Let It Go?

Since April is Child Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month, for the past three weeks, I’ve been trying to come up with something on the subject of child abuse to write about in this blog, an important offering that might be the least bit beneficial to abuse victims, their loved ones, and child advocates. Surely, I thought, I’ve gleaned some wisdom since the publication of Call Me Tuesday, a book about my own experience as a victim of abuse, and Call Me Cockroach, in which I detail the damage sustained as a result of my childhood trauma. But each time I sat down to my laptop to write, I came up blank. The problem was, I wanted to write something uplifting and full of hope, and I couldn’t think of anything. So here it is, nearing the end of April, and this is what I have to say. I will warn you now that if you want to learn something encouraging and motivating about child abuse, you should stop reading right here, or skip to the last couple of paragraphs.

Because of my books, I get letters almost every day from readers of all ages who suffered childhood abuse similar to mine. While I appreciate the support of other abuse survivors, and it’s comforting to be reminded that I’m not alone, it’s also depressing and heart wrenching to know so many people have endured horrendous childhoods. Years ago, after I read Dave Pelzer’s, A Child Called “It”, I tried to get in touch with him because, naively and ignorantly, I thought he and I were the only two people in the world who had been singled out by our mothers for the type of extreme abuse that we both endured. I desperately wanted to tell him it happened to me too, and to thank him for having the courage to share his story. At the time I was angry that I couldn’t contact him, but now I realize that if I get a few letters a day, he must receive hundreds, if not thousands, and there’s no way he can answer them all.

To think there may be millions of us, all damaged, searching for answers, seeking relief, scares the hell out of me...makes me physically ill. Know what’s even more depressing? Each time a child abuse survivor reaches out to me, I’m given the privileged opportunity to try to help him or her. But I can’t; I can only offer comfort. I want to help them all, to say what they need to hear, that the pain will eventually go away and one day they’ll forget all about the terrible things that happened to them when they were helpless children, but that would be a lie. In truth, trauma inflicted during our vulnerable formative years runs too deep to ever just disappear. This degree of damage, once branded into our souls, stays with us forever. Sure we can function, and with the support of loved ones, even manage to live happy, close to normal lives. Therapy can help, as well as medication, but the abuse is always there, crouching in a dark place in our minds, waiting for the opportunity to pounce.

Speaking for myself and the victims who have contacted me, most of the damage comes from a fractured self-esteem, from years of being humiliated and told we were worthless. Relationships are difficult at best. Trust is iffy. Moodiness, bouts of depression, oversensitivity, and a tendency toward isolation are some of the everyday challenges we face. What we’ve all heard is true: abuse breeds abuse. But the harm is not always directed toward others. It’s my belief that most survivors are aware of this well-known stigma and fight extra hard to make sure they never mistreat another person. Instead they turn the abuse inward, which, sadly, sometimes ends up hurting those who love them, the very ones they are trying to protect. Either way it’s a lose-lose situation for everyone involved. But time heals all wounds, right? Not necessarily. Now, in my fifties, I’m still waiting for that one to play out. The older I get, the more I find myself delving back into the darkness I fought so hard to escape and revisiting my brutal childhood days.

For adult survivors of child abuse, the damage runs deep and lasts a lifetime, but for current victims, and those at risk in the future, there is hope. Our best weapon is awareness. In the past I made the mistake of not talking about my abuse, because every time I told someone they looked at me like I was either lying, or off in the head. When I was young, abuse like mine was unheard of and therefore, unbelievable. Now I realize that was the problem. The fact that there are so many adult survivors today is unfortunate, but on a positive note we have a powerful weapon in our numbers to heighten awareness just by telling our stories to as many people as we can. If you were a victim of child abuse and you want to help children at risk, you don’t have to write a book (although that would be helpful) but please consider talking about it more, blog about it, make it in-your-face heard of in any way you can.

As I write this, I can’t help but be reminded of my two year old step granddaughter, Marleigh, singing her favorite song, Let It Go, from the Disney movie, Frozen. Wide-eyed and waving her arms like she’s releasing invisible butterflies into the air, she sings, let it go, let it goooo...if only it were that easy...

The After Christmas Drain

Recently, I received a thoughtful email from one of my sisters-in-law, apologizing for not being in touch. The reason I hadn't heard from her, she wrote, is because "the holidays are not my best time of year." She didn't go into detail why, only that too many loved ones were gone and there were too many expectations from others. She was obviously down, and I felt bad for her, but, at the same time, almost instantly, her words lifted my own depressed mood. Not that I was reveling in her sadness, I was just relieved to hear about it, because it made me feel more human, less like a scrooge.


Christmas sucks the life out of me. This year, afterward, I collapsed on the couch and stayed there for an entire day, drained of all my energy. Why? Not because of the rushing around to buy gifts, or the preparing of festive dishes to take to various gatherings, or even from hosting a dinner party for my husband's family. Nah, I breezed through all that. What took me down was the exhaustion from a month of faking the spirit, holding up the heavy, happy  façade, keeping a smile plastered over my sadness, so as not to ruin, for anyone else, what should be a magical time.


The truth is, I don't really like Christmas. Sure, I get a warm feeling when I think of the true meaning of the day, a soul-deep stirring. And who doesn't enjoy watching kids rip into their gifts? But the rest I could do without. There, I finally said it, and I don't feel as evil as I thought I would, thanks to my sister-in-law's email. Although for different reasons, she and I just aren't Christmas people, and I'm guessing we're not the only ones.


My annual depression starts around the end of November and runs well into January. The reasons are pretty straightforward. The Christmases of my formative years were not joyful ones, and in spite of all my attempts at happy holidays since, I have not been able to cover up those first horrible memories. When my kids were young it wasn't so bad. Their glee filled me up and their happiness was mine. But in the last several years, even as I'm surrounded by smiles and laughter, I can still see, vividly, the forlorn face of a little girl on Christmas morning, a little girl who thinks even Santa hates her. She's huddled in a corner clutching a package of socks, watching her brothers play with their bicycles and race cars, admiring from afar the same birthstone ring that she'd seen under the tree for two years in a row, but never worn on her finger. And most painful of all, years ago, my dad was killed in a car wreck just days before Christmas. The ruthless ghost of that Christmas past haunts me every year.


I hate this part of me, mostly because of my husband. He didn't sign up for his wife turning into a grumpy elf on his favorite holiday. And I'm ashamed that I feel the way I do. My reason for writing this is to reach out to others who feel the same way. Just getting an email from someone else who also gets the holiday blues lifted my spirit. Maybe someone like me will happen across this blog and take some comfort in knowing that he, or she, is not alone.

The "Scam"

Audiobooks. We all know what they are—the title is pretty much self-explanatory—but I, for one, had never given them much thought until someone claiming to represent  “Audible Studios” contacted me a few months ago offering to professionally produce my books,  Call Me Tuesday and Call Me Cockroach, to sell in downloadable spoken format.

Of course someone was trying to run a scam on me. What would Audible, the world’s largest seller of digital, downloadable audiobooks want with an indie author, who decided to go that route because she knew no big publishing house would want to take a chance on an unknown?  Yes, it has to be a scam, I thought, and shot back a snarky email that all but asked, how much? Even when the guy from so called “Audible” responded to clarify that they wanted to pay ME to produce the books, I was still skeptical. I Googled him and found his profile on LinkedIn. He was for real.

I was convinced that the offer was legit, but I still had questions. I’d run across other books in audio format and had casually wondered if the finished product was worth the money and extensive effort to produce it. With a reputable company like Audible taking on that burden for me, I figured I had nothing to lose. But I couldn’t help but wonder about the popularity of audiobooks. I could understand how they would be beneficial to the visually impaired, come in handy to someone who travels a lot, or make the time on a treadmill go by a little faster. Beyond that, I didn’t have a clue of an audiobook’s potential to reach readers who might be interested in my story, but I was eager to find out.  Some internet research led me to a staggering figure. Turns out, in this digital age, the audiobook industry is flourishing, estimated to be worth 1.2 billion dollars. Clearly that’s more than blind people and a few road travelers.

Audible serves customers in over 190 countries.  In addition to selling through Amazon, they are the exclusive provider of audiobooks to Apple's iTunes stores worldwide.  The Audible Service is compatible with hundreds of mobile players, including iPods, iPhones, Android-powered smartphones, BlackBerrys, Microsoft-powered smartphones, Kindles and hundreds of other MP3 players. Production values and narration quality of Audible's recordings are stellar and their efforts at creating superior audio productions have not gone unrewarded.  In 2014 they won 3 Audie awards, having been nominated as finalists in 32 titles across 18 categories.  They won Best Spoken Word Album at the 2013 Grammys (Janis Ian’s Society’s Child: My Autobiography).  Also in 2013, they won 9 Audie awards, including Audiobook of the Year (The End of the Affair) and Distinguished Achievement in Production (Dracula), having been nominated as finalists with 32 titles across all categories. This most recent Audiobook of the Year is their second, having won in 2008 for The Chopin Manuscript. With Audible Studios, I could be assured that my books would have the advantage of the best talent available in narrators and support from a great marketing team, in addition to top notch producers and engineers.

Now I was excited, embarrassed and feeling a bit stupid, but excited.  I’m all for getting my message out to as many people as possible, and if audiobooks will help accomplish that, “Then sign me up,” I said. Thanks to Audible Studios, (the real deal) a company willing to take a chance on an unknown indie author, Call Me Tuesday is now available in audiobook format through Audible: http://www.audible.com/pd?asin=B00W3ZKWKS&source_code==AUDORWS0416159DB3

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Call-Me-Tuesday-Based-Story/dp/B00W5UF0EO/ref=tmm_aud_title_0

And also Apple iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/leigh-byrne/id515690672?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

Allyson Ryan is the narrator of Call Me Tuesday. She’s good. Her southern accent is awesome. Just listen to the sample here: http://www.amazon.com/Call-Me-Tuesday-Based-Story/dp/B00W5UF0EO/ref=tmm_aud_title_0.  She has narrated hundreds of audiobooks, and can also be heard in promos, commercials, and animation. She received an AudioFile Earphones Award for On the Divinity of Second Chances by Kaya McLaren and narrated the successful parody The Fifty Shames of Earl Grey by Andrew Shaffer. She also has an extensive stage and TV resume and appears as "Young Mom" in dozens of TV commercials.

Audible is providing a few free downloads of Call me Tuesday, the audiobook, in exchange for honest reviews or ratings on the Audible, Amazon and Apple websites. If you are interested in reviewing the audiobook please contact me via this blog, or at leighbyrne@wowway.com, and I will provide you with a code to claim your free book.

To Believe or Not to Believe

A few days ago, I was scanning over some of the recent Amazon reviews of my first book, when one in particular jumped out at me. The reviewer started out by stating that she (or he?), too, had been a child abuse victim, and fully understood the incidents described in Call Me Tuesday. That, alone, is nothing out of the ordinary. It saddens me to write that I receive correspondence—through email, Facebook, and my blog—practically every day from fellow abuse survivors, many of whom suffered through almost exactly what I did. The thing about this review that struck me, really pricked at my heart, was what the reviewer said next. She said she would love to find the courage to write her own story but, “some of the incidents are too unbearable to comprehend that people could do that to a child and people would choose not to believe it rather than to try to understand there are heinous monsters in this world disguised as loved ones.”

Her childhood was so horrible, so incomprehensible that she’s convinced there’s no use writing about it, because there would be people who wouldn't  believe her. And the dismal truth is she’s probably right. If she were to write and publish her story, there would be many who would have no problem calling her a liar. I know, because I get it all the time. Not so much to my face, but I’ve read comments online and reviews saying they think the events described in my book were either all made up, or exaggerated. It used to bother me. Make me cry. Hell, who am I fooling? It still bothers me. Still makes me cry. But I’m getting tougher. And I needed to thicken up my skin some, so for that I can thank the non-believers. Truth is, they are the reason I, and most abuse victims, never told anyone what was happening to us when we were kids. We were afraid no one would believe us. And now as adults, when we’ve finally mustered the courage to tell, those of us who’ve chosen to write it all down must live out that childhood fear again and again with every “I don’t believe” review.

Really, in defense of non-believers, most child abuse stories are unbelievable. The majority of the population (thank God) has difficulty processing such information because they can’t fathom harming a child under any circumstances. Others just don’t want to face the truth that such terrible things happen. Possibly another reason abuse books garner doubt is because, besides their obvious, sometimes jaw-dropping, descriptions of inhumane treatment of another human being, the author almost always changes the names and locations. Why? I believe I can speak for all child abuse memoirists when I say the intent of telling our stories was not to inflict harm or cast blame, but rather to help, to heal. The true names are not essential to the message, and incriminating the individuals involved, after the fact, would not be beneficial to anyone except for the purpose of revenge, which in my experience has always been a waste of energy. Using real names would only cause trouble and pain, and Lord knows we former victims don’t need any more of either one of those things in our lives.

There are probably some authors who have pulled a James Frey and published fabricated material to get attention or make a few bucks. But I can’t imagine why anyone would do this because there are too many other, more pleasant and profitable subjects to write about. Abuse memoirists actually lose a large portion of the reading population because many people would rather not read about something so depressing. Whether or not some of the books out there are exaggerated, I don’t know. Speaking for myself, I can tell you that I wrote the way I remember feeling at the time. But, as with my fellow child abuse memoirists, I was a child, and when you’re young, things do sometimes seem larger than life.

The people who never doubt stories of abuse are other abuse survivors. I remember how I reacted when I read a Child Called It, by Dave Pelzer. It’s been a while, but if my recollections are correct, the author was stabbed, forced to drink bleach and eat the contents of a dirty diaper. Unbelievable, right? Not to me. I knew his account was true, every word, because I had once faced the same evil. At the time, Pelzer’s book was one of the few of its kind on the market. Today there are many touching and inspiring memoirs and novels about child abuse available to the reader. Like with any other genre, there are some good reads and some bad ones. If you are interested in the subject, a couple of noteworthy books to consider downloading to your reader, or adding to your personal library, are Spilled Milk, by K. L Randis, a lovely novel in which the author artfully recounts how she brought her abusive father to justice, and Ghost No More, by Cee Cee James, who, unlike me, was able to rise above her abuse with dignity and grace. 

In my opinion, there can never be too many books on the subject, because volume heightens awareness. I encourage every abuse survivor to write your story, and if you feel so inclined, publish it, even though by putting something unbelievable out there for the world to read, you’re setting yourself up for some harsh ridicule. Still, the rewards are worth the risk. Publishing my books has been one of the most emotionally fulfilling experiences of my life. And probably the most therapeutic part, aside from the actual catharsis, has been connecting with other child abuse survivors.

As for the non-believers, if our shocking childhood stories don’t ring true to you, please know, we didn’t write them for you. We wrote our stories for our brothers and sisters who suffered in secret right along with us, to let them know they were not alone after all. And for the boy in junior high school who decides to speak up when he recognizes that a classmate’s actions bear a resemblance to a character's he read about in one of our books. We wrote them for those of you who want to learn, to know the signs of an abused child, and be made aware so you can attempt to make the world around you a better place.

Call Me Morbid

Lately, I've been thinking far too much about death. Possibly an unhealthy amount. To be honest, I always have been, not quite obsessed, but probably one rung down on the crazy ladder: intensely preoccupied, at least twice a month, with what happens to us after we pass from this life. With this past Saturday marking one year since my younger brother's tragic and untimely passing, that occasional preoccupation has morphed into constant morbid thoughts: Will it really be what we're all hoping for, what most of us have been led to believe--a euphoric reprieve from this life's challenges, tribulations and sometimes unbearable burden of pain? Do we move on to another life, in another bodily form? Do non believers and the corrupt souls amongst us truly burn eternally? Or is there nothing at all waiting for us after we die? We simply cease to exist. After much contemplation and gobbling up of all the information I could find on the topic, I've come to believe in a combination of two of these possibilities: God has many lessons for us to conquer and so we live on and we learn, until our spirits have evolved enough for us to earn our places in what we call heaven. I believe this because it's what I want to believe, because it offers an explanation of why God would allow so many people, particularly children, to suffer so. In this way I can look at pain as being for our own goods, to strengthen our souls and make us more like our Creator and His son, fit to exist beside Them eternally.


Another factor that has prompted me to think so much about death is that, like many of you, I read in the recent news about the young woman with terminal brain cancer who, with the assistance of a physician, has chosen to end her life around the first part of next month. Medical professionals have estimated that if she lets the cancer take it's course, she has less that six months to live anyway, and the end of her life would surely be excruciatingly painful and without dignity. She does not want her family to see her go out like that, and her main justification is that she's not the one who's ending her life, the cancer is, she's only speeding up the process. I get what she's saying and I agree. I'm a strong proponent of sparing needless suffering in humans as well as animals, therefore, I am a supporter of physician assisted suicide in such cases, and I think that more states should allow it.


Some may argue that suicide is a coward's way out, and under any circumstances other than to end the suffering from a cruel, terminal illness, I too believe it is. The people who ridicule and judge this young woman for wanting to end, what must be hell on earth for her, surely have not endured anything close to what she has. She's made a brave decision, and going public to heighten awareness took almost as much courage. My fear, as a Christian, is for her soul. God forgives any sin, but how can she ask for His forgiveness after she's dead? I can only hope for His mercy on her and the many others before and after her that will be forced to make the same choice. When I think of the suffering of this young woman, I look back in disgust at the times in my early adulthood when I seriously considered suicide. How dare I, having been blessed with extraordinarily good health, (Daddy insisted my heartiness is because the unsanitary lifestyle I was forced to lead, as a result of Mama's abuse, subjected me to an unusual amount of germs, which, in turn, caused me to form strong immunities) even allow such a notion to enter my mind? Had I followed through with my thoughts of ending my life over a few unfortunate, yet tolerable, challenges, I would have been the definition of a coward.


Nobody wants to talk about death, although it's a fact of everyone's life. If what awaits us after we die, as most of us believe, is full of light and love, then why is everyone so afraid of dying? Call me morbid, but if everything I know in my heart is true, when the time finally comes for me to die (for good), death will be my reward, a much needed and hopefully well-earned rest for a soul that is growing weary.

Are You Happy?

In the past, I always hated when people asked me the simple question, “How are you?” because the answer—the truth—was ugly and something they probably didn’t want to hear. It’s a superficial question we all ask to be polite, and what we expect the answer to be, whether it’s true or not, is what almost everyone says: “I’m fine.” While deep down we may genuinely care about the happiness of others, we ask mostly for selfish reasons, to come across as kind and compassionate so we can continue our day feeling good about ourselves. After all, we have our own problems with which to contend, our own illusive happiness to chase.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of vacationing in Maine, in the Casco Bay area. Anyone who knows me can tell you I’ve always wanted to go to New England, and Maine was at the top of my list. Although there were many places I wanted to visit—Paris, England, Australia—I desperately needed to go to Maine. It’s something I have harped on for my entire adult life. Why Maine? I honestly don’t know; all I can tell you is the area beckoned my soul as if I belonged there. I just knew there was a quaint cottage nestled in a wooded area, near a rocky beach with my name on the mailbox. I was convinced that if I ever made it to Maine I would be truly happy.

So after a three hour airplane flight we arrive in Portland—my husband, Wally, his parents and I, and contrary to what I’d always imagined, I am no happier than I was back in Indiana. In a rental car on the way to our hotel, I am anxiously looking out the window at the lush landscape and charming Cape Cod houses in search of inspiration. Where was that magical feeling I’d dreamed of? Where was my instantaneous bliss?

The next day, in downtown Portland, I finally get my first close-up experience of a Maine harbor. As soon as the car is parked I bolt from it and run out onto the pier. Surrounded by docked sailboats, the salty air on my cheeks, seagulls above me dipping close to my head, all at once my heart takes flight and I feel a goofy, childlike grin take over my face. My in-laws are chattering behind me, and Wally is asking me something about his sunglasses, but I am speechless.

Now, once again, I’m back in my home in Indiana. Am I happy? Perhaps the most sincere answer I can give is "Most of the time." For me, happiness comes and goes. Even though I had a lousy childhood and my young adult years weren’t much better, there were snippets of joy sprinkled throughout so intense that when I recall them today they still bring a smile to my face. At eight years old, dancing on my grandma’s baby grand piano as she played it, and later, as an adult, hearing the laughter of my children.

It’s been said that we create our own luck. I say we create our own happiness too. We all have a choice. We can allow the dark spots of our past to overshadow our future, or we can recognize and seize the fragments of light all around us as life so generously presents them daily. I choose happy :). Which do you choose?

Why'd Ya Do it, Christie?

Why did you, at sixty-years-old, put on that sexy blue bathing suit and pose for the cover of People Magazine, and then let the publishers Photoshop the hell out of your picture? Do you really expect us to believe that a woman who, in some restaurants, is eligible for the senior discount, (and claims to have never had plastic surgery) doesn't have a sag in her skin, a broken vein in her legs, or the slightest pooch in her stomach? Don't you know the frustration you've caused every women over forty who has no chance of looking like you do, at sixty? Perfectly normal, lovely, middle-aged women standing in check-out lines at grocery stores all over the world, gazing at that cover photo of you, with nothing but rice cakes and celery in their carts, because they actually believe that in order to be attractive and worthy they must be thin and youthful. You are a beloved celebrity, an icon. Women have always admired your wholesome good looks and girl next door quality. Our hearts went out to you when your younger husband left you. And this is what you give us in return? Shame on you, Christie Brinkley! Yes, you look amazing for your age, but you are so not the face of sixty--what we should "aspire to look like" at that age--nor should you be. It's unrealistic, unfair, and just plain bull crap.


What's worse is People Magazine tried to pull the bogus photo off as a celebration of aging. If they truly wanted to celebrate aging they would have published an unretouched cover of a woman who has aged like the average sixty year old, and still enjoys a healthy, active, and productive lifestyle, sending out the message that it's possible to have a wrinkle here and there and still be happy. That it's okay for women to grow old, look their age, and still be beautiful and valued. But that won't happen any time soon. Old doesn't sell magazines, because it isn't pretty in the eyes of a shallow society that has cruelly defined a woman's worth by her appearance.

Bullying

Last week, while my husband was away on a business trip, with many sleepless late-night hours to fill, I got on a Netflix documentary kick. Into the wee hours of the morning, I became enlightened to the challenges of living with bipolar disorder, saw jaw-dropping accounts of extreme hoarding, and peeked out over the top of my covers in horror as I watched reenactments of people being mauled by wild animals. Then I ran across a documentary on bullying in our schools, and passed over it, fearing it would trigger painful recollections of my own childhood experiences. But the show kept calling me to watch it, as if a subconscious part of me needed to know what our kids are going through today. I gave in and clicked on it.


What I saw was so sad. Nothing has changed since I was in school. If a kid is the least bit different, they are at risk for being bullied by their peers. At first I cried buckets of tears, and then, I became nail-spitting mad at the bullies, and the teachers who turned a blind eye. And yes, as I had expected, I was taken back to those excruciating days when I was made fun of for my high-water pants and greasy hair. Having been bullied, I can tell you there is no deeper wound than being rejected and humiliated by the very people whose acceptance you seek most. A child should never have to suffer in this way.


Some of the kids in the documentary were so tortured by their bullies, in order to escape the pain, they ultimately took their own lives. Committed suicide at eleven and twelve years old! This got me to wondering why I didn't consider doing the same when I was a kid. I was abused at home, bullied at school. God knows I was miserable enough to at least be entitled to the notion. But suicide never once crossed my mind, and the reason is really quite simple: Death wasn't an option for me. I was too busy trying to survive to even consider dying. Looking back, I realize my life may not have actually been in danger, but, with a child's mind, I thought it was, and when you think you're in danger, automatic survival instincts kick in.


By the time I was in Jr. high school, I did, however, find a way to fight back. I was on the staff of the school newspaper, and could pretty much write about anything I wanted, so I decided to write about the cruel way some kids were treating those of us who were "different." In hindsight, I'm not clear what I expected to accomplish by doing this. Maybe I thought calling these bullies out might magically make them like me, or feel so ashamed by my words that they would stop making fun of other kids. I can't tell you what I was hoping for, but I can tell you what actually happened. The publication of the article only made things worse. Of course, I didn't mention any names, but the guilty parties somehow knew who they were (why is it usually the popular kids?), and they offered some snide remarks and dirty looks, and their teasing and ridicule of me continued with even more viciousness. But I also remember enjoying a silent, personal victory, because at least I got their attention. It was perhaps the first time I realized the true power of the written word.


My life at home was actually worse than my life at school, so I believe for that reason, I developed a high tolerance for abuse of any kind. But most kids don't have such thick skin. Being bullied is crushing and devastating, and sometimes leads them to a lonely, hopeless place, with nowhere to turn for help. They seldom go to their parents, because kids are often too ashamed to disclose they've been cast out by their peers, too embarrassed to admit they don't have friends. And I get that. Even if I'd had loving parents, I wouldn't have told them about my predicament because of this shame.


So what can I pass on to parents and grandparents from my experience? Your kid is most likely not going to tell you if he or she is being bullied at school. You have to be proactive and look for the signs yourself. Does your child consistently find excuses not to go to school? Has he or she suddenly become withdrawn? Does he or she never get invited to a friend's house for a sleepover? If so, there's a chance your child may be hiding something. And believe me, this is one dark and dangerous road you do not want your baby to travel alone.

The Frailty of Life

Most people, when confronted with tragedy, turn to family and friends for comfort. But because I have adjusted to life without a family, and grown accustomed to concealing and suppressing my pain, I turn to pen and paper instead. Some of my words--often the ones most drenched with angst--I destroy, or tuck away in a secret place, never to be read by anyone. Others I cast out into the world, hoping someone else who's had a similar experience will happen upon what I've written and glean a ray of solace, or, better yet, be compelled to make a positive change in his or her life, and, in this case, benefit from my mistake.

So here's what happened: One of my brothers recently passed away. By choice. He took his own life, leaving behind no trace of a reason for his action. Only questions, questions that wake me in the middle of the night: Was the way he did it a shrouded message? Was what he was wearing a hint as to why? Was his dysfunctional childhood somehow to blame? 

As masochistic as this may sound, I long to feel the devastation of this loss of a sibling, my brother, my blood. But because I never got to know him at all, because of the unfortunate truth that he was nothing more than a passing acquaintance, I am left only with these unresolved questions, and a gut-wrenching sadness at the thought of him reaching the hopeless point of where the only way to end his unbearable pain was to end his life. And guilt. Most of all I'm left with guilt. Guilt that I never put forth more effort to make the lanky cotton-top boy, who once played in the background of my childhood, something more than a vague memory.

I wanted to start a relationship with him after Mama's death, last year. I thought it would be a good time to at least begin. After all, Mama was the one who had kept us apart. Wasn't she? But he didn't think it was a good time. Too soon. So we put the idea on a backburner and that's where it stayed, simmering, waiting for one of us to pick it up. But neither of us ever did. I'll always be tormented by the thought that maybe if I'd tried harder--pushed harder--to become a part of his life, I could have somehow stopped him from turning down the dark road he ended up on. Or not. Maybe there's no amount of familial love and support that could have saved him. I'll never know, because now it's too late to find out. Too late to say I love you, brother.

Why Call Me Cockroach?

It has been a while since I posted to this blog, and many of you know the reason is because I've been working on my second book, a sequel to Call Me Tuesday. Now it's completed and for sale in eBook format on Amazon and B&N, and the paperback is in the final stages. I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone who encouraged me to tell the rest of my story, and then waited patiently while I pecked it out on my laptop.

The second book was almost as painful to write as the first. After the release of Call Me Tuesday, initially, I was embarrassed to reveal the many horrific and humiliating incidents of my childhood. But then after I received the reader response, I realized I had not been giving people enough credit for their capacity for empathy. My abusive upbringing had unfortunately caused me to fear people, and to be leery of the possibility of their cruelty. The compassion, and the brave sharing of experiences I derived from others after they'd read my story made me truly grasp that there are many in this world worthy of trust. During the writing of the second book, in order to convey the true essence of the damage I incurred as a result of my abusive childhood, I found myself having to once again disclose  more shameful personal experiences. But I was able to move forward because of renewed faith and trust that I can only attribute to the kindness of my readers. What a priceless gift! For that I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

Because of the reactions I have been getting concerning the title of the second book, Call Me Cockroach--ranging from ooooh! to WTF--I feel I should address my reason for choosing it. While I had several options for a title, this one just seemed to fit my story and my struggles. Like it reads in the Prologue of the book, my daddy actually called me a cockroach, because of my ability to survive, not only under dire physical circumstances, but also the uncanny way I am able to disregard my emotions if need be to keep on living. Many people would have crumbled without essential parental love, and as a result of family turning their backs and doing nothing to help them. But I was somehow able to walk away from them all in search of people who would love me. Cockroaches, although not particularly appealing creatures, survive at all cost. In this way I feel a kinship with them, and I believe there are many more like me out there. With all this in mind, there was really only one choice for the title, and so I swallowed my pride and went with it.

Tell

Some people--particularly a few members of my family--have asked why I felt the need to write a book based on my childhood abuse. They can't fathom how I could possibly benefit from revealing such embarrassing family secrets. Was it cathartic? Was it to get even? To make money?

No, no and no.

You see, severe childhood trauma tends to get caught in the crevices of one's soul and therefore, it's not easily purged by something as simple as writing. At least that's been my experience. If it were that easy everyone who's ever been a victim would just write it down and be done with it. Healed. Happy. Normal.

As far as getting even goes, well, that's just impossible. There's no way to even the score of losing your childhood, your self esteem, your ability to trust, and part of your adult sanity. Besides, my blood relatives are so far-removed from my life, unless they wanted someone to know we're related, because our last names are different, it would be next to impossible to make the connection.

A money-making scheme? Hardly. As an independent author, I have no hopes of becoming rich, or famous from the meager proceeds of this book.

Then why on earth did I write such a disgusting, humiliating story based on my life? The main reason is really a pretty basic human need--I wrote it to tell.

For most of my childhood I was afraid to tell, forbidden to tell, and for a long time, I didn't tell. Then when I tried to tell no one believed me. And no one else in my family would tell, so for many years, my abuse was kept a secret, and of course, my family thinks it should continue to be a secret. But I'm no longer a child and no longer afraid. Now I can tell. And that's why I did tell.

Really, above all else, it's the key message of my book: It's okay to tell. By telling my own story I send my message to all abused children and adult survivors. But today, in honor of Child Abuse Prevention/Awareness Month, I send the message, not to abused children, but to their families. Because for almost every abused child out there today, there are family members who suspect something but are not telling. That's one reason, in my opinion, why child abuse is still so prevalent.

Every time you read an article, or hear on the news about another child dying from abuse, ask yourself this: why didn't anyone in the family tell? Surely a parent, stepmother, stepfather, brother, sister, grandmother, grandfather, an aunt or uncle suspected something. Unless the abuser was a single parent with an only child, who had cut off all contact with family and friends, believe me, someone knew something and didn't tell. I am convinced of this because after I became an adult, practically everyone in my extended family admitted to me they knew I was being mistreated but didn't tell.

Adult survivors, still keeping your secret, you now have a chance to have the tiny voice of the child within you to be heard. Tell. Or consider writing down what happened to you, like I did. You don't have to publish it (writing just happens to be my thing) but you can write about it and let someone you love read what you've written. No matter what anyone says, it did happen. And it's your turn to tell.

If by chance I'm fortunate enough to have a young person, who is in some way involved in abuse, happen upon this blog, or my book, I hope they get my message loud and clear: tell. If  you are afraid, or if the words are too horrifying to utter, then write it down and slip it to someone. If you're not being abused yourself, but a sibling is, or you suspect one of your friends may be a victim--please, please tell.

True Story or Based On a True Story

It makes sense that people wonder why I say my book, Call Me Tuesday, is "based on a true story" and not simply "a true story." The short answer is that personally, I believe every memoir--particularly the ones covering the earliest years of one's life--in which names, locations, etc. have been changed, conversations recreated, and in some cases blanks filled in, should be classified as "based on a true story."

To me, pure nonfiction is documented, researchable facts, not personal reflections, as seen through someone's eyes. For a memoir to be based on truth, I believe the bone structure of the story, to the best of the memoirist's recollection, should remain intact and not embellished upon, which in my case is the horrific, often twisted, childhood abuse I endured at the hands of my disturbed mother. Due to my young age when much of this took place, my recreations of conversations and insignificant events may be imperfect, but the day-to-day torment I suffered during these early years is etched into my memory in vivid detail. This raw, soul-baring account of what I remember is what I offer the reader in Call Me Tuesday.

Nevertheless, readers are understandably confused by all this, as evident in this interesting blog review: 
http://taralovesbooks.blogspot.com/2012/12/call-me-tuesday-by-leigh-byrne-cbr-iv-50.html.

So, the sequel to CMT (projected to be released in late spring or early summer of this year), in which my true experiences are diligently rendered as I recall them, will be classified simply, as a memoir.

Scapegoat

While being the victim of a parent’s fury is bad enough, being the only child in a family singled out to receive it is many, many times worse.

There came a point during the writing of Call Me Tuesday, when I felt the need to somehow impart meaning and purpose to what had happened to me as a child, to make my story, at least in my mind, something more than a pointless reflection of human suffering.

I spent hours on the Internet combing through newspaper articles about abused children, searching for one similar to mine. After days of reading heart wrenching stories about children who’d been brutally killed by one or both of their parents, I ran across an article about a four-year-old girl who’d been beaten to death by her mother. Reading on, I found out that in the years before her death, the little girl had been severely abused over an extended period of time, whereas her five brothers were never harmed. In the article, she was referred to as a “scapegoat child,” a term commonly used by social workers.

Wanting to know more, I typed “scapegoat child” in the search box of my computer and found many stories just like mine of children who were the only ones in their families abused. Turns out the phenomenon is surprisingly common nationwide and well-documented among child welfare experts, but hard to detect because it’s often covered up by the family members and sometimes becomes an accepted function within the family system. And like with all cases of child abuse, we don’t hear much about it until the death of one of the victims makes the papers.

The expression,” scapegoat” dates back to Biblical times. It’s written in Leviticus 16 that, on The Day of Atonement, two goats were chosen for a ceremony to rid Jerusalem of its sin. One goat was offered to God as a sacrifice, the other, after having all the sins of the people symbolically placed upon it, was sent out into the wilderness to fend for itself. The second goat, the bad, now sinful goat, because it was allowed to “escape” with its life, became known as “the scapegoat.”

Today, the word scapegoat is used to describe someone unjustly blamed and punished for the wrongdoings of others. Just as the riddance of evil was transferred from the Israelites to the Biblical goat, so do some people, instead of trying to understand the uncomfortable feelings within themselves, unconsciously project them onto another person, who then becomes the reason for all their problems.

Scapegoats are often the weak and powerless among us, making children likely targets for troubled parents seeking refuge from their guilt and other unwanted feelings. The child chosen from a sibling group—usually the most passive—is deemed bad and punished merely for existing. After being beaten, berated, and tortured for years, like the scapegoats in the Bible, they are then sent out into the world alone carrying with them the burden of their families' rejected pain.

I now know I was a scapegoat child. Everything my mother thought was bad in her, all her guilt and discontentment, she projected onto me, and once she made me into a replica of everything she hated about herself and her life, she lashed out at me physically and castigated me, not because she hated me, but because she hated who she was.

Scapegoating is not limited to children, and it’s not always noticeably severe. People are scapegoated every day in the workplace, in peer groups, as well as within our families. Every time we make fun of, or belittle someone to make ourselves look or feel better, we’re making a scapegoat of them. We are, albeit subconsciously, relieving the burden of our obscure feelings of self-badness and inadequacy by dumping it onto someone else. Scapegoating a child—or anyone for that matter—has the potential to be one of the most psychologically damaging forms of abuse we can inflict on another person. Please—don’t do it.


  

Mama is Dead

Mama is dead.

 

They found her Saturday, on the kitchen floor of her home in Memphis. The window in her bedroom was open; the back door unlocked and a lamp was knocked over. Her little dog, Mimi, was missing. Had Mama been the victim of a robbery gone wrong? Detectives were called in. They found her purse; her credit cards were intact. The TV was still there, her jewelry. They found Mimi in a spare bedroom, starving, dehydrated and clinging to life. The detectives did not suspect foul play. Then how did she die?

 

From a picture, I see she looked fine on Thanksgiving—in good health for a woman of 77. But she was taking heart medication. Had she missed a dose–or two? There were pills strewn across her bed. Maybe she had a heart attack and went quickly. It even crossed my mind that it could have been suicide. It was almost exactly the same time right before Christmas that Daddy was killed in a car accident many years ago. Not knowing is excruciating. An autopsy has been ordered, but we have yet to get the results. 

 

My mama is dead. The mama I never truly had, and yet, now that she’s gone, I am filled with sorrow for the loss. I cried when the news sunk in. Why, after the cruel way she treated me—after the abuse I wrote about in the book? I wondered myself. Just how is a victim of child abuse supposed to feel when her abusive parent dies? I think I would have cried hearing that anyone passed in such a sad, lonely way. I think. Or maybe I cried simply because she was my mother, my flesh and blood and because I know with her died any chance of the two of us ever having a relationship. That truth is now painfully stamped into my heart.

 

My mama is dead and I am sad. I write this through tears. But wait, should I be sad? In the many private hours she spent alone, by choice, I know hers was a soul in turmoil. Now it’s at peace, and I should be relieved for her, right?  Relieved that her burden has finally been lifted.

 

Her funeral is Thursday. She will be buried beside Daddy in her home town. And I will be there. After the funeral my brothers and I plan to go back to her house and go through some of her things. In her personal effects and private papers, I hope to find some traces that she loved me after all. I will need your prayers.

 

Fruitcake

Good morning, my neighbor, and Merry Christmas to you! I’m here with a gift for you and your family! Yes, it’s fruitcake again, just like every other year, only before it was left on your porch by a woman whose name you never bothered to know.

Who, you ask? But you must have seen her a hundred times walking the street in front of your house—tiny thing, ruddy cheeks and shaggy white hair. She always wore a gauzy tie-dyed skirt and a Cardinals jersey—Pujols, number 5. Sometimes she danced for no reason and sang old Beatles songs at the top of her lungs. 'She loves you yeah, yeah'...yeah, that’s her. Don’t you remember? Every time you saw her you called for your kids to come in. Crazy’s the word you used—off in the head.

For ten years straight that crazy little lady baked a fruitcake for you and your family and left it on your front porch on Christmas morning. And every year, when you walked out your door you kicked it aside “Damn thing’s like a brick,” you said.

I never told my Lizzie this because it would’ve crushed her soul, but last year I saw you feed it to your dog. “Look,” I heard you say, laughing. “He won’t even eat it.”

This Christmas I thought I’d hand the cake to you, personally, because with your gift I have some news I think you’ll be glad to hear. There will be no more fruitcake. No fruitcake ever again to clutter your porch and block your door; no fruitcake to feed your dog. And you can rest assured that you won’t be seeing the crazy slip of a lady anymore, dancing in the street, singing her songs. No one will ever see my Lizzie again.

Why do you look so sad my neighbor, my friend? There’s no need to ruin your Christmas by feeling bad. After all, you’re not the first to turn fruitcake away; not the only one afraid to take a chance on its colorful fruits and nutty texture, choosing the smooth chocolate sheet cake instead.

Running With Scissors

On a warm Saturday morning, this past October, my husband decided it would be a good time to go out into the backyard and clear away some dying tomato plants from our vegetable garden. After breakfast, he selected a pair of garden shears from the garage and immediately began the task.

I’m not a morning person and wasn’t feeling nearly as energetic as he was, but I poured myself a second cup of hot tea and went outside to sit in a nearby hammock  and watch him work. It was a quick job, and in a matter of minutes he was done and ready to leave the garden. As he began to walk away, somehow his feet got tangled up in the mesh fence he had put up to keep wild animals out,  causing him to trip.

I should probably point out that we have a raised garden bed, and that my husband was still holding the shears, which were the kind with long, pointy blades. To be perfectly clear, he was falling headfirst with a sharp object aimed directly at the main artery in his neck—a trip to the emergency room trifecta.

Now on my feet, across the yard, I was watching the whole thing, helplessly. As he hit the ground, he instinctively jerked his head back just as the shears made contact with his neck. I ran to his side, expecting the worst, and discovered that he had, in fact, jabbed the shears into himself.

The good news is there was no squirting blood. By the grace of God the shears missed his jugular vein. When he jerked his head back he prevented the blade from penetrating deep into his neck. He was cut, though, and there was some blood, but the wound was superficial. Nothing that a tetanus shot and a butterfly band-aid wouldn’t fix. The worst of his injuries was a bad sprain in his neck, for which the doctor prescribed steroids, and physical therapy.

Later on that night, he found himself in quite a bit of pain, and as with most men who’ve been injured, he needed babying. As for me, I was pleased with the minor wounds he sustained and happy to have him alive and in one piece. If you ask me, all in all, it was a pretty good trade-off—a little whiplash for a life-threatening stab wound. I told him he should’ve bought a lottery ticket on the way home.

His accident got me to thinking about when I was a kid and my grandmother told me not to run with scissors. Or a pencil. She used to say, “Stop running with that pencil or you’ll fall and put your eye out!”  Why couldn’t she have simply said, “Stop running with that pencil” ? Why? Because that alone wouldn’t have been enough to get my attention, but by adding the part about poking my eye out, she conjured a gory mental image that I could not ignore.

Grandma also used to tell me if I crossed my eyes they would stick that way, and if I played with fire I would wet the bed. I’m pretty sure neither of these things have actually ever happened, at least not in the said sequence, and even then, I doubted the validity behind her statements, but at the time I wasn’t willing to take the chance.  

She used the word “death” a lot when she wanted to get me to stop doing something of which she didn’t approve. Some of her favorites were “Don’t eat so fast or you’ll choke to death!” and “Get in out of the cold or you’ll freeze to death!” But the one that scared me most of all was “Zip your coat and pull up your hood, or you’ll cough your head off tonight!”  That really made for a grizzly nightmare for a kid with an overactive imagination. I pictured myself in bed hacking away, face red, eyes bulging, unable to catch my breath to scream for help, hacking, hacking, hacking, until my head is thrust from my neck with a spurt of blood and rolls across my bed, onto the floor, disappearing into the darkness.   

When I grew up and had kids of my own, I used the very same tried and true phrases on them that my grandmother used on me—for their own good, of course.  Do you know of any more such phrases used to manipulate a kid’s behavior? If so, I’d love to hear them!

Until the Spinning Stops

For those of you who visit this blog regularly, yes, I've changed the name. But there's a good reason. I did it because lately, I've found that "every other Tuesday" has been coming around a bit too quickly.

Nobody hates excuses more than me, and I can't believe I'm doing this, but here goes. We are entering our busiest time at work (I work at Macy's), plus, I'm trying to get my stepdaughter ready for college. Between those two things, promoting the book, and trying to be a half-way decent wife to a man who's used to a hot meal on the table at 5 o'clock every afternoon, and has a pile of sewing repairs for me to do...well, to make a long story short, blog Tuesday rolled around this week and I completely forgot about it. Completely. Forgot. Never even entered my mind until about twenty minutes ago. So I decided, for the time being, I will post when I can.

I truly appreciate everyone who follows this blog, and please know that I'm not giving up, I'm just slowing down for a while until my world stops spinning around me.

Do Your Kids "Feel" the Love?

When it comes to disciplining kids, things have really changed, haven't they? I guess it never dawned on me just how much until a few days ago while waiting in line at a Subway in the mall. Standing behind me was a young mother with her two sons of approximately six and eight years of age. The boys were arguing about something--I think it was because they were going to have to split a foot long. Anyway, they were pushing and shoving one another like brothers do, while their mom seemed oblivious to what was going on. Then, out of nowhere, the youngest boy spit on his big brother, at which time Mom finally responded. "Jacob!" she said, wiping the spit from the older boy's face with a napkin she'd plucked from a dispenser on the Subway counter "That wasn't very nice!"

That wasn't very nice? I thought. That's all the punishment Jacob gets? My grandma would have skinned me alive if I'd ever spit on anyone in her presence! And little Jacob gets by with nothing more than a scolding?

For those of you who have read some of my previous blog posts, or my book, Call Me Tuesday, which is based on my own true-life experience, you know that as a child, I was severely abused by my mother, and for that reason I spent all my summers at my grandma's house. Any healthy discipline I received during my childhood came from her. When I was going through the abuse at home at the hands of my mother, I didn't know there was a name for it. All I knew was something didn't feel right about the way I was being treated.

Unlike when I was growing up, kids these days know the word "abuse" all too well. Some of my friends have told me that their kids have even threatened to report them to the authorities. Thank God my own children never did that. If they had it would have probably sent me into hysterics. I didn't give them a chance, anyway, because I was so afraid of turning into my mother that I left most of the discipline to my ex-husband, which, looking back, I now realize was unfair to him. But that's an entirely different blog altogether.

I remember when I was about ten, while I was at at my grandmother's house for the summer, one afternoon I decided to walk to a nearby grocery store for an Orange Crush. I had been playing in an old washtub Grandma used to fill with cool water on really hot days days, so all I had on was a two-piece swimsuit. I scraped up some change from my room, put on some flip-flops, and without telling Grandma I was going, headed down the street to the grocery store.

When I got back, Grandma was standing in the front yard, holding a length of freshly peeled tree twig in her hand. I knew I was in big trouble. She whipped my hind end all over the yard that day, and it hurt like hell. But after it was all over, a strange calm came over me. I believe somehow I instinctively knew I deserved every stripe that switch left on my legs. For reasons unknown to me then, the boundaries Grandma set for me made me feel safe, cherished. Something terrible could have happened to me walking down the streets of Nashville all by myself wearing nothing but my swim suit. Simply scolding me wouldn't have been punishment enough. Grounding me wouldn't have driven home the point either. What I needed was a good old fashioned whipping. As much as it hurt Grandma to have to do it (I can remember, the whole time she was thrashing me there were tears streaming down her cheeks), she wanted to make sure I didn't wander off again. And, you know, I never did because every time I took a notion to, I remembered the sting of that switch.To this day, I can still feel it, still hear it whistling as it sliced through the air.

My point is, sometimes a whipping is the only discipline that will do. When fear really needs to be instilled, when the consequences of what a child has done needs to be branded into her memory. But now, because child abuse awareness has gone from one extreme to the other, parents today don't feel at liberty to spank their kids. And that's a pity, because I think when done properly, a good old fashioned whipping has a way of making a kid really "feel" the love.

Murder at My House

My husband is on a business trip. I am home alone. It's about ten o'clock at night. As usual, I curl up on my bed with my laptop.

All of a sudden I get an uneasy feeling, you know, the one you get when you think someone is in the house. I'm just being paranoid, I think. But to be safe, I tip-toe to my bedroom doorway to take a look. That's when I see him, his larger-than-life shadow projected on the wall.

The realization washes over me that I'm going to have to deal with this alone. Ouickly, I back-pedal and sink into the closet for a weapon. I find a five pound dumbbell. It'll have to do. I clutch it with a death grip, assuming attack position.

As I make my way back to where I spotted the intruder, I try to remain calm, but fear is beading on my forehead and upper lip. I take a deep breath and lunge out into the hallway only to find he's already vanished from sight.

Now he has gained the edge, because nothing is scarier than that which I cannot see. My heart starts to pound like crazy; I can feel it in my throat. I search around me in a panic. Where is he? For the love of God where is he? 

He's behind a door, or under a piece of furniture, waiting for me to seek him out. And I will seek him out; I have to, because the very thought of him lurking in my house somewhere is too much to bear.

I race through every room, flinging furniture aside. I spot him in the kitchen crouched beneath the table. He is there, staring at me, in plain sight as if he's daring me to come after him.

And I do--go after him--swinging the dumbbell as I go. A miss! Damn it! I grab a skillet from the stove (thank God I had a grilled cheese sandwich for supper and didn't do the dishes) and strike him again, giving the blow everything I have. He's seriously wounded, I can see this, but I don't stop there. I continue to beat him over and over, startled by my own violence, by how much I am enjoying the killing. Yes, by now, it is officially a killing. When I finish with him he is nothing more than a black, pulpy spot on the linoleum.

Spiders are particularly bad this year. And freakishly big too. Don't you think?

To Daddy, With Love

My previous blog post was supposed to be a tribute to dads, which I thought would be appropriate since I'd written one to mothers around Mother's Day. But when I sat down with my laptop to write it, I couldn't bring myself to type the words--it was too close to Father's Day, always a difficult time for me ever since my dad was killed in a car accident years ago.

Although my mother is still very much alive, it feels to me like she's dead too, like she died when I was a child. Still, it wasn't hard for me to write the blog about mothers (This is For You), even though I've never really had one, not for any length of time. When I began writing, I just thought of all the sweet, nurturing mothers I've known in my lifetime, and what my friends have told me about the way these special women have made them feel. I thought of my own mother-in-law, of how much she means to me, and the words came easy.

Now that Father's Day has come and gone, and the deep ache for the loss of my dad has softened, I have something to say.


For those of you who haven't read my book, Call Me Tuesday, a story based on the true events of my childhood, I was abused and tortured horribly by my mother, and although my dad was aware of most of what was going on, he did little to stop it.


In the wake of the publication of the book, I have been accused, many times, of being blind when it comes to my dad. Kirkus stated in their review of the book, "... hard to take is her father’s passiveness, partly because Byrne is too easy on him. He tells Tuesday that intervention “could break up the family...”  http://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/leigh-byrne/call-me-tuesday/#review .


And what they say is true. But Daddy tried to do something early on; there were fights--serious ones.  He said he kept hoping Mama would stop on her own. He had faith that she was a good person because she had been when he married her, and he was so insanely in love with her. Then, before he knew it, things had gotten out of hand. He was sure if social services intervened, all of us, kids would have been placed in different foster homes. Truth be told, he was probably right. That's what he said, anyway. And I guess I bought it because I wanted to.


He should have turned her in, you say. But don't be so quick to judge. Take a look at your own spouse, your son, or daughter, brother or sister. How easy would it be to send him or her to prison, or to a mental facility for abusing only one child? What if the other children involved were begging you not to take their mama away? If you thought you could possibly stop the abuse on your own, wouldn't you at least try before you tore a family apart?


I know my father was a weak man where my mother was concerned. But because he was a wonderful man in so many other ways, it's  hard to hate him. Believe me, I, of all people have reason to and I've tried, but I can't. I think it's partly because he owned up to what he did--or didn't do--apologized and tried to make things right between us. And yes, I forgave him because he asked me to, and because he's my daddy, and because somehow, in the midst of all the madness that was my childhood, he was one of the few people who made me feel loved.