You'll look great on my Christmas cards

My dad was a big handsome, high school football star and officer in the air force. He'd been stationed in Pakistan and he'd jumped out of a plane. He looked really great in the wedding photos. He looked really great on paper. He was any mother's dream for her daughter. Until you get to the part where he was mean and selfish, lacking in compassion and warmth.

The physical abuse was one thing, the constant criticism and not being able to do anything good enough for him, was another.

Problem was, the whole relationship was built on the outside. She wanted 6 kids, he wanted to explore the world in his Austin Healy Sprite. He resented having to sell his cute little sports car when I was born but he finally traded it in for something more practical. She tried to mold him to fit into her picture of the world while he took extended hunting trips to get away. As the pain escalated, we learned to look good, to smile pretty, to project the image of the perfect and beautiful family.

There's this funny cultural competition in Dallas where families get together and have their annual photos. They all dress the same, smile pretty and project that super sweet image to "out perfect" the neighbors. Families that are not talking, that have raging alcoholism and abuse, cover the bruises and smile pretty so they can show the world that they've done well. It's all built on the outside.

Matthew 7:[26] And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: [27] And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.

When I started dating, I chose the ones that looked good. My first boyfriend had blonde feathered hair and the handle to his comb looked really great in his back pocket. He was also dumber than a hammer and couldn't keep a job. He brought nothing to the table except that he looked great on my arm and I kept him there longer than I should because the girls at school thought he was a fox.

Even now, 32 years later, I can feel the hollow emptiness of that relationship. We used each other to feel better about ourselves and it still hurts. It was the same empty loneliness I learned from my family. It was pain but it was familiar and I called it love.

When I look back on the photos of my life I can still feel the pain. I look great. The man next to me is handsome. We are smiling pretty.

Accepting unacceptable behavior

I've been beaten, I've been raped, I've been tortured, I've been abused. My daddy's
"perfect family" taught me that these things are just part of being a family. It's ironic that my mother's father left when she was four and my grandmother raised my mom and aunt by herself. You'd think that that side of the family - the unacceptable side - would be more abusive. The "perfect" side of my family - the intact family with the football star and the cheerleader - was the side that hid the bruises, cruelty and the pedophilia. To make matters worse, my perfect family called this behavior love.

Both of my grandfather's were alcoholics. Both of my parents were Adult Children that lived with unacceptable behavior and called it "normal", even love. That's why, when my father was cruel to my mother, she took it and hid it from the kids. That's why, when he began beating her, she tried harder and took responsibility for his actions.

In the dysfunction, the perpetrator is never responsible for his own actions - everyone else is. "If I hadn't talked back, if I got better grades, if I was thinner, if I was more beautiful, if I just accept him as he is then he will love me. The victim eventually believes that it is they that are unlovable. It's their fault that no one loves them.

When my dad murdered my mom, he was not responsible. He "felt like an animal in a cage and she just kept poking at him" he "had to do it to protect himself". Each one of the kids - age 7-13 - took responsibility for mom's murder. I should have been there to protect her, my brother knew something was wrong but when he realized that a gun was gone he didn't know what to do - he was 11, my sister opened the door to let my dad in. We shouldered the blame and guilt but the murderer did not.

After the murder, we were expected to go and visit my dad. We were expected to love him after he had taken away the only warm ray of love in our lives. We never talked about why he was in jail. We just pretended that everything was "normal". We tried our best to look perfect.

The perfect house in Almaden was sold. Our things were boxed up and stored at my grandmother's house. There was no debriefing, no accountability, no discussing how to handle things. That whole part of our lives was "removed" and we moved forward.

When boyfriends were selfish I had had worse - my father was the ultimate narcissist so it actually felt familiar. Not good but familiar. When money was taken out of my purse, I put up with it. When my head was slammed into the tile bathroom floor, I took it. I thought I was being loyal and proving my love by staying.


My kid used to get attention by behaving badly. Bad attention was better than being invisible. I did the same thing in relationships. Being seen was preferable to not being seen at all. If I was slapped across the face, I was definitely being noticed. There was even an excitement to being able to get someone's attention to that level. I was so sick.

I have been alone for seven years now. Drama, abuse and cruelty are not part of my life.

When I moved into my apartments in Dallas I was again faced with the power struggle. One of my tenants - a drug addict - had taken on the "alpha" position. Much like the alpha dog, he had chosen my apartments as his territory and had pee'd all over it. He was unpredictable and he had everyone on edge. I noticed the old power struggle energy, I noticed my wanting to knock him off his pedestal. Today I make a different decision. Today I can let that go. It takes two to have an argument and I chose not to argue. I set the rules. I was firm and he chose to move on. Today that drama is unacceptable. Today I choose what behavior is acceptable to me. Today I choose happiness.

A Convenient Little Lie

I was up all night. She needed for someone to listen. She was desperate. She was lost and she hadn't told anyone else what was going on. She was finally letting it out.

My girlfriend is super cute. I call her the bombshell. She's smart, funny, super big heart. She will bend over backward to help you. She loves her mother and her mother drives her crazy. She just wants to be loved for real. She's been in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship for the last 6 years.

It brings up all my craziness from 1993, the year I started a new business, got a divorce, bought a house, the house burnt down and I was with an abusive man that I figured would kill me by the time I was 34, just like my mom.

Abuse is a family disease. It runs in my family. My aunt was murdered by an ex-boyfriend. My mom was murdered by my dad. I figured it was my lot in life to be murdered by my boyfriend, too. I mean, who am I to be any different.

My childhood home was abusive. It was normal to fight in front of the kids. During dinner. After church. My parent's room was downstairs and it was dark and scary. Strange bumping and cries were heard outside the closed door. We never talked about the bruises. We never talked about the drinking glass that was hurled at my mom so hard that the glass embedded in the wall behind her.

When I was in third grade we left. It was the middle of the school year. I was 7 and I was her best friend. I was the one who distracted and diffused his anger. She told me that he had strangled her and threatened to kill her. I love my mom more than anything and I hated this 210 pound monster that smiled as he pulled the belt from his waist. I had fantasies about sneaking into their room at night. While he was asleep I would take my baseball bat and smash his head in before he could wake up. I had to be quiet and I had to have good aim. And I felt deep shame about those thoughts because he was my dad.

Instead of going to school that day, we left. We packed the green Volkswagen bus and, looking out the front window, she cried for the three days we drove to my grandmother's house. I remember laying in the back of the darkened bus, my brother and sisters sleeping around me. Road noise, streetlights flashing above my head and the sounds of my mother sobbing.

She stayed for the kids. At least that's what she told herself. It's a convenient little lie. It takes away all responsibility.

It took her another year to get up the courage to leave. A year of therapy, a year of getting a job and a year of admitting she was in an abusive relationship.