Pamela Taeuffer's Blog, page 2
July 1, 2014
Releasing, Editing, Responding, Analyzing
When you work on a project as I have for four years (a drop in the bucket compared to other authors), you carefully release your first baby.
I am taking a different approach to writing about growing in a family that tried to survive the best we could, an alcoholic father, husband, who sometimes raged, and for many years, all I could remember of him was passed out in his chair or in bed (after the screaming and yelling and sometimes worse subsided).
There are so many books out there about this topic. Just as there are so many love stories offered.
In combing the two, I'm trying to show how love, growing up, relationships, choices of clothes, conversations, who I took as friends -- every day choices -- were affected because of having an abusive alcoholic parent.
Ultimately, it affects the way we trust, the way we participate in having a boyfriend/girlfriend, our marriage, the way we open or stay closed to our children -- all of the intimacy of our lives is difficult.
So that's the story, now here's the issue.
I gave into some bad editing advice with book 1, Shadow Heart. I'm so unhappy with it, that I am rereleasing, and a different ending, the one I wanted to begin with, will be part of book 1.
Like it or not, spelling errors, or not, it will stand. This is the final. Spelling errors are a part of most books these days, especially self-published. I can tell you I've spent many thousands of dollars and had five editors look at the project and each one catches different things and have different opinions.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But with careful diligence and a steady, loving, and hopeful heart, I hope I've resolved most of the book's issues.
It was be offered as an e book free in the next couple of weeks, and Fire Heart will be out with it.
There will be steep cliffhangers in each book because that's what life is when growing up with an alcoholic - nothing but steep cliffs.
We never knew what we were getting ourselves into when we came home or he came home.
Apologies? To those of you who were upset with the first ending, I'm sorry. It's different now, but may not be any more satisfying, but to me, it is.
I have reacted to what the public has consistently told me, and cannot obviously satisfy everyone, but I am finally at peace with the way the series is progressing.
And being at peace with it, hopefully means my heart is flying and will bring you a story you're sometimes angry, sad, and in love with.
For those who couldn't get into it? Sorry, life is like that. Sometimes it clicks, sometimes it doesn't.
I can tell you that I've appreciated everyone's input and everyone who read the book.
And now, the release, coming soon.
I am taking a different approach to writing about growing in a family that tried to survive the best we could, an alcoholic father, husband, who sometimes raged, and for many years, all I could remember of him was passed out in his chair or in bed (after the screaming and yelling and sometimes worse subsided).
There are so many books out there about this topic. Just as there are so many love stories offered.
In combing the two, I'm trying to show how love, growing up, relationships, choices of clothes, conversations, who I took as friends -- every day choices -- were affected because of having an abusive alcoholic parent.
Ultimately, it affects the way we trust, the way we participate in having a boyfriend/girlfriend, our marriage, the way we open or stay closed to our children -- all of the intimacy of our lives is difficult.
So that's the story, now here's the issue.
I gave into some bad editing advice with book 1, Shadow Heart. I'm so unhappy with it, that I am rereleasing, and a different ending, the one I wanted to begin with, will be part of book 1.
Like it or not, spelling errors, or not, it will stand. This is the final. Spelling errors are a part of most books these days, especially self-published. I can tell you I've spent many thousands of dollars and had five editors look at the project and each one catches different things and have different opinions.
It's not as easy as it sounds. But with careful diligence and a steady, loving, and hopeful heart, I hope I've resolved most of the book's issues.
It was be offered as an e book free in the next couple of weeks, and Fire Heart will be out with it.
There will be steep cliffhangers in each book because that's what life is when growing up with an alcoholic - nothing but steep cliffs.
We never knew what we were getting ourselves into when we came home or he came home.
Apologies? To those of you who were upset with the first ending, I'm sorry. It's different now, but may not be any more satisfying, but to me, it is.
I have reacted to what the public has consistently told me, and cannot obviously satisfy everyone, but I am finally at peace with the way the series is progressing.
And being at peace with it, hopefully means my heart is flying and will bring you a story you're sometimes angry, sad, and in love with.
For those who couldn't get into it? Sorry, life is like that. Sometimes it clicks, sometimes it doesn't.
I can tell you that I've appreciated everyone's input and everyone who read the book.
And now, the release, coming soon.
June 23, 2014
A Child of Alcoholism - Abandoned Things
Nicky Young is a child of alcoholism who doesn’t know how to have deep relationships. She has friends, she’s paved her way to college, and will escape her nightmare soon, but opening herself to be vulnerable and truly feel and reach for intimacy . . . she has no clue. She often uses her journals to write poetry. This is one of her poems.will escape her nightmare soon, but opening herself to be vulnerable and truly feel and reach for intimacy . . . she has no clue. She often uses her journals to write poetry. This is one of her poems.
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
ABANDONED THINGS
stability—i crave it
control—i need it
intimacy—i desperately want it
i look okay but i am not
i may be successful in public, but in private, i am struggling
you see me as an adult, but inside i am a little girl or little boy, still afraid
i have lost my childhood
please look at me even as i push you away
find me
the fences are high to protect my heart
help me tear them down
i am deathly afraid to take a risk, even though everything could open up and i might come out of the shadows
love me like i want to love you
1. What chords, if any, does this poem strike for you?
2. Why do you think she’s written a poem like this?
3. What could she do to to deepen her relationships, especially with her friends?
Won’t you join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for our newsletter for private announcements, pre-sales, free chapters and cut scenes?
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
From Shadow Heart, First book in the Broken Bottles Series:
ABANDONED THINGS
stability—i crave it
control—i need it
intimacy—i desperately want it
i look okay but i am not
i may be successful in public, but in private, i am struggling
you see me as an adult, but inside i am a little girl or little boy, still afraid
i have lost my childhood
please look at me even as i push you away
find me
the fences are high to protect my heart
help me tear them down
i am deathly afraid to take a risk, even though everything could open up and i might come out of the shadows
love me like i want to love you
1. What chords, if any, does this poem strike for you?
2. Why do you think she’s written a poem like this?
3. What could she do to to deepen her relationships, especially with her friends?
Won’t you join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for our newsletter for private announcements, pre-sales, free chapters and cut scenes?
May 19, 2014
We all Took Turns Hiding
NICKY'S MOTHER SITS IN THE KITCHEN, TRYING NOT TO UNDERSTAND, EVEN AS SHE UNDERSTANDS, HER DAUGHTER'S NEED TO STAY BUSY AND AWAY FROM THE DARK SECRETS OF THEIR HOME.
My mother hid her emotions every day.
Now, instead of the gratification she'd received from her work, she picked up my father from the front lawn after he'd passed out, or helped him as he stumbled out of his truck, or undressed him and put him to bed, and sometimes wiped his ass when he'd made a mess of himself.
She drove to the store to get his bottles of whiskey so he wouldn’t drive drunk to get them.
Mom could've hidden his keys but that would have meant taking his verbal and sometimes physical abuse.
Perhaps she considered disabling his truck in some way, but that would have meant he couldn't get to work and his livelihood might be threatened.
Maybe this one of her silent gifts, making sure our college education was secure.
Like a doctor prescribing painkillers, she doled out his shots and managed his life.
Sometimes late at night, Dad's friends called my mom to get him from the bar because he couldn't drive. Jenise and I would ride with her, often around midnight, shrinking in the back seat under our blanket, trying to stay invisible.
"Going out?" Mom asked.
"Yeah, doing some charity work," I said. "One of the guys on the Goliaths is coming to pick me up. Jenise leave already?"
"She had something she needed to check on at school. One of the Goliaths players is taking you? Isn't that a little unusual?" She asked with raised eyebrows.
I think it is, but I don't know what to do with it yet.
"No, it's just that I was the person who submitted the cheer team plan. We started talking and because his dad was in the military, we hit it off." I took a breath. "He's easy to talk with."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Is he single?"
"Is he single? That's a weird question. Why?"
"Just curious," she said.
"Yes, he's single," I said.
"How old is he?"
"Almost twenty-five," I said.
"And you know this because . . ."
"Because I follow the team, mom. When I look at the press guide it has their birthdays. He's trying to help us with our college applications, that's all. A twenty-five-year-old man isn't interested in seventeen-year-old-girls."
"No?" she probed.
"No, that's disgusting." But not "yuck" like my first response when I talked with Tara.
"Don't you think you have enough to do?" she asked.
Like my father, I self-medicated, but instead of using alcohol, I stuffed my schedule with as many activities as I could to avoid my home life. My medication was to stay busy and away from anything too emotional. By not letting anyone in, I could stay numb and protected.
More hurt? I wasn't about to take any chances. I'd cried enough growing up and my invisible suitcase was heavy and full of anxiety.
"I've got plenty of time in my schedule, Mom. Anyway, it's summer."
1. WHAT ARE SOME OF THE THINGS YOU OR YOUR SIBLINGS DID TO AVOID THE "PROBLEM" IN YOUR HOUSE?
2. WERE YOU EVER ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH THE ADDICTED PERSON?
3. WERE YOU EVER ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH YOUR SIBLINGS? PARENTS? RELATIVES?
Please join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for my newsletter. I promise to keep it intimate, real, and moving.
My mother hid her emotions every day.
Now, instead of the gratification she'd received from her work, she picked up my father from the front lawn after he'd passed out, or helped him as he stumbled out of his truck, or undressed him and put him to bed, and sometimes wiped his ass when he'd made a mess of himself.
She drove to the store to get his bottles of whiskey so he wouldn’t drive drunk to get them.
Mom could've hidden his keys but that would have meant taking his verbal and sometimes physical abuse.
Perhaps she considered disabling his truck in some way, but that would have meant he couldn't get to work and his livelihood might be threatened.
Maybe this one of her silent gifts, making sure our college education was secure.
Like a doctor prescribing painkillers, she doled out his shots and managed his life.
Sometimes late at night, Dad's friends called my mom to get him from the bar because he couldn't drive. Jenise and I would ride with her, often around midnight, shrinking in the back seat under our blanket, trying to stay invisible.
"Going out?" Mom asked.
"Yeah, doing some charity work," I said. "One of the guys on the Goliaths is coming to pick me up. Jenise leave already?"
"She had something she needed to check on at school. One of the Goliaths players is taking you? Isn't that a little unusual?" She asked with raised eyebrows.
I think it is, but I don't know what to do with it yet.
"No, it's just that I was the person who submitted the cheer team plan. We started talking and because his dad was in the military, we hit it off." I took a breath. "He's easy to talk with."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Is he single?"
"Is he single? That's a weird question. Why?"
"Just curious," she said.
"Yes, he's single," I said.
"How old is he?"
"Almost twenty-five," I said.
"And you know this because . . ."
"Because I follow the team, mom. When I look at the press guide it has their birthdays. He's trying to help us with our college applications, that's all. A twenty-five-year-old man isn't interested in seventeen-year-old-girls."
"No?" she probed.
"No, that's disgusting." But not "yuck" like my first response when I talked with Tara.
"Don't you think you have enough to do?" she asked.
Like my father, I self-medicated, but instead of using alcohol, I stuffed my schedule with as many activities as I could to avoid my home life. My medication was to stay busy and away from anything too emotional. By not letting anyone in, I could stay numb and protected.
More hurt? I wasn't about to take any chances. I'd cried enough growing up and my invisible suitcase was heavy and full of anxiety.
"I've got plenty of time in my schedule, Mom. Anyway, it's summer."
1. WHAT ARE SOME OF THE THINGS YOU OR YOUR SIBLINGS DID TO AVOID THE "PROBLEM" IN YOUR HOUSE?
2. WERE YOU EVER ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH THE ADDICTED PERSON?
3. WERE YOU EVER ABLE TO TALK ABOUT IT WITH YOUR SIBLINGS? PARENTS? RELATIVES?
Please join the conversation at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com and sign up for my newsletter. I promise to keep it intimate, real, and moving.
May 7, 2014
FRIENDSHIPS IN TRANSITION
Sexy, professional baseball player, Ryan Tilton has just introduced himself to Nicky Young, a woman coming of age who has had her business plan accepted by the San Francisco Goliaths for a high school cheer team to perform during their games.
Nicky knows there is something different about their exchange, but no ready to admit anything quite yet. She is afraid of new relationships. She’s been raised in a home where addiction, dysfunction, and abandonment are the usual.
Why is there competition among friends?
Why is there competition among friends?
After they left us, Colleen came over.
“I saw you and Ryan Tilton talking.”
There’d always been a friendly competition between us, but with the acceptance of my business entertainment plan for our cheer team, our relationship had become somewhat strained.
“So?” What’s your point?” I asked.
“So, I saw him kiss your hand,” she said, sidling up to me, “and he spent so much time talking with you. Don’t you think he’s got a crush on you?”
“A crush? Are you saying he’s got a crush on me?” I asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she said.
“Oh come on. He’s twenty-four. Didn’t he kiss your hand, too?” I asked.
“No. He. Did. Not.” she said slowly, enunciating her words.
No? That was just for me? Hmm…
“It’s because I’m the lead contact and my name is on everything,” I said. “That’s all.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. I see that look in my boyfriend’s eyes and I know it’s more than you think, Nicky,” she said. “That look says ‘I wanna play with you.’”
“You’re imagining things,” I said.
But what if?
“He asked me about volunteering at the Veteran’s Hospital in Yountville,” I said. “I told him I’d speak with you guys about it.”
“Well anyway, I’d keep an eye on him,” she said. “There’s fire there for you.”
“No way,” I said. “We’ll see,” she said.
Maybe we will at that.
1. Nicky is desperate to escape her home life. Why wouldn’t she jump at the chance to have a new relationship?
2. Her best friend is challenging her. When and why does that happen between girlfriends? Does it happen with boyfriends? Is it natural that competition develops between friends? Can Nicky handle competition of this sort in a healthy way?
3. How could Nicky reach out in a healthy and age appropriate way to let her know she isn’t trying to steal attention?
Please join us at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
I invite you to sign up there for my newsletter where we will form a book club, have discussions, live readings, free chapters and previews of new books and much more!
Nicky knows there is something different about their exchange, but no ready to admit anything quite yet. She is afraid of new relationships. She’s been raised in a home where addiction, dysfunction, and abandonment are the usual.
Why is there competition among friends?
Why is there competition among friends?
After they left us, Colleen came over.
“I saw you and Ryan Tilton talking.”
There’d always been a friendly competition between us, but with the acceptance of my business entertainment plan for our cheer team, our relationship had become somewhat strained.
“So?” What’s your point?” I asked.
“So, I saw him kiss your hand,” she said, sidling up to me, “and he spent so much time talking with you. Don’t you think he’s got a crush on you?”
“A crush? Are you saying he’s got a crush on me?” I asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she said.
“Oh come on. He’s twenty-four. Didn’t he kiss your hand, too?” I asked.
“No. He. Did. Not.” she said slowly, enunciating her words.
No? That was just for me? Hmm…
“It’s because I’m the lead contact and my name is on everything,” I said. “That’s all.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. I see that look in my boyfriend’s eyes and I know it’s more than you think, Nicky,” she said. “That look says ‘I wanna play with you.’”
“You’re imagining things,” I said.
But what if?
“He asked me about volunteering at the Veteran’s Hospital in Yountville,” I said. “I told him I’d speak with you guys about it.”
“Well anyway, I’d keep an eye on him,” she said. “There’s fire there for you.”
“No way,” I said. “We’ll see,” she said.
Maybe we will at that.
1. Nicky is desperate to escape her home life. Why wouldn’t she jump at the chance to have a new relationship?
2. Her best friend is challenging her. When and why does that happen between girlfriends? Does it happen with boyfriends? Is it natural that competition develops between friends? Can Nicky handle competition of this sort in a healthy way?
3. How could Nicky reach out in a healthy and age appropriate way to let her know she isn’t trying to steal attention?
Please join us at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
I invite you to sign up there for my newsletter where we will form a book club, have discussions, live readings, free chapters and previews of new books and much more!
April 22, 2014
First Stirrings - When are we Aware of Intimacy?
It's a feeling in our belly.
It's a pulse in our chest that surges down through our stomach, lower, into our pelvis, aching, longing to be relieved.
It's the slant of an eye, or a bashful look through his eyelashes.
What and who stirred feelings of sensuality for you?
We pick up Shadow Heart just after Ryan Tilton, almost 25, introduces himself to Nicky Young, seventeen. He begins a very careful, slow, sensual plan to bring her heart and mind to him and knows he needs to be careful or she'll run away. Nicky is the daughter of an alcoholic, and the way she avoids confrontation is to run away.
**************
He laughed, and his tone got my attention once again.
Wow that laugh—it’s sublime, subtle, and distinct, and something’s . . . I feel like there’s a low rumble beginning in my belly.
“I talk fast when I’m nervous, too,” he said. Again, he put his hand on my shoulder.
Wow his hands are big.
What does Nicky do with feelings of warm pulses?
What does Nicky do with feelings of warm pulses?
“Yeah, thanks but you’re, well you’re who you are,” I said.
“From what I understand you’re a genius yourself,” he leaned in close. “Your resume lists your GPA as 4.25, right?”
“I’ve never had my IQ measured to know, but I study all the time. I work very hard at it,” I said taking a breath. Keep it together. “All the time,” I repeated.
His smile was wide, but then his expression changed as he explained, “My dad was in the service too; Afghanistan. He was killed when I was
fourteen.” He looked away, seemingly trying to grasp and hold in his pain. “Oh, Mr. Tilton,” I put my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.” Damn, so
young, poor guy.
I was startled by the power underneath his skin. His muscles were hard and well-defined, and the feel of them sent a surge through my body. It was as if they were hard marbles covered by fur, and touching him brought a different feeling to me, one I’d never experienced before.
It began with a burst in my chest, like a big beat, and rolled with an ache into my stomach and then resonated down my legs.
“Ooh!” It was as if my hand burned. I lifted it off him quickly.
Oh damn! Did he feel it too? Wasn’t that a ripple that went through his arm?
“What’s the matter, Nicky?” his expression was suggestive and it made me look away.
“Nothing, Mr. Tilton,” I said playing with my hair.
“Ryan. Just call me Ryan. Thank you for your sweet thoughts,” he said. “It was a tough time for me, and it’s why I feel so deeply for those wounded vets in Yountville. If it’s all right with you, I’ll clear it with management to make sure they know I’m, uh, taking you out.”
He smiled at me with a look that made me question . . . things.
* What kinds of feelings is Nicky Battling?
* Why would she feel safe when her own father had let her go?
* How can Nicky bring someone close?
Won't you join the conversation and visit us at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com?
Shadow Heart will be given away as a kindle book 4/26-4/27 on Amazon.com. I'd love for you to download it and let me know your thoughts.
http://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Heart-Co...
It's a pulse in our chest that surges down through our stomach, lower, into our pelvis, aching, longing to be relieved.
It's the slant of an eye, or a bashful look through his eyelashes.
What and who stirred feelings of sensuality for you?
We pick up Shadow Heart just after Ryan Tilton, almost 25, introduces himself to Nicky Young, seventeen. He begins a very careful, slow, sensual plan to bring her heart and mind to him and knows he needs to be careful or she'll run away. Nicky is the daughter of an alcoholic, and the way she avoids confrontation is to run away.
**************
He laughed, and his tone got my attention once again.
Wow that laugh—it’s sublime, subtle, and distinct, and something’s . . . I feel like there’s a low rumble beginning in my belly.
“I talk fast when I’m nervous, too,” he said. Again, he put his hand on my shoulder.
Wow his hands are big.
What does Nicky do with feelings of warm pulses?
What does Nicky do with feelings of warm pulses?
“Yeah, thanks but you’re, well you’re who you are,” I said.
“From what I understand you’re a genius yourself,” he leaned in close. “Your resume lists your GPA as 4.25, right?”
“I’ve never had my IQ measured to know, but I study all the time. I work very hard at it,” I said taking a breath. Keep it together. “All the time,” I repeated.
His smile was wide, but then his expression changed as he explained, “My dad was in the service too; Afghanistan. He was killed when I was
fourteen.” He looked away, seemingly trying to grasp and hold in his pain. “Oh, Mr. Tilton,” I put my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.” Damn, so
young, poor guy.
I was startled by the power underneath his skin. His muscles were hard and well-defined, and the feel of them sent a surge through my body. It was as if they were hard marbles covered by fur, and touching him brought a different feeling to me, one I’d never experienced before.
It began with a burst in my chest, like a big beat, and rolled with an ache into my stomach and then resonated down my legs.
“Ooh!” It was as if my hand burned. I lifted it off him quickly.
Oh damn! Did he feel it too? Wasn’t that a ripple that went through his arm?
“What’s the matter, Nicky?” his expression was suggestive and it made me look away.
“Nothing, Mr. Tilton,” I said playing with my hair.
“Ryan. Just call me Ryan. Thank you for your sweet thoughts,” he said. “It was a tough time for me, and it’s why I feel so deeply for those wounded vets in Yountville. If it’s all right with you, I’ll clear it with management to make sure they know I’m, uh, taking you out.”
He smiled at me with a look that made me question . . . things.
* What kinds of feelings is Nicky Battling?
* Why would she feel safe when her own father had let her go?
* How can Nicky bring someone close?
Won't you join the conversation and visit us at www.PamelaTaeuffer.com?
Shadow Heart will be given away as a kindle book 4/26-4/27 on Amazon.com. I'd love for you to download it and let me know your thoughts.
http://www.amazon.com/Shadow-Heart-Co...
April 17, 2014
Intimacy-How can I find it?
“You don’t date?” Alex asked, once again joining Tara and me sitting in the bleachers.
“No,” I said.
“Why ever not,” she asked.
I was ridiculously naïve and socially backward in so many ways. Being raised in an alcoholic family can do that. It was better to hide away and shut down rather than feel the extreme joy or intense pain of life.
Like most of us, I had learned from what my parents taught by how they relate to one another.
How soft are they?
Do they reach for each other’s hand?
Are their kisses open and frequent?
Do they hold the door open for each other?
Are their faces or eyes soft when they look or talk to each other? What about their terms of endearment? I never heard “my love,
honey, dear, sweetie,” or any other pet name.
What I saw, was that my mother had opened her heart to a man, and
in doing so, said, “I trust you” in every way.
She believed a promise of everything better in my father, who at the time was newly returned from serving in the army and beginning his career as a streetcar driver. Mom saw a light in his eyes and was attracted to his sense of humor and carefree spirit. It was an innocence she didn’t experience as a young girl.
What were the examples of a relationship growing up?
What were the examples of a relationship growing up?
They met through a friend who introduced them when my mom had just moved to San Francisco. My father fell in love with the strong woman she seemed to be; so much so, that they committed to each other in every way—to marry, make a life, and have children.
Who knows what went wrong, but ultimately their love was crushed and their hearts were broken. Neither of them made time for each other, or remained tender. They closed their doors and windows and became hard.
A diseased man pushed her and hit her and told her by his love for the bottle, that she wasn’t good enough. Mom wasn’t even second best. His friends at the bar stood in that place.
So for me, the lesson from my parents taught me to shut down, never let anyone in, and especially when it came to a boy, keep my heart closed. Being someone’s girlfriend or wife meant abuse and being a second choice.
To make sure I didn’t have to battle those traumas, I held my sword at my side, ready to slice them from my life as soon as I felt threatened. I didn’t give anyone a chance to explain if I felt wronged.
It was all about trust—or more accurately—the lack of it, and discus- sions such as these are what brought Tara, Alex, and me close together as girlfriends.
“No,” I said.
“Why ever not,” she asked.
I was ridiculously naïve and socially backward in so many ways. Being raised in an alcoholic family can do that. It was better to hide away and shut down rather than feel the extreme joy or intense pain of life.
Like most of us, I had learned from what my parents taught by how they relate to one another.
How soft are they?
Do they reach for each other’s hand?
Are their kisses open and frequent?
Do they hold the door open for each other?
Are their faces or eyes soft when they look or talk to each other? What about their terms of endearment? I never heard “my love,
honey, dear, sweetie,” or any other pet name.
What I saw, was that my mother had opened her heart to a man, and
in doing so, said, “I trust you” in every way.
She believed a promise of everything better in my father, who at the time was newly returned from serving in the army and beginning his career as a streetcar driver. Mom saw a light in his eyes and was attracted to his sense of humor and carefree spirit. It was an innocence she didn’t experience as a young girl.
What were the examples of a relationship growing up?
What were the examples of a relationship growing up?
They met through a friend who introduced them when my mom had just moved to San Francisco. My father fell in love with the strong woman she seemed to be; so much so, that they committed to each other in every way—to marry, make a life, and have children.
Who knows what went wrong, but ultimately their love was crushed and their hearts were broken. Neither of them made time for each other, or remained tender. They closed their doors and windows and became hard.
A diseased man pushed her and hit her and told her by his love for the bottle, that she wasn’t good enough. Mom wasn’t even second best. His friends at the bar stood in that place.
So for me, the lesson from my parents taught me to shut down, never let anyone in, and especially when it came to a boy, keep my heart closed. Being someone’s girlfriend or wife meant abuse and being a second choice.
To make sure I didn’t have to battle those traumas, I held my sword at my side, ready to slice them from my life as soon as I felt threatened. I didn’t give anyone a chance to explain if I felt wronged.
It was all about trust—or more accurately—the lack of it, and discus- sions such as these are what brought Tara, Alex, and me close together as girlfriends.
April 13, 2014
SHADOW HEART: Emotional and Physical Shock
My sister came home in shock.
She looked dead.
In some ways, emotionally, we were all dead.
My father numbed his body and mind with alcohol.
I numbed myself with staying busy.
My mom numbed herself escaping into her romance novels.
Now my sister would be numb in a different way.
“Where have you been?” My mother asked angrily. “I was so worried.” Calmly and without emotion, her body in shock, Jenise answered, “I was raped.”
I saw my mother’s face become stone, trying her best not to let the hurt inside.
“I want to take a shower,” Jenise said as if she were a zombie.
“Just stay right there. Don’t move, wash, or take anything off. Don’t even comb your hair. We need to go to the hospital first,” my mother said. She was well aware of the protocol for rape from taking care of the girls at “Juvie” who’d been attacked.
I don’t know if she wanted to take her daughter in her arms and tell her she was sorry for what happened and that she loved her, but she didn’t.
As always, she did a good job of pushing her emotions down, not losing control, or escalating an already delicate situation.
“Watch your sister,” mom said, as she rushed to her bedroom, got dressed, and then came downstairs. I heard her in the kitchen on the phone to the hospital asking for a “SANE” professional—someone trained in rape trauma—to be present with a rape kit.
After hanging up, she walked down the hallway and grabbed her purse and keys off the small table by the front door, while my sister stood motionless.
When Jenise finally lifted her head and looked at me so helplessly, her sad eyes screaming, “Why did this happen to me?” I turned away.
Her expression said it all. Her spirit was gone and I didn’t know how to process the pain I felt from seeing her that way.
She’d been my hero.
I didn’t want to hear her talk about her violated body, the strength that was ripped out of her, or the ways in which her innocence was lost, and taken by some power-crazed, sick man.
I knew she’d never look at life the same way again.
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She looked dead.
In some ways, emotionally, we were all dead.
My father numbed his body and mind with alcohol.
I numbed myself with staying busy.
My mom numbed herself escaping into her romance novels.
Now my sister would be numb in a different way.
“Where have you been?” My mother asked angrily. “I was so worried.” Calmly and without emotion, her body in shock, Jenise answered, “I was raped.”
I saw my mother’s face become stone, trying her best not to let the hurt inside.
“I want to take a shower,” Jenise said as if she were a zombie.
“Just stay right there. Don’t move, wash, or take anything off. Don’t even comb your hair. We need to go to the hospital first,” my mother said. She was well aware of the protocol for rape from taking care of the girls at “Juvie” who’d been attacked.
I don’t know if she wanted to take her daughter in her arms and tell her she was sorry for what happened and that she loved her, but she didn’t.
As always, she did a good job of pushing her emotions down, not losing control, or escalating an already delicate situation.
“Watch your sister,” mom said, as she rushed to her bedroom, got dressed, and then came downstairs. I heard her in the kitchen on the phone to the hospital asking for a “SANE” professional—someone trained in rape trauma—to be present with a rape kit.
After hanging up, she walked down the hallway and grabbed her purse and keys off the small table by the front door, while my sister stood motionless.
When Jenise finally lifted her head and looked at me so helplessly, her sad eyes screaming, “Why did this happen to me?” I turned away.
Her expression said it all. Her spirit was gone and I didn’t know how to process the pain I felt from seeing her that way.
She’d been my hero.
I didn’t want to hear her talk about her violated body, the strength that was ripped out of her, or the ways in which her innocence was lost, and taken by some power-crazed, sick man.
I knew she’d never look at life the same way again.
Won't you join the discussion of family dysfunction, love, romance, and seeking emotional intimacy?
www.PamelaTaeuffer.com
Facebook: /pamela.taeuffer.9
Pinterest: /pamelataeuffer
gmail: pamelataeuffer@gmail.com
April 9, 2014
Love Story - Is that what our lives are about?
Our lives are ultimately a love story, aren't they?
We strive to move through and dodge the pain, keep it away, sometimes embrace it, and other times we swear, scream, lash out, beat another down, with words, fists . . . all to make us safe, our family safe, our friends . . . because we love them.
Or we fear them. Or we want them to fear us, or love us, or forgive us.
Do we love ourselves in the same way?
Do we give ourselves the breaks and space we so generously allow others?
Or do we drink down the thing that can numb us?
We yearn to live outside of our fears. We desperately want others to surround us with love.
I picture invisible hands caressing and holding me, holding us, and hope that people I have around me will accept everything about me, the good and the bad, and love me for who I am.
Can we love each other that way?
If someone is five hundred pounds, do we see them as lovable?
If someone has been burned and married, and their skull is dented, their scalp torn apart in an accident or by a bomb in war, can we love them?
Can we forgive a parent, a spouse, a child, for falling short of our expectations, being an alcoholic or an addict and abandoning us?
Can we love them still, as just another human being?
Should we?
We strive to move through and dodge the pain, keep it away, sometimes embrace it, and other times we swear, scream, lash out, beat another down, with words, fists . . . all to make us safe, our family safe, our friends . . . because we love them.
Or we fear them. Or we want them to fear us, or love us, or forgive us.
Do we love ourselves in the same way?
Do we give ourselves the breaks and space we so generously allow others?
Or do we drink down the thing that can numb us?
We yearn to live outside of our fears. We desperately want others to surround us with love.
I picture invisible hands caressing and holding me, holding us, and hope that people I have around me will accept everything about me, the good and the bad, and love me for who I am.
Can we love each other that way?
If someone is five hundred pounds, do we see them as lovable?
If someone has been burned and married, and their skull is dented, their scalp torn apart in an accident or by a bomb in war, can we love them?
Can we forgive a parent, a spouse, a child, for falling short of our expectations, being an alcoholic or an addict and abandoning us?
Can we love them still, as just another human being?
Should we?
April 1, 2014
When is it time to talk about family secrets?
Shadow Heart* If you've been raised in family addiction, you know what family secrets are.
* When you cover family secrets, do you feel like no one will understand?
* When you feel alone, do you feel abandoned?
THERE'S NO RIGHT TIME TO BEGIN TO TELL YOU STORY.
EXPLAIN, EXPLORE, HELP OTHERS TO DISCOVER -- THEY AREN'T ALONE. MILLIONS HAVE COME FROM GENERATIONS BEFORE, TRYING TO STOP THE DYSFUNCTION.
When your story involves dark family secrets, secrets that need to be told, secrets that may offend dead, alive, those in denial, those willing to share, and reveal . . . just when do you decide to write those things?
Sisters ttrying to protect themselves against dark family secrets
I have a friend whose siblings curse her for telling her dark family story. Even though her book is magnificent, brilliantly revealing the raw, bare details of growing up in dysfunction, helping others better understand the effects of being raised in addiction.
I have a sibling who wants it out, along with me, so that others may walk perhaps a little more lightly when they realize "it's not them" it's the survival from four years old, it's the walking on eggshells every day, and it's the fear of being driven to the bar, then home, by a parent who is drunk.
When do those secrets come out and the feelings of being terrified and shamed and abandoned night after night as we took care of our own needs, even though my sister and I were only 4 and 7 years old?
When is it time?
Why should those secrets lay buried?
Should the ones who brought the darkness down on us be spared?
Should the ones who abused us stay hidden?
When is it time?
* When you cover family secrets, do you feel like no one will understand?
* When you feel alone, do you feel abandoned?
THERE'S NO RIGHT TIME TO BEGIN TO TELL YOU STORY.
EXPLAIN, EXPLORE, HELP OTHERS TO DISCOVER -- THEY AREN'T ALONE. MILLIONS HAVE COME FROM GENERATIONS BEFORE, TRYING TO STOP THE DYSFUNCTION.
When your story involves dark family secrets, secrets that need to be told, secrets that may offend dead, alive, those in denial, those willing to share, and reveal . . . just when do you decide to write those things?
Sisters ttrying to protect themselves against dark family secrets
I have a friend whose siblings curse her for telling her dark family story. Even though her book is magnificent, brilliantly revealing the raw, bare details of growing up in dysfunction, helping others better understand the effects of being raised in addiction.
I have a sibling who wants it out, along with me, so that others may walk perhaps a little more lightly when they realize "it's not them" it's the survival from four years old, it's the walking on eggshells every day, and it's the fear of being driven to the bar, then home, by a parent who is drunk.
When do those secrets come out and the feelings of being terrified and shamed and abandoned night after night as we took care of our own needs, even though my sister and I were only 4 and 7 years old?
When is it time?
Why should those secrets lay buried?
Should the ones who brought the darkness down on us be spared?
Should the ones who abused us stay hidden?
When is it time?
March 27, 2014
My Sister Was Raped
IN THIS SCENE IN SHADOW HEART NICKY YOUNG REFLECTS BACK TO WHEN HER SISTER WAS RAPED, AND HOW IT CONVINCED HER THAT FLIRTING OR SHOWING YOURSELF WITH REVEALING CLOTHES LEADS TO VIOLENCE AND SHAME.
The day my sister’s life changed forever, I came home from school at the usual time.
She was generally a few hours behind me, hanging back and talking with friends, having a soda or the occasional beer and doing the other things that occupied the lives of teenage girls.
So when she was late, no one really gave it a second thought. That was until dinner came and went and she hadn’t called.
My father was drunk, of course, and without his sparring partner at the table, he ate dinner quietly. Maybe somewhere under his numb- ness, he knew, because without any words, he went up to bed and left my mother alone to handle it.
Our parents bought my sister a cell phone so they could reach her, and she them. But that day Jenise didn’t answer. By the way my mother began cleaning the house instead of reading her romance novels, I knew something was very wrong.
“Did you hear from Jenise today?” Mom finally asked me.
“No, I came right home from school and then went up to my room to study,” I said. “Have you phoned her friends? I have some of their numbers if you don’t. She’s friends with Patty’s sister.”
“I’ve called them all,” my mom said. “As far as they knew she was coming right home.”
A sinking feeling filled my body, and I’m sure my mother’s heart crashed into her stomach. I imagined she was walking her fence, trying to decide whether to call the police, go look for her, or stay put.
In a way, she was trapped. She knew my father couldn’t help and as much as she probably wanted to do something instead of sitting and waiting, she couldn’t. If she went to look for her and Jenise called, I’d be alone with a parent who was drunk and couldn’t help.
I did the dishes, and then sat in the living room watching something on TV, eating a bowl of ice cream with my mom.
At about 9 p.m., Jenise walked through the door. Her clothes weren’t quite right, and the color was drained from her face. Her eyes were distant and the first thought that crossed my mind was, “She looks dead.” – Continued
PLEASE JOIN IN THE DISCUSSION AT WWW.PAMELATAEUFFER.COM AT MY BLOG SITE:
Have you or anyone in your family been raped?
What kind of feelings did you have? Why were you ashamed, if you were?
Why do we or does the legal system or society blame women or question what they did to bring it on?Shadow Heart
The day my sister’s life changed forever, I came home from school at the usual time.
She was generally a few hours behind me, hanging back and talking with friends, having a soda or the occasional beer and doing the other things that occupied the lives of teenage girls.
So when she was late, no one really gave it a second thought. That was until dinner came and went and she hadn’t called.
My father was drunk, of course, and without his sparring partner at the table, he ate dinner quietly. Maybe somewhere under his numb- ness, he knew, because without any words, he went up to bed and left my mother alone to handle it.
Our parents bought my sister a cell phone so they could reach her, and she them. But that day Jenise didn’t answer. By the way my mother began cleaning the house instead of reading her romance novels, I knew something was very wrong.
“Did you hear from Jenise today?” Mom finally asked me.
“No, I came right home from school and then went up to my room to study,” I said. “Have you phoned her friends? I have some of their numbers if you don’t. She’s friends with Patty’s sister.”
“I’ve called them all,” my mom said. “As far as they knew she was coming right home.”
A sinking feeling filled my body, and I’m sure my mother’s heart crashed into her stomach. I imagined she was walking her fence, trying to decide whether to call the police, go look for her, or stay put.
In a way, she was trapped. She knew my father couldn’t help and as much as she probably wanted to do something instead of sitting and waiting, she couldn’t. If she went to look for her and Jenise called, I’d be alone with a parent who was drunk and couldn’t help.
I did the dishes, and then sat in the living room watching something on TV, eating a bowl of ice cream with my mom.
At about 9 p.m., Jenise walked through the door. Her clothes weren’t quite right, and the color was drained from her face. Her eyes were distant and the first thought that crossed my mind was, “She looks dead.” – Continued
PLEASE JOIN IN THE DISCUSSION AT WWW.PAMELATAEUFFER.COM AT MY BLOG SITE:
Have you or anyone in your family been raped?
What kind of feelings did you have? Why were you ashamed, if you were?
Why do we or does the legal system or society blame women or question what they did to bring it on?Shadow Heart
