Survivors Journey Part 2 – Creating Diversions in Fear of Fear

My heart has been heavy since my last post in which I committed to opening up and dissecting my life for any and all to see. There were a few (well, more than a few) moments when I thought to myself, “Are you nuts?” It’s possible and completely subjective. Honestly, I’m scared. Being vulnerable is, by far, not one of my strengths. There are some incredibly painful experiences in my past which I’m not too eager to revisit, but I’m committed to the road for which I’m being lead, and this is part of the journey.

When I initially sat down at the computer this morning, I began with the title, “Freeze, Flight, or Fight.” As soon as those words hit the screen, I felt an overwhelming sense of fear take hold. Immediately, I removed myself from the situation. I went inside and began preparing the spaghetti sauce for tonight’s lasagna, checked to see if I had any “Words with Friends” to play on my iPhone, texted a few folks, checked the laundry in the dryer that’s been sitting there for two days (as if another two or three hours is going to matter), and then I headed toward the back porch and began stocking the recently purchased Diet Pepsi’s into the outdoor mini-fridge. About half way through the Pepsi pile, I realized what I was doing. I had taken flight. I didn’t want to dive into today’s thoughts; so instead, I opted to create a diversion…admittedly, several of them.

I immediately stopped what I was doing, went into my husband’s home office and proceeded to get down on my knees in front of him and ask for a big honey hug. You might be asking yourself, “On your knees?” Well, I’ve learned in the past year that when I physically get down on my knees assuming a position of vulnerability and submission and allow him to wrap his arms around me, I succumb to a sense of overwhelming peace. I am allowing him to comfort and reassure me. I’m not talking about submission in the sense of superiority; rather I am reaching out to the Earthly man who loves me more than anyone and allowing him to exercise his role as protector, provider, comforter, and encourager. Not only does it feed me, it nourishes him by allowing him to serve in a manner for which he was designed to by God.

I was now ready to face me.

Based on what I know today, I exhibit two major behavioral flaws; fear of vulnerability and stuffing and/or masking my emotions. Trust me when I say there are many more flaws than that, but we have to start somewhere.

I have always viewed vulnerability as a weakness and weakness resulted in being a victim; therefore, I must not allow vulnerability in my life. Am I hitting a nerve yet? Maybe so, but what I have come to understand is by being vulnerable you not only open yourself up to hurt, you also open yourself up to love. Somewhat of an oxymoron if you ask me. But in order to heal, you must allow yourself to feel – that’s where stuffing my emotions comes into play. I cannot heal from the wounds of my life unless I am willing to feel the pain resulting from those injuries. It’s a vicious cycle.

I just caught myself checking “Words with Friends” again. “Don’t run, Michelle. Stay in the moment!”

April 2011, I began working with a phenomenal therapist named Diane. There’s been more “ah-ha” moments in the past several weeks than I can begin to explain. In one of our sessions, Diane asked me to recall my first memory when I experienced fear and vulnerability. I had to think about it for a moment…

“I must have been around four, maybe five years old. My parents had taken my brother and me to some friends of theirs’ home in the Indiana farmlands and left us in the care of an older child while the adults went out for dinner. This was not uncommon practice in the late 60’s. I don’t recall who these people were, but it was not an uncomfortable environment as there were other kids there to play with. As the sun set and the dark of night fell upon the house, a very loud knock coming from the front door rattled the small house. I could hear a man yelling on the other side of the door at us to let him in. I now recognize that he was intoxicated, but up to that point in my life, I had never witnessed anyone in a drunken state. My parents were never much to partake in alcoholic beverages, even to this day, so intoxication was not a state of being I was familiar with. We gathered together and crouched down behind a large chair as to not be seen through the window. I can remember shaking with fear just wishing he would stop. As his patience grew thinner, the banging grew fiercer, and the yelling escalated. It seemed to go on forever. In my little girl voice I can remember thinking, “Daddy where are you? Please come back. I’m scared. Daddy? Oh, please Daddy…I need you.” My thoughts went unanswered and  little Michelle remained frozen in fear.

Eventually, the man exhausted all of his attempts at entry and decidedly left. While the incident may have been over, the fear remained at the forefront of my mind. To this day, I can still feel the fear of that fateful night. Who was he and what did he want? That remains unknown. But what I do know is that my first memory of fear and vulnerability was met with having to self-protect, self-comfort, and swallow the fearful tears that so desperately wanted to flow. Inside was a little girl who wanted to scream, “Go away and leave us alone!” but the undeniable terror that he could possibly unearth our miniscule hiding place was more than enough power to shatter the innate desire to fight. Instead, I internalized my fear and remained frozen.

It was at that moment the critical, fear of vulnerability, behavioral flaw set itself in stone and continues to plague me to this day.

As Diane and I processed through this event, it became clear to me how a single moment in one’s life can set in motion an emotional and physical response to life’s tragic events, no matter their significance. I challenge readers who are struggling with the fear of vulnerability or stuffing emotions to examine their first memory of such experience. You may be surprised at what you find.

As for today, it has taken me four hours, two loads of laundry, five stirrings of the spaghetti sauce pot, four glances at my iPhone, three trips to the bathroom to address the over consumption of Diet Pepsi, and eight cigarettes to get through this first look back…but I did it. And for that, I am proud.

The journey continues…and I am not alone.

Survivors Journey

Do we really have character flaws? I don’t think so. I prefer to coin them as behavioral flaws. Specifically, learned behaviors. Generally speaking, some of our behaviors are developed by mirroring what we witness in our youth, and others we develop when faced with various circumstances throughout life in an attempt to self-protect.

As defined by Wikipedia, a character flaw is, “the creation and criticism of fictional works, a character flaw is a limitation, imperfection, problem, phobia, or deficiency present in a character who may be otherwise very functional. The flaw can be a problem that directly affects the character’s actions and abilities, such as a violent temper. Alternatively, it can be a simple foible or personality defect, which affects the character’s motives and social interactions, but little else.”

On the other end of the spectrum, a behavioral flaw (abnormality) is defined as, ” in the vivid sense of something deviating from the normal or differing from the typical (such as an aberration), is a subjectively defined behavioral characteristic, assigned to those with rare or dysfunctional conditions.” I don’t know about you, but my life is plagued with bouts of dysfunction and trauma.

The controversial word for me is “fictional.” Life is not fictional. I am not fictional. I am real. I am alive. I am living, and I am struggling. Not every day mind you, but life is a struggle. I believe the ultimate goal would be to find ourselves full of peace and contentment as evening’s slumberous escape approaches. No, if I were fictional, that which I could create, the story of my life would read very differently. I guess it would be the “white picket fence” version. But that’s not reality, is it?

White picket fence lives are anything but normal. I would gander to say you could spend a lifetime searching for a bona fide example of such only to find your efforts were merely in vain. If white picket fence lives were reality, there would be no Hollywood. Seriously, how exciting would a movie be if it were sappy sweet and had no conflict? No romantic ending or tragedy to triumph? Unfortunately, that would be a rather boring cinematic experience. Yet when we find ourselves in the midst of real-life tragedy, triumph is the least of our immediate focus. I would consider survival to be at the forefront of our thoughts, and it is amid the survival mode that our behavioral flaws generally cement themselves to the very core of our being.

In March of this year, I came to realize that I’m up to my neck in concrete, aka behavioral flaws. Shall I continue to sink, or will I identify a giant sledge hammer and begin to break down this solid wall of cement that has fictitiously protected me for so long?

In the coming weeks, months, years….whatever it takes, I’ve decided to filet myself to you, the reader, as my emotional journey toward identifying, admitting, and addressing my behavioral flaws unfold. Several of my very personal, life issues will be gut-wrenching to revisit, but I realize there is no way to truly move forward in becoming the woman God intends for me to be unless I am willing to do the work.

If you are a woman who has been a victim of parental abandonment and struggle with abandonment issues and/or self-worth, survived molestation by a family member or church leader, domestic violence, rape, divorce, undergone an abortion, continually find yourself emotionally detached and afraid of being hurt, been promiscuous, lived a life full of lies and deceit in an attempt to garner love, been involved with a married man, suffered addiction to mask your feelings, denied yourself the right to feel by stuffing with food, cigarettes, or alcohol, or you find yourself in a constant state of trying to control nearly every essence of your out-of-control life, then we have something in common. Yes, I’ve survived every one of these tragedies, lifestyles, and deplorable choices and am now faced with the daunting task of dealing with the behavioral flaws that have followed in my effort to self-protect.

What a mess, huh? But the way I look at it, I can choose to dive in and do the work by dealing with the subconscious, negative behaviors that adversely effect my life, or I can continue to swim in a cesspool of fear and disconnect that prevent me from living the abundant life God has given me. With great trepidation and a slice of optimistic anticipation, I am choosing to dive in. I’m not sure I’m ready to swing a sledge hammer just yet, but the pointed end of a pick ax is a start. I invite you to share in my journey, and maybe you, too, will begin to identify then chip away at some of your self-protective, yet fictitious walls.

The good news is, you’re not alone.

New Venue for My Writing

I’ve opted to place all of my blog posts on www.noomizo.com 

If you’ve not signed up for this site, I would encourage you to as it has some incredible articles in addition to many other topics of interest. Following is a link to my first article. Earlier this month, I was asked to join the writing team for Noomizo and will be focusing my attentions there. Mind you, the journey will be no less than that of my blog; however I am opting to share my survival story in a manner which may potentially reach more women who may need to hear my story as it relates to their own personal journey.

You can find me there and subscribe to my RSS feed when new posts are uploaded. It is there I hope you’ll join in my journey to recovery as well as other topics of interest I delve into.

http://www.noomizo.com/index.php/daughters-constructing-or-destructing/

The Dealer

Early evening ushered in like any other, so it seemed. A soft cool breeze filtered in from the north delivering the subtle news that fall was fast approaching. Dried leaves from mature oaks gently rustled about slowly falling to the ground as thousands of grackles had begun to make their way south. It appeared to be yet another uneventful evening; however, it was the impending experiences of this night in 1988 which would inevitably awaken the darkness of my eyes and change the course of my life forever.

A mutual acquaintance from work had recently introduced me to Billy whom I had taken an immediate liking to. Billy stood a modest six feet tall with biceps and an upper torso any man would envy. He was fun, exciting yet in a sense, dangerous; a character trait which intrigued me.  The kind of danger I could see lurking in his eyes like that of the ocean; beautiful to gaze upon yet teaming with hazard below. Billy and I quickly began a courtship based primarily on one commonality……cocaine.

This particular evening, we found ourselves in a state of boredom, wanting to party but needed to locate an available supplier. For me, this was not a daily activity but as I later learned the same did not ring true for Billy. Friends and family warned me Billy was a no-good thug but I refused to listen. I was convinced their impression of him was wrong, but even if they weren’t, I was confident I would be the only woman who could change his ways. It is clear my displaced affection for Billy was as blinding as the darkness of this October night; all that was about to change.

After having made a few calls while I dressed, Billy and I set out to drive across town with the hope of scoring. An undeniable fear began to take hold of me, a fear I quickly dismissed. Driving through the early night, I noticed the sky began to take on darkness like none I had seen before. Streets became rough and narrow with every passing block, displaying familiar grandiose oak trees like that at home, yet I knew the safety of home was far from my reach.

The road in front of this house bore no lights, nor did the house itself short of a dim lamp glowing from a small back window. The rousing moon shone itself upon the white painted house revealing weathered flecks of paint and the pier and beam on which it stood. Billy parked the car two doors down, turned off the engine, left the keys in the ignition and prepared to exit.

“Stay here,” Billy instructed. It was apparent he had been here prior to tonight and I would have been wise to follow his direction, unfortunately, curiosity got the better of me.

“I don’t feel safe…..alone……here.  I’m going in with you,” I replied.

Having paused for a moment, Billy said, “Not sure if he’s gonna like it, but come on.”

Approaching the house, I spotted a woman sitting on the porch delicately positioned in a rickety wood rocking chair slowly toggling back and forth. She paid no mind to us; rather, she sat there mindlessly staring forward. A coarse wool blanket nestled in her lap and what appeared to be a second hand cardigan draped over her slouching shoulders covered in a tumbled mess of unkempt hair. At the time I didn’t pay much attention to her; who she was, what she may be doing or even acknowledging her presence. If I had, my instinct would probably have been to run back to the car and stay where I was told.

Dressed in my red high heel shoes and looking like I had just been to the salon, I cautiously began taking each step toward the front door shadowing Billy. The other side of that threshold bore little resemblance to anything I had ever seen before. Decayed floors had been resurfaced with stolen plywood; scores of rolled newspapers lined walls to block the wind; beer and Coca-Cola cans tossed about; putrid smells of rotting food; and in the midst of this filth I spotted a baby carrier.

There he was, perched in his antiqued recliner to the left of the front door…the dealer. “Hey man,” Billy offered. The dealer merely nodded his head at Billy then turned my direction. His eyes cut through me like a twister rips through a lumber yard, dissecting every essence of my being. I had never felt such a winter chill as I did at that moment. By the look in his eyes, I immediately knew this man was cold, paranoid, suspicious yet full of fear. The feeling was mutual.

“Hi!  How are you?” I asked in my best North Dallas trying to be cool voice. He never said a word – just kept staring with his eyes locked on mine, sizing me up and down trying to determine whether or not I was a nark. Having broken the stare out of sheer intimidation, I glanced to the right of the dealer and there in his hand resting all too comfortably was a loaded and cocked handgun. Without a doubt, I knew he would not hesitate to use it given the perceived need to. It was that moment I found myself wanting to run back to the car but fear cemented my red high heels directly into the plywood which they stood.

“You got it?”  Billy inquired.  The dealer merely pointed to a back room which Billy and I proceeded to venture toward. Down the short hall I noticed a bathroom on my right. Inside housed another occupant whose mission in life at that moment was clear. Her arms and thighs blackened, bruised and swollen. The swallow of her neck was leathery, emaciated and aside from the click-clop from my red high heels the only noise I could hear was the smacking of her lips.  She had comfortably nestled herself onto the toilet, propped her foot up on the side of a filthy bathtub attempting to insert a needle into the vein between her toes. Though she never looked up, I could see her eyes were hollow, saddened and full of emotionless tears hindered by the sight of her own reflection. Instinct told me she was not the person we were to see regarding our vital purchase.

Peering into a bedroom at the end of the hall stood another man who briefly scanned me with his ruthless eyes, quickly closing the door leaving no doubt I was not welcome.  “You need to hang here. Don’t ask, just do it.” Billy quietly yet firmly commanded. This time, I didn’t raise any objections to his direction. What seemed to be an eternity was probably only two minutes until Billy emerged from the back room, sheepishly grinning with a look of score on his face.  “Let’s go” he said.

Stopping back by the dealer to pay our respects, I found myself frozen, yet again, at the icy breeze coming my way. Few words were exchanged between the dealer and Billy. Those words were a distant concern as my focus was redirected to the enormous brown rat crawling ever so slowly across the top of my pretty red shoe – neither a scream nor flinch uttered, not so much as a whimper. I didn’t want to disturb that shiny gun nor the man in control of it.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I wanted to run to the car and never look back – but look back I did. Gazing at the woman on the front porch as if for the first time I could see she was knocking on deaths’ door. She appeared old though was probably no more than 5 years my senior. I realized then if I ever came to this house again, the woman seated on that porch would eventually be me.

“Oh my God! Get me the hell out of here, NOW!” I cried.

“I told you to wait in the car, but nooooooo you had to come in!” Billy shouted.

I was in no mood for I told you so,”Just shut up and drive.”

As we drove away from the dealer, those particular oak trees couldn’t disappear fast enough. Somehow, the score didn’t seem so important anymore and within a very short period of time Billy wasn’t either. That night, not only did I leave behind the dealer for good, I left a part of me on the porch of that ratty old house, a part I have never missed.

Learning to Deal

Part of the mystery of doing a blog is wondering who is reading it, if anyone at all. When it comes right down to it, the purpose of blogging for me would be for the sake of sanity. A place to voice and process my inner thoughts. I’ve never been one to just sit and ponder life’s lessons. No, I have to get it down in writing as it will inevitably result in those “ah-ha” discoveries that keep life moving in a forward direction.

Since October 2010, there have been tremendous shifts in my life – situations that demand my attention. As the months have unfolded, I realize and admit that the “junk” I still have to work through is less than desirable but necessary nonetheless. The problem with life’s lessons is that they tend to be preceded with pain, hurt, sadness, or some facsimile thereof. The most recent lesson for me has been that of learning to process emotions rather than stuffing them away – an extremely unhealthy characteristic that has manifested itself in some of the ugliest ways. No matter how hard I tried, I have never successfully expunged feelings in a healthy manner. To do this, one must first actually DEAL with them….and that’s no picnic.

In the coming days, weeks, months, years….whatever it takes, I am committed to delving deep into the resources I call my life. I can say with complete certainty that it ain’t gonna be pretty! But if you’re joining me by reading this, then I pray you’ll hear my heart and join me on this journey we call life.

A Gift

A Gift

A love so precious, the tender heart shall hold,

This love doth bless thee, body and soul,

A gift for you, My child, bestowed upon thee,

While I wait for you to come before Me, on bended knee.

Come!  Come!  Oh, My beautiful ones,

Celebrate this love as My words be done,

For it’s endless beauty shall extend to thee,

While I wait for you to come before Me, on bended knee.

Praise My perfect works, as they are whole,

May you experience loves wondrous heart and soul,

Commanded this gift be a witness of Me,

While I wait for you to come before Me, on bended knee.

Sweet love… be patient, soft, yet strong and kind,

For babes shall nestle in your bosom to find,

Their gift is timeless, perceptive and free,

While I wait for them to come before Me, on bended knee.

My gift, I command thee, speak My words loud and clear,

May all who bear witness have faith and fear,

Show those whom you hold close, to believe in Me,

While I wait for all to come before Me, on bended knee.

I am God, the only God, as there is no other,

My gift of love, sweet child, may you call her Mother.

For My Beautiful Mom

Happy Mother’s Day!

I Love You

Michelle

The Trial of Duke Watrous Ends, but this Jurors’ Heartache Remains

While the trial of Duke Watrous ended last Friday, my heart still remains heavy with thoughts and visions of the events that took place last week. I find myself wondering how it is you ever get past what has been witnessed as well as the sentence that was handed down.

The jury deliberation process was one of the most difficult experiences I have ever been involved in. To sit through three full days of testimony including having to watch a horrific video detailing of the death of Ashley only to discover that some of the jurors actually thought this man deserved probation was more than I could comprehend.

How can anyone in their right mind want to give this man probation? Ashley’s death was a direct result of his reckless, drunken state of mind. I just don’t get it. Regardless, it was our job as a jury to deliver a punishment that we could all agree upon. Trust me, I use the term “agree upon” very loosely.

Upon deliberation, we were instructed to identify a member of the jury to serve as moderator throughout the process. This person was to be me. I divulged I had no issue with assuming this role for in my mind this would be a quick deliberation. I assumed the 20 year maximum sentence would obviously be agreed to by all. I would soon discover that to be far from the truth.

As a juror, you are not allowed to discuss the case with anyone until such time as the deliberation process begins. Given the fact that we’ve been bottling our feelings and thoughts all week, I felt it necessary for us to take 10 – 15 minutes to just download in a somewhat unorganized fashion. Following this time, I gathered everyone around the table to give a show of hands if anyone felt he deserved probation. Much to my surprise, there were two. I was dumbfounded. I then asked if anyone felt he deserved the maximum sentence of 20 years. There were seven, including myself. Let the debate begin…

My next step was to ask each juror to state their case to the rest of the jury as to why he/she felt their preferred sentence was appropriate. This would prove to be very interesting. As each juror spoke, I was amazed at how the details of the case directly effected them and how they came to feel the way they did. After each juror spoke, I asked them to give me a range of time – their high and low of what would be an acceptable sentence to them. Once I had these numbers, I added each column together to get the average high and low which was 13 – 16 years. Even though this was the median, it was obvious we were far from getting there from either extreme.

Debates continued as passions flared, especially with regard to the juror who dug in his heels for probation. His main concern was that of the long term recovery and health of Wesley, the now 11 year old son who witnessed the entire event. While I don’t necessarily agree with this particular jurors position, I do have to respect his passion and steadfast footing amid what must have seemed to him to be an onslaught attack from 11 other jurors. I can only imagine how difficult it was for him to stand his ground. Sort of like the little kid on the playground surrounded by a circle of bullies.

Our argument to him was that a positive male role model to a young man does not necessarily require a biological connection; however this juror felt that in order for Wesley to continue the healing process, Duke’s role in his life would be critical given that he had taken accountability for his actions. Wesley had already lost so much, and his concern was that to have his father in prison for an extended time would only cause more damage then had already occurred. To this day I don’t agree with his way of thinking, but that is why there is a jury of 12 and not one.

Following much discussion and negotiation, we finally reached a verdict that everyone could live with…12 years for the manslaughter, five years for tampering with evidence and the maximum of two years for child endangerment. Given that the crime involved the use of a firearm, Duke will serve a minimum of six years. Hearing myself saying that seems criminal, in and of itself, but what more can the community ask of me then to do my best?

As for me, each passing day finds a renewed sense of healing and acceptance. While Duke may have not gotten what I felt he should, the reality is that no amount of time will ever be enough or supersede the fact that he will have to live with the knowledge and guilt of having killed his child for the rest of his life. To me, that will be the worst prison of all.

During a conversation I had yesterday with a reporter from the Denton Chronicle, I shared with her that Duke, in my opinion, has never truly evolved beyond  the “Kingdom” mentality from which he grew up in. Rather, he merely transitioned the power from his father to himself. I pray in the coming years he’ll come to understand and accept who and where the Kingdom really is. Then, and only then, will he truly find freedom from prison.

We, the Jury…

It’s 4:00 am on April 15th, 2011, yet it seems it should be nearing nightfall rather than daybreak. Today marks the beginning of what will be jury deliberation in the trial of Duke Watrous; a father who in a drunken stupor accidentally shot and killed his 10 year old daughter, Ashley, in the face on December 24, 2009 as her 9 year old brother watched in horror. A jury God has seen fit for me to serve on. This week began unlike most others as 298 Denton County citizens appeared in the large room of the Denton County Courthouse as ordered by the dreaded jury summons most Americans will receive at some point in time of their lives. In past, it was a mere inconvenience. This time it would prove to be much more than anything I ever imagined.

Having been narrowed down to 57 individuals, we were instructed to reappear to the courthouse at 1:30 pm this past Monday as that was the appointed time for the jury selection process to begin. Having done the math, I realized I had a nearly one in five chance of being selected for the jury; yet that little voice inside me knew that I would inevitably be part of the final process. Never could I have imagined the depth of conflict that would soon follow as the week unfolded.

Duke Watrous, defendant, had pled guilty to the reckless manslaughter of his 10 year old daughter on the night of December 24, 2009. In doing so, he had requested that a jury decide his punishment. To do this, the jury must sit through all the evidence as if no plea had been rendered so the process as a whole is no different than if you are instructed to determine guilt or innocence. In addition to the already unthinkable act, details would soon emerge of the atrocities that swirled around this dysfunctional family.

During Duke’s polygamist upbringing, he fell victim to a father that denied him public education and referred to his family compound as the “kingdom.” Begin the eldest of his father’s second “family,” with four younger brothers, Duke eventually took flight from his immediate family at the age of 18 yet still remaining under the emotional and financial control of his father for the next six years. Eventually, Duke began to make his own way in the world as an entrepreneur selling books to a large, multi-state region of schools and began to find financial success as a young adult. At the age of 24, Duke completely severed from his father’s reins and began a life free of his control. But as history will show, he was never far from his father’s influence and witness of what it is to be a man.

Having met Brandy, seven years his junior and a relatively uneducated, needy woman who was victim to the strong, negative influence of her mother, they quickly began a relationship that produced what would eventually be a total of three children, Ashley, Wesley and Amber. Both begin very young at the onset of their relationship, neither was equipped with the necessary life skills to function in a healthy relationship. The years that would follow proved to be tumultuous at best with a barrage of accusations including physical and verbal abuse, with Brandy’s mother begin at the center for much of it. At one point in the relationship, Brandy and her mother move out of Duke’s house with the children and would eventually disappear along with the children. Not knowing where they were, Duke hired an attorney and a private detective to locate his kids in order to regain control of them, a process which would take two years to complete.

Once locating Brandy, Duke files for custody and wins. Ashley and Wesley now live with him full time. As one would expect, this was not the preferred custody situation to Brandy or her mother. At one point, Brandy’s mother decided it was time to take back control and convinces Brandy to file false assault charges against Duke. In doing so, they might be able to not only cause him grief but also regain the control of Ashley and Wesley. But one might ask, how do you go about doing this? At her mother’s suggestion, Brandy agrees to allow her mother to strike her in order that they physical evidence will be documentable to an investigator. So she takes a large piece of fruit, places it in a sock, and smashes it against the side of Brandy’s face. Following the “incident” report, charges are filed and Duke is arrested. Eventually, these charges would be dismissed.

During this time, Duke met Aude; a French woman he spotted stranded on the side of the road and stopped to offer assistance, which he later admitted was primarily based on his desire to meet this beautiful, young, damsel in distress with long blonde hair. Within a month of their initial meeting, Duke and Aude begin living together and eventually marry – that is, once she agreed to leave her current husband with whom she still shared an apartment with. This marriage between Duke and Aude would produce two children, Derandau and Emily. As with the previous relationship with Brandy, the marriage between Duke and Aude would also be riddled with accusations of domestic violence and verbal abuse.

During the marriage to Aude, Duke begins a successful nationwide moving business. Having purchased a home in Frisco, they soon decide to purchase a larger home in Oak Point, TX in order to house his wife, four children (he now has custody of his two children from Brandy,) as well three of his minor brothers whom he had offered a place to live in order that they, too, could escape the heavy handed control of their father and pursue education outside of their current home setting. Deciding to maintain ownership of their home in Frisco as an investment, they locate a tenant to occupy the premise. This tenant, Mr. Freeman, was then the pastor of Grace Point Church.

Not long after, Aude accepts an invitation to begin attending his church with the children; however Duke finds the teachings to be less than desirable for his preference. The changes in his wife over the coming  year would be undeniable. Soon, her short shorts, mid-thigh skirts and jeans were replaced with long, ankle length frocks. Make-up was quickly discarded. Her hair no longer bleach blonde, soon became wrapped in a tight, librarian-like bun. Slowly but surely, his sexy, fun loving, French, roadside bombshell had become a mere shell of her former self – and Duke was none too pleased with his reinvented wife. As the tensions grew, the couple eventually sought counsel through Pastor Freeman; a man who would eventually become Aude’s current husband. That is, once he ended his 28 year marriage to his then wife.

Amid the breakup of his marriage to Aude, Duke and Brandy reignite a physical relationship with one another which produced Amber. While the relationship between them was a passionate one, they maintained their separate residences and Duke served as the primary custodial parent to Ashley, Wesley and Amber. Having sought mediation with Aude regarding Derandau and Emily, Duke would serve as primary, custodial parent to them, but they would share their time with the kids 50/50. In my opinion, these were good times in Duke’s life as his “kingdom” was just as he wanted it. This would prove to be short lived.

On the evening of December 23, 2009, Duke, his five children, and three of his brothers are present at Duke’s home in Oak Point. Having been drinking all day, the family celebrated Christmas together by opening gifts and having a turkey dinner. The evening proceeds with an all-night game of “Risk.” Not being familiar with the game personally, it is obvious to me, based on the testimony, that at some point the various players are eliminated. Following Duke’s elimination, he opts to go to bed while the others, including Duke’s brothers, 10 year old Ashley and 9 year old Wesley, stay up past dawn continuing their pursuit of victory. When morning arrives, Duke takes Denalde and Emily back to Aude’s house and drops them off. When returning home, Duke begins drinking again.

Throughout the day, Duke continues to consume alcohol. Much of this is documented on a video recorder Duke had installed in his home. One might wonder why you would have a video recorder installed in your home, right? Well, this was a decision Duke had made quite some time back to prove his quality parenting skills in the event another CPS investigation was launched resulting from accusations by either Brandy or Aude as they had done numerous times in previous years. Self-protection & insurance I guess. A decision which would ultimately prove to be forever haunting….

It’s time for me to get ready for my final day of court now. While I can’t talk with you about the details of this case until it’s conclusion, I wanted to share with you what has been going on this week in not only my life, but the lives of so many innocent people involved in this tragic incident.

We, the jury, have been forced to watch the horrific video leading up to and including the moment when Ashley is shot along with the events that immediately follow. We, the jury, have been forced to listen to audio tapes of Wesley and the 911 operator moments following the shooting. We, the jury, will now face the daunting task of having to decide not only the fate of Duke Watrous, but the lives of so many other; a decision we do not take lightly.

We, the jury, ask for your prayers.

Love vs. Boundaries

My thoughts are heavy this morning of my oldest son, Brad. Brad is such an incredibly intellectual, articulate, and a handsome man who is nearly 24 and has thus far, wasted his adult life. Jumping from job to job, usually resulting from being fired for what , in my opinion, is lack of respect for authority and his inability to take criticism. He has no control over his emotions and continually lashes out at those who love him most. I believe this to be an act of desperation for us to continue to “prove” our love for him.

I used to struggle with boundaries in our relationship as a whole, but this morning I question how I should go forth with yesterday’s latest attack. Brad has been given time and again opportunities to go to community college on our dime, but first he must prove to us that he will commit and follow through with one semester. Once completed, we would reimburse him based on performance so that the following semester would be paid for. But this is not what HE wants. Recently, Brad approached his father and I with a desire to attend “Full Sail University” in Orlando, FL to the tune of $75,000. Uh…no. I investigated this “university” and believe it to be a waste of money that will inevitably result in his inability to attain today’s new found dream. After I expressed my feelings about the school and offered alternatives to him for consideration, I then expressed to him that when he calls, the conversations are solely about  him – never inquiring how I (we) are and what is going on in our lives. He immediately lashed out and spoke to me in ways I have never experienced – from anyone on this earth, ever. I understand we have a separate set of boundaries with various relationships in our lives, but at what point do we disconnect from our children (to a degree) and allow them to feel ostracized? Aside from all the “f-bombs” and “s-bombs” he lobbed over the fence at me, his request was to leave him alone and to forget he was ever was born. He stated he would never again consider himself to be part of this family and would no longer accept my calls, texts, or otherwise.

Mind you, this is not the first time Brad has done this, but what I struggle with at this point is how to establish appropriate and healthy boundaries for the latest assault. He has never apologized or taken accountability for previous assaults on me or this family. At what point do I blockade the verbal violence and no longer allow him to treat me this way? Should I continue to show him my love, or do I merely give him the distance he says he wants and wait for the call to come when he finally grows up enough to recover from his “cranial rectum” disease?

Many years ago, I sought and received forgiveness from Brad for my sins of the past – not being there for him for six years and his feelings of abandonment that resulted from extenuating circumstances (another blog, another time). Yes, believe it or not I was not a perfect mother (who is?) but I also never raised him to talk to me in the manner in which he has. I question the plight of today’s society that appears to have taught the youth that it is acceptable to speak to others in this manner. Where is respect for your elders and where did all the “f-bombs” come from? What on earth did I do to deserve this? Who does he think he is to continue to trample my feelings and expect that I will just continue to forgive him without his submission and admission of wrongdoing? Is that really what a mother is supposed to do? ….my heart says no. If I do, then there will never be an end to the verbal violence.

I’m just so pissed off about this, yet my heart breaks for his lost soul. There is a part of me that just wants to say, “Fine, <bleep> you too…,” but I know that would just be more ammunition for him in the future. He fails to see his role in how screwed up his life is and constantly views himself as a victim of everyone else’s shortcomings. No, he is never to blame. Victim, victim, victim. How I can relate to that so well, yet when will he finally realize that his destiny is within his own disciplines or lack thereof.

Where do I draw the line?

Would I allow others’ to treat me this way? No. So why should I allow him to and what is a healthy way to communicate that?

If I draw those lines in the sand, will they come back to haunt me later, and if they do should that even be a consideration of mine at this time?

Is “tough love” really what he needs?

Is excommunication the position I should take? Maybe more for my sake than for his?

Dilemmas to the nth degree as the plight of being the mother he needs escapes me.

How can a heart break time and again, yet love always seems to prevail?

The Necessary Tools

I remember my first apartment. It was to be MY first home – living on my own, scary yet exciting at the same time. I was 21 years old, newly divorced, and living in a one bedroom apartment that was so small you could poo, shower, and wash your hands at the same time. But it was all mine, and I was satisfied with that. My mother stopped by one day with a house-warming gift. I was so excited…that is, until I unwrapped it. The gift was a set of tools. TOOLS? What the heck? Where’s my crockpot, a set of pots and pans, dishes, or maybe even a pretty little something to put on the shelf? Tools? Oh my God…what was she thinking? Mom informed me that I needed to be equipped to take care of myself and to have the tools to fix things as needed.  Up to that point, who needed a hammer? When I wanted to hang a picture on the wall, I multi-purposded a high heeled shoe.  As for the screwdrivers…what’s wrong with the kitchen knife?  Never in a million years would I understand how important these tools would become and how they would set me up for a lifetime of self sufficiency.

As life progressed, these “tools” for self sufficiency would prove to be quite useful as well as destructive in ways I never imagined. It took me 23 years to realize that self sufficiency has little room in a marriage – a successful marriage that is.

More to come….