Sandy and family secrets III

The previous generation of family secrets lies waiting following the continuing hurricane recovery. We now know even more firsthand how it feels when the rest of the world has forgotten and what remains to be rebuilt will take years for those directly affected. I remember Katrina, and how some places have yet to recover completely. For many here a similar story exists, with impacts that are physical or visible, and wounds festered on an emotional level that may not ever go away entirely.

Helping others has taken some of the sting away. Many of us are grateful not as much was taken from us this time, so that ideally we may assist others in greater need. The only difference in those serving or being served is a zip code.

There are other secrets this generation as well, indirectly related, though no less painful. I will not betray a trust or what exists with something so priceless and valuable. There will be another way for what is essential to surface; it will not come from a disclosure in confidence from who specified it go no further. It's not the kind of harm others readily recognize. Perhaps only those it has also happened to can really understand. It wasn't the same as the generation before, and for that I must remain grateful at this time. The impact, however, is just as lasting and deep, only in a much different way.

Now is the time identity is formed; I will never forget being ridiculed by my own elders. It hurts no less remembering it now, because it affected my potential for moving on in an ideal way. Things like that I can understand may have happened for a reason. For other things, it simply isn't possible to comprehend. There's no good reason for some things to have turned out the way they have, especially when steps were taken specifically to prevent what is happening now and continues from too long to endure the thought of.

There was no protection, only profit from lack of it for others. Preventing protection apparently is a business under the appearance of something else. It appears to be another form of trafficking for monetary gain. The casualties are in the tens of thousands across this country, and those in the north as well. The children are those who suffer most; adults die or become ill from the toll alone. How it affects the entire family is not a consideration. How it affects children lasts a lifetime, becoming other people than who they may have been if safety had been preserved, if someone had put humanity before short term gain or other agendas.

Like a lost home from a natural disaster or otherwise, we can only salvage what's possible in the moment, taking one day at a time, one breath at a time, one step at a time. It almost discounts or dismisses what I was not able to resolve as a child myself in a way I can live with. This is bigger, or that's the way it feels. It's not just us, though there's no consolation that the spectrum contains even more severe circumstances and stories that have also not been told.

This has to stop, or the country will no longer be great. It isn't all about humans for profit in systemic settings as an American 'dirty secret'. There's no one to blame but those here, not outside terrorists. Looking the other way or turning a blind eye is participation, direct engagement is a crime. The gap is narrowing; accountability is on the horizon. The practices cannot continue.

We must know darkness to shine a light, even when the darkness is our own. We have borrowed the planet from our children, as our parents did from us. It was given to us in a state of extreme disrepair with many parts broken. All of the technology we have now cannot artificially reproduce what it takes to adequately repair the damages, especially when they continue. We will not continue screaming in the wind. Our country standing for something is not a given unless we take care of our own. All credibility is lost otherwise, and on the world stage it simply becomes entertainment or cause to further estrange us from moving forward in any way at all.

It's a new year tomorrow, I've been the same age for three years now, and for as long as I can get away with it, maybe a few more. The truth is useful in being closer to another version of retirement, when work becomes for you instead of someone else. My funniest uncle said he wanted to go back to work so that he could have weekends off of his retirement. Being with family, no matter how much work, is not to be given up on. And it will not.

Sandy Town Hall Meeting/family secrets

The impact of the Superstorm will be felt in this community for years to come. There are businesses that still have not reopened; people that have not returned to their homes. Many wish to be bought out, never to return to their former areas where destruction and death occurred. Some have nothing left and still nowhere to go; some are living in cars, guarding over their properties yet to have electricity, heat, or water restored.

This was confirmed at a town hall meeting last night at the high school nearest to one of the most devastated areas. In the beginning, it was standing room only, with most public officials on the stage. The president came the week before Thanksgiving, a holiday I took the time to research that had its own aftermath I'm almost ashamed I didn't know earlier. Some of the people in the town hall meeting had spoken to the president, some were in photos posted on Facebook. Nothing was happening for most in a timely manner. The Red Cross going around in neighborhoods ringing a bell for hot meals or distributing blankets was no longer enough. The food and clothing had either run out, had become limited, or moved to other locations most didn't want to go to.

As the town hall progressed the crowd thinned as hours passed; some went into the high school cafeteria where agency representatives continued to provide updated information or additional resources. Most who had left the auditorium had finished what they either had to say or heard enough, most leaving without the answers they sought, still discouraged and frustrated. There had been tear-filled voices in the microphones, and anger. There were notes taken, with no timelines guaranteed, or practical acceptable solutions for those with serious concerns, many of which were being heard for the first time. I took photos to remember, including the media cameras and their reporters, none of which I saw later on the 11 o'clock news, simply because I didn't watch.

The reality was on the ground, in this community, and others hit as hard. Recovery will take years. They say another storm of this magnitude in the near future is unlikely; it's no consolation to those whose feelings range from uncomfortable to a despair that their homes no longer exist or if rebuilt will be subject to the same destruction the next hurricane season; there's no guarantee it won't be next year, in the next decade, or the next century. There is no protection from the ocean; there will be more storms. No one wishes to be in the path of any at any time, never knowing when the next 'big one' will hit.

I was given a list of real estate options to explore in the event I chose to move out of a flood zone in one of the less affected areas, where many street lights remained out and generator lights still shined their ghostly brightness to the hum of their motors, a sound now associated with trauma and uncertainty, not for the first time.

I had planned to continue the family story written by my grandfather's sister who passed away before I knew of her, which will continue. It contains within it the seeds of deeply buried family secrets I didn't realize until reading it as it unfolds in tolerable installments here. She never knew how her son really lived later in life. I'm sure she was an okay woman, whose child was exposed to and committed an unthinkable act. She likely died before it happened; I'm not sure. I only realized until reading her story why some things did or didn't happen during my childhood, when I expected more, when I expected to be protected and believed. Had the truth been known or dealt with, the consequences could have been more devastating than a hurricane, though not as much as a child's trust betrayed or dismissed.

Howloween Sandy

We interrupt our regularly scheduled family history installment for a breaking story on Hurricane Sandy. I’m in a high school gym, that I’ve only been to previously for work. Now I’m on a cot. I’m told our apartment is dry, though it’s inaccessible until the lake that was the street returns to an inroad instead of a river. Everyone on the other side is stranded, unless they have an emergency, where police and the fire department have been getting some across in boats. I went back twice, with the only result being my taking five people, two dogs and one rabbit, who had spent the night in a dark, cold, wet terror to the evacuation center I’d come from and friends’ houses.

Some lost everything. There are no stores or outlets to travel out from the other side. Those who remain are on higher ground that we hope have stocked up for the duration. They have electricity, with most of their cars and homes intact. Some were not so lucky; some were rescued from roofs or upper floors in wet clothes. They were where the streets were lower. Was on the phone with my child who had called for an update at the same time I had walked a couple of blocks later in the day to see if either the water had gone down or if I could get across. The answer was priority boat assisted evacuation only.

It was understandable. If I were to be taken across, this wasn’t a 24/7 water taxi service. Work was to be attended the next day. I would have likely ended up stranded come the next morning, unable to leave, our car that survived the storm as I’d heeded the evacuation warning parked on the side of civilization. Close, yet not an option to swim to if the water had not gone down much or the emergency crews were not available.

Scores of years since the last flood of this magnitude, in this part of the country, maybe even a century. The trauma hasn’t hit me yet, though we were among the lucky. For what it kicks up regarding past experiences brings everything back. Including the residual trauma. Had we been able to leave, closer to family when the time was appropriate, we would not be here at all. The hurricane didn’t go there.

With one exception, another single mom with a daughter my child's age who happens to be an accountant, I didn't know the names of any of them. When the dogs' names were spoken, being at each other in a small car, the names left my memory as soon as they were uttered. We were and are all still recovering from a temporary displacement with deep emotional reverberations. I empathized with the thirst of days without food or water, still not knowing for certain what I would be going back to myself.

Everything that day was on a moment to moment basis, and is somewhat the same today, Halloween: another anniversary when my first and only child's conception was announced six weeks into the first trimester. Every day was almost dreamily surreal then: the shock of carrying a child after I'd given up it was even possible. Now that child is reportedly carrying a pillowcase to collect candy he'll likely give away or will not be consumed; it's all just too much, as are the secrets for now, though the desire to participate overshadows any trepidation.

The mall is filled with costumed children that are hard to look at for the memories that are stirred: the innocent face looking up in anticipation for the plastic pumpkin to be filled, store to store in the old neighborhood, brimming over before the children's parade began. The candy that would never be finished, again, in a way just as well, though the feelings that have accompanied since have been so unnecessary.

The lightness of childhood became heavier, a grain of sand at a time, until they became virtual sandbags to a young psyche. Life is now emptying the sandbox, a scoop at a time (sometimes a pinch, sometimes a teaspoon), so that not fully grown toes can dig themselves in, and remember all the happy thoughts, without guilt that was never theirs from when it began, imposed and accepted, as children do.

Here's to no longer longingly gazing at an animal wished to be their own, for it will be, and the sandbox, and the complimenting Howloween costume, the pair will be the toast of their own parade, with more smiles returning. Sandy the hurricane is just a bump in the road by comparison. The storm in this life so far is the interim between one anniversary and the one that makes up for all of the others, during a childhood.

Family History, continued

"in the 1902 strike we were living at what they called Sugar Creek. it is now Stadium Terrace now. but when we lived there it was just an old mining camp. Well when the men came out on strike. the company gave us a house notice to vacate at once which we did. my dad rented a three room house over on packs branch. you could throw a cat through the cracks. we all almost froze that winter. and while we were there my Dad had a little extra trouble. he drank at that time so he took his shot gun and started hunting. but in the mean time he went over to the saloon in Mt. Hope. and got drunk of course he still had that old shot gun. so the company had up no Trespassing notices. so my Dad walked in to the Boiler Room there at Sugar Creek. and pointed his gun at one of them mens feet and told him to dance. so about that time one of the guards blowed the whistle and they picked him up and sent him to Huntington Jail for Trespassing on their property so he had to reside in jail over two weeks then the union men got him out. so he was home again. Then he went down on Cabin Creek. to Red Warriors. and got a job in the mines there. he worked a long time there. but something happened at the mines there all the mines came out on strike so. we were notified to vacate our house when one day 27 armed guards with thier Winchesters rifels came in and set evry thing we had out in the road. and it happened it started raining that day and all night. so all of our household goods took all that rain. My Dad went to Dry Branch and rented a place to store our things. un-til he could find another job and another house for us to live in. so the family all scattered out some to one place and and some to another un-til Dad got another place to live. he got a job at McDonald and we moved there. and the family all got back to-gether again. we lived there awhile then. they wanted him to come to Turkey Knob . and be Stable Boss. there at that time they used lots of mine mules so we lived there for a good while then my mother took a notion she wanted to move to the country. so my Dad rented a log house high up on the mountain above Price Hill. and we lived there for about two years. Dad worked in the Price Hill Mines. so Mother took a notion to move down off the mountain. so Dad rented a house at Sherwood WVa so we moved there. my Dad worked in the Sherwood Shaft Mines. which has long been abandoned. we lived in that house for a while. and Mother decided she would like to move up on top of the hill so Dad rented a nice five roomed house on top of the hill. we moved up there. but she decided she wanted a house on the other end of the other row of houses. so it was move again. and it was the last house we had moved into. was where I was married 1908. My sister Minnie also. so we had our own houses then. but don't think for one moment that Mother stopped moving she moved many more times after this. I still hate to think of all them old dirty houses I have had to scrub and clean. back in those days we just had bare floors to scrub with a brush or broom. we never had it quiet as easy as we have it now. Wash on the washboard all day. then iron with irons you heat on the stove. use oil lamps. this was my job to clean those lamp chimneys and fill the lamps up with oil so we would have a good light for night time. real sharp. Oh well as I said we were all very happy together. Cook up a big black pot of beans and a pan of corn bread or biscuits. fry up a big skillit of beef steak. and make some of that good old mommy made gravy. some country butter and milk it was real good to set your feet under the table. Well so much for that."

'Family', continued (again, as written)

"I was almost 22 years old when I met my husband Frank M. Tucker we went together six months. and were married. in the mean time his younger brother Silas was dateing my younger sister Minnie. soon they were married. in July 2nd 1908. in August 27 1908 Frank and I were married. [2] Brothers married [2] sisters. this makes our children double first cousins. some mixup. just one of those things. Well Frank and I had two children. my first was a girl we named her Florence Louise. then we had our boy. we named him Gilman Emeory. Louise grew up and married Elmie W. Hill. they have three children two girls and one boy. His name is William Clegg Hill. the oldest girl Freda May married Don C. Lilly. and Hazle married L. D. Hartwell. William married Jo Richards. of Beckley WV. a very sweet girl. and of course the girls got fine men too. My son Gilman met and married a very sweet Scotch Lassie by the name of Hellan. We called her Pat frome patrick she was working in a sweet shop when he met her. to this union is one fine GrandSon Frank Matthew Tucker. we are very proud of him. he has been serving his country for almost four years. his time will be out in March. we sure will be glad to see him home again. In the mean time. he was dating a very sweet girl by the name of Shirley Jackson of Mt. Hope W.V. they have been married over three years now so it will mean a lot to all when he gets home once more. we are going through a very trying time just now. Gilman has been sick for most three months and at present is in the Oak Hill Hospital he has a virus of some kind. Pat that is his wife goes to the hospital every day. will I have been going like a house on fire. and haven't got very far but I hope I have got a few things off my chest. I forgot to say much about my own family. I will say a few words about my brothers and sisters of which some is very sad.
My oldest Brother. William Fanning Cheek. was electrocuted accidentally and my youngest brother Victor Gay Cheek died of T.B. I only have one living brother at present. Walter H. Cheek. he lives here in Mt. Hope WVa. he works for the Blackburn Patterson Co. and my oldest sister Minnie Lee Cheek Tucker she died with Cancer my next Sister Ella Cheek Thompson who lives here in Mt. Hope at present she is a widow now. I have another sister Nell Cheek Stevens. she lives in Williamington Del. and I have another sister Gussie Rea Cheek Perry she and her husband Ronald live here in Mt. Hope WVa too. my youngest sister Agnes Cheek Batten. She died with Cancer also. My Father died in 1918 with Flue. My Mother died with cancer also. so it seems I am left here for some-thing. I do love to help other people and do what I can do for them. I am glad I have the Lord in my life. he helps me through so many trials and dark places. It has not been a bed of roses but you know we all have to take the bitter with the sweet. well getting back to my earlier days. I told you about my Father being a coal miner. he was a very devout union man. he held an office in the Local. and they sent him two different times to the miners convention in Indianapolis Ind. but you can just bet your bottom dollar. that as soon as there was any trouble about the miners. they always picked on my Dad." To be continued.

Family

"The Name of This is The Last Move

I have had an inspiration to write a book about my self and relatetions so here I go: I don't know what I will do with it. or what it will be like. As my age is creeping up on me, it seemed it would be good to leave a few words be-hind about my folks and my life. If I live to see March 20th/57, I will be 70 years old you might think this is funny that I would have a desire to write like this. As to my family, My Father Charles Fanning Cheek. was born and reared in Weaverville North Carlonia Bunscomb Co. he came to W.Va. and met my mother Sara Jane Wees. Through my uncle Charles Sink, he had married my mothers Sister Anna. So the love bug got them too. My mother was born and reared in Raleigh Co. W.Va. her Father was George Wees. And my Grandmother was Clementine Jane Godbey before she married my grandfather. he was in the Cival war. 4 years and 6 moths. and was home only twice in that time. he was wounded in the hip and was never able to get around very well after he came home. they bought land and built them a log house two big rooms. a large fireplace in each room. they reared their family there. the family consist of Rhoda E. Walthall Wees, Will Wees, John Wees, Susan Wees Holt, Jimmie Wees. Biggs. Jones. she was married twice. my mother Sarah Jane Wees Cheek, Anna Wees Sink. then Robert Wees was the youngest child - All of these have deceased now. my mother was the mother of 13 children of which she reared 9 of us I am the oldest one. When I was born they thought they would name me good. they named me Sarah. after my mother Olivia after my grandmother Cheek. Elizabeth after Aunt Rhoda E. Wees Walthall. Jane after my grandmother Wees. so after they gave me all these names I married twice so you see my name is Sarah Olivia Elizabeth Jane Cheek Then I married Frank McGee Tucker. We were married twenty nine years. then he took Broncal Asthma. and died. then I later married John W. Perry I was 51. he was 79. he lived 10 years and he died they were both good Husbands and I miss them both, it just fell my lot I guess to end that way - well as I started off with all them names. They made a short name for me and called me Ollie. I always have despised my name. but what could any one do with so much name hung to them. they should have saved some of my names for some of the balance of the other 12 children oh well enough for the names. I sure got mine. as I said be fore My Dad was reared in Weaverville N.C. his father run a Tan Yard. Tanned bark and animal skins and such also they made crockery Jugs Bottles Bowls and dishes - but when Dad came out to W.Va. he earned his living by working in the Coal Mines. So you can see we all had a very hard time getting along. but let me tell you we made it. I look back to those days some time. and think how happy we all were to-geather. we were poor but we were happy. I had a good Father and Mother. They were Christians and they taught us to live right of which I am thankful."

To be continued...

Schoolboy Civility

As we all know, George Washington was our first president. Upon reading Colonial Manners by our first president ( http://www.history.org/almanack/life/manners/rules2.cfm ) , which was written while he was a teenager, the first thought that came to mind was ‘Who were his role models?’.

In those days ‘well-to-do’ children were often raised by slave nannies or hired governesses. It doesn’t really say in a discovered ‘alleged factual’ biography ( http://xroads.virginia.edu/~cap/gw/gwbio.html ) how young George was nursed or cared for until primary school, though it appears his childhood was less than middle class according to today’s so-called lower middle class families, given the ‘conveniences’ many of us now take for granted, such as electricity, running water, and in-house bathrooms or indoor plumbing.

It’s popular wisdom in child development that much of a child’s fundamental character or conditioning with regard to how they respond to the outside world is largely programmed by the age of five. Generally, I wouldn’t disagree. So what could be found about young George leaves a mystery as to the biggest influences of his most formative early years until he entered school. As to his schooling, it was rudimentary and non exceptional, having been sent to boarding school once elementary school was finished thirty miles from where he was born. It would also appear certain teachers were positive mentors as well. The only real evidence of this is how George turned out.

What this illustrates in comparison to modern times here is that for all basic purposes George’s elementary school education was not much different in terms of available resources in comparison to today’s poorest schools. What makes today’s poorest schools really ‘poor’ is the attitude, non-dedication, and lack of civility instilled in school administrations and teachers. Many home schooled children have even fewer tools, and exhibit higher grade level functioning and learning than children that attend most of today’s ‘public schools’.

Young George studied by the light of a candle and in daylight with a lower teacher to student ratio than today’s averages in an unregulated ‘churchyard school’. It’s been said that gifted children don’t need gifted programs as much as they need support, because they naturally challenge themselves and don’t require any special curriculum to excel. The balance of a healthy everyday life and access to learning makes for whatever an exceptional child may desire with an overwhelming curiosity and thirst for knowledge, unimpeded by various forms of negativity rampant in so-called ‘adults’ of today. Children today face countless obstacles to their developing self-esteem, without which asserting themselves to feed their otherwise healthy curiosities becomes abruptly stifled.

What young George also had that was a result of his times growing up was the opportunity to observe and listen. In reading his Rules of Civility, the observance and execution of ‘body language’ is frequently addressed, though not called by our modern term. Nuances our bustling world has all but forgotten are critical in the human interactions of young George’s time. Imagine traveling days for a critical meeting; there were no ‘second chances’ in negotiations that first affected George’s life, and later that of a nation.

It’s no wonder George became a respected statesman and first president. He watched, listened, planned, and recorded with thought and precision, and an equal priority on communication styles that create mutual benefit between individuals to countries (as some of the small colonies considered themselves to be at the time). These skills were cultivated steadily throughout life as George grew up, year by year, one baby step at a time. That kind of civility has been copied by high achievers and will for generations to come. The natural rules that create progress for humanity never really change. Young George remains one of our greatest teachers, for those who have the opportunity to discover what those like him created for us all. Practicing unrelenting true civility in numbers makes the world better, one gesture at a time.

Trial by Fire

I don't like this new format in Blogger; am thinking of starting a new blog elsewhere, as have not been able to take the time to figure out how to have paragraph spaces between writing, which I create when writing, though now has not shown up in a completed post. This was not the case before. Speaking of cases, have had several going at once at a very uncomfortable pace with other families affairs pending a combination of efforts. I survived the last two weeks, though still not feeling nearly caught up to where anything feels manageable. My life or my family's cannot be sacrificed further, or my help to others cannot have priority over my own child. The balancing act is very challenging and lately more often than not feels like a tightrope in an earthquake. All we can really manage is one day at a time. Sometimes it seems ridiculous that every single tomorrow depends on today. Some say it's true. Sometimes the sense of overwhelm or tunnelvision to get through creates lots of clouds that can't be seen through in a single day.

Her

Everything was deleted after a half hour or more of work. The save didn't work when it should have as before. So here's another version of the similar thoughts that just wrote a different configuration of words... The young woman on the bus across from me didn't realize the person opposite her was the granddaughter of someone just as strikingly beautiful as she. She also likely had no idea that someday she would be the person sitting across from her: aged, no longer ogled by every male in her presence, as well as others. Ironically, I'm much more secure than when I was that beautiful, not as secure as my grandmother was at her age. My history was different, though I was the daughter of her son. I didn't know what I had when I had it in terms of youth assets, and didn't make the most of them from lack of confidence, and information, though maybe there was some purpose in why the 'beauty factor' wasn't capitalized on when it was most obvious. Beauty as such only goes so far, and doesn't mean much anymore in terms of accomplishments and steps forward. What was once important no longer is. A child needs his mother as much as I needed my grandmother at a time when it was natural and usual to be cared for by grandparents who lived in the same place. Now the world is a different place. Were it not for the 'tree huggers', some of us might not be here, though no one wishes to admit it. There's much to do; I'm slowing down only as much as the age of someone who was a lifestyle athlete finds acceptable in the present, with a stage one malignancy in the past to boot. The next generation is all that matters, so that grandchildren can be cared for in the same manner my grandmother took care of me, and served as my primary role model. First things first. One day at a time. Being there for those most important, as my grandmother was for us, as beautiful in her prime as the young woman on the bus, and remembered in much the same way.

Serenity

I look forward to being serene again. Today is blog day. It's annoyingly unseasonably cold in New York. Where is it more serene? In the valley or at the top of the peak? The water is where the river is: in the valley. I'll go wherever it's warmer. I miss the four even seasons of a childhood in a much friendlier place. I'm not staying by choice now; I was left here.

Better days will come; they have to. So many children robbed of their childhoods. I can only help so many. One hand to help myself, another for another, with no less purpose.

The books are so heavy and take up so much space now, and I'm writing one. Three times over I've replaced the desired wall of tomes, upgrading the quality over time, yet not voluntarily; the other two libraries were lost to destruction. One by a flood, another by giving more than taking, with yet another taker to replace the one before right behind him.

No more. The child will not be the same. The role model for lack of a comparison cannot stick. Screaming into the wind or a black hole will cease, and the child will thrive again, unafraid of what anyone else thinks from one moment to the next, unlike the way it was, for too long.

Wherever I am at that moment, serenity will return; my hand will be there when he reaches out for it, whenever he wants, as it always has been. The barriers will be identified and broken down, their source understood, maybe even addressed.

All that matters immediately is that what remains of a childhood can be lived out to its fullest. The buried memories will return only as they are useful, and with minimal further harm. Then, if not before, we will be serene, and a family again.

Here We Go Again

Thought of entry first part of the day, then remembered after it was too late. Too much going on for one person responsible for more than one child or family. Aftereffects of situation continue for years, like those in the wrong place at the wrong time after a hurrican or tsunami. In those circumstances, those who lose the most are not held responsible for their location when disaster struck. By the same token, an individual taken advantage of or exploited, be they child, woman, or grandparent, should not ever be blamed for what happens to them at the hands of someone else or other people.

Sometimes an entire team is involved in the siege, for money, status, or power, at others' expense including sometimes their very lives. It has gone on for decades, and almost a single decade for one family in its entirety, both sides, begun by the continuing acts of a single person putting themselves before others from an instilled sense of entitlement, among other things.

It happens to lots of people, who are worth much more than a so-called net worth. They are grandparents, aunts, uncles, and extended family who are rarely if ever named as parties directly, yet they are directly affected in as many profound ways, to the extent of losing their lives early, with no one implicated or held accountable as the cause.

This is to give perspective, if not inspire, yet the latter is difficult to understand now. When one is removed from a situation after some time the perspective changes, in the best of possible outcomes.

Who reads books anymore? Will it be found on a tablet device, in hardcover, or both? It's not a story; it's a reality for so many. Those not affected think it could 'never' happen to them, just like a natural disaster would not strike them either...

Without the 'bad', the 'good' cannot be appreciated, so they say, though losing years of a childhood or a lifetime takes its toll. In the broad perspective of humanity, it's a part of the social evolution from the framing of the Constitution until now. No one is really immune to the effects in 'the big picture'; it's an illusion to think otherwise.

Maybe not entering on time today as opposed to yesterday is a reflection of dwelling on things that are unpleasant and overshadowing being something not easily addressed or articulated. To focus on putting what's necessary into words takes emotion and energy. The difference between those who survive and those who have more difficulty is a willingness or ability to do the unpleasant, the same as those who succeed.

'Traumatic Bonding'

The topic is an ongoing conversation; it's shocking how many still don't 'get it', and continue to place children in the hands of such individuals with no protection or safeguards in place. Other family being removed from children's lives only adds to the damage that compounds over time until who the child becomes is altogther different than who they may have become otherwise. Nothing can compensate for relatives who have become ill or passed on from the resulting isolation and lack of recognition or support. A child's identity is limited by lack of exposure to those who represent strong ties to positive and lasting legacies that the loss of time substantially erodes or causes complete evaporation in instances of death. Unaccountability continues, though not for all.

Below is taken from but one resource that's only a few pages from dozens that are available and documented, yet many in systems that "serve" families are either unaware of the facts, listen to what they're told, or don't bother to find out themselves. Thousands of lives have been lost or seriously diminished across the country as a result. Countless others remain at risk. Apologies for the lack of an upbeat tone this month. Contrast is part of the process.

http://abusesanctuary.blogspot.com/2006/05/why-do-you-stay-traumatic-bonding-and.html

…helplessness and a lack of resources can be contributing factors it is time we look at the bond created by severe, prolonged trauma.

Traumatic bonding was first recognized and acknowledged during a hostage incident in Stockholm, Sweden. Authorities were amazed that the hostages refused to cooperate with them and actually saw law enforcement as the villains. What they were witnessing was the hostage's identification with the hostage taker. Authorities were even more shocked when the hostages refused to testify against their captors and one of the women later married him. While hostages may bond after a matter of hours batterers usually have many years with the victims without any interference or intervention.

This bond occurs because the well being of a child, a hostage, or woman depends upon the hostage taker or the batterer. If a batterer has total control over money, safety, peace and happiness then it is in their best interest to keep him happy.

This bond is not only in the best interest of the perpetrator but is, at times, in the best interest of the victim and is frequently necessary for survival. If a hostage is argumentative they are more likely to be injured. If a hostage taker dislikes the victim their likelihood of [harm] increases.

We often berate victims for staying in relationships and can't understand how it happened. A controlling man does not take a woman out and beat on the first date. We all put on our best face when we initially meet people, and batterers are no different. If he beat on the first date there would be no second. She has no history or investment in the relationship and wouldn't tolerate it. His taking control is a gradual process.

Battered hostages and prisoners of war will share some of the same experiences. Some of these shared experiences are that they are degraded, debilitated, they experience the constant threat of violence, the violence is intermittent, their are occasional indulgences, the captor demonstrates omnipotence, isolation etc...

The dynamics involved in domestic violence can be demonstrated by what's called The Power And Control Wheel by the Domestic Abuse Intervention Project (DAIP). It's interesting because when we compare Bidermans Chart of Coercion by Amnesty International with the Power and Control Wheel they are almost identical. (Bidermans Chart of Coercion is how Amnesty International documented the techniques of the Communist Chinese, KGB, etc. )

There are many types of service providers coming in contact with [those] who are still unaware of why women stay. These service providers are unable to address the bigger picture due to a lack of information. The inability to address this issue creates many problems. Law enforcement, and much of society, still blames women for defending their [abusers], unaware of the fact that not only is defending [them] in their best interest, but the bond itself reduces [harm]. The victims are not given the information they need to deal with the bond they feel and therefore attribute their perplexing feelings to "love." Allowing them [or] children, to continue in traumatic relationships.

"I am asking that we rethink our approach to domestic violence based on the fact that a traumatic bond is occurring and that the bond itself must be taken into consideration and dealt with.


STOCKHOLM SYNDROME THEORY
Stockholm Syndrome primarily develops under the following conditions:

Victim perceives the abuser as a threat to their survival, physically or psychologically.

Victim perceives the abuser as showing them some kindness, however small.

Victim is kept isolated from others.

Victim does not perceive a way to escape from the abuser.

Victim focuses on the abuser's needs.

Victim sees world from abuser's perspective.

Victim perceives those trying to help them as the "bad guys" and the abuser as the "good guys."

Victim finds it difficult to leave the abuser even when it is OK to do so.

Victim fears the abuser will come back to get them, even if he is dead or in prison.

Victim shows signs of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) including depression, low self-esteem, anxiety reactions, paranoia and feelings of helplessness, and recurring nightmares and flashbacks."