn’t eating. “Jenise,” I whisper. “Eat.”
Why won’t she eat? She will not give in. No, my sister isn’t that kind of peacemaker. She doesn’t seem to hear his feet pounding the kitchen floor, waiting, angry, as he counts down the minutes to send us to our baths and then to bed.
I watch in dread, afraid for what’s coming as her little body becomes rigid, bracing for what even she knows will be a storm.
She’s daring him! Oh no, don’t!
She plants her feet firmly on the black and white squares of linoleum and refuses every kernel.
“We don’t like creamed corn,” my sister says stubbornly.
This night, there’s no protection from the explosion lying just under his surface. It’s ready to boil, ready to burst, ready to—punish.
“Eat it now,” my father warns. His voice is detached and cold.
But my sister, my hero, she will not back down, and now my father’s face is a brilliant red, and his demons, the ones I’ve seen before, take him over.
Perhaps my father’s anger came from the disappointment of failing as a good parent. Maybe somewhere deep inside he was hiding, protecting his vulnerability, still the nine-year-old boy who couldn’t be soothed when his own father died.
Maybe it was the guilt that consumed him when he looked in the mirror and saw a young man who refused to stay home and take care of his mother as she sought relief from her addiction to prescription pills. Instead of facing that, he had joined the U.S. Army.
Did that tear his heart into pieces? She ended up such a delicate and frail woman. Did he feel guilty about leaving her? Or worse, did he feel by leaving, he made her that way?
Whatever the reason, tonight, his spark ignites. I watch in horror as his flushed face knots up in hatred because we stand between him and his liquid candy.
* HOW DID YOUR VOICE BEGIN TO FORM?
* WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST MEMORY OF SOMETHING BEING A LITTLE OFF IN YOUR FAMILY?
"My dad's an alcoholic and I hate my body."
At seventeen, Nicky confides in cheer team mentor Alexandra Flowers and Tara Summers about her family's dysfunction and also her fears and doubts about her body. Her hips, breasts, and stomach are more developed than her peers, she is getting looks from older men, and she's uncomfortable in her own skin and with others. She sits in the bleachers talking with the two women.
"My dad's an alcoholic, Alex," I confided while she waited with me in the outfield bleachers at the Goliaths baseball stadium.
It was shortly after I had graduated from my sophomore year in high school that I came up with an idea to bring together two of my favorite things: Goliaths baseball and another after school activity in which I could participate, padding my resume for college.
I planned to study business marketing and wanted to do it at Stanford. From talking with my guidance counselor I knew I needed to be aggressive, somehow standing out from the thousands of students wanting to go there.
So I surveyed Goliath fans via social media, researched and gathered data which supported my idea, and put together my plan for a cheer team.
I proposed we sing and do gymnastics to carefully selected songs approved by management, which would also play over the public address system.
Cheering on a professional baseball field had never been done before. I knew if my plan was accepted, Stanford would follow. After reviewing and editing it more than a dozen times, I finally sent it off to Jose Vasquez, the Entertainment Marketing Manager with the Goliaths. In December of my junior year I got the call that it was accepted.
Our cheer team consisted of six members: Colleen, who was also my best friend, Sharon, Lorraine, Marilyn, Patty, and me.
All of us grew up together in the same neighborhood and had been friends since grade school. We kept our fingers crossed that this adventure would be our ticket to college.
Was I nervous about walking onto a professional baseball field and performing in front of forty-thousand people? Hell yes. With every performance I fidgeted and had butterflies in my stomach.
Like a "deer in the headlights," is how we felt, our eyes wide open, afraid, nervous, and excited. Two women, Tara Summers and Alexandra Flowers, noticed, and immediately took us under their wings, especially me.
Tara was married to Matt Summers, a pitcher on the Goliaths. She was a small, petite, gentle soul with long, strawberry blonde hair. Her face was dotted with freckles and she generally wore jeans or loose flowing pants in earthy colors and materials like cotton and muslin.
Her very good friend, Alex, was engaged to Darrell Sweet, also a pitcher on the Goliaths, and she couldn't have been more different. She was a tall woman with reddish brown hair who had such striking features that she'd been a model since high school. When she wore jeans, they were often paired with heels and a designer blouse or sweater.
Something just clicked between the three of us and we bonded immediately.
It began with long talks in the bleachers, which led to requests made only of me to water their plants, or housesit when they were away, volunteering with them at their favorite charities, and then eventually, we began socializing together.
Our first performance was a Friday night in early April. It was usually cold for night games in San Francisco, until early autumn when "Indian Summer" came to the Bay Area, bringing calm breezes and warmer temperatures.
The Goliaths games generally sold out; they'd been competitive for the previous ten years, and their fan base was scattered throughout a one-hundred-mile radius.
And so, as thousands of people sat in their seats waiting for the game to begin, we performed the routines we'd rehearsed almost every day for four months. Each was two minutes long, and we took the field before the first, third, fifth and eighth innings.
I remembered sitting in the stands with my father at six, seven, and eight years old, all around the stadium, slurping up a hot fudge sundae or eating a pretzel. Actually being on the field, among the baseball men I'd cheered for while sitting next to him, was surreal.
Now it was our sixth game, and we waited behind the outfield fences for our first performance. The noises of the crowd surrounded us, and drifting by were the smells of hot dogs and popcorn.
I hadn't gotten over my nervousness, and still, my stomach turned over. I was self-conscious and had anxiety from just about everything.
It was a Saturday afternoon, as Alex waited with me, and I told her about my alcoholic father, and the battles for survival my sister and I faced daily.
1. HOW DO YOU/DID YOU FEEL ABOUT YOUR BODY AT SEVENTEEN?
2. DO YOU LOOK BACK NOW AND REALIZE HOW BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE/WERE?
3. WHAT ARE SOME OF THE FEARS ABOUT YOUR BODY THAT STAY WITH YOU EVEN NOW?
4. WHAT WAS THE MOMENT, IF YOU'VE SURVIVED ADDICTION IN YOUR FAMILY, YOU REALIZED SOMETHING WAS WRONG?
#alcoholism #comingofage #women #newadultromance #romance #contemporary romance #family #addiction
"My dad's an alcoholic, Alex," I confided while she waited with me in the outfield bleachers at the Goliaths baseball stadium.
It was shortly after I had graduated from my sophomore year in high school that I came up with an idea to bring together two of my favorite things: Goliaths baseball and another after school activity in which I could participate, padding my resume for college.
I planned to study business marketing and wanted to do it at Stanford. From talking with my guidance counselor I knew I needed to be aggressive, somehow standing out from the thousands of students wanting to go there.
So I surveyed Goliath fans via social media, researched and gathered data which supported my idea, and put together my plan for a cheer team.
I proposed we sing and do gymnastics to carefully selected songs approved by management, which would also play over the public address system.
Cheering on a professional baseball field had never been done before. I knew if my plan was accepted, Stanford would follow. After reviewing and editing it more than a dozen times, I finally sent it off to Jose Vasquez, the Entertainment Marketing Manager with the Goliaths. In December of my junior year I got the call that it was accepted.
Our cheer team consisted of six members: Colleen, who was also my best friend, Sharon, Lorraine, Marilyn, Patty, and me.
All of us grew up together in the same neighborhood and had been friends since grade school. We kept our fingers crossed that this adventure would be our ticket to college.
Was I nervous about walking onto a professional baseball field and performing in front of forty-thousand people? Hell yes. With every performance I fidgeted and had butterflies in my stomach.
Like a "deer in the headlights," is how we felt, our eyes wide open, afraid, nervous, and excited. Two women, Tara Summers and Alexandra Flowers, noticed, and immediately took us under their wings, especially me.
Tara was married to Matt Summers, a pitcher on the Goliaths. She was a small, petite, gentle soul with long, strawberry blonde hair. Her face was dotted with freckles and she generally wore jeans or loose flowing pants in earthy colors and materials like cotton and muslin.
Her very good friend, Alex, was engaged to Darrell Sweet, also a pitcher on the Goliaths, and she couldn't have been more different. She was a tall woman with reddish brown hair who had such striking features that she'd been a model since high school. When she wore jeans, they were often paired with heels and a designer blouse or sweater.
Something just clicked between the three of us and we bonded immediately.
It began with long talks in the bleachers, which led to requests made only of me to water their plants, or housesit when they were away, volunteering with them at their favorite charities, and then eventually, we began socializing together.
Our first performance was a Friday night in early April. It was usually cold for night games in San Francisco, until early autumn when "Indian Summer" came to the Bay Area, bringing calm breezes and warmer temperatures.
The Goliaths games generally sold out; they'd been competitive for the previous ten years, and their fan base was scattered throughout a one-hundred-mile radius.
And so, as thousands of people sat in their seats waiting for the game to begin, we performed the routines we'd rehearsed almost every day for four months. Each was two minutes long, and we took the field before the first, third, fifth and eighth innings.
I remembered sitting in the stands with my father at six, seven, and eight years old, all around the stadium, slurping up a hot fudge sundae or eating a pretzel. Actually being on the field, among the baseball men I'd cheered for while sitting next to him, was surreal.
Now it was our sixth game, and we waited behind the outfield fences for our first performance. The noises of the crowd surrounded us, and drifting by were the smells of hot dogs and popcorn.
I hadn't gotten over my nervousness, and still, my stomach turned over. I was self-conscious and had anxiety from just about everything.
It was a Saturday afternoon, as Alex waited with me, and I told her about my alcoholic father, and the battles for survival my sister and I faced daily.
1. HOW DO YOU/DID YOU FEEL ABOUT YOUR BODY AT SEVENTEEN?
2. DO YOU LOOK BACK NOW AND REALIZE HOW BEAUTIFUL YOU ARE/WERE?
3. WHAT ARE SOME OF THE FEARS ABOUT YOUR BODY THAT STAY WITH YOU EVEN NOW?
4. WHAT WAS THE MOMENT, IF YOU'VE SURVIVED ADDICTION IN YOUR FAMILY, YOU REALIZED SOMETHING WAS WRONG?
#alcoholism #comingofage #women #newadultromance #romance #contemporary romance #family #addiction
When is it time to talk about family secrets?
Shadow Heart* If you've been raised in family addiction, you know what family secrets are.
* When you cover family secrets, do you feel like no one will understand?
* When you feel alone, do you feel abandoned?
THERE'S NO RIGHT TIME TO BEGIN TO TELL YOU STORY.
EXPLAIN, EXPLORE, HELP OTHERS TO DISCOVER -- THEY AREN'T ALONE. MILLIONS HAVE COME FROM GENERATIONS BEFORE, TRYING TO STOP THE DYSFUNCTION.
When your story involves dark family secrets, secrets that need to be told, secrets that may offend dead, alive, those in denial, those willing to share, and reveal . . . just when do you decide to write those things?
Sisters ttrying to protect themselves against dark family secrets
I have a friend whose siblings curse her for telling her dark family story. Even though her book is magnificent, brilliantly revealing the raw, bare details of growing up in dysfunction, helping others better understand the effects of being raised in addiction.
I have a sibling who wants it out, along with me, so that others may walk perhaps a little more lightly when they realize "it's not them" it's the survival from four years old, it's the walking on eggshells every day, and it's the fear of being driven to the bar, then home, by a parent who is drunk.
When do those secrets come out and the feelings of being terrified and shamed and abandoned night after night as we took care of our own needs, even though my sister and I were only 4 and 7 years old?
When is it time?
Why should those secrets lay buried?
Should the ones who brought the darkness down on us be spared?
Should the ones who abused us stay hidden?
When is it time?
* When you cover family secrets, do you feel like no one will understand?
* When you feel alone, do you feel abandoned?
THERE'S NO RIGHT TIME TO BEGIN TO TELL YOU STORY.
EXPLAIN, EXPLORE, HELP OTHERS TO DISCOVER -- THEY AREN'T ALONE. MILLIONS HAVE COME FROM GENERATIONS BEFORE, TRYING TO STOP THE DYSFUNCTION.
When your story involves dark family secrets, secrets that need to be told, secrets that may offend dead, alive, those in denial, those willing to share, and reveal . . . just when do you decide to write those things?
Sisters ttrying to protect themselves against dark family secrets
I have a friend whose siblings curse her for telling her dark family story. Even though her book is magnificent, brilliantly revealing the raw, bare details of growing up in dysfunction, helping others better understand the effects of being raised in addiction.
I have a sibling who wants it out, along with me, so that others may walk perhaps a little more lightly when they realize "it's not them" it's the survival from four years old, it's the walking on eggshells every day, and it's the fear of being driven to the bar, then home, by a parent who is drunk.
When do those secrets come out and the feelings of being terrified and shamed and abandoned night after night as we took care of our own needs, even though my sister and I were only 4 and 7 years old?
When is it time?
Why should those secrets lay buried?
Should the ones who brought the darkness down on us be spared?
Should the ones who abused us stay hidden?
When is it time?
Love Story - Is that what our lives are about?
Our lives are ultimately a love story, aren't they?
We strive to move through and dodge the pain, keep it away, sometimes embrace it, and other times we swear, scream, lash out, beat another down, with words, fists . . . all to make us safe, our family safe, our friends . . . because we love them.
Or we fear them. Or we want them to fear us, or love us, or forgive us.
Do we love ourselves in the same way?
Do we give ourselves the breaks and space we so generously allow others?
Or do we drink down the thing that can numb us?
We yearn to live outside of our fears. We desperately want others to surround us with love.
I picture invisible hands caressing and holding me, holding us, and hope that people I have around me will accept everything about me, the good and the bad, and love me for who I am.
Can we love each other that way?
If someone is five hundred pounds, do we see them as lovable?
If someone has been burned and married, and their skull is dented, their scalp torn apart in an accident or by a bomb in war, can we love them?
Can we forgive a parent, a spouse, a child, for falling short of our expectations, being an alcoholic or an addict and abandoning us?
Can we love them still, as just another human being?
Should we?
We strive to move through and dodge the pain, keep it away, sometimes embrace it, and other times we swear, scream, lash out, beat another down, with words, fists . . . all to make us safe, our family safe, our friends . . . because we love them.
Or we fear them. Or we want them to fear us, or love us, or forgive us.
Do we love ourselves in the same way?
Do we give ourselves the breaks and space we so generously allow others?
Or do we drink down the thing that can numb us?
We yearn to live outside of our fears. We desperately want others to surround us with love.
I picture invisible hands caressing and holding me, holding us, and hope that people I have around me will accept everything about me, the good and the bad, and love me for who I am.
Can we love each other that way?
If someone is five hundred pounds, do we see them as lovable?
If someone has been burned and married, and their skull is dented, their scalp torn apart in an accident or by a bomb in war, can we love them?
Can we forgive a parent, a spouse, a child, for falling short of our expectations, being an alcoholic or an addict and abandoning us?
Can we love them still, as just another human being?
Should we?
SHADOW HEART: Emotional and Physical Shock
My sister came home in shock.
She looked dead.
In some ways, emotionally, we were all dead.
My father numbed his body and mind with alcohol.
I numbed myself with staying busy.
My mom numbed herself escaping into her romance novels.
Now my sister would be numb in a different way.
“Where have you been?” My mother asked angrily. “I was so worried.” Calmly and without emotion, her body in shock, Jenise answered, “I was raped.”
I saw my mother’s face become stone, trying her best not to let the hurt inside.
“I want to take a shower,” Jenise said as if she were a zombie.
“Just stay right there. Don’t move, wash, or take anything off. Don’t even comb your hair. We need to go to the hospital first,” my mother said. She was well aware of the protocol for rape from taking care of the girls at “Juvie” who’d been attacked.
I don’t know if she wanted to take her daughter in her arms and tell her she was sorry for what happened and that she loved her, but she didn’t.
As always, she did a good job of pushing her emotions down, not losing control, or escalating an already delicate situation.
“Watch your sister,” mom said, as she rushed to her bedroom, got dressed, and then came downstairs. I heard her in the kitchen on the phone to the hospital asking for a “SANE” professional—someone trained in rape trauma—to be present with a rape kit.
After hanging up, she walked down the hallway and grabbed her purse and keys off the small table by the front door, while my sister stood motionless.
When Jenise finally lifted her head and looked at me so helplessly, her sad eyes screaming, “Why did this happen to me?” I turned away.
Her expression said it all. Her spirit was gone and I didn’t know how to process the pain I felt from seeing her that way.
She’d been my hero.
I didn’t want to hear her talk about her violated body, the strength that was ripped out of her, or the ways in which her innocence was lost, and taken by some power-crazed, sick man.
I knew she’d never look at life the same way again.
Won't you join the discussion of family dysfunction, love, romance, and seeking emotional intimacy?
www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Facebook: /pamela.taeuffer.9
Pinterest: /pamelataeuffer
gmail: pamelataeuffer@gmail.com
She looked dead.
In some ways, emotionally, we were all dead.
My father numbed his body and mind with alcohol.
I numbed myself with staying busy.
My mom numbed herself escaping into her romance novels.
Now my sister would be numb in a different way.
“Where have you been?” My mother asked angrily. “I was so worried.” Calmly and without emotion, her body in shock, Jenise answered, “I was raped.”
I saw my mother’s face become stone, trying her best not to let the hurt inside.
“I want to take a shower,” Jenise said as if she were a zombie.
“Just stay right there. Don’t move, wash, or take anything off. Don’t even comb your hair. We need to go to the hospital first,” my mother said. She was well aware of the protocol for rape from taking care of the girls at “Juvie” who’d been attacked.
I don’t know if she wanted to take her daughter in her arms and tell her she was sorry for what happened and that she loved her, but she didn’t.
As always, she did a good job of pushing her emotions down, not losing control, or escalating an already delicate situation.
“Watch your sister,” mom said, as she rushed to her bedroom, got dressed, and then came downstairs. I heard her in the kitchen on the phone to the hospital asking for a “SANE” professional—someone trained in rape trauma—to be present with a rape kit.
After hanging up, she walked down the hallway and grabbed her purse and keys off the small table by the front door, while my sister stood motionless.
When Jenise finally lifted her head and looked at me so helplessly, her sad eyes screaming, “Why did this happen to me?” I turned away.
Her expression said it all. Her spirit was gone and I didn’t know how to process the pain I felt from seeing her that way.
She’d been my hero.
I didn’t want to hear her talk about her violated body, the strength that was ripped out of her, or the ways in which her innocence was lost, and taken by some power-crazed, sick man.
I knew she’d never look at life the same way again.
Won't you join the discussion of family dysfunction, love, romance, and seeking emotional intimacy?
www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Facebook: /pamela.taeuffer.9
Pinterest: /pamelataeuffer
gmail: pamelataeuffer@gmail.com
We all Took Turns Hiding
NICKY'S MOTHER SITS IN THE KITCHEN, TRYING NOT TO UNDERSTAND, EVEN AS SHE UNDERSTANDS, HER DAUGHTER'S NEED TO STAY BUSY AND AWAY FROM THE DARK SECRETS OF THEIR HOME.
My mother hid her emotions every day.
Now, instead of the gratification she'd received from her work, she picked up my father from the front lawn after he'd passed out, or helped him as he stumbled out of his truck, or undressed him and put him to bed, and sometimes wiped his ass when he'd made a mess of himself.
She drove to the store to get his bottles of whiskey so he wouldn’t drive drunk to get them.
Mom could've hidden his keys but that would have meant taking his verbal and sometimes physical abuse.
Perhaps she considered disabling his truck in some way, but that would have meant he couldn't get to work and his livelihood might be threatened.
Maybe this one of her silent gifts, making sure our college education was secure.
Like a doctor prescribing painkillers, she doled out his shots and managed his life.
Sometimes late at night, Dad's friends called my mom to get him from the bar because he couldn't drive. Jenise and I would ride with her, often around midnight, shrinking in the back seat under our blanket, trying to stay invisible.
"Going out?" Mom asked.
"Yeah, doing some charity work," I said. "One of the guys on the Goliaths is coming to pick me up. Jenise leave already?"
"She had something she needed to check on at school. One of the Goliaths players is taking you? Isn't that a little unusual?" She asked with raised eyebrows.
I think it is, but I don't know what to do with it yet.
"No, it's just that I was the person who submitted the cheer team plan. We started talking and because his dad was in the military, we hit it off." I took a breath. "He's easy to talk with."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Is he single?"
"Is he single? That's a weird question. Why?"
"Just curious," she said.
"Yes, he's single," I said.
"How old is he?"
"Almost twenty-five," I said.
"And you know this because . . ."
"Because I follow the team, mom. When I look at the press guide it has their birthdays. He's trying to help us with our college applications, that's all. A twenty-five-year-old man isn't interested in seventeen-year-old-girls."
"No?" she probed.
"No, that's disgusting." But not "yuck" like my first response when I talked with Tara.
"Don't you think you have enough to do?" she asked.
Like my father, I self-medicated, but instead of using alcohol, I stuffed my schedule with as many activities as I could to avoid my home life. My medication was to stay busy and away from anything too emotional. By not letting anyone in, I could stay numb and protected.
More hurt? I wasn't about to take any chances. I'd cried enough growing up and my invisible suitcase was heavy and full of anxiety.
"I've got plenty of time in my schedule, Mom. Anyway, it's summer."
1. WHAT ARE SOME OF THE THINGS YOU OR YOUR SIBLINGS DID TO AVOID THE "PROBLEM" IN YOUR HOUSE?
2. WERE YOU EVER ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH THE ADDICTED PERSON?
3. WERE YOU EVER ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH YOUR SIBLINGS? PARENTS? RELATIVES?
Please join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for my newsletter. I promise to keep it intimate, real, and moving.
My mother hid her emotions every day.
Now, instead of the gratification she'd received from her work, she picked up my father from the front lawn after he'd passed out, or helped him as he stumbled out of his truck, or undressed him and put him to bed, and sometimes wiped his ass when he'd made a mess of himself.
She drove to the store to get his bottles of whiskey so he wouldn’t drive drunk to get them.
Mom could've hidden his keys but that would have meant taking his verbal and sometimes physical abuse.
Perhaps she considered disabling his truck in some way, but that would have meant he couldn't get to work and his livelihood might be threatened.
Maybe this one of her silent gifts, making sure our college education was secure.
Like a doctor prescribing painkillers, she doled out his shots and managed his life.
Sometimes late at night, Dad's friends called my mom to get him from the bar because he couldn't drive. Jenise and I would ride with her, often around midnight, shrinking in the back seat under our blanket, trying to stay invisible.
"Going out?" Mom asked.
"Yeah, doing some charity work," I said. "One of the guys on the Goliaths is coming to pick me up. Jenise leave already?"
"She had something she needed to check on at school. One of the Goliaths players is taking you? Isn't that a little unusual?" She asked with raised eyebrows.
I think it is, but I don't know what to do with it yet.
"No, it's just that I was the person who submitted the cheer team plan. We started talking and because his dad was in the military, we hit it off." I took a breath. "He's easy to talk with."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Is he single?"
"Is he single? That's a weird question. Why?"
"Just curious," she said.
"Yes, he's single," I said.
"How old is he?"
"Almost twenty-five," I said.
"And you know this because . . ."
"Because I follow the team, mom. When I look at the press guide it has their birthdays. He's trying to help us with our college applications, that's all. A twenty-five-year-old man isn't interested in seventeen-year-old-girls."
"No?" she probed.
"No, that's disgusting." But not "yuck" like my first response when I talked with Tara.
"Don't you think you have enough to do?" she asked.
Like my father, I self-medicated, but instead of using alcohol, I stuffed my schedule with as many activities as I could to avoid my home life. My medication was to stay busy and away from anything too emotional. By not letting anyone in, I could stay numb and protected.
More hurt? I wasn't about to take any chances. I'd cried enough growing up and my invisible suitcase was heavy and full of anxiety.
"I've got plenty of time in my schedule, Mom. Anyway, it's summer."
1. WHAT ARE SOME OF THE THINGS YOU OR YOUR SIBLINGS DID TO AVOID THE "PROBLEM" IN YOUR HOUSE?
2. WERE YOU EVER ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH THE ADDICTED PERSON?
3. WERE YOU EVER ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH YOUR SIBLINGS? PARENTS? RELATIVES?
Please join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for my newsletter. I promise to keep it intimate, real, and moving.
A Child of Alcoholism - Abandoned Things
Nicky Young is a child of alcoholism who doesn’t know how to have deep relationships. She has friends, she’s paved her way to college, and will escape her nightmare soon, but opening herself to be vulnerable and truly feel and reach for intimacy . . . she has no clue. She often uses her journals to write poetry. This is one of her poems.will escape her nightmare soon, but opening herself to be vulnerable and truly feel and reach for intimacy . . . she has no clue. She often uses her journals to write poetry. This is one of her poems.
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
ABANDONED THINGS
stability—i crave it
control—i need it
intimacy—i desperately want it
i look okay but i am not
i may be successful in public, but in private, i am struggling
you see me as an adult, but inside i am a little girl or little boy, still afraid
i have lost my childhood
please look at me even as i push you away
find me
the fences are high to protect my heart
help me tear them down
i am deathly afraid to take a risk, even though everything could open up and i might come out of the shadows
love me like i want to love you
1. What chords, if any, does this poem strike for you?
2. Why do you think she’s written a poem like this?
3. What could she do to to deepen her relationships, especially with her friends?
Won’t you join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for our newsletter for private announcements, pre-sales, free chapters and cut scenes?
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
ABANDONED THINGS
stability—i crave it
control—i need it
intimacy—i desperately want it
i look okay but i am not
i may be successful in public, but in private, i am struggling
you see me as an adult, but inside i am a little girl or little boy, still afraid
i have lost my childhood
please look at me even as i push you away
find me
the fences are high to protect my heart
help me tear them down
i am deathly afraid to take a risk, even though everything could open up and i might come out of the shadows
love me like i want to love you
1. What chords, if any, does this poem strike for you?
2. Why do you think she’s written a poem like this?
3. What could she do to to deepen her relationships, especially with her friends?
Won’t you join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for our newsletter for private announcements, pre-sales, free chapters and cut scenes?
Releasing, Editing, Responding, Analyzing
When you work on a project as I have for four years (a drop in the bucket compared to other authors), you carefully release your first baby.
I am taking a different approach to writing about growing in a family that tried to survive the best we could, an alcoholic father, husband, who sometimes raged, and for many years, all I could remember of him was passed out in his chair or in bed (after the screaming and yelling and sometimes worse subsided).
There are so many books out there about this topic. Just as there are so many love stories offered.
In combing the two, I'm trying to show how love, growing up, relationships, choices of clothes, conversations, who I took as friends -- every day choices -- were affected because of having an abusive alcoholic parent.
Ultimately, it affects the way we trust, the way we participate in having a boyfriend/girlfriend, our marriage, the way we open or stay closed to our children -- all of the intimacy of our lives is difficult.
So that's the story, now here's the issue.
I gave into some bad editing advice with book 1, Shadow Heart. I'm so unhappy with it, that I am rereleasing, and a different ending, the one I wanted to begin with, will be part of book 1.
Like it or not, spelling errors, or not, it will stand. This is the final. Spelling errors are a part of most books these days, especially self-published. I can tell you I've spent many thousands of dollars and had five editors look at the project and each one catches different things and have different opinions.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But with careful diligence and a steady, loving, and hopeful heart, I hope I've resolved most of the book's issues.
It was be offered as an e book free in the next couple of weeks, and Fire Heart will be out with it.
There will be steep cliffhangers in each book because that's what life is when growing up with an alcoholic - nothing but steep cliffs.
We never knew what we were getting ourselves into when we came home or he came home.
Apologies? To those of you who were upset with the first ending, I'm sorry. It's different now, but may not be any more satisfying, but to me, it is.
I have reacted to what the public has consistently told me, and cannot obviously satisfy everyone, but I am finally at peace with the way the series is progressing.
And being at peace with it, hopefully means my heart is flying and will bring you a story you're sometimes angry, sad, and in love with.
For those who couldn't get into it? Sorry, life is like that. Sometimes it clicks, sometimes it doesn't.
I can tell you that I've appreciated everyone's input and everyone who read the book.
And now, the release, coming soon.
I am taking a different approach to writing about growing in a family that tried to survive the best we could, an alcoholic father, husband, who sometimes raged, and for many years, all I could remember of him was passed out in his chair or in bed (after the screaming and yelling and sometimes worse subsided).
There are so many books out there about this topic. Just as there are so many love stories offered.
In combing the two, I'm trying to show how love, growing up, relationships, choices of clothes, conversations, who I took as friends -- every day choices -- were affected because of having an abusive alcoholic parent.
Ultimately, it affects the way we trust, the way we participate in having a boyfriend/girlfriend, our marriage, the way we open or stay closed to our children -- all of the intimacy of our lives is difficult.
So that's the story, now here's the issue.
I gave into some bad editing advice with book 1, Shadow Heart. I'm so unhappy with it, that I am rereleasing, and a different ending, the one I wanted to begin with, will be part of book 1.
Like it or not, spelling errors, or not, it will stand. This is the final. Spelling errors are a part of most books these days, especially self-published. I can tell you I've spent many thousands of dollars and had five editors look at the project and each one catches different things and have different opinions.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But with careful diligence and a steady, loving, and hopeful heart, I hope I've resolved most of the book's issues.
It was be offered as an e book free in the next couple of weeks, and Fire Heart will be out with it.
There will be steep cliffhangers in each book because that's what life is when growing up with an alcoholic - nothing but steep cliffs.
We never knew what we were getting ourselves into when we came home or he came home.
Apologies? To those of you who were upset with the first ending, I'm sorry. It's different now, but may not be any more satisfying, but to me, it is.
I have reacted to what the public has consistently told me, and cannot obviously satisfy everyone, but I am finally at peace with the way the series is progressing.
And being at peace with it, hopefully means my heart is flying and will bring you a story you're sometimes angry, sad, and in love with.
For those who couldn't get into it? Sorry, life is like that. Sometimes it clicks, sometimes it doesn't.
I can tell you that I've appreciated everyone's input and everyone who read the book.
And now, the release, coming soon.
Shadow Heart-Nicky Young on Body Types
Even at 17, I hated my body.
EARLY ASSOCIATIONS WITH BODY TYPES
Nicky sits in the bleachers with her new women friends, wife and fiancé to two of the Goliath pitchers, the professional baseball team for which she and her friends cheer for on weekends. Her business plan was accepted, the first of its kind in baseball, and she knows Stanford, the college of her dreams, is in reach.
“Boys are too much of a risk,” I said. “I don’t want to take a chance. Hey, Ryan Tilton is still looking over here. With all the women he has, I wonder who in the world . . .”
I turned to see if a stunning woman sat behind me. When I saw only families and groups of boys and men sitting near us, I became nervous.
“God, I hate my body, you guys.” I wrung my hands, and shifted in my seat.
“Nicky, there’s nothing wrong with your body,” Tara laughed.
“I’m bigger than all my friends,” I continued discussing my insecurities, hoping for empathy.
“When I sleep over a girlfriend’s house, I can’t use her stuff. All my friends can exchange their clothes with each other, but I’m screwed if I don’t have something of my own.”
Tara covered her face with her hand, trying not to laugh. She didn’t understand my anxiety. Although I was told I was attractive and had a face that made me look like a young woman in her early twenties, I didn’t have confidence in my looks.
My brain interpreted those statements to mean, “because of your body, you don’t look like the others. You don’t fit in.”
At seventeen, all I wanted was to fit in. I was tired of having to handle things differently.
“Your body is beautiful, Nicky, just like you are,” Tara said. “You girls are so ridiculous at this age the way you criticize yourselves. In a few years you’ll look back and see you had nothing to worry about.”
“It’s true,” Alex agreed. “I understand your feelings, but one day soon, you’ll be happy with your body. And your friends may tease you now, but I’d just about guarantee they wouldn’t mind trading places with you.”
“They make fun of me all the time,” I said. “I try to cover myself but . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tara said. “If they poke fun at you, that’s just fear. Let it go and enjoy your gifts, honey.”
“And um, I’m sorry but there’s no covering up those things,” Alex said looking at my boobs and my butt. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with them.”
“Oh thanks, Alex.” I rolled my eyes sarcastically. “I feel so much better.”
“You’ll grow into yourself, sweetie.” Tara patted my leg. “You already have the beauty and the smarts of someone who’s much older. Did you know all the wives were given copies of your business plan?”
“What? No, why would management do that?”
“We had to give our approval because it meant a group of young women, even though you’re all minors, would be on the field in front of our husbands,” she said. “If we weren’t comfortable, it wasn’t going to happen.
“You had to go through quite a few hoops, young lady. Were you ever told how many people looked at and approved your proposal?” Tara asked.
She explained how it went from an intern, to an assistant, to a high-level manager, and up the chain to ownership; and lastly to the players and their wives. I was stunned and pleased with my success.
“Nice job, Nick,” Tara said.
“Thanks, but I don’t understand. What man on a professional baseball team would want us? We’re only seventeen, and who would want them? Yuck, they’re too old.”
“Yeah, you may think the players are too old,” Tara laughed, “but not so old that management wasn’t paranoid. And uh . . .” she nodded to the outfield where Ryan stood. “Seems like you’ve already peaked someone’s interest.”
“He’s just curious about the grotesque thing sitting next to you,” I laughed.
EARLY ASSOCIATIONS WITH BODY TYPES
Nicky sits in the bleachers with her new women friends, wife and fiancé to two of the Goliath pitchers, the professional baseball team for which she and her friends cheer for on weekends. Her business plan was accepted, the first of its kind in baseball, and she knows Stanford, the college of her dreams, is in reach.
“Boys are too much of a risk,” I said. “I don’t want to take a chance. Hey, Ryan Tilton is still looking over here. With all the women he has, I wonder who in the world . . .”
I turned to see if a stunning woman sat behind me. When I saw only families and groups of boys and men sitting near us, I became nervous.
“God, I hate my body, you guys.” I wrung my hands, and shifted in my seat.
“Nicky, there’s nothing wrong with your body,” Tara laughed.
“I’m bigger than all my friends,” I continued discussing my insecurities, hoping for empathy.
“When I sleep over a girlfriend’s house, I can’t use her stuff. All my friends can exchange their clothes with each other, but I’m screwed if I don’t have something of my own.”
Tara covered her face with her hand, trying not to laugh. She didn’t understand my anxiety. Although I was told I was attractive and had a face that made me look like a young woman in her early twenties, I didn’t have confidence in my looks.
My brain interpreted those statements to mean, “because of your body, you don’t look like the others. You don’t fit in.”
At seventeen, all I wanted was to fit in. I was tired of having to handle things differently.
“Your body is beautiful, Nicky, just like you are,” Tara said. “You girls are so ridiculous at this age the way you criticize yourselves. In a few years you’ll look back and see you had nothing to worry about.”
“It’s true,” Alex agreed. “I understand your feelings, but one day soon, you’ll be happy with your body. And your friends may tease you now, but I’d just about guarantee they wouldn’t mind trading places with you.”
“They make fun of me all the time,” I said. “I try to cover myself but . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tara said. “If they poke fun at you, that’s just fear. Let it go and enjoy your gifts, honey.”
“And um, I’m sorry but there’s no covering up those things,” Alex said looking at my boobs and my butt. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with them.”
“Oh thanks, Alex.” I rolled my eyes sarcastically. “I feel so much better.”
“You’ll grow into yourself, sweetie.” Tara patted my leg. “You already have the beauty and the smarts of someone who’s much older. Did you know all the wives were given copies of your business plan?”
“What? No, why would management do that?”
“We had to give our approval because it meant a group of young women, even though you’re all minors, would be on the field in front of our husbands,” she said. “If we weren’t comfortable, it wasn’t going to happen.
“You had to go through quite a few hoops, young lady. Were you ever told how many people looked at and approved your proposal?” Tara asked.
She explained how it went from an intern, to an assistant, to a high-level manager, and up the chain to ownership; and lastly to the players and their wives. I was stunned and pleased with my success.
“Nice job, Nick,” Tara said.
“Thanks, but I don’t understand. What man on a professional baseball team would want us? We’re only seventeen, and who would want them? Yuck, they’re too old.”
“Yeah, you may think the players are too old,” Tara laughed, “but not so old that management wasn’t paranoid. And uh . . .” she nodded to the outfield where Ryan stood. “Seems like you’ve already peaked someone’s interest.”
“He’s just curious about the grotesque thing sitting next to you,” I laughed.
How I prayed in a Family Battling Alcoholism
We all handle fear differently.
When we grow up in a family battling addiction, we cross our fingers (sometimes our toes) and hope for the best every day. We never knew what we going to get when my father came home, or when we came home. This is how Shadow Heart Opens.
I always prayed the same way at night: “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Please bless my mother, father, sister, everyone in the world, and me. And please make my father quit drinking.”
Th is is what I know as a child growing up in a family battling alcoholism:
Something bad is coming; it always does.
I can’t ask for help; I’m too ashamed.
I can’t talk about our secrets; no one understands.
I can’t trust anyone; they always leave.
This evening begins when I am eight and my sister is eleven.
We were only trying to have dinner before he unraveled. Now, I’m cowering as I pray under the dining room table that he won’t see my hiding place.
My small body shakes as I watch my sister face the wrath of our father’s anger.
www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Join the conversation, won’t you?
When we grow up in a family battling addiction, we cross our fingers (sometimes our toes) and hope for the best every day. We never knew what we going to get when my father came home, or when we came home. This is how Shadow Heart Opens.
I always prayed the same way at night: “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. Please bless my mother, father, sister, everyone in the world, and me. And please make my father quit drinking.”
Th is is what I know as a child growing up in a family battling alcoholism:
Something bad is coming; it always does.
I can’t ask for help; I’m too ashamed.
I can’t talk about our secrets; no one understands.
I can’t trust anyone; they always leave.
This evening begins when I am eight and my sister is eleven.
We were only trying to have dinner before he unraveled. Now, I’m cowering as I pray under the dining room table that he won’t see my hiding place.
My small body shakes as I watch my sister face the wrath of our father’s anger.
www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Join the conversation, won’t you?
