Not saying it was all bad...

It wasn't all bad, and I feel I need to point that out.  There were times when life seemed good and happy, and things did go our way at times.  I loved them both very much through it all, and I know they loved me too.  We didn't have a lot of money or fancy possessions, and we never had fancy homes, and never a car, but we always seemed to have enough.  We managed to get by and never went hungry, and although there were lean times, and we ate a lot of beans, it wasn't all bad.  

I can remember times spent with Mom that were very special.  She used to keep life insurance policies on us kids, and every once in a while she would cash in on them and we would go shopping.  Downtown Denver in those days was a whole lot different than it is now and for us, it meant a bus ride, maybe transferring to another before we got there.  But her and I could spend a whole day down there just looking at all the sights and watching all the people.  I remember walking with my hand in hers and how good and safe I felt at times like that.  She took care of me and always loved me.  I remember as a very small child we were downtown, had been there all day long, and we were both very tired.  We were at the bus stop waiting for our bus and it was bone-chilling cold.  It was dark and it was snowing and there was old snow on the ground, piled up here and there, it was miserable.  She realized how cold I was and so she opened up her coat and wrapped me inside with her.  I had a little hole to look out of but it was like being in my own little cozy nest.  Those are the times that I treasure in my memories and sometimes they are what I think kept me from being more damaged mentally than I was.
    Mom passed on a few years ago, and then my brother followed her about 6 months later.  He died so young, but he was in a nursing home by then with horrible health.
     When Mom died, I was living a long way from her.  I got a call from the people at the Assisted :Living place where she was living at the time.  They told me that Mom was in the hospital and that she had fallen and broken her hip.  I called her right away and told her I was on my way and at that time she was able to talk to me, but I had a terrible time understanding what she was saying.  In my mind, I now believe she had a stroke that took a toll on her.  I believe that is why she fell, but the official report only said that she fell.  Anyway, it took me almost 3 days to drive there, I'm not much for flying.  All the time during that drive she was on my mind and I had so many things I wanted to say to her.  I wanted to let her know that I had a lot of good memories with her, that all the awful things we went through, I didn't blame her for anymore.  I wanted to tell her how sorry I was for the way I acted towards her at times.  And I honestly thought that she had only broken her hip and that I would stay with her until she could mend and recover.  I wanted to tell her all of this.  When I finally got to the hospital, she was in a sort of coma, she couldn't talk to me.  I think I knew inside that this might be it.  At one point I felt sure she knew I was there though, I held her hand and talked to her and I felt her fingers move, I think she knew.  And she lifted her head like she was looking up above her and a smile grew on her face.  She was seeing something that I couldn't, but I knew whatever it was was beautiful, I could tell by her smile. Then she relaxed back into herself and slept.  Finally, I went across the street to a room the hospital provided for family and I went to bed, thinking a few hours and I would be able to see and talk to Mom.  But the phone rang after only about an hour, it was the nurse that was there and she told me that Mom had passed.  I was so angry, I asked why she didn't call me sooner!  I told them where I was and to call me if there was any change at all.  I was only minutes away.  Why did they wait?  And she said, it just happened so fast and without warning.
     And then I got angry at Mom, why the hell did she leave without me being there?  How could she do that to me?  The anger just filled me up, I felt like once again she DID it to me.  It wasn't a good feeling, and anger is not my usual way of dealing with things, but the rage came out and there it was.  By the time I got over there it was about gone, I realized that the nurse did the best she knew how, no point being angry at her.  And I also realized at that moment that Mom didn't want me to see her last breath.  She waited for me though, she waited for me to get there before she went.  That was some comfort for me although not nearly enough.  There never is enough at times like those.
     They were awesome at the hospital though, they took complete care of everything including calling the mortuary.  Mom did leave a do not resuscitate paper with them, and she had taken care of what would happen to her after her death.  I know she did that for me too, to make it easier.  She had donated her body to a teaching hospital so there wasn't even a funeral to attend to.  While waiting for the mortician to get there a lady came to sit with me, it was her job to take care of the bereaved I guess.  She asked me if I wanted to sit in the room with Mom, and after I had seen her laying there dead, I knew she wasn't in the body, so I couldn't go back in there.  I didn't want to see her dead anymore.  I wanted to remember her as she was the night before, looking up and smiling.  She was most likely seeing her own mother there waiting to greet her.  I like to think that is what happened.
     There was nothing to do now but wait for the process to be over.  When Greg got there, the mortician, he completely took over.  He gave me her hearing aids, that is all she had with her, and he asked if he could have her glasses to donate.  I told him yes, of course.  He explained to me where they were taking her and that after they were done with her body, they would send me her ashes.  He was awesome to me, and I can never Thank him enough for being so wonderful at such a difficult time.  I didn't know at the time how long it would be before I could get her remains.  It was almost 3 years.  And  that is a whole other story.  At that point there was nothing else for me to do for her.  I left her there in their care and went to the place where she lived to give them the news and to take care of her stuff.  And when I got there they already knew and some of the girls were even crying.  I knew in her last years she was loved and cared for and that helped a lot.  After packing up what I could take with me and giving away the rest I had to do one last thing.  Tell my brother.  He was in a nursing home about 50 miles from there and I had to drive there with tears blinding me, knowing what I had to face and somehow get through all of that too.  I've never felt so alone in my life.  I had no one there to lean on, and really no one that could understand.  It was probably the hardest day of my life.       But face it I did.  I got to the nursing home, and they pointed out his room.   I walked in and saw him sitting on his bed and when he looked up he was just so happy to see me and so surprised.  He asked me if I had been to see Mom yet and how was she doing?  He knew about the fall but wasn't expecting what happened anymore than I was.  When I told him he fell apart and we just held each other sobbing together, nothing else we could do.  I stayed there in his town at a motel for a few days, and then told him I had to get home.  It was so tough driving away from there, I had a feeling that it was the last time I would see him for a long time.  And after that we talked on the phone at times and kept up with each other the best we could.  He always asked me if I would come back to see him.  I told him I would try.
     But I didn't get the chance.  About six months after Mom passed I got a phone call telling me he had passed in his sleep.
     It is very hard to write this down, the feelings are rushing over me now as I type.  So much sorrow, so much pain, it's still almost unreal to me.  I thought when Mom passed I would find some relief from all the guilt, and when he passed I felt the same thing there, maybe now I could find relief.  But all I felt was anger and pain.  I was so hurt, I felt like even in death, they were hurting me.  I was angry that they were together yet again, and leaving me out.  They both went off and left me without a thought is how it felt at the time.  Always, always Mom favored him, gave him all the attention, loved him in some special way that I didn't have.  Anger, resentment, hurt, the feelings rushed into my head and stayed for a long time.  And there they were again, loving each other so much that they even died close together.  I wasn't even close to being done grieving over Mom, I didn't even have her remains yet to bury, and then he left too!  It was so unfair, they left me again.  Once again and even more permanent this time I was on my own.  I didn't feel relief, I felt anger and hurt.  My whole family was gone now, I had no one and no way to find the healing I needed so badly.  Mom left without letting me tell her what I needed to tell her.  And he left with her, they were together and I was alone.  I still really don't understand it, I can deal with it better now and I know that they didn't mean to hurt me, I am not angry anymore.  And I still talk to them, I feel them with me nearly everyday and I know they loved me, both of them did.  They didn't desert me, it was only their time and they needed to be together in the next life, and one day I know I will join them.  And I know that when I next see them, they will be healthy, in mind and spirit, they will be healthy and living and learning and being happy and healthy.  I can look at it now and remember there were good times, there are good memories and it wasn't a total waste.  And I know that all the pain we suffered together and apart made me a stronger person.
     I can own that anger and not regret it, it got me through an impossible time in my life.  It got me back home on that long road trip, and it gave me the strength I needed at that time to survive it all.  And it was long from being over for me.  About a month after my brother passed I went to the post office and picked up his ashes.  They were in a cardboard box, inside the ashes were wrapped in a plastic baggy and tied with a bread tie.  I got to deal with that one alone too.  I brought him home and put him on a shelf and decided to wait to deal with it until Moms remains arrived too.  That shelf became a shrine to them, pictures and little keepsakes, you name it, they were there.  I saw it everyday for almost 3 years, his cardboard box, and trinkets.  Never being able to really heal or finish the grieving process. And finally after all that time Mom showed up the same way, in a box, a little bit fancier but not much.  Picked up at the post office, alone again to deal with it.  And still a long way to being healed from it all, it was as bad as the day she died, the pain, the hurt...but Thank God, no more anger.  And I put her on that shelf too, not sure what to do with it them.  It was there another six months or so while I decided what to do.  Finally I decided I wanted them to be close to me and I went and bought two trees and put them underneath them.  I put them in the ground in full view of my kitchen window.  I see them there everyday, and I talk to them when I water or when I just sit out there and it is okay now.  In our own way we are together again and it is good.
     And I am beginning  to find the peace I have looked for all of my life.  I am healing.   This many years of hurt, anger, confusion, the whole gamut, it's beginning to make sense to me.  It has brought me to where I am now, it has made me who I am and for the first time in my life, I like me.  I am worthwhile, and I deserve to let myself feel happiness and I have learned just recently how to stand up for myself.  I know that I will always have me.  And I have promised myself that no matter what, I will never allow anyone to ever beat me down so far that I lose who I am again.  I am strong, I am good and I will enjoy every year the Good Lord gives me to be on this earth,  and when it is time for me to cross over, I will be ready and fearless.  I can always find joy, and mostly I know that I deserve to be happy.  The guilt I have carried every single day of my life is being left behind and I am glad to finally let go of it.  A friend of mine once said to me, "I am not my own fault!"  And that rings true for me to this day.  I am not my own fault, at least not the beginning of my life.  Now I can take over and gladly take responsibility for what I can become.  I can do that for the good and the bad, and it gives me my own power to be who I am.  I will never give that away again.  Much love to all and especially the ones that made it this far through my ramblings!  Thanks for listening.

My brother

Okay, a bit about Steve, my brother.  Right here I need to explain that my Mom named him Steve, but later on as he became an adult, he changed his name to Zac.  Zac will be what I call him from here on, it will save me confusion and maybe you too.  It took me a long time to start calling him by this name, but if I messed up, he would always say "Steve don't live her no more!".  I finally got the new habit, it took Mom a lot longer as well as other people he knew.  You may be wondering why anyone would change their name, well, you had to know my brother.  He was a very messed up kid, and grew into a very messed up adult.  He was hard to live with as long as I remember, never like other kids, always either in trouble with the law, or in trouble with neighbors, or with Mom, or anyone else that got mixed up with him.  
     Not many people understood him, I think I knew him better than most, and even I didn't know him most of the time.  It was a love/hate relationship we had, but unlike most sibling relationships, I think ours was different.  He was two years older than me, but it was me they called out of my second grade class to go try to calm him down in another class.  He was usually freaking out and almost always in a mood that scared most people.  He was scary looking when he was scared or mad, or in any way upset and most people just tried to stay away from him.  For some reason, he trusted me and I could usually get him to calm down and come back to earth.  I never understood what was wrong with him and for most of my life I blamed it on the fact that he didn't have a father for a role model.  No one to teach him that boys didn't cry and boys didn't hit girls, and all the other things that fathers could teach their sons.  
     One time at one of the many, many schools we went to, I was called out of class and told to go find my brother, he was headed for the high school down the street a few blocks.  He had some bigger boys chasing him and they were going to beat him up, I guess he stole something from them, or they said he did.  He went straight into the high school, not through the doors, but straight through a huge plate glass window!  I never did catch up to him, but some kids I saw told me what happened.  He made it through that one with only a few scratches on his hands.  I think he lived under a lucky star in a lot of ways, because some of the things he survived would have killed anyone else.  Things like that happened all the time when he was around.  He was always stealing from someone, anything that he could pick up.  He stole from friends, family, even me when he could.  And if he didn't steal from me, he talked me out of it.  Sometimes it was just easier that way, hard to explain.  And some things, he not only stole, but then he would totally destroy.  Our neighbors across the alley for instance, it was a family with two young sons, maybe a bit older than Zac and I.  They had a garage across the alley from us and lot's of times we would see them out there all together, building model cars.        They had shelves full of finished ones and even some under glass.  Zac was never invited to join them, I guess they already found he wasn't a good one to be around.  One day I got home from school, and he was at the top of the stairs in our house, and had a big piece of wood laid out at the top, it was a ramp.  He had stolen them right out of that garage when they left it open part way.  It had to have taken several trips for him to get them all!   He was running those cars down the ramp as hard as he could, down the stairs and right into a wall!  There was already a pile of wreckage down  there, I would say about 20 of them totally destroyed, nothing left of them worth fixing.  All in all I think he must have destroyed at least forty or fifty of them.  Later that same evening we were playing in the back yard, and all of a sudden that man, the father of those two boys came out of nowhere, and was he ever mad, his face was beet red and he chased Zac right out of our yard screaming profanities and swearing he would kill him.  Zac managed to get away, but it was close.  Later the man came and talked to my Mom, told her what happened and told her he best not ever see him anyway near his place again, he would call the cops.  She didn't have any money to pay him for the damage, and I think he knew she couldn't do that, but he was still so mad, I think Zac knew better than to show his face around that man for a long time.  

This story will have to continue...next blog coming soon on this subject.

Growing up with someone who has a personality disorder.

Before I go any further with my story, I should probably tell you what the main point of me even writing my story is.
     My Mother was mentally ill, she had some sort of personality disorder.  My brother was also very sick, he was many, many years later diagnosed with Schizophrenia.   I'm not sure Mom was ever diagnosed with anything other than she had a Dr. who prescribed her "Nerve pills".  She had other pills too, but mostly to help her deal with the "nervous condition" she supposedly had.  I know she took some very strong stuff at times, like Quayludes <sp> and librium, stuff like that.  I know the quayludes as I tried them, she gave me one and I found I loved the feeling they gave me.  I helped myself to them for a while, but when I took so many that I don't even remember what happened at school that day, and only vaguely remember getting home, I realized that wasn't something I wanted to feel ever again.  They were laying all over the house, and I figured if she gave  them to me, it couldn't be bad.  Live and learn.
     The reason for this blog is to show the effect mental illness has on the children living with it, what it can do to your life and how it can totally destroy a persons ability to function in a healthy world.   I don't know how it is in the mental health field now, but back then I  think they must not have known much about it.  And for sure there was  no rules or structures in place to protect the innocent ones living with it.  If so, I certainly never benefited from it.
     By writing my story, I hope to show my children that when I left them, it was from a place of total love and not what they grew up believing.  I was protecting them the only way I knew how.  I married their father when I was fifteen years old, I was already pregnant, and wasn't even old enough to drive a car.  When I got my first driver license my husband had to sign his permission for me to get it.  He had become my legal guardian, isn't that a hoot?   Then after the first son was born, not even two years later I found out I was pregnant again.  This time I was seventeen and still not even old enough to make my own decisions about my body.  I wanted to have my tubes tied, I knew at that point, two babies were enough.  My husband even had to sign his permission for me to do that.  He was 7 years older than me, I suppose they thought he was smarter, more mature?  I don't know.  Why they would even allow a seventeen year old girl to have her tubes tied, is totally beyond me now.  I regretted that decision many times afterwards, but it was only one more regret in a long list.
      After our second son was born, I went into a depression so bad, I could hardly function.  I wasn't able to give my sons even the simplest things, I felt so inadequate.   I wanted to just stay in bed and not have to think about anything.  Sleep was my only peace.   My husband at the time was very jealous and insecure, even to the point of accusing me of having affairs behind the grocery store with the bag boys.  I didn't know how to live with it.  He didn't even like it if I asked him to watch the kids so I could get out of the house and go for a walk.  He was just sure I was meeting someone behind his back.   I had only moved location and traded one dominant sick personality for another.  I am sure if they knew anything back then, I would have been diagnosed with post par-tum depression, I fit all the symptoms at the time.  Of course, I don't even think they knew what that was back then.
     Then one day I had gotten supper all ready and waiting for when the husband came home, but he came in drunk after drinking some wine with his buddies or something.  He was late and I was very angry by then.  And seeing him so drunk and so ugly, I knew I had had it with him.  I threw the food in the trash, and the fight was on.  I realize it was time I got out of there, but he wouldn't let me go, first he pushed me into a wall, while I was holding the baby.  I'm not saying he was ever violent, I don't think he meant to do it, but he did.  I was doing my best to get my stuff together and both babies ready to go.  He went into the kitchen and came out with a small kitchen knife, not even a sharp one, threatening to kill himself with it.  He even went so far as to act like he was stabbing himself in the chest with it.  It was a butter knife for crying out loud, but I didn't know for sure at that point.  I was screaming by then, the kids were crying, and our neighbors called the police.  I made it to the car and before I could get it started he was at me again, through the window, yelling and screaming and acting such a fool, somehow I ended up not leaving at that moment, I think it was to avoid running him over as he was hanging through the window.
      I got out of the car and went back inside, and the next thing I know he has his gun in hand, he is threatening to shoot himself or me telling me if I leave it will be over his dead body or mine.  I just reached out and grabbed it out of his hands telling him to stay away from me, and ran back outside.  He came at me again and I threw the gun down as hard as I could on the concrete sidewalk.  It broke right at the handle, the barrel was completely broken off.  It was about this time we both heard the sirens and knew it was for us.  He picked up the part of the gun that held the bullets and ran inside.  The police came around the house shortly after this asking me what was going on and where he was.  I told them about the gun and what had happened and told them he wasn't dangerous, the gun was broken and showed them what was left on the ground.  The first cop unhooked his gun and said he was going in and that the part of the gun the husband had was the business end and it was still very dangerous.
     The next think I knew they were bringing him out of the house in handcuffs.  They told me at that point that if I wanted him to be arrested I would have to sign a paper pressing charges against him.  I signed it, I sure as hell didn't know how to deal with him, the wine had turned him into a maniac as far as I was concerned and I had, had enough of him to last a lifetime by that point.
      I don't remember much detail of  what happened after that, I do know that he was released the next day.  His family were all very angry at me asking me why I didn't call them instead of having him arrested.  I couldn't get through to any of them that I wasn't even given an opportunity to do that, even if I would have had the presence of mind to do it.  I did what I had to do, and I was the one that was punished, they all just hated me for doing that, and his sister was my role model at that time, I thought she was the only one in that family that even cared about me at all.  She was angry too, I was pretty much lost after that.
    The husband had a lifelong dream back then to join the FBI, he wanted it more than anything.  Of course with him having a record now, that was off the table.  And who else could be to blame but me for signing the arrest thing.  It was all on me, my fault, I ruined his life.  No one could even see that it was him that brought it on, not me.  I even felt for a long time that it was my fault.  I was programmed by a long life of blame, that anything that went wrong was my fault somehow, it was part of my dependency on crazy people that brought it on I suppose.
     It wasn't too long after that that I finally lost it completely, I had a total breakdown and had to get away from him, I really felt I had no other choices at all.  It was either that or I would lose any sanity I had left.  When I told him I had to go, the first of many attempts, he told me that I could take the kids, but it would be over my dead body.  He had said that many times, and I believed him.  I had seen how he was when he had a gun, I even saw him shoot at a deer one time and I think it was wounded, but he never tried to find it.  It wasn't hunting season and he didn't even have a hunting rifle, it was a 22 bott line special, with a longer barren than most pistols.  I'm not sure why that sticks in my mind, guns are not something I know much about at all, especially back then.   I remember screaming at that deer telling her to run!  Get out of here!  But she just stood there with those big eyes looking at us.
     So, when I left, I left with nothing, I ran and ran and ran.  I left the kids with him, not only because I feared his threats, but because I had no way of raising them, and I knew it.  I was barely eighteen years old, I had dropped out of school, I knew that I couldn't take them to my Mother's house, she wasn't someone that  I would want to be around them for long amounts of time.  I had nowhere to go with them, I had nowhere to go with myself either.  All I could do was remember how bad it was for my brother growing up without a father.  We didn't know what was wrong with him, no one knew, but in my mind it was because he didn't have a father, he had no man in his life to teach him what it was to be a boy.  Even now a hundred years later, I believe that he if would have had a man around things might have turned out different.  Even knowing now how sick he was, I believe that.  I knew that if I took my sons with me, there would be no father to teach them, and I could not face them growing up to be anything like my brother.
      I take full responsibility for leaving them, it was my fault I made that choice.  I made the decision and I will live with it for the rest of my life.  I am only just the last year or so realizing that I did the only thing I knew how to do to save them.  They say we all have choices in this life, but looking back, I really didn't see any other choice I could make.  The odds were all against us, I didn't know what else to do.  And honestly, even now, knowing what I do, I can only see that I did the best thing I knew how to do at that time.
     The one thing that was always steady in my mind, was that I love them both with all my heart.  And I always will.  I can't even really ask them for forgiveness, how can I ask them to do something that I can't do?  There will always be in my heart the feeling of anger I have that I did what I did.  I can't forgive that even to myself.  How can I ask them for that?  And someday when they may be able to do just that, it will make me happy only that they are able to get past all this pain, the hurt, the confusion and the wondering why?
     We have a relationship now, of sorts, but I will never feel that I even have a right to give them advice or demand what most Mothers take for granted.  The youngest one can't even call me Mom anymore.  I will never feel that I deserve what love they care to share with me.  I will always have my regrets and my pain, it may get easier with time to live with, but it will never be what I call normal.
     So this story is for them, for them to heal and if it touches someone else's heart or helps someone else going through the same things, it is worth all of it.  I am going to try to be totally honest with my story as best as I can remember, the bad as well as the good.  I know it is the only way to make anyone understand, honestly and truly, who  I am and what shaped me.
     And with the help of my creator, I will now try to face  what I never could before.  

Early Memories

     I was born and raised in Denver, Colorado, the only daughter.  I had one brother named Steve.  There was no Father in the picture, just us three part of the time and part of the time it was only me and Mom.    Steve was the oldest by two years and most of the time we did okay, him and I.  We mostly got along together, when he wasn't having one of his "episodes", which I will tell you more about in another page.  My first memories are not real clear, but I will tell you as much as I know.  Mom was working, I'm not sure how much, but she was supporting us.  She worked in a bar in Englewood, CO, I think it was called the Big O.  I don't know why I remember that, I was very young.  I can't remember how long she worked there, I don't remember when she quit either.  I just know at one point we were living off the state on welfare and she took in ironing from people she knew and cleaned a few houses for people. 

      We lived in a tiny little one room house and although it's not much, I do remember there were small paned windows looking into our yard, which was really the back yard of the house in front.  Our place was on the alley and thinking back on it, It might have been a converted garage or something like that.  I remember the sink in the kitchen, it was long, but only had one faucet, and it was short because I could reach it to get a drink of water. There isn't a lot I remember about it, but I know we took baths in a washtub set on the floor, I have no idea how Mom cleaned up.  She did laundry on a wringer washer and  I remember her piling clothes on me as she sorted them and I liked the weight of them on top of me.  She sang while she worked and the washer had a back and forth rhythm that was soothing.   Men came around sometimes,  she had a boyfriend that came by and I remember he seeming very tall to me. Van was his name, tall and thin, and he always wore a suit and looked nice.  I don't know when he quit coming around, it didn't seem like it took too long, but I was young and of course kids really have no concept of time I don't think.  Then I remember a man named Frank and he too wore suits and was very nice to me.  He didn't come around much either before he was out of the picture. It seems like they went to church together but I really don't know. I don't remember much more about living in that house except we had a dog there for a small amount of time and he jumped into the washtub with me when i was taking a bath, and I remember how sad I was when his people came to take him home.  I think that was the first time I knew about dogs and I loved them already.  

     After that house I remember a few more very similar, very small, mostly one room places in peoples back yards.  I guess we didn't have much money back then and that was all she could afford.  I don't remember her going to work anywhere else either so I am assuming we lived off the state most of the time.  She always took in ironing for people, they would bring it to her all wrinkled and she would stand at the ironing board singing or visiting with friends that stopped by. 

     I had a wonderful Grandma whom I loved very much.  She  was my friend back then and I got to go spend time with her at her house a lot.  She always smelled like Juicy Fruit gum and always had an extra stick in her purse.  I will tell you more about her too, she had an important role in my life.   I had Aunts and Uncles and cousins too and I got to see them once in a while.  I was always shy when they came over, I never felt like I knew them well.  I remember going to My Uncle Fred's house as a kid and staying the night. I remember thinking they must be rich the house was so big, lot's of bedrooms, a big old kitchen, and a bathroom that you could shut the door on.  There was a big room that had a fireplace and a bar, and a big back yard to run around in.  There was even a dog!  I   The three cousins, Debbie, several years older than me, Jimmy, about the age of my brother, and Dougie, he was a bit younger than me, but not by much, all lived there.  Uncle Fred was to me this big man who seemed to stand as tall as the world to me and I remember following him around just watching him and listening to him.  I never had a Dad so having a man in the house was new to me, and fascinating.  I was fascinated yet scared to death of him, he seemed almost bigger than life.  Aunt Grace was nice, she cooked a lot and was always in the kitchen doing something , making good smells happen.  I mostly hung around with Jimmy, he was always nice to me and would spend time just talking to me and I felt safe with him.  Debbie being so much older,  we  didn't have much to talk about and I really don't remember spending much time with her.  Dougie  was nice but seemed more noisy and a bit too rowdy and I felt very intimidated by him.  Kind of high strung and full of energy he was, and although I liked him well enough,  Jimmy was my favorite and I didn't have to do much talking with him, he seemed so calm and peaceful to me.  

     I remember them all talking about going to the mountains together and fishing and climbing rocks, and just camping out in places.  I remember thinking how lucky they were to get to do stuff like that.  I had another Aunt named Zelma, her and Uncle Ira had two daughters, Dani and Yvette.  Dani was about the same age as Dougie and Yvette must have been closer to Jimmy's age.  They were all there together sometimes and would talk about all the trips they had gone on to the hills and here and there, and I remember thinking that i never got to go with them and couldn't understand why not.  Mostly I felt I just wasn't like them, and I wasn't really part of them.  They all knew each other so well, and no one was shy like me, they seemed so smart and happy and I  just didn't fit in.  I never really felt like I was good enough to be with them much, and I certainly didn't know why.  I just knew they all had Dad's and neat Mom's and good clothes, and  they lived in big houses.  The family's both had cars, Uncle Fred even had a big truck with a camper on it.  They seemed to know so much about each other and were very close and I felt envious of them.   At that point I didn't know what was going on with the family's, I only knew I wasn't around them much and they really didn't have a lot of time for me.  After that time , I never got to see much of them, just enough so I remembered who they were but never enough to really get to know them very well and  I never felt comfortable. I know we spent Christmas with them and maybe an Easter dinner now and then.      I hadn't yet seen the side of Mom that people felt uncomfortable around,  I was too young to really understand that somehow she was different than most Moms.  And this story I will have to continue on later ...