Survivors Journey Part 5 – Subconscious Messages

I adore my father. Most girls do. The problem for me is I never felt he adored or delighted in me. I mean truly, effortlessly, or soulfully delighted in me. All I ever wanted was to be “daddy’s little girl,” but that would never be my reality. I’m not saying he didn’t love me, but I never truly felt it. To this day, I mourn for little Michelle. All I ever wanted was to experience my father’s love, to know I was a priority in his life, to feel like I mattered, or to be invested in. No matter how hard I tried to garner my father’s affection or approval, I seemed to be met with indifference or left feeling that I was not good enough.

For as long as I can remember, my father was emotionally disconnected. His primary goal in life was to become a successful  entrepreneur, an accomplishment he seemingly exceeded in obtaining. My father is the most driven man I know, but while his financial success is undeniable, the price paid for him to achieve it was not. That price was my brother and I and the paternal relationship we unsuccessfully received.

I was 11 years old when my parents divorced. What a tender and vulnerable age to go through such a traumatic experience. Not that any age is “good” to experience divorce, but pubescent years are so critical in defining one’s stability. I never saw or heard my parents argue…ever, so my father’s departure truly blindsided me and left me deeply confused. The events that follow are based on my recollection, my reality…my heartbreak. Though there are four individual realities as to what really took place during this period of time, I can only share mine. After all, this is my road to recovery, and mine alone.

As my brother and I got older, we began a tradition of opening our Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve following dinner. Truth be told, Mom and Dad probably preferred this to that of the 6:00 am Christmas morning! When you think of Christmas Eve, you probably envision yourself surrounded by family and friends; however, we never resided near any of our extended family so most of our holidays were just the four of us. I don’t know where my father was on December 24, 1977, but I don’t recall his presence during the daytime hours. Following dinner, I could feel a thickness in the air, an unsettling emotion that weighted down what should be a fun, family event. When you’re supposed to “feel” a certain way but the immediate circumstances prevent you from doing so, yet you don’t know why. Something just felt “off.” Mom was always so joyful this time of year, yet her brow was imbedded with lines and her tightly pursed lips displayed a noticeable, downward turn. I didn’t know how to act, nor was I oblivious to the fact that this was not a joyful day.

Within a few minutes, my father slowly entered through the front door. His posture was slumped, shoulders rolled forward, as his eyes stayed focused on the path before him. Where had he been all day? I found myself in an extreme state of emotional discomfort and anxiously anticipated the evening’s conclusion. Dad immediately parked his intoxicated stature in a metal folding chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his hands. I had never seen my father like this before, under the influence or otherwise. It wasn’t long before he stood up and proceeded down the hall toward their bedroom leaving us dumbfounded in his emotional wake.

I don’t recall opening gifts that year. I assume we did, but the emotional trauma overshadows my ability to recall events other than what I’ve shared, including anything that occurred in the coming days. That is, until the cold, winter evening of January 2, 1978.

My brother and I were crouched down in a makeshift, backyard fort we had recently consructed. As the cool air continued to sink into the quiet night, we began to hear my mother’s screams coming from inside the house. I remember feeling confused and fearful as thoughts raced through my mind wondering what was happening. I had never heard this level of escalation in my mother’s voice before. She was yelling at my father. What had he done? Why was she yelling? In a state of shock, we cemented our feet into the leaf-covered floor and perked our intimidated ears in an attempt to overhear what was going on. Though we were unable to decipher what was being said, we could hear Mom’s voice continuing to intensify. Within an instant, a loud crashing sound rang through the night air, and we knew something was really wrong. The only words I ever understood that night were the ones that followed the sound of shattering glass, “Get out! Just get out! Get out of here, now!” I have never heard such pain, anger, and brokenness in a woman’s voice, not even my own.

Eventually, my brother and I quietly made our way into the house when we felt the conflict had ceased. There, on the living room floor, lay the evidence of crashing sound we heard in the form of a broken lamp. It seemed so surreal, so out of place. I immediately knew to proceed with caution.

The following day, my father briefly returned just long enough to gather some of his personal belongings. Immediately before he departed, he sat next to me on the side of my bed and said, “I’m sorry Shelly. I’ve got to go. I’ve just got to go.” It was the first time I ever witnessed tears streaming down my father’s face. Not abundant ones, but tears nonetheless. With that, he tossed the hanging bag of clothes over his right shoulder, and I watched him shuffle down the long hall toward the front door. Click was the only sound I heard, and he was gone.

You’re not worthy enough for me to stay.

You’re not worthy enough for me to fight for.

You’re not wanted.

You’re not important.

You’re not enough.

Those were the subconscious messages I received from him. This man that I adored was gone, and in his wake was a path of emotional destruction that continued to escalate in the months to come.

I witnessed my mother fall apart emotionally and physically to the point of contemplating suicide, a fact she shared with me many, many years later. If not for my brother and I, she may have flirted with the notion for more than one long and lonely night. Amid her brokenness and my witness of such depletion, I now recognize the effect this had on me.

“As God as my witness, I will never love anyone as much as she loved him. I will never love anyone to the point that they can break me as my father seemingly destroyed my mother. Never.”

From that day forward, I began to stuff my emotions. Fear and insecurity would not rule me, or at least I would not allow anyone to perceive they ruled me. My emotions were like a light switch. I could turn them off or on depending on circumstance. You see, I am not worthy; therefore, I must not feel. I must stay in control of myself at all times. Mom loved Dad with all her heart and was thrashed by succumbing to vulnerability; therefore I must not be vulnerable. I must not love.

I was headed for a life of mere survival, self-protection, doubt, insecurity, and severely lacking in self-worth. That’s not living; rather, it’s merely going through the motions. The only thing more tragic than living this kind of life would be to continue to do so when you intellectually recognize you are and do nothing to overcome it.

I ask you this: What emotionally toxic baggage are you knowingly not addressing? What counterproductive, subconscious messages have you received in your past that continue to plague your forward motion?

As an adult woman, I have to wonder what was so broken in my father’s heart leading up to that Christmas Eve in 1977 that prevented him from facing the night head-on. What was it that tormented him so much that he had to seek courage and comfort from a bottle? I am thankful beyond words that in recent years I have received the “I delight in you” validation from him that I so longed for. It was a HUGE “ah-ha” moment for me that initiated the path which allowed he and I to get to that point in our relationship. It is a part of my journey that will surely be shared when the time is right.

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.