Avoid the Soul Robbers

Yesterday, I had coffee with Joelle Deyo.  We were talking about the shame we sometimes feel over the mistakes we have made as we have lived life in Crisis.

We were also talking about how, in a paradoxical sort of way, we embrace our mistakes.  They allow us to understand the mistakes of others.  Particularly, as we work closely with people in Crisis Recovery.

It is rewarding to visit with a woman who is in a compromising relationship after suffering through an abusive marriage, and know that she doesn't feel judged by me when I share my story, and the things I've learned through the mistakes I've made.  Seeing the perspective my life lessons provide?  Priceless.

For eighteen years I was in a marriage that was anything but conducive to my healthy self esteem.

As a young bride with a pre-baby body, I was regularly criticized by my husband for wearing clothing that revealed too much of my figure.  I was similarly criticized for wearing make-up.  For wanting to spend any amount of time primping, or shining.  I was conditioned that doing so wasn't godly.  That it was vain.  Wrong.

As the babies came along, and even a shower was a luxury, I fell into the t-shirt and sweats routine, wearing only what was easy to slip on, and run with in my day.

If I felt particularly needful of femininity, I would wear a jumper-style dress over a t-shirt or turtleneck (it was the 90s...don't judge me).  It's easy to "hide" growing booties under a dress.

I kept my hair very long, and wore French braids a lot.

I had a minor vision issue, but yet wore my glasses 100% of the time, in spite of the fact that my eye doctor said I didn't have to.

So, in my mid-thirties, I was a 165 pound frumpy woman in a 5'3" frame, wearing sweats, a t-shirt, a French braid, and glasses I didn't need.  I was plain, and to my husband plain was equal to being a good, and godly woman.  My conditioning was such that I had to be plain to get the very approval from my husband I so desperately craved.

In the meantime however, he had an addiction to pornography.  He kept his addiction a heavily guarded secret for the whole of our marriage.  Passwords.  Not teaching me how to operate a computer beyond using the Internet, because it would be too hard for me to learn.  He did whatever he could to keep me away from his secret.

All the way down to making sure that the mother of his children looked nothing like the women he watched in the pornographic movies and still images.

I now know that when a man is caught in a sex addiction that is contrary to his own moral compass, it is very important for him to keep a clear line of distinction between the sexual objects he lusts after and fantasizes about, and the woman he has at home, raising the children.

His behavior was very common.

Within a year of separating, I lost weight and was down from a size 14 to a size 6.  I stopped wearing my glasses.  I wore pants with a waist band, and blouses with buttons.

I worked at a country club, then a restaurant.  For the first time in years I had men around, giving me lots of attention.  Flattering attention.  Attention I was hungry for.  Starving for.  For the first time in years, I felt like a sexual creature, and although I'd like to think that I was giving off a virtuous vibe, I had to have been at least giving off a scent, or something known only to forward men on the prowl.

Sad thing is, I took the attention seriously.  Well, not all of it.  I have a girlfriend I used to work with at one of the restaurants, and all these years later, we still call each other dollface after a mutual venting session about men who insist on demeaning women with little object tags like that.  Little Lady, my friends and I would like another round.  Thanks a lot, Sweetheart.  Makes my skin crawl.

My heart was wanting love.  My self esteem was wanting a defibrillator.  But, my soul needed rest.

When I look back at those years, I wish I would have allowed myself the pain of loneliness.  I wish that on the weekends that my ex-husband had the kids, I would have simply stayed true to my worth, my commitment to my family, and even my morals, and simply stayed home.  Because, rather than keeping my head in the game of Crisis, I ran from it allowing the high and exhilaration of romance, or at least what I perceived to be romance, sway me away and lull me into a state that dulled my senses.

My ex-husband's behavior as a sex addict was just as predictable as my behavior post-separation.  Both behaviors came from a place of brokenness within each of us, and it's only after I have personally experienced such things, that I have been able to truly understand the reactions in pain so many people fall victim to.  Yes, we must take responsibility for our actions and do whatever we can to guard ourselves from falling prey to destructive behaviors, but likewise, those of us with people in our lives who are recovering from Crisis have a responsibility as well.  A responsibility to understand those who are hurting, and when needed, lovingly guide them back to a healthy way of living that won't leave them with a robbed soul.

I take this responsibility seriously, as do Joelle, Mike, John, Tracey, and Rossy.  We are here for our readers, happy to share our mistakes and our triumphs, if doing so will help you climb out of Crisis, to Life on the other side.  From here, the view is sweet.  And we want you to join us.  With your soul in tact.

Crisis Gypsies

When we moved back to California after living in Nebraska for 12 years, the kids and I moved in with my parents for 10 months.

In anticipation of our move, my mom and sisters bought beds and dressers, and as though they were putting a puzzle together, they somehow set up my parents' guest room to accommodate the kids and me.

I remember how excited they were to be able to have it all ready for us.  The room was so pretty.  So sweet, with so much love poured into it.

I was so grateful.  Overwhelmed with gratitude, really.  So I was left somewhat bewildered when my feelings at the time didn't reflect the thankfulness in my soul.  Instead, I felt numb.  Like I had to work to make my face smile in response to the joy their faces all showed.

It was one of the first of many moments where I would catch myself stuck.  Stuck somewhere between happiness and sorrow.  A paradox of emotions.

I had left my husband  A separation for the sake of reconciliation.  My hope being that with a separation, counseling, and restructuring of how our lives had been before, we could later reconcile and raise a happy, healthy family.

We lived separated in Nebraska for a few months.  I needed to move the kids and me out of our country home, and into a house of my own in town.  I feared the seclusion of the country, paired with my husband's behavior.

I had always been an at-home mom, but I had to get a part-time job at the hospital in town, so that I could support the kids and myself.  I worked as a cook's assistant.

The older kids were too aware of our circumstances, and too hurt and broken to properly care for the younger ones while I worked.  The balancing act I had to perform by working outside the home with a hurting14 year-old,  12 year-old, 8 year-old, and 20 month-old left my side of the family here in California feeling that the kids and I would be better off closer to them, so that we could heal, and benefit from the support of family.

So we left Nebraska, the only home my children knew.  The state Adam, Abi, and Lee were born in.

The kids were excited about the move to California.  About being with their cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles.  It was nice to see them excited.  So when we went to bed that first night, my conflicting emotions melted as I cuddled my baby Lee, resting in my parents' house.  We were safe.  We were going to be OK.

Maybe it's because I'm a firstborn, maybe it is my genetic make-up, but whatever it is, I am very independent.  The sense of being a burden nagged at me as time passed.  It got more intense with each passing month.  Though I enjoyed the time with my parents and my kids, working on their emotional hurts while I worked on mine, I knew I needed to find a way to support the kids and myself, so that we could move out of my parents' home, and on with our life.  This was my obsession.  All I thought about.

And I think, as I look back with a clear head and that it was my feeble attempt at establishing a deep need of normalcy, or to at least create a new normal for us.  With hindsight, I see that what we needed was more time to heal.  But in the midst of it, with all of the Topsy-turvey ranges of emotions, I was left short-sighted.  All I could see was that need to support my children, and give them a home of our own.

After living with my parents for ten months, we moved to a beautiful little townhouse a few miles away that I was able to rent.  I had gotten a job at a local country club working as a server.  I was getting great hours, and doing very well with tips.  It was enough to cover our monthly expenses.

At that point, we had lived in California for almost a year.  My husband decided to join us in California,  so he moved from Nebraska.  At first he stayed with his relatives, but our year apart, as well as extensive counseling, proved fruitful for my husband.  He was different from before.  More nice.  More happy.  To make life as close to normal as we could for the kids, I asked him to move in with us.  We lived in separate bedrooms like roommates, but the kids had both parents under one roof.  It was looking like we would be able to reconcile.

But, as time passed, his anger started to show itself again.

He wanted for us to move back to Nebraska.  Many of our family and friends advised us against it, or at least they advised us to continue to pursue a more complete recovery from our old habits before we moved away.  My husband had extreme control and anger issues, and I had been very codependent.  He had betrayed us by being unfaithful, and I still needed to know that I could trust him.  The advice of those who loved us was that we continue to grow before moving away, so that we wouldn't revert back to how we had been before.

This advice brought a level of anger and resentment from my husband that was so great, it started affecting the children.  I had one of the kids cry to me and say that Daddy was angry again.  She was afraid of it, but at the same time was also afraid that we would have to leave him again, and she didn't want to face what that would inevitably mean.  The dysfunction of codependency and enabling behaviors were rearing their ugly head in the behaviors of my daughter.

I would not raise my children in this kind of dysfunction and fear.  I told my husband that I was going to file for divorce.

We had been living in the beautiful townhouse for only one year.  But, my hours had been cut at the country club, and I wasn't making enough to cover the $2,050 per month rent.  Even with my second job as a server at a Hawaiian restaurant.

So, we moved.   We moved into a 4 bedroom house around the corner from my parents' house.  My husband and Adam moved out a few months later.

I got a new job as an office manager for an engineering firm.  With this job, I would make enough to support my children and myself.  I quit my job at the country club, but kept the second job so that I could make extra money to pay off debt.

After 2 months at the engineering firm, I was laid off.  My boss couldn't make payroll.  It was the Friday before Christmas.

I picked-up as many hours as I could at the Hawaiian restaurant.  I got another part-time job working as a promotional model a weekend or two a month.  It still wasn't enough.

After a year in the house around the corner from my parents, I found a tiny 2-bedroom condo I could afford.  Rent was just over $1,000 per month.  Our next door neighbor was an L.A. gang leader.

LET'S RECAP, SHALL WE?

We moved from our country house in Nebraska, to a house in town in early 2006, to my parents' guest room in California in the summer of 2006.  We moved to the beautiful townhouse in the spring of 2007.  We moved to the 4-bedroom house around the corner from my parents in the spring of 2008.  And we moved to the tiny 2-bedroom condo in the spring of 2009.

That's 5 different homes in 3 years.

Hugo and I started dating in the fall of 2009.  We married on Valentine's Day in 2010.  It was a fast courtship, and a quick engagement.  Not what the professionals would advise, but it worked for us.  Yes, we have had to put in some extra work on the already-married end as the result of our speedy pre-married relationship, but it has been work that has been well worth the effort, leaving us strong and healthy.

Challenges aren't always all bad.

Lee is very insecure about moving.  To him, it is normal to move every year.  We moved to my parents' house when he was 1, to the beautiful townhouse when he was 2, to the house around the corner from my parents' when he was 3, to the tiny condo in the ghetto when he was 4, and to Glendora when he was 5.

He will be 8 in December.  We're still here.

But, he asks if we will have to move, even still.  He asked this last weekend while we were driving.  Wanted to make Hugo and me promise that we will live in this house until we die.  When we're old.

He then asked when we will be done paying for our house.  We told him that we would be done when he is thirty-five.  He stared blankly out the car window.  So did we, I think.  Yikes.

Hugo and I can't seriously promise Lee that we will stay in our house until we are old.  Who can say for sure where life is going to lead?  But when I remember that drive I had to give my kids security, a home, and a healthy life, I realize just how far God has brought us.

He brought me back home to my family in California.  My children to their cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles.  He brought us Hugo.  And more grandparents, aunts, uncles, and a soon-to-be cousin.

He brought us to Glendora.  And He brought us to this house we won't have paid off until 2040, but we are so very happy we have.

Hugo and I are raising a happy, healthy family.  The hope I had from the start.  At the time I didn't realize that it would take divorce and the remarriage to a man up for the job to bring it, but since when do I have to know exactly how God will bring a prayer and hope to reality?  He saw my deepest desires for my family met, and He did it His way.  His perfect way.

I Can't Remember What I was Going to Title This

Remember Aunt Bethany in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation?

Sometimes I worry about myself.

It's a good thing that I'm a writer.  I keep a notebook in my purse.  I write down everything.  Names of people, information about whatever I am experiencing, details of what I am supposed to do, when, and even why.

I input information into the calendar on my phone, with the alert set up to remind me the day before, an hour before, or a few minutes before depending on what it is, and how much time I'd need to scramble in case the reminder really reminds me of something I would have otherwise completely forgotten.

There was an incident last week when I awoke to the reminder on my phone of the PTA event I was supposed to participate in.  In 1 hour.  With an egg casserole in hand.  Oops.

As a young wife and mother, I discovered, along with my group of girlfriends, a organization/home making guru, Emilie Barnes.  We read every book, attended every seminar, and spoke Emilie Barnesenees fluently amongst ourselves.  She taught us how to be organized, stay organized, and get more hours in our day, all while wearing a lacy apron, a lipsticked smile, and a bouquet of flowers on the table.  We devoured her.  We were proud disciples.

Then life happened.

Sometimes I wonder whether it's the Crisis my family and I endured that fried my brain, whether it's age, or whether it's just me, and how I was predisposed to be.  Either way, it's become my very own thorn in my very own side.

I do acknowledge that the Crisis years have taken a toll.  Case in point, I have a very hard time remembering dates, facts, and details of the years between, I have to stop and think about this, 2005-2010.

In fact, it was 7 years ago today that our life as we knew it was shattered.  The only reason why I know that so solidly, is because we've been reminded all over the news that today is the 7 year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina hitting land.  

The kids and I were in California on vacation from our home on Nebraska.  While we were here visiting family for a few weeks, we camped with my parents, siblings, and family friends in Carlsbad for the weekend.  My husband urged me to not worry about calling home while we camped.  Thought it would be nice for the kids and me to just let our hair down, and enjoy being with my side of the family.  It was so refreshing.  He had never said that before.  Had always insisted on me checking in, or being available when he checked in with me.  I was usually so nervous about that need of his.  He'd be so mad if he couldn't reach me, or if I didn't try to reach him.  So, when he urged me to relax, have a great time, and not try and call, I was happy and actually proud of the growth in our marriage.  I thought, after 18 years of marriage, he is relaxing. Calming down.  Not as rigid.  But, what I didn't know at the time was this:  He had other plans for the weekend, too.  He wasn't going to be home, either.  And he wasn't spending the weekend alone.

So while we happily camped, New Orleans was being devastated, and my family was being ripped apart.

His relationship became public in our small Nebraska town, and before I knew it, the kids and I were back in California.  This time, for good.

The trauma did something to my brain.  The trust I had in him, and the trust I believed we shared for our family, was violently betrayed by his act of deception and betrayal, and something inside me broke.

Those years are a blur, and had it not been for the journaling I did during that time I wouldn't remember any of it, or at least, very little.  

I don't remember Lee as a toddler.  He asks for stories of his first words.  Funny things he said, or did when he was little.  Thankfully, his siblings can fill in blanks for me, which satisfies him, and helps me to remember.  Thankfully, I have notes I can reflect upon.  But still, I don't remember his 1st birthday, his second birthday, his third birthday, or his fourth birthday.  Likewise, I don't remember the other kids' birthdays during those years, either.  I vaguely remember Chuck E. Cheese one year for Lee, a Red Carpet birthday party for Abi, as well as a sleepover birthday party for Abi once, but I can't remember for which ages.  And I remember Danielle's 17th birthday--her first birthday with us, and her first birthday party ever.

Birthdays are huge for me, which is why this is so painful.  I remember every birthday my kids had before Crisis.  I'm grateful for that, and am even more grateful that I remember their special days now.  

This is one reason why I love Facebook so much.  It's a visual journal.  And as people comment, it only solidifies the memory and etches it more permanently into my poor, challenged brain.

I'd be a raving lunatic if I told myself that all of my memory challenges are caused from Crisis, though.  Hugo hasn't suffered Crisis, yet when we park in parking lots, we wander the whole lot in search of the car.  It sucks, too, when we get a great parking space, and then wander out to the south 40 looking for the car, only to find it up by the door.  

In parking structures, we take pictures of where we parked.  Sometimes, I even take pictures of our walk from the parking structure, to the elevator, to the floor we're going to, etc.  It's pathetic, I know, but what's even more pathetic is that we utilize my visual map to get ourselves back to the car.  Works like a charm.  Otherwise, we'd be wandering through the whole thing, carrying a goldfish in a plastic bag.  (Seinfeld reference.)

So, our life is a little chaotic at times, and I really think that this has A LOT to do with my memory melt-downs.

THIS MORNING:  

Hugo and I wake up at 6:15.  Abi wakes up at 6:15.  Hugo gets into our shower.  Abi gets into their shower.  Danielle wakes up at 6:30.  Abi's in the shower.  Abi's usually in the shower at 5:30.  Wednesday is late start at Abi's school.  Hugo finished his shower.  Reroute Danielle.  She gets into our shower.  I get dressed into exercise clothes.  Put the load from last night into the dryer.  Put 4 English muffins into the toaster oven.  Make Hugo's turkey sandwich.  Make Lee's PB&J sandwich.  Give Abi wardrobe suggestions.  Listen to Abi tell me about her dream last night.  Hear that Lee is up.  Find him dressed and brushing his teeth while Hugo's doing his hair.  Give props to the Papi for rocking it.  Give Lee his meds.  Make our bed.  Pack sandwiches and lunch stuff into Hugo and Lee's lunch pails.  Tell Danielle and Abi that they need to revamp our Wednesday morning schedule so that they don't stumble over shower times.  Abi needs to make her bed, so Hugo gently reminds her, saying we need to leave in 10 minutes.  Abi freaks out.  She isn't ready.  She's always ready.  She thought we were leaving later.  We had decided that we needed to leave earlier than she had been originally informed.  Oops.  I might have forgotten to tell her.  Develop Plan B.  Hugo drops Lee and me off at his school so that he can log in another day of education, and so that I can log in another day of torture walking with my torture walking buddies.  Hugo goes back home.  Grabs the now-ready Abi.  Drops her off at school.  Drops Danielle off at school.  Commutes with a million other people on the 210, to the 134, to Glendale.  Gets to his office.  Thinks about lunch, so he takes a peek to see what he has.  He finds a PB&J with the crusts cut off.  Lee's PB&J.  He's not a fan of the peanut butter.  (Another Seinfeld reference.)

It could be worse, I tell him over text.  It could have been Aunt Bethany's Jell-O with the crunchy cat food folded in.  Or, I could have packed the cat.

I need to break out Emilie Barnes' books again.  Revamp my M.O.  Trouble is, I can't remember where I put them.

What Kind of a Childhood are You Giving Your Kids?

Yesterday was my dad's 75th birthday.

As a surprise, we thought it would be fun to take him to The Greek Theatre to see his all-time favorite showman and singer, Neil Diamond.  The fact that he was playing locally on my dad's birthday was unbelievable.  We planned the night for months, excited.

Hugo, Kristi, Misti, Mom, Dad, Lori, Aunt Liz, Uncle Tom and Not Pictured, But With Us in Spirit: Gregg, Uncle Ernie, and Aunt Donna

It wouldn't be the first time he would get to see The Solitary Man in concert.  Last night was his 3rd time to see him at The Greek, and there have been at least 2 other times at other venues.

In my childhood home, we all grew up listening to Neil Diamond.  I can remember when the Hot August Night album came out forty years ago, and my dad played it on our stereo.  I can remember sitting on the living room floor holding the album sleeve, looking at the cover picture, and back at my dad, in total disbelief that this is what Neil Diamond really looked like.  And that my dad liked someone who liked like that.

My dad was more of a Rat Pack kind of guy.  Very short haircut, ties, polished shoes, suave attitude.  Crisp.  A defiantly proud non-member of the hippie-revolution.

The music of Neil Diamond spoke to his soul.  In spite of Mr. Diamond's long hair, rivets, and fringe.

Whenever my sisters, brother, or I hear a Neil Diamond song, we're transported in time to our childhood.  Camping on the Kern River.  Cleaning out the garage, or washing the cars.  Going fishing in the mountains.  Christmas, especially if a new album had been released.  Neil Diamond was there, and every one of us kids knew the songs, just as well as our dad.

Neil Diamond started promptly at 8:15, with no headliner.  His band of 35 years started playing, he appeared on stage, and I cried like a baby.

It was no wonder.  I tear-up when I hear a Neil Diamond song come on at the grocery store.  I'm taken back to my childhood.  My happy, happy childhood.

It was surreal.

I took in the music, the moment, and my spirit was flooded with appreciation for the beautiful childhood our parents gave us.

OK.  So, with Family Crisis Recovery dwelling so prominently in the doorway of my soul, I find that lately, I can't let anything in, without measuring it against the things I now know in life.

Let me explain.

How about the many families who suffer by accepting various forms of dysfunction as normal?  Physical abuse.  Alcoholism.  Drug abuse.  Neglect.  Sexual abuse.  Infidelity.

And what about the dysfunctions that aren't as obvious, but are just as damaging?  Control.  Anger.  Verbal abuse.  Mental abuse.  Spiritual abuse.  Co-dependency.  Selfishness.

So, with tears streaming, and gratitude over having had such a beautiful childhood, I caught myself thinking about my own children.  And then I got a little sad.  Would they ever have such a moment as this when they're forty-five?  Would they ever look back on their childhood with reflective joy?

When I first separated from my ex-husband, I had a lot of support.  But, I also endured sharp criticism from some for taking a stand against my ex-husband's behavior by actually leaving him.  I was told that as a Christian wife, it was my duty to stand by my man, even though he was hurting the kids and me.  Even though his dad hurt his wife and kids.  And his grandfather hurt his wife and kids.

All I could do was look at my kids, and want more for them.  I didn't want them to continue to be subjected to his control and abuse, but even more, I didn't want the pattern to continue.  So I left.

Now that I know more clearly about the things my denial didn't allow me to fully get when I was still with him, I know that had we stayed, my children would have had more pain to process in their adulthood.  And gauging by the amount of time it has taken them to work through the stuff they did endure, I know that my decision to leave was the right one, in spite of the difficulty, challenge, and even the criticism.

My childhood, as great as it was, wasn't perfect.  Theirs hasn't been either, obviously.  But I do hope that as they reflect upon the sad or difficult memories, they can also reflect upon the happy ones, as well.  And I hope that as they're reflecting, they will dwell on the empowering confidence we all have knowing that we, as a family, took a stand against things that weren't right, for the better of not only our lives, but for future generations as well.  I hope that they can look back and see that, as they look forward to a positive future for our family.

We don't have to accept and live with dysfunction.  We don't have to stick with it for the sake of the children.  Because, in truth, the children end up not only hurt from it, but as they grow, they tend to repeat it.  There is no sense I can make from that.

It's hard to be faced with the decision of whether or not you should demand change, or even leave your spouse if he or she is bringing Crisis to your family.  I know.  But your child's childhood will only be lived once, and in that one shot, they will learn what they learn from you, and they will take the things you teach them into their adulthood, and straight to their own family.  As their parent, what would you like for them to take?

I thank my parents.  Because, truth be told, this is what they did for us.  Both my mom and my dad had challenging childhoods.  They took stands against what they had been subjected to, and as a result, my brother, sisters and I benefited greatly.  Our parents sacrificed tremendously, so that we could have what they couldn't have.

Are you in a relationship you know deep down isn't right?  Is your spouse or partner engaging in behaviors that jeopardize healthy living?  Are you scared?  I know the fear.  I lived it.  I'm here for you, and I will be more than happy to guide you.  If you act now, there is a greater chance of your relationship surviving with help.  A greater chance of your children having less pain to have to process.

Call me.  Message me.  Friend Request me on Facebook, and I will accept.  We can communicate privately.  Kristi Tisor Ambriz.  I will hold our conversation in confidence.  I give you my word.

I wish you well.  I wish your children well.  I wish their memories well.

A Poetic Dose of Reality

My friend Tara posted a poem on Facebook.

It spoke much about the things we have come to know at Wings Like Eagles.  About lives shaped horribly by dysfunctional sickness that is contagious, and passed on to subsequent generations.  We work hard to open the eyes of families in Crisis, so that they see the need to break negative cycles and change the modi operandi of their forefathers.

It also challenges our thinking, and quickness of judgement toward children in our community who act out.  Oftentimes, their behavior is indicative of something dark, and broken at home.   Rather than our judgement, these families need our love.

I do not know who wrote the poem, but if you do, I'd love it if you'd let me know, so that I can credit, and thank the writer.

The poem:

Behind closed doors you will never know. The "private" lives that friends don't show. 

It happens in the best of places. And shows up first on children's faces. 

First, the look of their sad eyes. Then their voice complete with sighs. 

They don't talk much, nor do they play. You ask them why, but they won't say. 

They bear the weight of parents' sin. Of daily abuse and anger turned in. 

They have that look that says "don't touch," I've had enough, in fact too much. 

They fight with all to show their power. But while at home they sit and cower. 

To wait upon their nightly whip. Sometimes from hands, sometimes from lips. 

It matters not where comes the pain. From stinging slaps or words of shame. 

'Cause as they grow in size and age, their minds still fill with thoughts of rage. 

And when they wed and parents are, they still bear the wounds and have deep scars. 

That bind them in so many ways, to their past lives which they replay,

And on and on the cycle goes, unless it stops and we can show: 

That "private" lives in "private" places. Ruin future lives in future spaces. 

So be not silent, don't turn in fear. Reach for their hand, give them your ear. 

With gifts of love, touch their young heart. And the cycle of hate, you'll surely part.

why we do what we do

There's always someone worse off, right?

This is a thought that comes to many of us when we hear the story of someone who had a childhood with a little bit more brutality than our own, or who was in a marriage that was a little bit more volatile than the one we were lucky to escape.  There is always someone out there who gives us a different perspective, or even a reality check when we are mired in self-pity about the things we have had to endure.

My story is not the most dramatic story in the room.  In fact, my story is pretty typical.  Which is why I want to share it, because it resonates with so many who have found themselves in a similar situation as the one I was in.

But, there are others who have suffered so terribly, that anything I have to say seems to be coming from Mrs. Cleaver, as I offer a plate of freshly baked cookies, pearls gently swinging to and fro, as I lean over with the platter, smiling.  My story doesn't resonate.

Then, there are people like Tracey Hallberg.  She openly shares her story of a childhood robbed of security, and happiness, and innocence.  She makes all of us stop chewing the chocolate chip cookie I just offered.  She has a story.  Beaver and Wally are nowhere to be found.  And people listen.

Last night Danielle and I heard the story of a man's childhood that rivaled even Tracey's.  He was beaten, subjected to sexual perversion and abuse between siblings, saw men hanged because of the color of their skin, had a father so brutal that he shot at the feet of a child who walked to closely behind him..his story was difficult to hear.

But, he didn't tell his story to one-up that last guy, and Tracey doesn't tell her story to one-up mine. None of us share what we share for the sake of gaining attention, or for the sake of winning the prize of being the one who has really suffered.

We share what we share because there are many out there who are scared, who are living in their own nightmare, and who need to see that there is not only a way out, but that there is hope out there and life on the other side of Crisis.

In our own way, we have suffered, and we have lived to tell about it.  If you are suffering, you can get out, too.  There are many who have walked your path, who know the way out, and who can help guide you down a better path.  We are but a few, but we're willing to share our stories, if you want to listen.  And if by listening you can learn, and gather the courage to make the changes you need to make to get out, then we'll talk some more.

I share about my life, the people who have helped me, and the places I have been, so that I can be believed.  So that as I offer you that plate of cookies, you might notice a few battle scars here and there, and a smile that never takes for granted the events in my life that have turned my lips upward.  It's a smile I didn't know I could have, and it's a smile I see on the faces of my kids.  I didn't know, when we were in the pit of darkness, that they would ever smile again.

Tracey and I write for people who wear the shoes we used to wear.  And so does Mike Runner.  He just introduced himself for the first time Sunday, but he has more of his story to tell, and there are many who will recognize themselves, or their loved one, in his story.

This is why we write.  Why we put ourselves out there.  Why we paint our pictures with color, and detail, and texture.  So that our story will be something that catches the attention of someone who needs to read it.  Someone who recognizes themselves on the canvas.

If we're not Facebook friends, Friend request me.  I'll accept.  We can message privately.  I will hold our conversation in the strictest of confidence, and I will do what I can to direct you toward getting the help you need.

Life is short.  In this short life, we seem to fall easily into dark places, but just because we've fallen in doesn't mean we have to stay.  Climb on out.  Here.  Take our hand.  Who knows?  You just might be telling your story one day, offering hope to someone else who needs to know that they too can climb out.  And soar.

i guess i have a bit of a bitterness thing going on toward my ex-father-in-law

It's true.  I'm struggling in the area of bitterness.

My ex-father-in-law wasn't the nicest man, but I always believed in him.  Always believed that I saw sincere kindness deep down in the very eyes most people perceived narrow scrutiny.  Few understood him, I believed.  Few were allowed access to him, because his bristles and growls warded most people off.

Right away, I made him my project.  I would dive in, searching for the wonderful man inside, believing in those eyes, that they weren't lying to me.  That there was sincere kindness in them.  Love, even.

He responded well to the grandchildren I gave him.  He approved of my mothering methods.  He approved of my devotion to his son.  After years of hard work, I believed he approved of me.

He approved of my decision to quit college all those years before, when his son and I first got engaged. The reasoning between both father and son was that continued education for me, a woman, was unnecessary.  I was to be a homemaker.  A college education would be self-serving and pointless.  My father-in-law always told me that if anything ever happened to his son, he would support the children and me, so that I could continue to raise his grandchildren properly.  This fed every maternal instinct I had, and it left me feeling as though the children and I were safe, and loved.

When I left his son after discovering him in an affair with another woman, his approval evaporated as quickly as my delusion that we were a happy family.

His wife, my dear Mary Mom, was not allowed to help care for the children while I worked outside the home trying to support them.  She did a few times, but he put his foot down, as he used to say.  He wouldn't allow her to help me in any way.  She used to call me at night after he had gone to bed, talking in whispers so that he wouldn't hear her on the phone.  Otherwise, she wasn't even allowed to call me.

Looking back from who I am now, I'm disappointed and disturbed that I allowed myself to be immersed into such an unhealthy system.  That I laid my children and myself at the feet of something this weak, and this twisted.  Because we weren't safe, and we weren't loved.  We were controlled.

I should have never quit college.  I should have never bowed to a system that dissuaded me from my natural development as an individual, but instead, placed me into the rule of 2 controlling men--my husband, and my father-in-law.  But, at the time, I was so sucked into their line of reasoning, that I actually allowed myself to feel loved and protected by them both, and I never for a second doubted their honor.  I believed them, and I believed in them.  I believed that their position and reasoning was in the best interest of our family.

So, I was on the outside of their favor, my eyes were finally wide open, and I was bitter.  Very angry with myself for believing the lies.  Angry that I allowed my children and myself to be left so vulnerable, and as a result, had to leave my teenage children to raise my younger ones while I worked 2-3 low-paying jobs, just to stay afloat.

Lee was just over 2 when I had to start working.  He would frantically fight, trying to get me to stay home when I'd leave for work.  He would cry at the door, running outside to get me before I drove off.

I would crawl into bed next to his sleeping little body when I'd come home late at night, kiss his little cheek, and whisper in his ear that Mommy was home, and loved him so much.  Then, if it was the weekend, I'd crawl out of bed in the early morning hours before he'd even wake up, so that I could be at work by 5:45.  At least we could both be spared the torture of me having to leave home with him crying again.

Maybe it's because of this little history Lee and I share that I now enjoy every moment I have with him.  I appreciate every sound he makes, every thought he shares, and every direction his little imagination takes him.  Maybe this is what I always did with my other kids, and it isn't all that different.  But, I am different.  Maybe that is what seems to set this experience apart from anything I had before.  I'm looking at it all through new eyes.

But, on a deeper and even darker level, I wonder sometimes whether I soak him all in, enjoying the moment and all that we have, in an effort to quiet the bitterness that continues to pop up when I think about the time I missed with him.

I take full responsibility for placing myself under the rule of my ex-father-in-law, and ex-husband.  For believing in what I wanted to believe in, rather than allow myself to see, and believe how things really were.  I was a consenting adult.

I need to forgive him for not being what I wanted him to be, and I need to forgive him for being who he was.  Because I can't change any of it.  Because he didn't lie after all.  He really was looking at me with narrow scrutiny.  Not with kindness, or love.  That's what I wanted to see, but it wasn't what was really there.  The bristles and growls were true indications of an angry, broken man who would say and do anything to feed the egocentric whole of his being.  He said, and promised whatever he had to say or promise to keep me in line, and submissive, and under his rule of control.  Because in truth, the man had no control over himself, and was running amok in selfishness, and hatred in a world that let him down somehow, somewhere.

That is a life to pity, not be bitter against.  And the kids and I have done well, in spite of his shortcomings, and we are persevering, in spite of our past.  So, really, there is no logic in my holding onto bitterness.  All that does is serve my inner need to cast blame onto someone else, and not accept responsibility in my own actions.

There.  Right?  Forgiveness has won over bitterness, just that easily.  Hardly.  It's a process, and it is going to take time.  But, if I say it out loud enough times, I believe my heart will catch up with my mouth.  Eventually.

And while my mouth is moving, I might benefit from throwing in some heartfelt prayers, asking God for some help with this one.  Because He knows a thing or two about forgiveness, doesn't He?

deflection of the betrayer, and that little voice we can't ignore

So often, when we're confronted with something we're ashamed of, we tend to deflect.  Point out the other person's dirty porch, rather than acknowledge that ours has some missing floor boards.

Almost without exception, when you question an unfaithful spouse about their questionable behavior, they will point at the things that are making them behave strangely, like, the shiny object over there.  Or, they'll point toward you.  They have been living a double life, a lie, so they have an ability to direct attention away from the obvious, with a precision that keeps your head spinning.

That whole thing is a form of abuse in itself.

It sucked to be suspicious for all those months.  To have that little thing deep within my spirit that made me wonder, only to have it be dismissed.

Once, he was outside cleaning the inside of his truck.  This wasn't a normal thing for him.  He very rarely washed his truck, or cleaned the trash out.  He told me that a girl from work needed him to pick her up, and give her a ride to work the next day.  He said he thinks that she might have a crush on him, but that she was a sweet kid, and that he kind of felt sorry for her.  She lived with her mom, whose birthday was only 2 weeks apart from his.  This girl was literally young enough to be his daughter.

From the very early beginning of our relationship, he had established honesty as a virtue he held the most dear.  He wouldn't even tell a white lie.  He was brutally honest.  Blunt.  Proclaimed often that he didn't care what other people thought.  He was going to say it like it is, whatever it is, and if people didn't like it, it was their problem.

So, if I was suspicious or concerned, and I'd appease that thing in my spirit, and question the situation, he'd deflect.  And I'd buy it.  Over, and over again, as other situations would arise, or people in town  would come to me with concerns about this girl.

I believed him when he said I was being ridiculous.  That I was being paranoid.  That he would never hurt his family.  That I was wrong for even thinking that he could.  That I hurt him for even suggesting such a thing.  How could I even think that of him?

I believed him when he said that the people in town were liars.  That they were gossips taking a little bit of truth--the fact that that sweet girl living with her mother had a crush on him--and that they were running with that little truth, and creating a big, ugly, completely untrue story.

Naturally, I felt terribly for falling prey to lies and gossip.  For listening to the people in town, over the man I had been married to for all those years.  Never mind that thing in my spirit.  It was nothing more than female emotion, and everyone knows that women are run on unpredictable emotion, and can't be trusted, right?

For our entire marriage, he was bold in his rants against pornography.  He believed pornography was evil, that viewing it was sinful, and he was even against R-rated movies that contained nudity.  So much so, in fact, that he'd record a movie and delete that bad scenes so that we could watch an edited version.

So, when I woke up early that morning to get a drink of water, and I startled him, and he quickly minimized whatever it was that he was viewing on his computer, I was more than just suspicious.  I sat across the room from him and I struck up a conversation, wondering all the while what would happen if I clicked that minimized button on the bottom of the screen.  I watched him.  I observed him.  His nervous slurps of coffee.  His nervous laugh.  For a half hour I watched while we talked, and at that point, I knew.  That thing in my spirit was validated.  I was calm.

It wasn't just the pornography.  It was way that he had preached against pornography for over 18 years.    But, in spite of his stand against it, in secret, he participated.

I discovered once and for all that morning, that the pedestal of honesty he stood on, the same pedestal I had him propped up on, was made of Jell-O.

Pornography today.  What's tomorrow going to bring?  Within 2 weeks, I was able to get him to confess to multiple emotional, lewd, and sexual affairs.

Listen to that thing in your spirit.  That little voice.  Quietly watch.  Listen.  And stay patient.  The more agitated, frustrated, or angry you allow yourself to be, the more likely the cheating spouse will use it to strengthen that weapon of deflection.  They'll make it be about your lack of trust, or your paranoia, or your jealousy.

The pain of betrayal is complex.  We are complex.  But, God has given us simple things, like that voice,  and listening to that little voice can be just what we need to take us out of denial, and on the right path of recovery and restoration.

living with a sex addict and the clues I missed telling me that things weren't OK

Recently, I have joined the leadership team of Celebrate Recovery at my church, CCV.  Last night, I had the opportunity to share my story with just under 20 newcomers, as we explained the CR program to them.  It's helpful for people to see the roads we have traveled, as we present ourselves transparently, offering our help to direct them down their road to recovery.

Talking about my story last night has left me thinking today about things I don't always think about.  And thinking about those things has made me think about the many people who are currently wearing the shoes I wore those 7+ years ago.

We had been married 18 years.  My husband was home every night.  Every night.  Without exception.  In fact, he was home, in the house, and he insisted on the kids and me being inside the house with him.

He never went out on weekend nights, or had any guys nights out.  He never had private talks on the phone.  Or late nights at work.

None of the usual things that would cause alarms to sound, or red lights to flash.  No red flag waving moments.

Except...

He was distant.  Impatient.  Angry.  On the computer a lot.  A lot.  He worked out a lot.  A lot.  He tanned himself a lot.

He made no effort to be involved in the lives of the kids.  He never spent quality time with them.  He never spent quality time with me.  Unless it was bedroom time.

He never took interest in home repair or upkeep.  He would respond with irritated anger if the kids asked anything of him.

Fridays were fun, and we would have Family Night.  That would include yummy, fun food, sometimes a family game, and usually a family movie.  Or, at least, a movie he would want to watch that he would allow us to watch with him.

But, Saturday morning would find him back on his computer, sometimes in a good mood, but usually not.

He was an early riser, like, 3:30 or 4:00am, so bedtime for him would always be between 8:00 and 9:00.  He would go to bed slightly later on Friday night, but no matter the day, he was up very early.  On the computer.

He would position the computer so that the screen would be away from us, so the light wouldn't bother us if we happened to wake up for a glass of water.  

He kept passwords on everything, and never shared them.  With anyone.

I was never allowed to open mail that was addressed to him.  Ever.

He seldom pursued friendships with other men.  He seldom maintained relationships with male friends. He didn't like any of my female friends.  He didn't trust anybody.  He assumed dishonesty in everyone.

He didn't allow me to have male friends.  I wasn't allowed to talk with mutual male friends.

I wasn't allowed to wear anything buttoned lower than about an inch, or maybe two inches below by collar bones.

Bedroom time was very difficult.  Since he was a morning person, he would wake me.  Even if I'd been up during the night with babies.  These times were emotionally painful, and even more so if they followed a night of anger.  He'd berate me in my waking hours, only to want to use me in my sleeping hours.  I would eagerly participate, hoping that a morning started well would lead to a happy day together, and believing that it was my duty to submit.

There are so many women (and men) who identify with my story.  So many.  Too many.

New Life Live is a resource I have used for many years.  They have a ton of information about sexual integrity, and even resources that can assist you in identifying whether or not your spouse is being unfaithful, and what you can do if they are.  

Marriage is sacred, and worth the fight.  Even if you have a spouse who has fallen in this area, there is so much hope that your marriage can be restored, and greatly improved upon.  The powerful impact a restored marriage can have on the many broken people out there is tremendous.

Getting past the hurt, the pain, and even the disgust in the unfaithful spouse is no small feat, but with a lot of work, it is extremely possible.  There is going to be a lot of work required regardless, if you want any hope of having a fulfilling life that isn't stuck in bitterness.

Tomorrow would have been our 25th wedding anniversary.  My marriage didn't survive.  But, I did.

I submit myself to you, my broken-hearted reader.  Please contact me if you, or anyone you know needs help.  Email me.  Friend Request me on Facebook.  Search for Kristi Tisor Ambriz, and Message me.  I'll accept your request.

Your life is valid, and full of purpose, and although this painful time will always be a part of your past, it doesn't have to affect you negatively for life.  Fly above it, by climbing out of it.  Want it.  And know you're not alone.

My Grandma -- Rising Above the Ashes

Four years ago today, my grandma passed away.

It is really something, isn't it, when we write or say something like that, and it kind of stops us, cold.  My fingers were honestly kind of stuck for a minute.  They had just typed words that still make my heart stop for a second.

Losing people we love is a difficult, but natural part of life.  This loss was particularly difficult for my family, because in every sense, my grandma was the Matriarch of our family, and the impact of her loss was felt by all of us who called her mom, or grandma, or GG.

The thing that will always stand out to me about her is how she took what had been handed her in this life, and she rose above it.  She was handed the title orphan at the tender age of 4.  She was soon handed the title abuse victim when a man she always referred to as "evil," hurt her as a child and teenage girl in ways she only just hinted at later in life.  She was handed the title single mom in an era when divorce wasn't an acceptable escape, no matter how drunk a woman's husband might be.

But, with her three girls as her inspiration to rise above it all, she worked her fingers to the bone to create a better life for her family.  She left a horrible situation, and even with financial challenge and difficulty, she created a more stable one for her children.

She had no idea how her strength, and inspiration would impact me, two generations later, when I would have to take those same steps.

I miss my grandma terribly, but, her whole family is very aware that she sacrificed her life to give life to us all.  We are none of us without problems, but we live with normal problems, and like the example she gave us, we work our fingers to the bone to rise above them.  Thankfully, the challenges we face pale in comparison to those that she endured.

My grandma passed away four years ago, but she passed out of this life, and into another that is blissfully free of the demons that haunted her here.  As her family, we can all smile knowing that she has finally found peace, and for once, she can finally relax!  Something none of us in this world were ever able to get her to do here.

Starting Monday, I will be featuring a weekly column from a guest columnist, Tracey Hallberg, called Stolen Innocence -- Rising Above the Ashes.  Like my grandma, Tracey has had to live with horrors beyond anything most of us will ever know.  But, unlike my grandma, Tracey was raised in a generation that has given her something my grandma's generation would never give her:  A Voice.

With that voice, Tracey blows the whistle on chemical dependence, mental illness, pediphilia, and incest.  Her story is raw, and difficult, and all too familiar for far to many of us.  Shining light on it gives Tracey a power over her demons that my grandma never fully knew.  My grandma worked them away.  Tracey exposes them away.

Her posts are not suitable for young children, and have a PG-13 rating.  They contain images and language that might offend some.  But, they contain so much help, and so much healing, and since her story is so close to home for me, I want to offer it so that it can help some on a level my story couldn't even touch.  Unfortunately, there are many who can relate to Tracey's story.  Like, my grandma.

OK.  Back to my grandma.  My family is really remembering her today, reminiscing with each other so many wonderful memories.  We all love it, that in spite of it all, she never stopped laughing.  In her own way, she too rose above her own ashes.  She had the best laugh.  The memory of it makes us all smile.

What joy it is, to take life and run with it.  We can choose to run away from it, but why do that, when there is so much to gain from just living it, learning from it, and running freely?

We celebrate that today.  Running freely with this thing we call life.  My grandma.  Tracey.  All of us.

Finding the Burnett Heart

I need to postpone Adam's Story -- Part 3, because I have a time sensitive review I want to share with you.

Last Saturday, Hugo and I saw Finding the Burnett Heart at the Lillian Theatre in Los Angeles.  I was on assignment with Life in LA, and the entire experience confirmed to me just how much I love my job.

Click This Link to Read my Life in LA Review

You've read the review.  Now, here's a little something about the cast.

Jeff L. Williams is the Lead Producer, and a lead actor in the play, and as it turns out, a kindred spirit.  In my review, I erroneously credited The Lillian Theatre for having the class to choose U2 songs in their "intercom music" before and after the show, and during intermission.  After reading my review, Mr. Williams gave me a much needed oh, by the way, when he told me that the music selection was a soundtrack, so to speak, and that they had hand selected each of the songs.  And that the U2 selections were all his own personal contribution.  Another reason why I love my job.  I get to work with awesome people, with impeccable taste.

This guy with impeccable taste also happens to be a fabulous actor, as it turns out.  He plays the father of a 16 year-old boy who comes out that he is gay.  By far the most endearing personality in the show, he warmed the hearts of the entire audience, when he accepted his son, and he promoted it boldly, in spite of the fact that he was challenged with accepting the sexual preference of his son.  That is no small feat to tackle as an actor, when most of us can't even pull that one off in real life.  To love, and accept someone dear, when you don't accept what they're doing.  But Mr. Williams pulled it off very well, allowing us to see a true battle going on in his spirit, while his family fell apart before him.  He demonstrated love and tenderness, and he also demonstrated frustration, and disappointment.  His character had confrontations, and Mr. Williams was able to let the audience in on the disappointments in his childhood without coming off bitter, or resentful, because his character really wasn't about either of those things.

James Handy is a veteran TV, film, and stage actor, and he played the boy's grandfather.  Mr. Handy worked his craft flawlessly, playing a mean-spirited, bigoted, and defeated man.  It took an actor with his level of talent to take the audience on an emotional ride that brought us from a place of hating him, then pitying him, and eventually loving him.  Many people can do anger on stage, as we have many places from which we can draw that emotion.  But to compartmentalize that emotion and display the varying levels, and triggers of anger, is definitely an art form.  He is able to shift in and out of humor, and he keeps us challenged in our feelings.  He can say one thing, and think another, and let us see it, without overacting.  He's subtle, but yet such a powerful actor.  It was a joy to watch him in action.

Colleen McGrann played the mother of the boy, and hers was the character with whom I identified with the most.  Thankfully, God has brought me far, and has showed me that it isn't my job to dispense hate, and judgement.  It's my job to dispense love.  Unfortunately, Grace doesn't extend any grace to her son, and in fact, is antagonist in the play.  Or, at least, her bitterness and anger are.  Ms. McGrann embodied the spirit of every one of us who have gotten lost in the troubled waters of misguided faith.  She was natural as an angry mom, angry wife, and angry Christian.  A thin, smaller woman, she was still able to push along the views of her character, going against 3 men at once, towering over them every time.  She expended high energy in just about every scene.  She would deliver a biting line, and the audience would gasp.  She owned all of us, bringing an audible response from us all, many times.

The boy.  Wow.  Joel Johnstone played the 16 year-old boy.  If I hadn't done a little snooping, I wouldn't have known that Mr. Johnstone is really 27.  Mr. Johnstone gives us insight into what it might be like for a child who has always respectfully abides by the rules of his parents, but yet has a secret that he fears they can't accept.  He has to demonstrate a wide range of emotions, and responses to the situation that would be a tremendous challenge for any actor, and he does it so well, we are able to really get what the boy is going through.  We see denial, fear, anguish, shame, anger, coolness, and amazingly, we also see happiness, laughter, joy, peacefulness, and even acceptance.  We see it in his face, his body, his countenance.  We hear it in his voice.  It takes a great deal of substance to pull all that off.  Joel Johnstone is the heart of the play, because of what he is able to bring to it.

The show closes this Sunday.  You have got to go see it!  Call 323.960.7792, or go to www.plays411.net.

Adam's Story -- Part 2

This is my least-favorite of this three part series.  It was our darkest years, and the years in which I actually contemplated suicide.  I never planned how I wanted to die, not really.  But I begged God to please take me.  To maybe steer my van into the concrete median on the freeway?  Maybe if I was driving fast enough, the impact would be great enough to end it all...I obsessed about it.  I felt like I had failed my children--I couldn't fix their pain, and I couldn't fix our situation.  I believed that they would all be better off without me.  

When Adam first started junior high, he had tremendous support.  I met the principal the day I registered him for school--a total honey badger.  Perfect lady to have on Adam's side.  Smart.  Tough.  Sharp.  Soon, the teaching staff fell in love with him, which was comforting.  He has always been comfortable around adults, and he felt safe with their presence and attention.

He joined the school band and developed friendships.  He was a Woodcrest Wolverine.  Trying so hard to create a normal experience for him, I got involved in the Band Booster Club, a parents' group that helps raise funds for the band, helps the band instructor as needed, etc.  I wanted him to see my support.  That I was interested in the things he was interested in.  But, being involved allowed me to really notice some things as his 7th grade year ticked away.  I observed that Adam gravitated toward the rougher kids.  It seemed they were the ones he identified with the most.  The kids in Crisis, just like him.  Single parent kids.  Kids with disappointments and broken hearts.  With little to no love and support from home, and with pretty bad attitudes.  Adam stood out amongst them at first, because he had love and support, but it was only a matter of time before their influence would graft to his own broken heart, and grow something in Adam I never saw coming.

His stress level increased.  He had days when he didn't want to go to school.  I would take him to school, and he would refuse to leave the van.  He would cry bitter, and defiant tears.  Sometimes he won.  Sometimes I won.  Sometimes, from the curb of his school, I had to call the school office for reinforcement.

I had gotten a job as as a server at a country club halfway through Adam's 7th grade year.  My life in Nebraska had me at home full time, raising the kids, and homeschooling them.  This was a life we chose, and it was a life we loved.  But, my choice to move to California left me on my own, with no resume.  Working as a server was all I could find to do, but it was great, because it increased my hourly income when I factored in my tips.  The downside was that I had to work a lot in order to  survive.  Which meant less time at home.  Less time to care for my family.  For the kids who were used to my availability, it was a huge stress.  

After the children and I lived in California for a year, my husband moved from Nebraska to join us.  He had stayed behind in Nebraska when we moved.  He spent the year in counseling.  We moved into a townhouse, and not sure that he was fully recovered from his anger issues and control, I could only have us live as roommates.  It was a practical decision.  The kids were suffering with me having to work and be away so much, and with the separation of their parents and life changes.  He could help out, and give himself to their needs.  My deepest hopes and dreams were that he would be available to them for the first time, ever.  That we could heal.  We worked on rebuilding our life together.

But, as Adam's 8th grade year moved on, Adam's stress only seemed to increase.  He is a beautiful piano player, and played all the time when we lived in Nebraska.  But, I noticed he never played the piano once we moved to California, in spite of the fact that we had a piano, and even though we had a piano teacher come to our house weekly so that we could continue the piano lessons the kids started in Nebraska.  Normalcy.  Trying so hard for that sense of normalcy, and to recapture the things important to my kids.  But, his aversion to playing piano was so intense, that it got to the point where he would have panic attacks when the piano teacher would come.  He begged me to have the piano teacher leave, and never return.  And he never touched the piano.

His grades fell.  His episodes of not wanting to go to school increased.  He was always kind and respectful to the staff, but they could still see signs of stress.  We made the decision to have a counselor from a local counseling center come to the school weekly to meet with him.  And in addition to the counseling through the city, we got both him into private counseling, as well as encouraging his involvement in the youth group at church.

Never, when I separated the children and myself from my husband, did I want the end result to be divorce.  It was a separation, for the sake of reconciliation.  Beauty from ashes.  With great hope that our nightmare would be behind us, and that we would emerge a stronger, more healthy family.

But, after a year of living together, it was evident that my husband hadn't changed in the ways that we needed him to.  Things started out so good.  He was available to the kids.  Responsive to their needs.  Patient.  Joyful.  He wanted us to move back to Nebraska, and since that was where we had spent the majority of our life together, where all but Tessa had been born, the kids and I wanted to move back too.  But he didn't want to move back to Gothenburg, where our life had been before.  He wanted us to live in a community completely new to the kids and me.  The one he had moved to a few months after we separated, before the kids and I came to California.  It was a 5 hour drive from Gothenburg.

I had too many people advising against it, concerned about him relocating us to a new community.  Fearing that our lack of an established support system would too easily enable us to revert back to our former roles.  That the kids and I would too easily be left with a life of control and abuse.  I presented these concerns of so many of our friends and family to my husband.  Not that any of them thought that there was no hope; they just thought that it was too soon.  He responded negatively.  He was mad that I listened to them.  Mad that I needed, or even wanted more time.  Over the days and weeks following, his anger increased.  He acted out more against the kids.  He resented me.  Despondent, I made the decision to file for divorce.  Tessa, Abi, Lee, and I moved to a less expensive house closer to my parents' house, and my husband moved into an apartment.  With Adam.  Our family was divided.

Although he had moved out of my house, I stayed involved in Adam's life.  High school was a nightmare for him.  The rougher kids he had gravitated toward before were now into bigger things.  Gang activity was prevalent in his school.  He joined a group of kids that had gang ties, and were very gang-like in their behavior.  Brotherhood.  Violence.  Bad attitude.  Defiance.

We kept him in counseling.  Still, he was slipping away.  He failed every class in the first semester of his freshman year.  I was at his school a lot, meeting with his guidance counselor, and teachers.  They observed that Adam was deliberately failing.  Two teachers told me he was the smartest kid in their classes.  The other kids would go to him for help, he would give it, but yet, he himself would fail.  Next, he failed his second semester.  He had to leave the school and go to a charter school that had an independent study program.  As bad as this was, I was relieved, as it got him away from the daily influence of the gang he was involved in.

I worked a second job at a restaurant near his charter school.  He had to go to school twice a week to turn in work and test.  He would walk to the restaurant to see me sometimes.  I loved seeing him, and drank in the opportunity to connect with my son.  But, when he would come to my house, he would end up having loud, verbal outbursts, when we'd disagree over anything.  Highly emotional, even attempting to intimidate me by towering over me, with clenched fists.  I had to tell him that as long as he behaved that way, he couldn't come to my house.  I would not subject our family to that kind of environment.  Our family.  Where was our family?  How had this happened?

The divorce took a year and a half, mostly because I dragged my feet.  I desperately wanted my husband to snap out of his state, work hard on his character, attitude, and role, and want his family and marriage back.  Make me stop the divorce.  But, he never did.

I was dying, or thinking about it, at least, and trying so hard to heal.  I was in Celebrate Recovery, and I was seeing all of the wrong ways in which our family had functioned.  The wrong ways in which I had functioned.  I started making changes.   In everything.  No more undisciplined disregard for keeping up our house, though this part was hard, with me working 6-7 days a week.  No more accepting laziness as normal.  No more eating whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted.  And for me, no more wrapping the essence of my entire being into doing whatever I needed to do, to make and keep my children happy.  They had to take responsibility for that, accepting my guidance and example, but doing the work to achieve it, themselves.  If they weren't happy, they could no longer project their disappointments onto me, expecting me to make happiness happen for them.  We all had to accept the things that had happened in our family, and then do what we needed to do, to make our family healthy, and good.  A lot of changing had to take place.  The combination of the way I approached them and life itself so differently from how they were used to me being their entire life before, and having our life be so different, was very threatening and uncomfortable for them.

But, yet life with their dad was as it had always been before.  It was normal for them.  The way they were used to life being, even if it was dysfunctional and unhealthy.  Gaming as much as they wanted, not having to do house chores, or pick up after themselves.  Living under the rule and control of their dad, complete with verbal insults, and loud outbursts.  Hating the new feel of home with me, and craving a feeling of normalcy, Tessa eventually moved out and lived with her dad and Adam.  Our family was truly divided.

It was around the time that I was really thinking about that concrete median on the freeway, that Hugo, a high school mate and friend of my sister's husband, came into our life.  When Tessa and Adam came over for visits, and Hugo was at my house, they were comfortable with him, and enjoyed being around.  Our times together were more pleasant.  Less stressful.

The divorce was final in early December, 2009.   Hugo proposed Christmas Day, at my parents' house.  Adam was happy with the engagement.  Feeling urgency to get on with our life and create a healthy and new normal for the kids, we married two months later.  He lived with me after we married, until we bought our current house in Glendora.  I quit my job, and we moved.  This was nearly two years ago.

Just before we moved, when I told Adam that I was quitting my job, and that we were going to be moving to Glendora, he shocked me when he said, "Mom, I can't tell you how long I've been  waiting for you to say that."  And then a few weeks later, he said something else that shocked me even more.  He said that he wanted to move out of his dad's house, and move in with Hugo and me.

Hope.  But, there were obstacles in his future that would challenge whether or not he was really ready to take life seriously, put away old habits, and pursue a better path.  He still had a rough road ahead of him.

Adam's Story -- Part 1

Adam.  He is my second-born child, and first son.  He was born when Tessa was 2 1/2, right after we moved from our home state of California, to our adopted home state of Nebraska.

When he was born, he weighed 10 pounds, 1 ounce.  I remember looking at him in the hospital, and thinking, "Who are you?"  I had been so intimately acquainted with Tessa, that all of my mommy-energy had been injected into her from the time I found out I was expecting her, up until I became the mother or two.  I thought it odd, that I had another child who wasn't Tessa.  It's hard to explain, but I somehow wrapped motherhood into being her mom.  Now, I had a new baby, and I had to redefine myself as a mom.

This was kind of hard.  Not the bonding part, as my "Who are you," question was answered during that first night in the hospital when I held him, and nursed him, and fell in love with him.  No, the hard part was being a codependent who had defined herself as the one who cared for the needs of Tessa for 2 1/2 years.  I couldn't devote 100% of me into her anymore, as that percentage had to be shared with her brother.  She never once had an issue with it.  Never a moment of jealousy.  But, I struggled with tending to a newborn who needed me now, when Tessa would need me too.  Maybe she fell and was crying.  Maybe she was hungry.  Maybe she needed me to reach a toy for her.

Adam did eventually settle into our family, I got my rhythm, and within seconds, it seemed, he was up and playing with Tessa.  It was at about this time that we started noticing that something wasn't right with Tessa's development.  Where she had been WAY ahead developmentally, she began lagging behind.  And then regressing.  She had known all of her colors by the time she was 1, but at 3, she couldn't tell blue from yellow, or at least she couldn't tell me that she knew.  She lost her English language, and she developed her own language.  A language I was able to understand, because I was with her every day.  It was also a language Adam understood.

With her development regressing, Tessa and Adam soon became the same age.  My twins.  Inseparable.  Each others' best friend.  Into the same toys, into the same Disney movies, into the same games and activities.  Adam was a tremendous comfort to me in those difficult days, because he just simply loved Tessa, and he reminded me with his actions that he never saw a thing wrong with her.  To him, she was a typical child, and although we had a team of experts diagnosing and treating her then diagnosed Pervasive Developmental Disorder -- Not Otherwise Specified, Adam allowed a perspective for me that proved that Tessa was OK.  That there wasn't a thing that she couldn't do that would stop her from being OK, and that even though PDD is within the Autistic Spectrum, Tessa could indeed bond with others, and when it's all said and done, she'll be fine, once we figure out the ways into her brain.

Adam has a very strong leadership personality.  My dad used to call him The Little General.  He'd take him to the park when Tessa was at school, and laugh at how Adam would just round up the kids and engage them with his ideas of what they could play.  He'd give everyone a part, set out a plan, and attack the playground.

Soon, I started to see Adam as my firstborn, with the combination of Tessa's more withdrawn and shy personality, and his more outgoing, problem-solving charge.  This continued on, throughout their childhood.

When Adam was 5, we moved from Gretna, Nebraska, which is a suburb of Omaha, to rural Gothenburg, Nebraska, which is in the very center of Nebraska, just south of the Nebraska Sandhills.  We lived in a very old ranch house on 640-acres.   We were a half hour from the nearest grocery store, and a mile from our nearest neighbor.

These two photos are courtesy of my dear friend, Mardel Manary.  A true Ranch Woman.

We had dogs, cats, and eventually a strawberry roan American Quarter Horse mare, and a black grade pony.  The mare was Tessa's, and the pony was Abi's.  Lee was a baby still.  Adam was 11 at this time, and he needed a horse.

He had gone the dirt bike route, but found that to be disappointing.  It needed to be a father-son project, and despite his requests, and even pleadings with his dad to work on it with him, he was left disappointed.  Tragically disappointed, even.  He would cry to me regularly, for nearly 2 years, begging me to do something to persuade his dad to spend time with him, working on the dirt bike.

The dirt bike was important to him, and so was baseball.  His coaches would tell him that he needed to be worked with at home.  I would work with him, but he wanted his dad, and he would seldom to never go outside to throw the ball.  This would upset Adam.  Clearly, the common pattern was that Adam desperately needed his dad to be there for him, and over and again, his dad wasn't.

We owned a house in Broken Bow, Nebraska, another rural Nebraska town, and our house needed its lawn mowed in the growing season.  We had tried to hire local people to mow for us, but decided it best for us to do the lawn ourselves.  This was a very good opportunity for Adam to spend time with his dad.  Weekly, they would drive the 40 minutes it took to get to Broken Bow, mow the lawn there, and then drive home.  Starved for his dad's attention, Adam looked forward to his every week.  But, he could never get his dad to do the things he was interested in, like work on his dirt bike, or throw a ball.  I started noticing anger welling up within Adam as he neared puberty.  He would never display that anger toward his dad.  It was always to me, at bedtime, when I'd tuck him in.  He would cry, and articulate his disappointment, and ask the questions.  Questions like, "Why won't Dad spend time with me?"

This broke my heart.  And his anger was strange to see, as he had always been the easy going, jovial kid.  Always happy, always funny, always sweet, and tender.  He had an intense love for his family, and Tessa in particular.  Hearing him convey disappointment to the point of showing anger toward his dad was difficult for me, and I didn't know what to do about it.  I would talk with his dad, but he would only get angry with me for nagging him about it.  I saw that my then husband was withdrawing from his family, wanting to spend less and less time with us.  Instead, he would sun himself in the bed of his pick-up truck, or exercise for hours at a time, every afternoon and evening after work, having little to nothing to do with us.

I made the most of my time with the kids, partly because I wanted to, and partly because I was trying to make up for what their dad wouldn't do with them.  We so enjoyed the horses, that I suggested to Adam that we sell his dirt bike and get a horse of his own.  He loved the idea.  And once the dirt bike was gone, we set out looking for the right horse for him.  He was 11 years old.

My husband had a friend from work who had horses, and she had a colt she thought would be perfect for Adam.  We went to her house one Saturday morning.  In her mid-twenties, she lived with her mom.  The colt she had was still a baby.  Adam wouldn't even be able to ride him for at least 3 years.  Adam needed a horse now, and he needed a horse that was trained.  But, my husband and his friend worked hard to convince Adam and me that this was the horse for him, and if we didn't geld him, he could be a stud to Tessa's registered mare.  Their lines were compatible.  We could raise horses, and even sell them.  But, I wondered, what about Adam?

Never was Adam considered by either his dad, or his dad's friend.  Sure, they said that down the line Adam would benefit, because he'd have an amazing potentially money-making horse with a very good disposition.  But, would it be safe for Adam to have a stud for a horse?  He was so young.  Would this be safe?

The friend with the horse, and her mother, both agreed that he would be completely safe with this animal.  But, not content with their confidence, I started asking around to people who have raised, trained, and cared for horses all their lives.  I had a long list of about 20 people, including my husband's friend and her mother.  With the exception of those two, it was unanimous that the stud horse idea for a little boy was a dangerous, and very bad idea.  And when I presented Adam's dad with my conclusion that we not get the horse for Adam, he became angry.  Because as it turned out, he had been having an intimate affair with that young woman, and he really wanted to help her out financially, by buying the horse.  With Adam's dirt bike money.

Of course, I didn't know that at the time, but I eventually found out.  Which led to me secretly taking all four of my babies away from Nebraska, and away from the life we knew and loved.  We moved to Ontario, California to live with my parents, and be closer to my family.

At this point, Adam was 12 and ready for 7th grade.  He had been home schooled his entire life, and would experience public school for the first time, in Southern California, in a junior high school.  I dropped him off at school that first day, only a few days after we rolled into California.  He was scared, disoriented, disillusioned, and holding in an intense, deep anger fueled by disappointment and disbelief that this thing he now called his life wasn't just a very bad dream.