I figured it was time to update again. AFter all, you folks breathe my entries. I know this. How could you not since I'm so very wonderful and all.

Well, okay, so that's a little far fetched. Maybe you just read my entries to find out what bizarre line of bull I'm going to toss out to ya. Maybe you read them because you can't get to sleep unless you've poured through at least 1000 words worth of drivle.

perhaps you read my entries because you think they're remotely entertaining.

Or maybe you'd like me to shut up about that and get on with it.

Okay, so I was reading Astral's entry for today and he brought up some very close-to-home thoughts for me.

I didn't have an optimum childhood either. Of course, I suppose that's everyone's story. Regardless, there were some really intense and negative things I witnessed as a child. Many life lessons that I learned in error, were done so because of the home situation.

Dunno how to say this... I guess it's like this... the woman my Mother is today, is not the same as she was when I was a child. My father has changed too.

I see my parents in a different light today. And it's only been recently that I've realized how different they are.

When I was young... and I mean, between the ages of about 4 and 14. Those were some very interesting years.

But, when I was a child, I saw my dad as a few different things. He was a big, tall, huge beast that would protect me, even by calling the cops on the bully that stole my bike.

He was a mean, angry, hateful man who was jealous of the attention mom showed me.

He was a cruel and heartless teaser... teasing me until I was in tears, then telling me to stop crying by saying he didn't want to see any of those crocodile tears. (for those of you who don't know... Crocodile tears means false tears)

He beat me once. It was a very severe beating, but the damage was more psychological than physical. I know I've talked about it in here before, so I don't really want to go into it. And, he IS different now... But it was really bad.

After he beat me, he was different. He withdrew. It was like he was so surprised with himself... He slid into a depression after that. It lasted a very long time.

It was about 80 or so, I guess, that that happened. I was about 10. Maybe 11. Maybe only 9. I don't remember. But it wasn't until I was 23 that he actually stopped being so.... I don't know... scared to touch me.

It was like he was so afraid to lose control, that he denied the father/daughter relationship.

When I was 23, my fiance and I were caught up in a nasty situation where my "best friend" and maid of honor accused him of rape. This was just barely two weeks before the wedding date... the original wedding date, even.

My father was pissed at Duncan cause he thought D had done the ugly deed. *shrugs* Dad said he was gonna take D back to the ship. (Duncan was in the Navy at that time)

I stood up to my Dad. Hell, I was almost as tall as he was. I probably weighed the same, or close. I didn't yell. Dad didn't yell. But I told him, flat out, that I would take Duncan back. Dad tried arguing, but I held firm and I could see a change in my dad's eyes.

It was like he finally realized that I wasn't a small, terrified and helpless little girl anymore. Our relationship wasn't all peaches and cream after that, but he wasn't afraid of hurting me anymore.

But still, it was wierd. He'd spent ten years or more withdrawn from me. Refusing to be a loving father for whatever reason. (I don't KNOW that he was afraid of losing control again... but that seems logical to me) ANd then, it's been nearly another ten years... it's just been in the past couple months that he and I have actually started having a loving relationship again.

And it seems so very strange to me. So very, very strange. I want, more than a lot of things, to have that loving, I need a hug, kind of relationship with him. But now that we're closer... I see differences in him that I thought would never, ever be there.

He's physically weaker than he used to be. And he's more frail... He used to be a mountain to me. A bear of a man. Like Perry Mason... And now... *shakes her head*

He's... different.

*shrugs*

Then there's mom. *sighs* It's so hard for me to say negative things about her. I love her so much... and hell, she's the only one in this bizarre family that I'm actually blood related to.

(Okay for those of you who are new... Mom married Charlie back in the mid to late sixties. They adopted my brother, Dan in 69. I was conceived in 69, then born in September of 70. Mom and Charlie split when I was just under a year old. Mom married Dad in July of 74. Shall we continue?)

I don't really remember much from before about 5 years old or so. And hell... I don't really remember much after that... except for little bits and pieces. Little snippets of life. Actually, I'm pretty sure that all the memories I have... all the things I personally remember (not tales that I've been told about things I've done and things that have happened) would take less air-time than a typical sit com. Sans commercials.

Anyway... Mom was not the easiest person to deal with. she was under a hell of a lot of pressure. She had a new husband, was two-years-new in the church she and Dad were members of. She was very aware of the whole "wives submit to your husbands" thing. And Dad... *smiles softly* He was extremely aware of the whole "The husband is the head of the household" thing.

They were both so nervous about "doing it right".

I was part of that generation, reinforced by errant church doctrine, where children were to be seen but not heard. And, most of the time, they weren't even to be seen.

Regardless... there were many, many times during those years I was growing up, where my mother would be screaming and yelling about one thing or another. Most often my brother was the direct focus. But I was in the room a lot of the time. I watched the beatings. I watched the blood fly from his skin a time or two. Or more.

I watched him scream and flail and kick and thrash and punch.

I saw the bruises on my brothers arms, wrists and neck. I saw the numerous scratches on his shoulders and chest. My mother's nails were sharp.

I saw these things... And though I was almost never the focus of my mother's yelling and screaming fits... and I was never the focus of her beatings... I was effected more strongly than my brother was.

---please, please, please... don't think that my mother would just come downstairs in a rage and grab my brother and beat him for nothing... it never, ever started that way. Granted, mom shouldn't have beaten him ever... but she never started out with an intention of causing him malicious harm.

Each and every single time the discipline ended in a beating, it was because my brother refused to accept the originall intended correction. This is no exageration. Dan would do something wrong, something he had been told was wrong. Something he had been punished for many times before. He would do it anyway. Mom would tell him he had done something wrong yet again. And she started out with the intention of delivering two or three swats to his ass. But Dan would never let that happen. As soon as mom took a step near him, he would try to run away. If she was fast enough to get a grip on his arm or wrist, then he'd start kicking and punching at her.

If she didn't catch hold of him, he'd run away from her and try to put some piece of furniture between them. It was always a fight with him. Always.---

Anyway... So I would watch these beatings sometimes. Sometimes, mom would look at me and tell me to go outside or up to my room before the circus began. Sometimes I think those were worse than my actually witnessing the beatings.

When I was up in my room, all I would hear was the sound of mom's voice..... not the words, just the sound of her voice in anger.... and Dan's screams. He sounded like he was dying. He sounded like his skin was being ripped from his body, then salt and acid were ground, alternately, into the wounds.

Whenever I would hear those screams, I believed that THIS TIME was the time I would go downstairs and find out my brother was dead. I always envisioned his blood on the walls, his body broken and bleeding all over the floor.

It was never that bad.... but his screams...

*closes her eyes*

Um... anyway...

So, I spend most of my childhood seeing my mother with that look of desperation, rage and helpless frustration in her eyes. My father had withdrawn from discipline/participation in the family except as breadwinner.

My brother and I were both homeschooled, so we saw mom every day all day. There were times when Mom's yelling and screaming was directed at me. I was always partially hoping she would hit me, so that it would be "fair". But I was also partially terrified that she would hit me and I didn't want to be hit.

But every time she screamed and yelled, I felt this intense and paralyzing fear. And, what's worse, my brother would ignore it. Compeltely and totally ignore it. I didn't understand why he wasn't scared.

But hell, I was terrified enough for both of us.

---take into consideration that I was the type of child who could be severely disciplined with a simple look. No lie. My mother could look at me reprovingly and I would whither inside. There would be no malice, anger or fury in her eyes... just that simple look of disappointment. I would be a puddle of guilt and apologies.

Hell, I remember one time... I had done something wrong and instead of actually looking at me, my mother wrote me a very short note. There were no bold or capitols... simply a few short sentances. The only one I remember... the one that turned me into a pile of shivering mush, was this one: "I'm just so dissapointed in you, Jennifer."

That struck me to the bone. Even today, nearly 15 years later, it still runs a shiver down my back. *chuckles nervously*---

Anyway... among all this, there were times when Mom would just be bitchy. Not because she wanted to cause pain, but because she was frustrated or simply irritated.

Every single time she snapped a comment or command, and every time she raised her voice... I would feel that terror... I was so completely weak in that manner. Hell... I still am today... but that's the next part.

---I didn't intend for this entry to be a tell-all about my childhood---

So, Mom was mean and terrifying and would yell and scream a lot. ANd each time I felt like I would die. And I thought each time would be the final straw. The time that Dan pushed too far.

And Dan didn't care. After one of the punishments... one of the beatings... within ten minutes, he'd be doing the same thing... the beatings taught him only one thing, it seemed... that you only get punished when you get caught.

Regardless...

Mom has since changed. Over the past ten years or so... she's different. She doesn't yell and scream as much. ANd she never hits. She doesn't even threaten to hit.

I've been living with my mother for three years now... since the divorce. Actually, since the wreck. But still...

She's different.

She doesn't yell and scream now. She hasn't for about 13 years. Since Dan moved out, and she got the hysterectomy.

But she apologizes to me, many, many times, for her behavior when she was a younger mom. Those times when she thought her children had to submit to authority. She apologizes for all those times when she thought she had to do it right, when she simply wasn't capable.

And I know for a fact that she did the best she could with what she had. I know that both of my parents, with all the mistakes, wrongs, misdeeds... with everything they didn't do right... they tried. ANd they tried hard. They did everything they could think of to be perfect parents. They were a part of that generation which believed that if a child was good, it was because of the child, but if the child was bad, it was because of the parent.

These are parents who came from that time, and from the church which believed that if a child did something wrong, the parent was supposed to spank first and never ask questions. ANd, that children had no personality unless the parents gave them one.

Many of you people who were born after the early 80's may not have any idea what I"m talking about. Hell, maybe it was just the difference between "secular" and our church, but through most of my "growing up" years, it was common belief that children had no opinions, individuality or personality.

It was not "right" for children to have independant thought. Hell, it was common knowledge that children didn't learn to think independantly until they were nearing the age of 18. I'm serious, folks.

Anyway... *sighs*

The bottom line to all of this is that my parents are different now than they were when I was a child. And it surprises me. They're more human now than before. ANd now that I'm three years older than my mother was, when she gave birth to me... I'm realizing that I must change too.

Part of that change means accepting the fact that my parents really did do what they believed was best. I can't fault them for their motivations. I can only do better. I can learn from their examples.

And I will. I will be a better mother to my kids than my mom was to me. And, my kids will be better parents to their children. And on.

And, when it comes time... I will be a loving care giver to my parents when they need it.

That is the point in life, as far as I'm concerned. It's like camping. Leave your area in better shape than it was when you found it.

Thank you, Astral For being a better person than your parents were.