Michelle Maren's MySpace Blog | MICHELLE MAREN: FOUND SOUL

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

August 17, 2009 - Monday

PLEASE NOTE

Please forgive me if you've sent me a myspace message and I haven't responded. I've been having difficulties responding to any messages because of computer issues--it just won't allow me to either respond to messages or send them.

Once again, I apologize. However, I thank anyone who has taken the time to write me. God bless.

3:22 PM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

July 7, 2009 - Tuesday

HAPPY HOLIDAYS
Current mood:Exhausted

As this holiday weekend comes to a close, I breathe a very heavy sigh of relief. Holidays are always emotionally tough for me and July 4^th is no different.

Every Independence Day I’m transported back to my childhood when it meant spending time with family. On July 4^th in Scotch Plains, NJ, the potent aroma of barbecue wafted through the entire town because everyone was having a picnic with their family. As poor as we were, we had a small hibachi, which my mother would set up on our back porch. She allowed us to sit on the porch, but only if the white plastic Venetian blinds where completely pulled down on all three sides. Those hibachi burgers were tasty, but my goodness, it was a very lonely holiday—as were all holidays—because we weren’t allowed to see other people.

Our porch faced the building’s parking lot. Next to that was a fence with some bushes, which blocked our view of our neighbor’s backyard. He was a manager at the local Kresge’s (Kmart’s predecessor). I never saw him, but I could hear him with his family when they were in their yard. He’d play his banjo while his wife and son sang. And they laughed. They laughed a lot. As evening fell, I’d peek through our plastic Venetian blinds and see our neighbor’s Chinese lanterns flickering through the bushes. My mother mocked them, calling them "squares." I didn’t think they were squares. They sounded happy—like a happy family. I’d imagine myself sitting with them in their backyard, laughing, and singing songs under the red glow of those Kresge Chinese lanterns.

So every year when July 4^th rolls around, I think about all the happy families who are enjoying picnics and barbecues with their loved ones. And once again, I am reminded of the absence of family in my life.

All of this triggers my PTSD symptoms. My depression, anxiety, flashbacks, sugar cravings, and insomnia (I didn’t get to sleep until noon today) all get so much worse during holidays. As I get older, getting through every holiday becomes more and more difficult.

I find myself talking to God. I say, "How many more years can I go on like this, Lord? How much longer? What have I done to be so undeserving of love? I don’t even have the love of my own family. Not even of my father, even after I beg him. Am I so ugly? So stupid? So disgusting and dirty that no one can love me? I’m sorry Lord I’m so unlovable."

I think of my father, spending whatever precious time he has left with his precious family, his clean family, his loved family. He has no desire to share any part of his life with me—"The Mistake"—even after his diagnosis of terminal cancer. His rejection cuts through me like a sharp dagger every single day, but especially on holidays.

And then there are the voices—the negative, degrading voices. They say things like, "You’ll never be loved because you’re just a stupid, stupid mistake someone made forty-eight years ago. You’re hopeless—a big nothing."

It was a tortuous weekend to get through, but I did (and without eating any sweets, thank goodness). I just don’t know how many more of these "holidays" I can endure.

Soon I’ll start a new therapy—Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR). I’m hoping and praying it will help me cope with all of my PTSD reactions and that life with all its lovely "holidays" will become, at least, a little easier.

2:48 AM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

June 30, 2009 - Tuesday

WHERE IS LOVE?
Current mood:Lonely

When I was in high school, I studied piano for a couple of semesters. The problem was we didn’t own a piano, so my practice time was severely limited. The only song I could play well was Where is Love? from the musical Oliver!. I loved the lyrics and sang along as I played. I could relate to little Oliver Twist, who felt so unloved and unwanted.

Love, that wonderful gift, has eluded me too. I've never been loved by another human being—ever. In the film Sweet Charity, Shirley MacLaine says, "Without love, life has no purpose." I so agree. Riches and power never interested me. My main goal in life has been to find unconditional love. I know I have God's love and the love my animals, but I need human love too.

Everything I've ever done—go-go dancing, posing in men's magazines, performing in porn, selling myself as an escort, sleeping with boyfriends, trying to break into legit show biz—all of it was a desperate and fruitless attempt to receive love.

None of it satisfied my hunger for true affection because it was all pseudo-love. Just pretend. When I became physically and mentally ill, I needed friends and family for support, but they were nonexistent.

I don't know if I'll ever find someone who will always love me as I am. I hope I do. I pray I do.

For now, I solely lean on my Divine Family—Father God Almighty; Jesus Christ, my Savior; The Holy Spirit, my guide and protector; The Blessed Virgin Mary, mother to Our Savior and the world; Cheru, my guardian angel and friend; St. Michael, my patron saint; and Sts. Jude and Anthony, two of my special and powerful patron saints.

Without my faith, I have no hope. It is my only foundation, my only rock. I must tightly hold it close to my heart and never let it go, even as I whisper through my tears, "Where is love?"

12:08 AM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

June 23, 2009 - Tuesday

PRAYERS ANSWERED
Current mood:Thankful and Hopeful

God's loving mercy never ceases to amaze me.

A couple of weeks ago, when I filmed the HBO test with Michel Negroponte, I really thought I had ruined everything with my poor performance. I was feeling quite helpless and hopeless. So I prayed to Sts. Jude and Anthony for their intercession. I also decided to trust Michel's fine filmmaking skills.

Yesterday I received a copy of the test. What I expected was a 2 1/2 minute film clip. What I watched was a 2 1/2 minute MINI-DOCUMENTARY, complete with little nuances that give Michel's films that Negroponte flair. There was even a beginning, a middle, and an end! I was incredibly impressed. Without a doubt, Michel is a documentarian extraordinaire and I am most grateful that God directed me to contact him. Hopefully HBO will like it.

In thanksgiving to Sts. Jude and Anthony, I am sharing two unfailing prayers to them.

You do not have to be Catholic for the saints to answer your prayers. I started praying to the saints in 1985, years before I was even baptized, and the saints still answered my prayers.

Pray one (or both) prayers for nine days in a row, WITH COMPLETE FAITH THAT YOUR PRAYER WILL BE HEARD, and then pass the prayers onto others.

**********

UNFAILING PRAYER TO ST. JUDE
Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases

(To be said when problems arise, or when one seems to be deprived of all visible help, or for cases almost despaired of.)

Most holy apostle, St. Jude, faithful servant and friend of Jesus, the Church honors and invokes you universally, as the patron of hopeless cases, of things almost despaired of. Pray for me, I am so helpless and alone. Make use I implore you, of that particular privilege given to you, to bring visible and speedy help where help is almost despaired of. Come to my assistance in this great need that I may receive the consolation and help of heaven in all my necessities, tribulations, and sufferings, particularly (here make your request) that I may praise God with you and all the elect forever.

I promise, O blessed St. Jude, to be ever mindful of this great favor, to always honor you as my special and powerful patron, and to gratefully encourage
devotion to you.

Amen.

**********

UNFAILING PRAYER TO ST. ANTHONY
Patron Saint of Lost Articles and the Poor

(To be said when something has been lost and needs to be found or during financial difficulties. Actually, I find St. Anthony to be a good all-around saint for all intercessory needs.)

O Holy St. Anthony, gentlest of Saints, your love for God

and Charity for His creatures made you worthy, when on

earth, to possess miraculous powers. Miracles waited on

your word, which you were ever ready to speak for those in trouble or anxiety. Encouraged by this thought, I implore of you to obtain for me (here make your request). The answer to my prayer may require a miracle. Even so, you are the saint of miracles.

O gentle and loving St. Anthony, whose heart was ever full of human sympathy, whisper my petition into the ears of the Sweet Infant Jesus, who loved to be folded in your arms, and the gratitude of my heart will ever be yours.

Amen.

10:55 PM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

June 21, 2009 - Sunday

FATHERLY TRIGGERS
Current mood:Struggling

One of my many mental health diagnoses is posttraumatic stress disorder. It's a result of childhood abuse, crime victimization, sex industry exploitation, and some very bad relationships.

Every day I experience "triggers"—events that cause me to physically and/or emotionally re-visit a former traumatic experience. The sorts of triggers are numerous and usually involve my feeling violated, invalidated, or powerless in some way. Doctor’s exams, injections, blood being drawn, surgery, haircuts, rude people, criticism, rejection, being ignored… Anything that reminds me what an unimportant "thing" I am, can trigger me.

The sight of blood reminds me of when I saw my mother’s blood smeared on our walls and car while my father beat her. Every time I hear an animal or small child crying, I think that someone is hitting them and I’m taken right back to my childhood beatings or hearing my sister yelping as my mother whipped her with a belt. The sound of someone merely yelling at a child can be a trigger. I can’t tolerate watching any acts of violence in movies, on TV shows, or on the news.

When a car goes by with a bad muffler, my heart begins to race because my mother’s car had a bad muffler also. We could hear her coming when she was a few blocks away. It gave us time to look around and see if there was anything that would make her angry. If there was, we had a few moments to quickly straighten up.

I have to force myself to get into the shower every day because it was in the bathtub where I endured some of my mother’s abuse. Also, I think there may have been inappropriate goings-on with my father in the bathroom. But my memories are still hazy about that.

I’m triggered if I see an abused or injured animal because I empathize with their helplessness.

Certain smells can trigger me also. The aroma of baby oil and latex brings me back to the trauma of working as a sex surrogate at the age of eighteen (I had only had a couple of sexual experiences beforehand). Gosh, that was awful.

In general, anytime when I’m feeling stressed or lacking control I can become triggered.

I can react in a variety of ways once I’m triggered…

I may re-experience the trauma and dissociate to the point of actually being there all over again.

My body may go into a "fight or flight" response—heart racing and pounding, perspiring, shaking… I can’t control it. Sometimes I remain like that for hours.

I may get nauseous, dizzy, or even faint.

I may feel like someone is punching me in the face, head, and gut. Sometimes they kick me in the stomach and back too.

I have nightmares. Being stabbed, attacked, chased, publicly humiliated, trapped, and falling from a great height are all common themes.

Once I’m triggered, the negative voices begin and won’t let up—sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. They say things like: "You’re disgusting," "No one will ever love you," "Why would anyone love you? You piece of garbage! You little sh*t!" "Who do you think you are?" "You’re nothing—nothing but a burden—nothing but a mistake!," "You don’t deserve love."

I believe ALL of my mental health diagnoses are just PTSD reactions. My schizophrenia, depression, anxiety, phobias, obsessive compulsive behaviors, binge eating and other self-destructive behaviors, borderline personality disorder, insomnia, etc.—all of it is a result of my past traumatic experiences.

The same can be said of my physical ailments—my spinal issues (nerve, joint, and muscular), chest pains, abdominal discomfort, pelvic pain, dizziness, eye problems, etc.

You may ask, "What does all this have to do with fathers?"

Well, this past Friday, I spoke to my father on the phone. As usual, he rejected me in a variety of ways. Once I hung up, I wanted to hurt myself. I was so angry with myself for being so darned unlovable. Why was I so bad? I wanted to inflict pain on myself. I knew that was wrong, so to resist the temptation, I made tight fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands as hard as I could. It wasn’t helping. I couldn’t punch pillows as I sometimes do, because my spine was hurting too much. The urge to self-inflict bodily harm was overwhelming. So I chose to binge instead. Certainly it was better that hitting myself in the head or jumping out my window! So I binged and binged and felt horrendous (mentally and physically) afterward.

More than anything I want to forgive my father.

I once looked up the word "forgive" in Webster’s. It said to forgive means to let go of anger and resentment. I think many people use this word so easily without really knowing what it means. "I’ve forgiven so-and-so, even though they had the nerve to do such horrible things to me," they say with anger permeating their voice. Or they’ll say, "I can forgive, but I’ll never forget." Well, that’s what forgiveness means—a letting go of anger and resentment. It’s easy to just mouth the words; it’s much more difficult and complicated to actually feel forgiveness from the heart. True forgiveness is a process and a gift that can only come from the Holy Spirit.

Saturday, I went to Confession. I told the priest I’m having difficulty forgiving those who have abused, neglected, and/or rejected me (my father, mother, five siblings, grandparents, uncle, and ex-fiancé). He proceeded to deliver quite an attack against me, telling me I can’t forgive because of my own weakness and sin.

I felt invalidated, powerless, attacked, and very, very angry. How dare anyone tell me how to feel? Only God and I know what I’ve been through in my life. I think it’s normal to feel angry after experiencing 17 years and 9 months of physical and emotional abuse by your own mother! It’s normal to feel angry after being a victim of crime and the sex industry! It’s normal to feel angry with a man who proposed marriage despite the fact that he’s gay! It’s normal to feel angry with a father who has rejected you decade after decade and with siblings who reject you as well! I wish I could be like Jesus and feel nothing but love for all of these people—but honestly I don’t. I love them, but at the same time I’m very, very angry with them. Maybe I will truly forgive them in the future, but right now it’s hard to forgive when I'm enduring all the after-effects of abuse on a daily basis and no one is sorry for what they did. I wish I was a spiritual Wonder Woman, but I’m not—I’m just a normal human being who’s trying her best to get through each day in one piece.

I simply wasn't heard by the priest. After I left the confessional, I felt nauseous, dizzy, tearful, and overwhelmed by negative voices.

I felt the same way after a couple of other recent confessions. Once, I told a priest about my chronic depression. He said, "Don't be depressed. Do what I do—every morning I look at myself in the mirror and say, 'I'm happy,' and then I'm happy!" If only I knew before the cure my clinical depression was in my mirror all along.

Another time, I told the same priest my agony over not having any family. He said, "I don't have family either—they're in South America. I miss them." Now how can having a loving family in another country be the same as being rejected by every one of your relatives right here in your own backyard? Again, I wasn't heard.

And here it is Father’s Day. Another one of those blasted holidays that remind me how my family has rejected me. So I sit here, with 78 cents to my name, spine racked with pain, dizzy, and fighting voices and disabling sadness. And I know my father is in his mansion (located on 20 acres and next to his stables) and surrounded by his loving children—his pampered children, his clean children, his real children—the ones who aren’t stupid, filthy mistakes like me.

Please Lord, just help me get through another day.

7:01 PM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

June 14, 2009 - Sunday

MY RESPONSE TO JEFF BOOTH (ROUND 2)
Current mood:Steadfast

Jeff Booth, a man who has a pro-porn internet radio show, has once again made comments about me. This time it was on his March 15th, 2009 broadcast. Below is my response.
*********************************************
Hello Jeff,

I reiterate—what degraded women twenty-five years ago, still degrades them today. And I say that from the perspective of a woman. I know what it feels like to sell your flesh for money—regardless of the degree of monetary gain. I know the humiliation and the shame. I know because I did it for eight years. Whether it was pornography or prostitution, it was all the same—except with porn, the selling of my flesh was permanently recorded on film.

You conveniently leave out of your response my reference to Shelley Lubben's website and her myspace page. I suggest you take a look. She has 26,642 friends on her myspace page—many of whom are former porn stars (from all eras) and recovering porn addicts. No, it is not merely my opinion that the porn industry is destructive. You accuse me of "confirmation bias"—something you may suffer from yourself. You choose to ignore the thousands of people I directed you to who feel as I do about the porn industry in order to validate your own views.

You disclose that your wife performed sex on film. If she found participating in porn the laugh riot you contend, why didn’t she continue? Since you’re very interested in psychology, you realize we tend to repeat behaviors we find most pleasurable, especially when there is positive reinforcement involved, such as money.

You say, "Lots of us do things we might have preferred not to do to get a pay check. It was not wasting our lives. It is just making a buck. A necessary evil." The truth is no one has to do porn to financially survive. The money becomes a convenient excuse—not "necessary" by any means.

You comment about my appearing in porn films that featured an underage girl. I do not know the name of the girl. Like the rest of us, she used a stage name. I didn’t report her at the time because my moral barometer was just as skewed as everyone else’s in the porn industry. Her mother was always there, so, foolishly, I thought everything was all right. Of course, I was wrong. There were many disturbing, illegal, and downright frightening things I witnessed in the eight years I worked in the sex industry. I didn’t report any of it. Partly, I think, because I was in denial about my own involvement in such a horrible business. I regret that. But I was wounded too. And wounded people simply have a skewed view of what is right and wrong.

You say, "Your assumption is that having sex on camera is degrading and humiliating. This is a minority opinion." Once again, I suggest you consult Shelley Lubben’s website and you will see thousands who have experienced the degradation and humiliation of porn—both as performers and viewers. Are 26,642 people also in the dark?

On the subject of celibacy—you assert, "You claim you don’t have an anti-sex agenda, but you do. Come on—you say you are celibate because you respect sex? No, you are celibate because you have issues you really should be working through with a therapist." Also, you say you respect women "enough to let them make decisions about their own sexuality." If this is the case, then why not allow me to make my own decisions about my sexuality? How can you possibly claim to know the reason for my choices? Is the idea of a woman wanting to have sex only with someone she deeply cares for so inconceivable to you? Is a woman who chooses not to sell or give her body to strangers "anti-sex?" Trust me, it is possible for a woman to be celibate because she truly respects sex and is waiting to share it with that special someone.

You mention that you come from an abusive family. I’m so sorry. I too think therapy is a good thing.

You say that you cannot answer my question, "Would you want your daughter to work in the sex industry?" because you don’t have a daughter. Let me be more specific, if you had a daughter, would you want her to work in the sex industry?

You declare that you don’t make generalized comments and expect them to apply to everyone. Yet, that’s exactly what you are doing with me. I have simply shared my experiences and my opinions based on those very personal experiences. I never said I’m speaking for all women. You want me to feel as you do and I simply don’t… and never will.

2:43 AM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

June 11, 2009 - Thursday

SAY A LITTLE PRAYER (PLEASE)
Current mood:Hopeful

Yesterday, Michel Negroponte filmed a test of me to send to HBO. Previously, he had spoken to one of the HBO powers-that-be and they were interested enough to ask for a few minutes of footage. The project will most likely focus on post-traumatic stress and its effects on my life (including working in the sex industry). If HBO approves the test, they will financially back Michel to make a documentary about me.

In the test, I wanted to convey the various elements of my life—the tragic, the frightening, and the ridiculous. I wanted to be both funny and sad, hopeless and hopeful. Despite my sincere efforts, I think I failed. I failed myself and I feel like I failed Michel, although he says no.

I got just two hours sleep the night before, so I had difficulty focusing. Rushing around doing errands earlier in the day only contributed to my scattered thought processes. Although I’m usually an excessively emotional and animated person, a few days out of the month my hormones stabilize and I’m disgustingly well balanced. As bad timing would have it, we filmed on one of my emotionally stable days. Just the week before, I was crying on a daily basis and punching my bed pillows because I felt so angry and overwhelmed with flashbacks. Whatever the reason, as Michel's camera was rolled, I was dull. When he asked me to talk about the child abuse I suffered or my experiences in the sex industry, I found I was even boring myself. I just wasn’t that interesting. In an impromptu moment, I sang a little, but I haven’t been practicing as I should, so that wasn’t up to snuff either.

We worked for about five hours. After which, I expressed to Michel my dissatisfaction regarding my performance and my dismay at having let him down. He assured me that the magic of editing can produce miraculous results. I trust his skills. He’s an exceedingly gifted editor and filmmaker—an artist. I just hope that I haven’t ruined everything, despite Michel’s talents. Of course, I suppose we can always re-film or add footage, since nothing is etched in stone yet.

I feel my story is an important one to tell. It is the story of so many women who were abused as children and, because of crushed spirits, turn to the sex industry, where they are abused even further. I need to, no, I MUST tell my story and I know that Michel is the only person who can give my story a real voice. So, I am putting my trust in him and my faith in God that this will all work out. I’ve been praying to Sts. Jude and Anthony for their intercession. All things are possible with God.

So Dear Friends, while I realize there are more important issues going on in your own personal lives and in the world, I humbly and sincerely ask you to please say a little prayer for me. I hope that whatever finished product Michel sends to HBO, it will be enough for them to give him the go ahead for the documentary. Certainly, in the future I want to produce good work, worthy of Michel and worthy of my story. I need to losen up and be myself.

I think this will be a powerful project that could very possibly help many other people.

Thank you so much for your time.

12:16 AM

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

June 2, 2009 - Tuesday

FANTASY DADDY
Current mood:Wishful

If I had lunch with my "Fantasy Daddy," oh my, what a different lunch it be…

************************************************

As soon as Daddy arrives, we give each other a big, loving hug. Tears well up in his eyes as he says, "Oh Michelle, my sweet daughter! How I’ve missed you! You look so youthful! And skinny too!!" (All right, all right—give me a break, it is my fantasy, you know.)

I ask him how his health is doing. He informs me that his cancer and leukemia have been completely healed. We bow our heads and say a tearful prayer of thanksgiving to God.

He then says, "So Princess, tell me about what’s going on in your life. I want to know everything."

His cell phone rings. Immediately, he turns it off. "I don’t want to be interrupted. You’re so much more important than business," he cheerfully says.

I show Daddy my birth certificate and tell him how much I want his family name and want him to be legally listed as my father. "Absolutely," he says. "You should have my name and I should be legally acknowledged as your father. I’m very proud and honored to be your father and I want the world to know it. I’ll call the attorney next week."

I tell him that I contacted all four of my siblings. He looks relieved and says, "Of course you should have a relationship with your brothers and sisters. I should have made this happen years ago. I’m so sorry Princess. As soon as I get back to Florida, I’ll talk to each of them and tell them how wonderful you are, what a special sister they have, and how you will be a part of the family from here on."

"I've cried about all of this every day, " I say.

Dad replies, "I've cried about it every day too, Honey. But now I'm going to make things right, so there will only be tears of happiness."

He hands me a birthday card. When I open it, a slip of paper falls out. It reads: THIS COUPON ENTITLES MICHELLE TO A FAMILY—COMPLETE WITH A FATHER, A STEPMOTHER, TWO SISTERS, TWO BROTHERS, A GRANDMOTHER, AND AN UNCLE.

"Oh thank you so much Daddy!! It’s just what I always wanted!!" I joyfully say.

Then he adds, "We have a guest house on our property and I’d like you to move in. That way, you can be near your family and I can see to it that you get the best medical care. I love you so much, Princess and I don’t want you to continue to be so far away from me."

Oh Daddy, Daddy!" I exclaim. "Of course I’ll move to be near all of you!"

He then gives my friend $200 for driving me. "Thank you for getting my little Princess here safely. She means the world to me, you know," he adds.

Daddy tells my friend, "I remember when Michelle was born. It was the happiest day of my life. I was so proud. What a gift she’s been in my life."

We have a long, leisurely lunch. "Eat more Princess, you need to gain a few pounds!" Daddy urges. (All right already—in my fantasies people can never tell me too much that I’m skinny!)

As we finish, Daddy says, "Princess, now you must come with me and visit your grandmother down the road. She misses you so much and has been asking about you. She’ll be so happy to see you! And your Uncle Gerry will be there. He misses you too."

"Oh yes, Daddy. I’d love to see Grandma and Uncle Gerry!" I respond.

We then share another warm hug.

************************************************

Ah, yes, if I can dream… if I can dream…

1:40 PM

1 Comments

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

June 2, 2009 - Tuesday

HOW MANY TIMES CAN A FATHER REJECT A DAUGHTER DURING THE COURSE OF A RUSHED LUNCH?
Current mood:Hurt

I wonder how many times I felt rejected during my final meeting with my father…

ONE: I hugged my father and felt no emotion in return from him, even though we hadn't seen each other in five years.

TWO: My father said he wouldn’t be coming back to NJ and didn’t invite me to Florida to visit him. He was cool as a cucumber as he was telling me he didn’t ever want to see me again.

THREE: Not long after he sat down, his cell phone rang. Of course, he just had to answer it.

FOUR: I told my father how happy I was to see him. He didn’t say the same about me.

FIVE: My father didn’t ask me anything about how I was doing.

SIX: I showed him pictures of my accomplishments. He didn’t offer me any praise.

SEVEN: When I showed him a pic of Gov. Whitman presenting me with a medal, he said, "It’s a shame the government can’t help you more."

EIGHT: I showed my father my birth certificate and, for the umpteenth time, told him how much I needed to have my name changed to his and have his name listed as my legal father. His response was, "You better put that away somewhere safe."

NINE: I told my father how I need a family and a sense of identity and belonging. He didn’t respond at all.

TEN: I shared how every single day I cry about being rejected by my family and my father's only response was, "Don't cry."
ELEVEN: My father stepped out to answer another phone call.

TWELVE: He gave me a birthday card, almost 8 weeks late, with $25 in it. He’s a very wealthy man who lavishes his other children with all sorts of extravagances.

THIRTEEN: He gave my friend $40 for driving me. Obviously, he thought my friend, a complete stranger to him, was of more value than me.

FOURTEEN: When I informed my father that his youngest daughter (my sister) and I have been emailing each other, he said, "I won’t say anything." I continue to be the shameful secret.

FIFTEEN: My father regaled my friend with the story of how he made a "stupid, stupid mistake" in 1960 when I was conceived.

SIXTEEN: Once again, my father took another phone call.

SEVENTEEN: He rushed through the lunch, only ordering a small cup of soup. He wanted to get away from me as fast as possible.

EIGHTEEN: I asked to see my grandmother who lives close to the restaurant where we were lunching. I haven’t seen her since I was about three years old. My father said no. I asked to see my uncle who lives with my grandmother. I haven't seen him for about fifteen years. My father said my uncle was too busy working (couldn’t he have eaten lunch with us, even though he was working?)

NINETEEN: When I hugged my father at the end of our meal, once again, I didn’t feel any emotion from him, even though he had decided he would never see me again.

TWENTY: In the parking lot, I said, "I love you, Dad." He said, "Love you too," without any love whatsoever in his voice.

TWENTY-ONE: He then started quickly dialing away on his cell.

So there it is, during that one lunch (the last time I will ever see my father), I felt rejected at lease twenty-one times. No wonder I was so exhausted afterward. I still haven’t recovered.

12:39 PM

1 Comments

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

May 31, 2009 - Sunday

IF I CAN DREAM
Current mood:Reflective

My father is terminally ill with kidney cancer. It has spread to his liver. He also has a form of leukemia called myelodyplastic syndrome. He’s receiving weekly treatments to prolong his life.

Last Friday was the first time I saw my father since 2004. A friend came with me. We all had lunch at a restaurant. I gave my father a brown scapular and a St. Benedict’s cross.

When I last saw him five years ago, I was not in a very good state—neither mentally nor physically. I was obese (because of a Zyprexa and binge eating disorder combo) and nearly bald because of trichotillomania. We met for lunch at a diner and all I did was sob and ask him why he didn’t want me as a daughter. He didn’t answer and looked as though he couldn’t wait to get out of there. I knew he didn’t want to see me ever again.

I didn’t wish that to be the last image my father had of me. It’s an image that only confirms his belief that I’m nothing but a lazy, crazy loser. Because of that, I spent seven hours getting ready for Friday's lunch, doing what I call, "my movie star thing." So I did look quite pulled together—I think.

Since last November, I had been begging my father to allow me to visit him in Florida. He kept making excuses why I couldn't. Finally, he agreed to meet with me here in NJ since he was coming up to visit his mother. (He has never made a special trip just to see me.)

In general, my father displayed not one iota of emotion during our meeting. I know if I hadn’t seen my child for five years, I would have been completely overwhelmed with feelings. My dry cleaner is more moved to see me.

Shortly after he sat down, Dad's cell phone rang and he walked outside to talk. This went on throughout lunch. He's the boss and could have delegated his phone responsibilities to someone else, at least for those couple of hours. It would have been the polite thing to do, the nice thing to do, especially considering we hadn’t seen each other in five years. In March, he took off a week from his business to take his entire family (excluding me, of course) to Georgia for a vacation. It would have been wonderful if he could have taken off a measly two hours to have lunch with me. I think he wanted his phone to ring constantly because he knew I was going to be talking about heavy topics and he just didn’t want to deal with it.

He said he wouldn’t be coming up to NJ again. I found that hard to believe because his mother, brother, and business are up here. I emailed his youngest daughter (my half-sister) and she wrote that probably isn't true for the very same reasons I mentioned. And he didn't invite me down to visit him in Florida either. I can only conclude that he was lying to me because he simply doesn’t want to see me again.

I told him how happy I was to see him, but he did not return the sentiment. He did say I looked nice, though.

At no point did my father ask me how I was, or what was happening in my life, or what my future plans are. Not one question. He just doesn’t care about me or my life and never has.

I reunited with my father twenty-five years ago when I was twenty-three. At that time, he told me that he would never let me out of life again and wanted me to have his name. He also expressed his regret at never having me baptized. Well, I had myself baptized when I was thirty-one but have found it difficult to have my birth certificate corrected on my own because I can’t afford an attorney. I wanted my father’s name on it instead of the man who is legally cited as my father. That man left when I was a newborn and is a complete stranger to me. Dad has been saying for many years that he would help me pay for the attorney, but still hasn’t. It always meant so much to me to have my birth "legitimized" and thus gain a sense of identity. My father adopted a child from Korea and, with the utmost ease, gave the boy his last name. At lunch, I showed Dad my birth certificate and told him, once again, how important it is to me. He told me to "put it away somewhere safe." He made no further comment. Nothing. Like I was nothing.

I expressed to him how I always wanted a family and a sense of belonging. Again, no response.

"I cry about this every single day," I said.

"Don't cry," was my father's reply. He didn't add anything about helping me get my birth certificate corrected or including me in his family.

I gave my father pictures from various periods of my life. He wasn’t moved. I think my name could be Michelle Obama and he would still view me as a worthless mistake. His eyes lit up only when he was looking at himself driving his beloved 1962 Caddy.

When I showed him a picture of me receiving a medal from Gov. Whitman for academic excellence in college, he said, "It’s a shame the government can’t help you." Perhaps the government expects family to take care of their own. (My father is a multi-millionaire.)

At lunch, he gave me a birthday card (my birthday was April 7^th) with $25 in it. What I really want from my father is ALL the love, support, attention, concern, protection, and time he has given to his other four children. Yes, if he could have fit all of that in the little birthday card envelope, I would have felt satisfied. Twenty-five dollars is merely a crust of bread—a crumb even. It’s like when someone leaves a waiter a penny to make a clear statement about what little they think of the service. My father was reminding me that I am of no value to him. He offered my friend $40 for making the drive. He gave his youngest daughter a stable and six horses.

I told my father that I contacted all four of my siblings a couple of months ago. Three of them rejected me because their mother (my stepmother) told them I was a "crazy prostitute" who was only after my father’s money. My youngest sister and I have been emailing each other. My father said he wasn’t going to say anything to anyone about it. I said, "Why not say anything? Why do I have to continue to be the shameful secret no one should talk about?"

Over the years, often my father has told me his version of how I was brought into this world. "I was young and irresponsible, and made a big mistake." Of course, that "big mistake, was me. At lunch, he told the story to my friend, this time using the words, "I was young and stupid."

Dad rushed through the lunch eating only half of a small bowl of soup.

After we finished eating, we walked to our cars in the parking lot. I turned and said, "I love you Dad." For a moment, I looked into his eyes and saw a man filled with guilt and fear. Guilt because of the way he's rejected me these past twenty-five years and the abuse I suffered as a child. Fear because of my unrelenting audacity, which drove me to continually confront him regarding what I needed from a father.

I realized it wasn't only he who was controlling me all of these years, but rather, it was also I who had control over him. I saw in his eyes a very frightened man running from his past—me. I realized too it would be the last time that I would ever look into those eyes—my father's eyes.

He said, "Love you too," as he took his cell phone out of his pocket and began dialing.

I left not feeling any degree of real closure. I was invalidated—not heard. I continued to feel as I always have regarding my father—unloved, rejected, unimportant; like I’m a nothing—a mistake.

My father said he goes to church every week. How could he possibly think God would condone his rejecting me all these years? Twenty-five years ago, God presented my father with a daughter who forgave his past and only wanted one thing from him—love. Yet my father chose to ignore God. He has continued to show me, through both word and deed, how absolutely meaningless I am to him and how supremely important his other children and wife are. I’m not even worthy enough to have his name—the name he gave to his adopted son.

All I can do is pray for him and ask God to have mercy on his soul: "Lord, forgive him, he knows not what he does."

No one will ever understand the profound pain of parental rejection unless they've been through it themselves. I cry, no SOB over it every single day—big, wailing, shoulder-jerking sobs. I’ll always have a bottomless chasm in my heart that can never be filled by anyone here on earth other than my family. I’d like to say that God fills it, but to be honest, despite my faith, I still feel that emptiness. It has affected every single aspect of my life and always will.

I was listening to Elvis’ If I Can Dream this morning. It contains the lyrics:

There must be lights burning brighter somewhere

Got to be birds flying higher in a sky more blue

If I can dream of a better land

Where all my brothers walk hand-in-hand

Tell me why, oh why, oh why can’t my dream come true?

There must be peace and understanding sometime

Strong winds of promise that will blow always the doubt and fear

If I can dream of a warmer sun where hope keeps shining on everyone

Tell me why, oh why, oh why won’t that sun appear?

We’re lost in a cloud with too much rain

We trapped in a world that struggles with pain

But as long as a man has the strength to dream

He can redeem his soul and fly

Deep in my heart there’s a trembling question

Still I am sure that the answer’s gonna come somehow

Out there in the dark

There’s a beckoning candle

And while I think

While I can walk

While I can stand

While I can talk

While I can dream

Please let my dream

Come true

Right now

Some of us will never experience true happiness while on this earth. Sadly, that's just the way it is. Life is more difficult for some than others.

My dream is that God will have mercy on my soul so that someday I will go to heaven and experience that place where there is no rejection, no physical or emotional pain, just pure love—the glorious, joyous love that only God and Jesus can give.

That’s my hope. That’s my dream.

5:42 PM

(Add Comment) |

1 Kudos

April 28, 2009 - Tuesday

A SAFE PLACE
Current mood:Depressed and Lonely

I’m starting a new psychotherapy and my counselor asked me to imagine a "safe place"—a moment or time in my life when I felt completely safe. I couldn’t because I’ve never felt that secure with anyone. Never.

At first, I may have someone’s acceptance, but eventually they reject me. I have that way with people. I always lose them.

Then the other night I had a dream. Usually I have nightmares, but this was a happy dream.

In it, I was married to a wonderful man. He was in his sixties, tall, thin, and balding with gray hair on the sides. He had beautiful eyes—big, deep, soulful, laughing brown eyes. We were truly enjoying each other's company. When he looked at me I knew I was loved and I felt content. I was safe.

I didn’t feel any of the massive weight of the heavy burdens I carry around every day—the rejection of my entire family, my depression and anxiety, the voices and flashbacks, my constant spinal pain—I wasn’t aware of any of it. These things weren’t even in the back of my mind. They simply weren’t there at all.

Then I awoke.

Filled with disappointment, I thought, "Oh. It was only a dream. This is my real life—a life filled with excruciating emotional and physical pain. A life where everyday I think, ‘This is another day my father doesn’t love me. This is another day my sisters and brothers reject me. This is another day I don't have any grandparents, uncles, aunts, or cousins in my life. This is another day of hurting. This is another day that I am alone.’ "

So I repeat to myself the words of Psalm 27:10--

Even if my father and mother forsake me, the Lord wil take me in...
Even if my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me in...

It was a nice dream, though.

3:05 AM

5 Comments

(Add Comment) |

1 Kudos

April 10, 2009 - Friday

CHILD OF THE LIE
Current mood:Angry at Myself

Last night I had a dream. In it, I was outside and saw a dog--a big dog with light curly fur, which was very dirty and matted. He was limping and had an injured eye. The dog was wimpering. Most people ignored him. Then one man gave the dog a piece of a sandwich. He patted the dog on the head and walked away looking quite proud of himself because he had done his good deed for the day.

The dream ended as I was asking people to help me get the dog to the nearest vet.

I woke up crying for the dog and realized I am much like him.

For my entire life, I've been settling for scraps of love from people. Once they toss me a crumb, I gratefully lick it up, then go back and patiently wait until they find it in their hearts to throw me another.

And it's been no different with my father.

He's terminally ill and I haven't seen him since 2004. For the past five months, I've been begging him to "allow" me to see him in Florida, where he resides. Yesterday I called him and he finally said yes, but with this very explicit caveat: he would see me for no more than two hours.

It will take an enormous degree of effort on many different levels for me to get myself to Florida. I haven't been on a plane for twenty-five years and not only am I afraid of flying in general, but also I know the airport experience will be extremely stressful. Stress triggers my psychiatric symptoms. Also, lately I've been having so much difficulty with ambulation and spinal pain, just physically getting myself through the airport will be challenging.

Still, I was willing to weather it all because I don't know when I would be able to see my father again. This very well may have been the last time. And certainly I was expecting to see him for longer than two hours!

Some of his other grown children see him everyday. He just returned from a vacation in another state with his entire family, with their spouses and children in tow. Obviously, he makes time for the people who are important to him--for the people he loves and cares for. I am not included in that honored group.

Now I realize if my father really loved and cared for me, he would want to see me (I wouldn't have to beg for months on end), and without question, he would want to spend more than just two hours with me. Especially considering he hasn't seen me in five years and may never again.

That's the way my relationship has been with my father for these last twenty-five years--me begging for a scrap of love, him reluctantly tossing me a crumb, me thankfully gobbling it up, then begging for another.

For decades I've wanted to legally change my last name to my father's and have his name on my birth certificate. His response has been that he just can't afford to pay a lawyer to have it done (I started asking years before the national financial crisis).

Then recently, he told me he would "let me have" the last name he hasn't used in thirty-five years. When his grandparents arrived in Ellis Island, their Italian name had been "Americanized," and my father grew up with the American version. Thirty-five years ago he legally changed it back to the original Italian. All of his other children have the Italian name. ALL of his children, including one he adopted from another country. I want the name my father has been using for thrity-five years--the Italian name--the name of all his other children. I don't want the Americanized name that he discarded.

Scrap of love.

When we used to live in the same state, he would "visit" me. At first it was once a year, and then every other year. It was always for a lunch, during which he was on his cell phone a great deal. The "visits" never exceeded two hours.

Scrap.

He only came to one of my apartments, despite my many invitations. And that one time was for about only ten minutes when he was on his way to the airport. He considered that an official "visit" and I didn't see him again for another year.

Scrap.

He calls me monthly from Florida. Before he was ill, he talked about the weather. Now he gives me updates on his health. He always calls from his car and never after 6 p.m. In twenty-five years, I called his cell phone twice after business hours--around 7 p.m. He was angry and short with me on both occasions.

Scrap.

When he was still living in NJ, I was in the hospital in NY. I was in my late twenties and getting an operation for the first time. A tumor had been found in my breast and I had to have it removed. It couldn't be determined if it was cancerous until the operation. I was scared and called my father. I pleaded with him to come and visit me. He said he was too busy with meetings and told his secretary to call me. I didn't even know his secretary. I wanted my father.

Scrap.

And the list could go on and on.

Why have I allowed myself to settle for scraps of love from so many people--my father, my mother, the sister with whom I grew up, my father's other children, the men I've dated, girlfriends--why?

Because like the dog in my dream, I've been abused and battered by life so much that I'd settle for the smallest degree of attention. I think I'm not of any value.

I am now feeling angry--angry with those who abused me, angry with those who took advantage of my weakness, but especially angry with myself for believing the lie. The lie is that I am undeserving of anyone's love because I am unlovable. The lie is that I don't deserve the same degree of love and caring as my father's other children because they are more worthy.

My father and others can continue to believe that lie, but I will no longer.

Jesus said Satan is a murderer and does not stand in truth, because there is no truth in him. When he tells a lie, he speaks in character, because he is a liar and the father of lies. (Jn 8:44-5)

My father continues to give the pretense of being my father while telling me lies. Lies are dark, evil and destructive. Truth is light, liberating, and healing.

One lie my father has repeatedly told me is that I am a "mistake" The truth is I am a child of God--a gift and NOT a mistake. Children too are a gift from the Lord, the fruit of the womb, a reward (Ps 127:3). Not some children--ALL children are a gift.

I may not have a father on earth, but I'll always have one in heaven for the Lord has adopted me: For those who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you received a spirit of adoption, through which we cry, "Abba, Father! (Rom 8:14-15)

I am NOT illegitimate because God is my Father: We are not illegitimate. We have one Father, God (Jn 8:41).

Through the faith that God in his mercy has bestowed upon me, his child, I can conquer anything, even the unlove of others: [F]or whoever is begotten by God conquers the world. And the victory that conquers the world is our faith (1 Jn 5:4).

I commit to myself that I will no longer settle for crumbs of love.

I commit to myself that I will no longer believe the lie that I am an unlovable mistake.

I commit to myself that I will live in the light of the truth, which tells me I am a lovable, worthy child of God, my "Abba.".

Even if my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me in (Ps 27:10).

4:56 PM

8 Comments

(Add Comment) |

0 Kudos

April 5, 2009 - Sunday

CRUSHED IN SPIRIT
Current mood:In the Pit of Despair

During these past few weeks, I've been presented with an enormous degree of rejection. I'm feeling quite overwhelmed and despondent. I fall asleep in tears and wake up the next morning the same way. I realize there is no one on this planet who unconditionally loves me or who loves me at all, for that matter. I know the love of God and my Divine Family should be enough, but I can't help but need human love too. There have been some people who have told me that they're my friend and I can depend on them, but the reality is, everyone is busy with their own life. There is no one who considers me a priority. Everyone seems already to have people to love and care about and aren't interested in including me.

I suppose what I always wanted and needed was the kind of friend James Taylor describes... "Close your eyes and think of me, and soon I will be there to brighten up even your darkest night..." It's the sort of friend I'd be to someone.

* * *

Lord, you promise in Psalm 34 that you are close to the brokenhearted and save those who are crushed in spirit. Please Lord, lift me out of this dark pit of despair and loneliness.

12:06 PM

7 Comments

(Add Comment) |

1 Kudos