Crossing Bridges

I appreciate the opportunity to share my experiences with you. I share them not as an expert in the field of therapy, grief work, or counseling, but as someone that lived through a tragedy, struggled for a lifetime with the attendant results, and reached a measure of peace, joy, and happiness.  Most importantly, I continue my learning journey.

I lend my soul to those of you who are carrying the burden of loss, grief, guilt, anger, or any other emotions caused by your loss. From the very depths of my soul I say to you, I wish your loss had not occurred and that your hearts did not ache or were not broken. However, there is much we can learn from even the hardest times. As you read about some of my difficult experiences you need not feel sorry for me. I’ve taken care of the feeling sorry for myself. I’ve spent the better part of my life feeling, being, and living the life of a victim.

I was born and raised to the age of twelve in the land of Lincoln, in the state of Illinois. Two months prior to my twelfth birthday I was living in the country on the outskirts of a small farming community called Toulon, Illinois. I resided there with my mother, father, and five siblings. Mom and I clashed from the moment I was born. I came out kicking and screaming and never stopped. I never bonded with her.

I enjoyed life in the country. Fishing and hunting pheasants, squirrels, and rabbits were some of my favorite pastimes.  However, I didn’t enjoy the dysfunction that was rearing its ugly head within the structure of our family. Let me explain by recalling a typical incident that took place in April of 1957.

With the morning ritual of peeing off the back porch accomplished, I headed to the water trough. The water trough served a dual purpose. One, it watered the cattle. Two, it was used to put the preceding day’s catch in. I looked at my fish, noting that they were alive and well, then headed down to the crick to go fishing.

True enough, Mom told me not to go down there by myself. “I’ll be okay, Mom. Please let me go down to the crick alone,” I had said.

“Damn you kids,” she replied. “I worry about you from the time I get up until I go to bed. Your dad leaves early, gets home late, and never gives me any help when he’s home. All I want from you is a little respect. Just mind me. Don’t you dare go down to that crick.”

“Leave me alone. I’ll do what I want.”

“You do and by God you’ll pay the price,” Mom screamed at me as I headed off into the sultry, humidity-filled heat of the day.

Fishing evokes fond memories for me. I used sticks, string, and paper clips to make fishing gear. Bluegill, sunfish, bullheads, turtles, and crawdads were the catch of the day. I developed the skill to determine which crick inhabitant was biting on my hook.

Wandering through the fields with my brothers, following the crick, and hunting around each bend for the next great fishing hole filled me with excitement and anticipation. I still love to go fishing.

It was a time for being carefree. A time when adventure was just a step away. Playing cowboys and robbers with my brothers in the hills by the crick, daydreaming about riding horses, and attacking each other’s make-believe camps and fortresses occupied my mind and captured my fancy.

Not one thought was given to a mother who constantly worried about where I was or whether I was going to drown in the crick. I knew I wouldn’t, and never gave it a second thought.

That day I returned to the house after being gone for an hour. Mother was nervous, anxious, and angry all at the same time. “Where have you been? You didn’t go down to that crick did you?”

“No, Mom, honest.”

“Damn you. Wait till I get my hands on you.”

I knew by the tender age of eleven that the best way to avoid Mom’s anger was to run. That I did.

The ultimate shame for me as a child was to stand in defeat with my head bowed as mother exulted in her conquest of me. I was an innocent child who only wanted to trust in, believe in, and be loved by his mother. However, she seemed incapable of filling any of these basic human needs. Her conquest of me was wrought by treachery, lying, cajoling, deceit, and false promises.

Her victory did not come easily. She spent half the day using all her powers as an adult to trick me into trusting her and submitting to her. She took an oath. “Come here, Gene. I won’t hurt you. I promise. I just want to talk to you about minding. Really Gene, I promise.” Her performances in the past helped me fend off the temptation to trust her.  I resisted for several hours. Finally I gave in and went to her. After all, she was my mother. As a trusting child, I delivered the victory to her by finally submitting to her request, “Come here.”

I made her earn her victory, but she made me wear my defeat. She beat me till my back was black, blue, and bloody. The beating was easy to take when compared to the shame I felt later that day as she rejoiced in her victory. I can still see her holding me by the hand and arm, “Take off your shirt, Gene, and turn around.” I felt as though I were a piece of meat on a spit, hanging over a barbecue. She was showing the rest of the family as well as one of her friends