August 16, 1977

 I always think of Curtis Martin on August 16 each year.

Here is a pic, with Curtis in the chair, and me on the right in red pants.  On the far right are the handlebars of the bike I was sitting on during our first kiss. Here is the story I wrote about it:  Moses

Go ahead, throw it away...

 Somebody asked me if I love my second grandchild as much as I love my first grandchild.  They couldn't figure out why I have not written about him the way I blogged here about my "Little Dude" in the first years of my blog.  And suddenly I was filled with horror, because my second grandchild may one day believe I did not care as much for him as I do for his big brother, because I have not blogged about him.

When I was twelve, living in a trailer park in Utah, I was friends with a girl named Cindi Salzetti.  She had all these great magazines and records, and we would read and listen to them when I was allowed to visit her up the road.  She had a small tv in her room, and I watched Andy Gibb sing Shadow Dancing on some television show.  I heard a song called "I'm Yours" by Prince.  I took home some of the pull-out posters Cindi let me have from Tiger Beat magazines.  I found other ways to get posters, and slowly started taping them to my bedroom wall.  I knew these things were "of the devil," but I did not want to end up in heaven with my father anyway, so I did not care. I enjoyed my small collection of posters.  I even got ahold of some Bee Gees and Andy Gibb cassettes and had Debby Boone's cassette.  (I had a bit of a crush on Debby Boone, the first signs of my personal experience of human sexuality, something I did not understand at all then.)  A month or so passed, and my father had said nothing about my posters.  

One day he stormed into my room and started tearing down posters and throwing them into a trash can.  He grabbed my tapes, and I did something I had never done before.  I asked him why he could have Linda Ronstadt and Crystal Gayle tapes but I couldn't have my own cassettes.  He stormed to his room and came back to my room, tearing the thin glistening black tape out of a Ronstadt cassette while he screamed, and then proceeding to rip the voices on shimmering ribbon out of my cassettes.  I shut up and shut down, trying not to feel anything.  I stood there, mute, stupid.  Then he grabbed Ratty, the stuffed animal my paternal Grandparents bought for me with greenstamps when I turned one.  Ratty went with me to hospitals.  He was my silent, constant friend.  I loved him with all of my heart.  And in that instant, I realized what was required.  I turned toward my father, put all the disdain I could muster into my voice, and said, "Go ahead, throw it away.  It was YOUR parents who gave him to me anyway!"  I turned away.  My father stomped out with the trash can.  I slowly turned toward my bed.  Ratty was still there.

I knew, if I loved or cared about anything or anyone, my father would hurt me with it/them, because he knew that specifically would hurt me to my core.  Thus began my coming teenage years of being too tough to ever outwardly show love of anything or anyone.  It was the only way to protect myself from having my father hurt me with them.

I finally allowed myself to express my love for other humans when I had children.  When myspace came into existence, and we got a computer from my sister in 2001, I started letting my love express itself on social media.  It felt nice to be free to express the love I felt.  By the time my first grandchild was born, it was so nice to freely express my love for him.  And then I paid the price.  I had forgotten the lesson I learned in that tiny bedroom back in Utah.  I had to realize my father is not an aberration.

I met my second grandchild when he was 5 months old.  Every week or so I get to skype with my oldest grandchild, and I get to enjoy his little brother, who is two now, during those skypes.  

In the off chance anyone ever questions my love for my second grandchild, or my estranged child, I am right now stating this unequivocally:  I love my 3 children and my grandchildren with all of my heart.  I denied my love of Ratty once, and it saved him.  But he could take it.  I could say those words to my father, and it would not harm Ratty. 

I love my kids and grandkids, with an unconditional and deep love I will never feel for anyone else.  Always.

me n ratty

False Hope

 I did not ever plan on blogging again at the end of 2019.  I spent the last 2 years and 3 months in a fog of sadness.  I am still wandering in that fog.  But I cannot remove myself from all this, because of the damage that would create in the lives of my children and grandchildren.  Frustratingly, the pain is too much to silently carry.  I have nowhere else to place it.  So I find myself back here, doing what has been my only real relief throughout my life.  I am writing.  

Over the past year, I had to find out what it is that some of my paternal family have said about my childhood experiences.  Once again, I thought some healing was finally being gifted to me, when once again I reconnected with family members I had not seen in years.  The experience brought brief feelings of acceptance and validation.  One would think I would know better by now.  One would definitely think I would never fall for such hopes ever again.  I realize now I will most likely always be susceptible to these kinds of hopes.  As I child, I wanted so much to be able to speak the truth.  I wanted to be seen as I was, not as others defined me.  I guess these needs are so deeply embedded, I will never be able to shake them.  I am not cynical or tough enough to shut myself down when these opportunities arise with paternal family members.  No matter how tough or invulnerable I try to make myself, I cannot be that tough.

Whenever others choose to mis-define me, there are a couple of things that seem to happen.  These mis-definers must know, consciously or unconsciously, that what they are defining is not really true, because they never come to me with their definitions, to confirm or debunk them.  These definitions are almost always based on things I have never said or done.  Communicating with me openly could probably clear things up.  But no one comes to me about these definitions, which makes me feel that they know what they are saying is not reality, and they do not want to have to see, or admit, the truth.  Talking to me might shed light on their mis-definitions, so they have to avoid telling me what they are saying.  In the case of small-town gossipy definitions, I think a lot of people just like to hear outrageous things about people who are not a part of the good-old-boy system, are not a real part of the community, so no one bothers to go straight to the person and find out the truth.  When it comes to family members, I feel like it is simply a need to escape the pain of accepting the truth.  I am guessing it is easier to think of me as delusional, than to see the truth.

I was finally told what a number of my paternal family members think about my childhood.  At first I was told it was too bad I had been so mistreated by psychiatrists.  I was shocked to hear a paternal family member say this.  There had been family knowledge about my experience with the Adventist principal, but none of them ever said to me that what he did was wrong.  I had sort of accepted that they, like many in my church, saw his abuse of me as my fault.  No one but my father ever said as much, it was just something I internalized.  I thought it was nice to finally hear from family that I had experienced some mistreatment by those in the mental health field.  But I was told no, it was something else.  There is a belief in my family that mental health workers have planted false memories in my head.

I do not at all know what has ever happened in my experiences with the mental health field that would give anyone such an idea.  Mental health workers tended to land in two camps for me.  Most wouldn't believe my mom was a nurse and my father was an engineer.  These are some of the first answers required from clients seeking help.  "What do your parents do for a living?"  My answers were easily provable, but I was simply disbelieved from the get go, so I'd give up right away with that camp.  The other camp would listen, so I would maybe open up a very little bit about my past.  Almost without exception, this camp realized I am a messed up human that no one believes, so they know they can con and misuse me, and they will get away with it.  They misuse me.  These have been my experiences.

Nowhere in any of these mental healthcare interactions did anyone ever tell me that anything must have happened to me.  They did make me feel like I was supposed to tell them a false narrative about what my parents did for a living.  And that was a reaction by them that was guaranteed to shut me down.  I know what my parents did for a living.  No one can make me falsify the truth.  The mental health field has failed in helping me, but not once by planting false memories.  I have no idea where anything I have ever said, or written, or experienced, could be twisted into such an idea.  I am still somewhat in a state of shock that this is the way I am being defined by some family members. I know what happened with my father and Pam.  No one can make me falsify the truth.  Not even a lifelong desire to belong will ever make me betray the child I once was by denying the truth.

The interactions between countries, the political discourse within this country, the atrocities that are daily happening, all confirm for me that my own family experiences are simply a small example of regular human behavior on a global scale.  Nothing should shock me.  Children are bombed.  Children are daily misused.  This is the truth.  Why do these things happen?  Because they can.

I have no idea if I will blog again.

I have discovered some music that gives me comfort, in the midst of everything.  It expresses the pain I feel.  This song is probably the song I love more than any other song I have ever heard in my life:



 

PS - neurodivergent

Last year, as I dealt once again with the frustration I experience at not being believed or listened to, a mental health worker I spoke with a handful of times in 2021 said something that bothered me at first. After thinking on his words, and adding it up with my own ways of remembering events in my life, it dawns on me that he could have been on to something.  He said I am probably on the spectrum.

I am currently reading a book called "Divergent Mind," by Jenara Neremberg.  My constant feelings of not being "normal" or human, the way I desperately long for total honesty, my instant inner turmoil when I realize someone is trying to change the truth about my behavior or motivations or history without looking at my daily life and my recollections of things that do not change over time, my inability to read others properly, my total failure at ever figuring out the "game" of life, all of it fits into this idea of me perhaps being on the spectrum.  I don't know.  And for me it is irrelevant.  I have been othered and excluded by the very people I trusted most to never do that to me.  I am not seen as enough of a human to ever expect real inclusion in family.  I accept this.  I know my truth.  This blog, my memories, have always been what they are, and until my brain stops working or death takes me, my memories will always be what they are.  My "perspective" does not change over time, when it comes to what happened in my childhood.  No mental health person implanted false memories.  No mental health person ever even believed me when I said what my parents did for a living.  I grew up knowing what had happened to me, and nobody will make me change what I know is true.  Two plus two is four.  This very paragraph, and my blog, and my whole life, do seem to make it very possible that I am not neurotypical.

Shameless

I love the show Shameless.  So much about this show resonates with me.  It reminds me of the places I have lived, the people I have known, the way I know life actually works.

I never would have seen life the way I see it, if my father would have loved me, and Pam had never come into my life.  Ignorance is truly bliss.  If my father had loved me, and if he had loved my mom enough to not get involved with Pam, I would not be who I am.  I have no idea how I might have turned out.  This is a part of life that is so bizarre and real, but also heartbreaking.  If people can truly love their spouses and their offspring, those offspring can have a much better chance at a good start in life. 

I just rewatched season 7, episode 12, of Shameless.  Monica, the mother of the Gallagher kids, has passed.  This is probably my favorite Shameless episode.  During brief moments throughout this episode, there are moments where Monica's humanity is spoken about.  Her failures are glaring and obvious.  Her failures created hell for her offspring.  But she is still a human, who felt love, and did the best she could under her circumstances.

I hope my own offspring always know I did the best I could for them, with what I knew at the time.  It wasn't perfect.  But my focus was always on them.

I am horrified by most of what I see going on in my country, and in this world.  I have very little hope for humanity, because we seem to be bent on hurting each other.  But I am very proud of my kids, and my grandson.  They have overcome my history, and that makes me think most humans still have the potential to become better than we are right now.

Me

I was born the way I was.  I had not formed correctly in the womb, so I was born defected, with no left hip joint, but after I was born, there were some things I just did, things that have been part of me since birth, and I am still influenced by those things.

These are two pictures taken when I was around five.  I was in the middle of being destroyed by my father and Pam at this very time, but the basic part of me, the part of me that still somehow survives, was there, and is evident in these photos my mom took.   These are photos of me and my baby sister, as I watched a caterpillar crawl across the cement in our trailer-park carport.  At one point, I grab my sister's wrist, to keep her from touching and perhaps harming the caterpillar, because I wanted the caterpillar to safely make its crossing to the other side of the carport.  This is my heart, my soul, every bit of me, caught in a moment when adult humans were horrendously harming me.

I have only ever wanted to figure out how to do the right thing, so I can not be seen as bad, so I can join the campfire, so I can deserve to be hugged and loved.

I am learning to somehow get beyond all of that, now.  I am way too ruined to be a part of family, or neighborhood, or society.  But I will always be a part of the universe, and I will always help any critter I can, just as I did in these photos from my childhood.  Because that's me.

The Prince of Tides

I have always hoped I could connect with another human, in an honest way, while being able to trust that human was somebody who tried to follow their commitments, and was somebody who was the antithesis of my father.  I craved honesty.  I saw so much hypocrisy throughout my childhood.  I witnessed my father breaking his vows with my mother as he had sex with Pam.  I spoke on the phone with, and met, a number of my father's mistresses, as I grew up.  I wanted to believe that most humans did not cheat on their partners like my father, but by the time I was a teen, I no longer carried much belief in the sanctity of marriage.  I had too much personal knowledge about too many married humans who were cheating.

I remember very well the moment where I finally decided marriage was one big lie.  I was 16, and had recently gotten my license.  The adventist principal who was having sex with me had a best friend, a man who was a well-respected member of society, and was married with children.  This man was also a friend of my family, and taught adult sabbath school at church.  He was brilliant, and I looked up to him.  Due to a sudden health problem, this man ended up in a coma.  The adventist principal told me I must help do something important for his comatose friend.  He told me I must drive to a post office in a nearby town, in order to pick up the private letters this man's mistress was sending him at a p. o. box, so his friend's wife would never find those letters.

I remember very well the pain I felt, the first time I checked that p. o. box, and held letters in my hand, written by the mistress of a human I had respected.  Those letters felt as if they were burning my hands, and my heart.  I knew that man's wife and kids well.  I was overwhelmed by emotions I could not at all understand at 16, but the biggest thing I felt in my heart was something I understood very well:  I knew, with absolute certainty at that moment, that I would never take vows with any other human, ever.  I had wanted to believe my father was not like most humans.  I suddenly had to accept that most humans are lying, cheating jerks.  It was a horrible moment for me. 

The movie, "The Prince of Tides," is a movie I first watched in my twenties.  The first time I saw it, I hated it, and the only character in the movie that I liked at all was Luke.  I felt he was the only honest and strong person in it, and I did not like any of the other characters.  I did not at all like the relationship between Tom and the therapist.  And I was especially horrified by the character Savannah. 

I have watched this movie a number of times over the years since I first saw it, and each time, I have seen it differently.  I recently watched it again.  I have seen how my mind has been trying to grow and learn over the years, and the way I view this movie is a weird kind of measurement of how my mind's growth has occurred.  I still despise the relationship between Tom and the therapist, because I still think people either need to honor their vows, or simply be single if they cannot stay monogamous, instead of betraying another human.  I now view Luke as lost and sad.  I also realize the character I must finally admit I most identify with, is the one I was most horrified by when I first saw the movie:  Savannah.

I wanted to find out my father was a sick aberration, and most humans try to be decent.  Instead, I'm finding out most humans will do whatever they can get away with, no matter who it hurts.  It's like I'm holding letters in my hands that are burning my heart.

Like Savannah, all I can do is keep writing.

Precious Descendant

My grandson recently turned four.  He and his family live far from me, so I do not see him often.  I miss him.

This is the first poem I wrote for him, before he was even born.


Precious Descendant
by
Judy S. Lentz

I've seen shadows of your face in the creases of your father's palm
as I lifted his newborn hand to my lips
In the smile on your mother's face as her fingers sift
through baby clothes
I sing "Safe and Sound" to your unborn spirit as I look up
at stars you will soon see for the first time
A beam of light leapt off the face of a faraway place
And has traveled millions of miles
millions of years
just to be the very photons that will land on your retina
The moment you first look up

Oliver!

     When I was a very young teen, one of my favorite movies was "Oliver!"  Years later, when I first saw "August Rush," I loved it, too.  I guess this is not surprising, since both movies are basically the same story.  I just watched August Rush again, and was reminded of my love for both movies.

     The child in me has been longing for something I will never have, and this need is my biggest flaw. 

     Here are my favorite songs from each movie:

Oliver

August Rush

A dog named Jasper

Today I watched a slide show that included the story of a dog named Jasper.  Jasper was rescued, and deemed "dangerous."  He was a small mixed-breed, with a coat covered in mats, and eyes that conveyed fear.  He did not like to be approached or touched. 

Some rescue folks I work with took the time to clean Jasper up, get him fixed, and eventually gain his trust.  One woman in particular was very good at understanding how to approach Jasper, and she and her own dog were a big part of helping Jasper learn how to become a well-socialized dog, who ended up being adopted.  This woman wiped away a few tears, as we all watched the slide show.

This same woman is someone who has noticed, on occasion, that my mind does not always learn things or understand instructions the way most people seem to take in information.  In clinic situations where I am not knowledgeable, she seems to instinctively know how to say something in a way my mind quickly comprehends.  I have a feeling this ability of hers is directly related to her ability to work so well with dogs like Jasper.

I do not believe that any of my clinic co-workers have ever read this blog of mine.  I kind of hope they never do, just as I would rather my kids, and my mother, never do.  I do not want any of my clinic co-workers to start wondering if I am a "bad" person, somebody who is going through too much to be a part of the rescue world.  I am keeping very close track of how my mind is handling the stresses of driving transport and assisting at clinics.  When I first sit in the van, and start a 16-hour day with a group of cats, my mind focuses immediately on the souls I am about to be responsible for during that whole time.  The ones who belong to families are precious to me, because I know how much each of them means to their humans.  The ferals or strays who belong to no one are precious to me, because I am now a part of the current few humans who have probably ever tried to be kind and helpful to these beings.  My mind remains focused on this, as I drive, and as I help at clinics. 

I try very hard to always be honest with myself about my motives, my focus, the state my mind is in.  (This is not something I can say I have seen many humans do, but it is very important to me.)  I know I am not at all in a good place, right now.  My mind is in the worst condition I have ever experienced. 

If I ever get in that transport van, and cannot feel my mind focus on the critters on board, I will know it is time to give up my work in the rescue world.  I cannot say this is not going to happen.  I have no idea what will happen as my mind disintegrates.  But I am watching very closely for it, and will be honest with myself and others if/when it does happen.  Regardless of what anyone may think or say about me, the last thing I want to be is a danger.

Jasper was kept in a tiny kennel and abused by a human for the first years of his life.  What people saw as "dangerous" behavior was simply Jasper, trying to survive.

I'm trying to survive.