No excuses....

...abuse begets abuse and gravitates to abuse. Women and men who remain in abusive relationships have likely been in them all their lives. The boy or girl who sees a parent mistreat the other over and over may learn "this is the way things are done." The parent's inability to see him/herself as worthy of respect enables the abuser and says to the receiver that life is only acceptable when someone is in charge....under control. And that someone becomes a role model for the children who witness this.

I was a victim of my Dad's rage; both by word and by physical deed. I learned that I wasn't worthy of love or honor or respect. It would have been enough of a horror right then and there. If I had never met anyone to love or by them be loved, I would have been damaged almost beyond repair. But the abuse doesn't stop when you live in the classroom 24/7 for 18 years. So the lack of love in my heart caused me to reach out. And the horrible role model, my only teacher mind you, caused me to believe it was acceptable and expected to act and think like my father even as I didn't realize that was how I thought. And to expect my wife to act and think like my mother. That there was no physical abuse made no difference to my ex-wife's heart, which I broke and shattered into almost irreparable pieces. That the rage was directed at furniture and the yelling at the air instead of her never made her feel safer.

The cycle can only be broken when the abuser looks at herself or himself and says NO! I don't care why I am sad or angry or scared...I need help. The victim becomes a survivor when he or she says NO, I don't deserve this. Almost always, an outside voice needs to say STOP, my sister doesn't deserve this or HEY I love you, you're my brother, but YOU are wrong.

I still love my ex-wife with all my heart, even as I approach the 25th anniversary of my second chance...no amount of sadness, guilt or shame can erase 12 years of unhappy but sincere attempts at change and the occasional precious and good times throughout. She's remarried to a nice guy after several abusive relationships. The victim has become the survivor, and she stopped the insanity and the legacy by getting help. The abuser has become a victor and stopped the selfish rationalization and arrogance that told him it was okay to yell and break chairs, merely because he was sad and scared. I stopped the madness by getting help.

Dorothy's poem is so sad and accusatory; and it should be. Feeling guilty is a stupid, self-perpetuating emotion that causes no change but withdrawal and paradoxical justification; I can't help myself...I have a disease...my Dad...my Mom....

Being guilty is an assessment; you did it...you're guilty. Shame drives us inward; guilt, when applied carefully and with objectivity, can drive us to seek help..."I did it...I need you to show me what I can do to stop this."

The abuser and the victim will continue to dance around this sad poorly lit ballroom until someone stops the cycle. Sadly, like the poem, the music often stops when someone is unable to dance any longer. But sometimes, the dancers may finally look at each other and decide to sit this one out as they get help...sometimes apart ...sometimes forever...but always with hope if they're willing to find another Dance instructor.

When I was six I remember lying on the floor coloring in a coloring book. Like it was yesterday even as I approach my 59th birthday. My father had just yelled at my mother for the "last time." The "last times" stretched out over 49 years and two broken hearts that begat four more, who begat at least two more of their own. I said to myself, "I'll never be like you." The little Irish/Italian boy became a little girl in her heart that day...maybe a blond Swede or an nice girl from China ...anything but Dougie...My heart had already, for whatever reason, realized that I was different than maybe my Dad or my older brother. My mind was already wondering why Joann had such a special relationship with Mommy and what was it about me that was different...I didn't think that as a six year old, but it was in my heart in unexpressed longing to be complete. But my thoughts already had begun...the class was already in session, and the student learned too well how to be..how to do...how to think. I became my mother in some ways that day even as I became exactly like my father. Under any other circumstances, I might say, go ahead, ask my ex-wife...go ahead, ask Mrs. D...but I think you can take my word for it...I WAS WRONG.

But today, years later,no more guilt...reconciliation years ago with my ex and her family of sorts... the scars remain even as the hurts have continued to heal underneath even to this moment. No more shame...I can be Andrea and remember only just now happy glimpses of the little girl while finally forgiving the man.

I turn 59 on Friday. Andrea turns 53 even though her name is only one year old on the 5th. A look back, hopefully with no more guilt, although my friends remind me that imaginary ghosts all too often get our un-deserved attention. The little girl has grown up together with her brother into the adult both of them were always meant to be. Hope, as one of my friends reminds me on occasion with her outlook and especially her name, eternally reigns. Thanks for reading. Andrea