Doc was an avid rock hound who loved going out in the desert areas in eastern Southern California. Next to smoking and drinking, he enjoyed collecting unusual rocks, mineral specimens, and, when lucky, gemstones.

He and my mother had a set of tools used for splitting and shaping rocks, which they kept rolled neatly in a deerskin cloth. I inherited these tools after my mother’s death, and I shivered every time I saw them. Doc was also a shortwave radio fanatic. This was a popular hobby during the 1940s and 1950s for people who were keenly interested in news broadcasts from various locations around the world. Here Doc heard frequent UFO rumors, as the sightings and reports came so often in 1952. Doc also read science fiction magazines, which I remember seeing strewn all over the inside of his junky car. He paid no attention to the empty beer cans, candy wrappers, crunched-up cigarette packs, and dirty clothes, and there were always empty peanut butter jars in there, too, which seemed to be his mainstay.

Doc, just like Howard, was a drunk. The biggest difference was that Doc didn’t get mean-tempered when he drank. He opened his first can of beer and popped a cigarette between his lips every morning the second his feet hit the floor. In those days, if one functioned, even if minimally, nobody thought they were an alcoholic. Doc and my mother had many good times hanging around together, and for a long time he was good to us kids.

Along with his .22 rifle, Doc would take Mom and us kids out for a day of shooting. Not really a day of shooting, it consisted of driving toward the mountains, stopping at a bar for a couple of hours of drinks, then proceeding to shoot a box of shells at tin cans. Then heading home, which included a stop at another bar for several more hours of drinking. We sat around, waiting impatiently, or sometimes played shuffleboard. No one had reason to imagine the impending danger.

Picture: UFO photographs, 2004-Taipei, China

Ragdoll Redeemed: Growing up in the Shadow of Marilyn Monroe at www.Amazon.com

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As the following information relates to the title of my blog site, The Faces We Live (The PARTS of us or aspects of ourselves that often run our lives without our explicit permission) toxic parenting helps us to understand how we have become who we are today. Nevertheless, as I have stated elsewhere;

“The HOW of how we arrived at WHOM we are and WHAT we do with what we have become, is  ultimately up to us to accept, change or stop complaining about. It makes little difference whether we are burdened with conflicts, beliefs, old wounds, defenses, roles, shadow sides or counterproductive behaviors such as; care-taking, controlling, perfectionism, judging, binge-eating, alcohol abuse and just plain old idiosyncrasies. Regardless of how we arrived at these aspects of ourselves they are now solely ours to deal with one way or another.”

In 2009 New York Times published an article by Dr. Richard A. Friedman, a professor of psychiatry at Weill Cornell Medical College entitled When Parents Are Too Toxic to Tolerate. Here, in part is Dr. Friedman’s conclusion.

“Research on early attachment, both in humans and in nonhuman primates, shows that we are hard-wired for bonding — even to those who aren’t very nice to us.

We also know that although prolonged childhood trauma can be toxic to the brain, adults retain the ability later in life to rewire their brains by new experience, including therapy and psychotropic medication.

For example, prolonged stress can kill cells in the hippocampus, a brain area critical for memory. The good news is that adults are able to grow new neurons in this area in the course of normal development. Also, antidepressants encourage the development of new cells in the hippocampus.

It is no stretch, then, to say that having a toxic parent may be harmful to a child’s brain, let alone his feelings. But that damage need not be written in stone.

Of course, we cannot undo history with therapy. But we can help mend brains and minds by removing or reducing stress.

Sometimes, as drastic as it sounds, that means letting go of a toxic parent.”

If you are interested in this topic, Toxic Parents by Dr. Susan Forward is a MUST read.

A version of this article appeared in print on October 20, 2009, on page D5 of the New York edition.

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Now five, almost six years old, with long, blond, matted hair, feet without shoes, sporting tar and dirt like a widely dispersed birthmark, I recessed further into being a shy, anxious child. My anxiety was elevated by the loudness that reverberated so often within the walls of my dingy home.

Veronica and Howard’s hate-filled relationship tormented all of us for two more years. I tried to close my ears to the words that would never be uttered  in churches or in other children’s homes.

Leaving my house at sunup and returning after dark, I learned early how to take care of myself. Grandma worried about my gadabouts. She once asked me how I could tolerate the smell inside those dumpster bins. Glowing with pride, I showed her my latest find. With a shrug I said, “They’re not so bad once you get used to them, Grandma.” Compared to the fresh, close-up, in-your-face smell of the dog poop Howard smeared on me, trash bins smelled heavenly. Most of all, I wanted to avoid Howard and my mother as often as I could, especially their eyes—his foreboding, violent, or vacant, and hers angry, hate-filled, or blank. Those big old trash bins provided the perfect hiding place for a child that never felt safe.

I felt bitter hatred for Howard, but sometimes there were other feelings right alongside the bitter ones. I didn’t understand just why, but there was some kind of softness in my heart each week when he brought home the milk bottles.  It was the highest-valued commodity in our household, and was carefully rationed to each of us.

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One gloomy northern California day, after six heavenly months of peace, my foster parents packed me in their car and headed back to the house with no paint. Nothing my kind new dad or my wonderful new mom said to me could cheer me during the long drive south. Our mutual sadness enveloped the inside of the car like a black fog, becoming denser with each passing mile. Soon no one was even attempting to speak cheery, meaningless words of comfort.

As I got out of the car, I plastered my body against my foster parents’ legs as they said their goodbyes, mingling tears with snot as they dripped down the front of my pretty dress. I feared I would never see them again. I never did.

As my eyes focused on  the  old forsaken door, still lying on the ground, I thought that even new paint could not salve the ugliness that was creeping over my body.

From the day I was returned to my old family, I felt no different from the old rotten potatoes I scavenged from trash bins. My insides felt the same way the outside of the old house looked. It still had the broken door lying on the dirt in the driveway, broken beer bottles, and walls dirty with  cobwebs.  And the weeds. Everywhere, weeds. The weeds that never needed watering grew up along the neighbors’ fences, around the house and porch, and up against the withering, scraggly fruit trees along the side of the yard. Everything looked like old junk. I felt like junk. To be continued…..

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Even my sweet eight-year-old brother couldn’t talk me out of the corner where I scrunched up against the wall, hiding, my eyes tightly shut. Holding out his hand to me, Ronnie said, “Come  on, Dawnie, these are nice people and they are going to take you for a ride in their big car.”

I shook my head  from side to side, too scared to talk, and  my brother begged me, “Please Dawnie, just come say hi to them. They have a baby doll for you in the car and some candy. I saw it. Everything will be okay. Just come out, pleeeease.”

I opened my eyes and saw that my grandmother had one hand over her mouth, as if to prevent fear from tumbling out, while she clutched her rosary beads in the other. It was then that I knew something really bad was happening. Mom’s eyes darted around the room like they did just before she started yelling—another bad omen.

From my favorite hiding place beneath the corner table in the living  room, I could see this new man standing  tall  as the sky. He remained  silent, nervously twirling his hat in his hand. Suddenly, the beautifully dressed woman was hugging  my grandmother like I had watched old friends do in other families.

I could tell that my brother was about to start crying, something he rarely did. I would do anything to keep him from being sad, so I put my hand in his.

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As previously stated, I’m posting weekly excerpts from my book, Ragdoll Redeemed: Growing up in the Shadow of Marilyn Monroe, because I wanted a break from the pressure of writing a blog topic. At the same time, I’m not quite ready to completely shut down my blog site.  Given this self-imposed dilemma, I’m endeavoring to post educational information that somewhat coincides with my book excerpts.

I can totally relate to the symptoms stated in the following article on Authoritarian Parenting Style.

The “Authoritarian Parenting Style” is an extremely strict form of parenting that expects a child to adhere to rules and regulations set out by the parents with little or no input or communication from the child.

Developmental psychologist Diana Baumrind in her studies based on the dimensions of “Parental Responsiveness” and “Parental Demandingness” conclude that: The authoritarian parenting style is a harsh, rigid emotional climate that is low in parental responsiveness (the nurturing aspect of the child) and high in parental demandingness (control over the child).

~ Open communication is generally not an option in this type of parenting style.

~ Authoritarian parents feel they are the boss and their children should conform to the their demands without question.

~ The rules are expected to be adhered to with no room for negotiation. The consequence of breaking a rule is absolute punishment.

~ Yelling and Spanking of younger children is often resorted to for means of discipline and control over their behavior.

~ High standards of behavior are expected and extreme value is placed on obedience with an indisputable respect for authority.

~ Generally authoritarian parents are not very emotional or affectionate and are often critical of their children if they fail to meet their expectations.

Effects of
“The Authoritarian Parenting Style”

 Following are a few possible effects of this style of parenting

1). Children rarely learn to think on their own

2). They feel pressured to conform

3). They often become socially withdrawn

4). May be very angry, resentful and frustrated

5). Can find it hard to deal with their anger

6). May develop a tendency to act out

7). Develop a fear of failure (do to pressure)

8). Often have a low self esteem

(9). Develop a resentment of authority

The Positive Parenting Centre “Parenthood In America”

The parenting of Adolescents and Adolescence as Parents: A Developmental Contextual Perspective (1998) Richard Lerner,PhDAnita L. Brennan Professor of EducationDirector, Center for Child, Family and Community PartnershipsBoston CollegeAuthors:E. Ree NohClanice Wilson. Web Link: http://parenthood.library.wisc.edu/Lerner/Lerner.html

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Baumrind’s General Parenting Styles (Dianna Baumrind 1973)

“Wikipedia” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parenting_styles

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“The Positive Parenting Centre” Home Page..from..Article Reference Page

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HOWARD, MY ADOPTIVE father, frequently locked me in my brothers’ small bedroom with its colorful  floors. One small window became my salvation: I would imagine myself flying out of it to perch upon the fluttering leaves I could see from my assigned square on the floor. It was hard for my four-year-old arms and legs to remain still for so many hours. When he was angry, Howard would frequently grab me by one arm and yank me high up in the air. On one occasion he dislocated my arm from my shoulder before slamming me down on the orange and blue linoleum. For years I had recurring nightmares in which I was frantically running from pieces of orange and blue squares.

Teaching the skills Howard thought I should know began like this: “Now  you listen to me, young lady, you are not coming out of this room until you learn to tie those goddamn shoelaces. If I come in here and see that you have moved from that space,” (meaning one small portion of the orange and blue squares), “you will be sorry. Do you understand me?”

Sobbing, nodding my head up and down, I tried over and over to master the new task. I so wanted to tie my shoes, but couldn’t make the laces stay where I put them. I thought that if I could just be “gooder,” then I could make his “mad” go away. Even more than his mad, I wanted to stop his fearsome, coal-black eyes from glaring  at me and raising goose bumps on my arms and legs. Pictures of Frosty the Snowman can still make me shudder because his eyes are flat and without pupils, and they give the appearance of death watching through the eyes. That’s how I felt; that Howard looked through me without looking at me. It reminded me of how I felt when looking at the eyes of a dead animal, like death was watching back at me.

After a short time the bedroom door would fly open and Howard would stare at me with that look. Holding my breath, I’d try to become invisible to avoid the piercing fierceness of those eyes. I trembled as he grabbed my neck and picked me up as if I were a toothpick. No words came out of his mouth as he twisted my head one way and my body the other. As suddenly as it started, he dropped me back onto the linoleum and walked out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Like an exploding grenade, his act of violence seemed to release the pressure of the anger festering inside of him.

I soon learned that one way to endure his outbursts was to back way up inside of myself as close as I could get to my backbone. If the inside was tucked far away it didn’t hurt so much when the outside of me was being twisted around like a broken ragdoll. Going limp also made things hurt less. Every time Howard smeared dog poop in my face, I would practice making my insides really small, like a tiny little ball. Eventually, I learned to get small and limp at the same time. I even learned how to breathe without allowing my chest to move. No movement, no sound. Nothing for anyone to notice or hurt—like an animal playing possum.

I suppose poverty was the deciding factor that ultimately forced Mom to choose between sending me to a safe place and getting rid of Howard. She faced what for her must have been a hard choice, since Howard was her  income source.  She finally sent me eight hundred miles away to San Francisco to live with a childless couple she knew from New York. They had known my biological father, Roland, when he had served in the military. The memory of the day I was sent away has remained extremely vivid. Sometimes the painful feelings return as if it were yesterday. To be continued……..

Ragdoll Redeemed: Growing up in the Shadow of Marilyn Monroe at www.Amazon.com

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One day while napping I overheard  ten-year-old Ronnie speaking in soothing tones to our four-year-old brother Russell. As often happens with the oldest child, Ronnie had become responsible for protecting Russell and me from the screaming  matches. The fights between Howard and my mother were escalating in tone and regularity.

I was pretty sure the reason that I was not welcomed into any of the neighbor’s homes was because the whole neighborhood could hear the verbal battles in our house. That and the sap on my feet, the lice in my hair, and the dirt from the dumpsters. In spite of any prayers and wishes from Grandmother and me, the hollering became more and more intense.

My mother screamed, “We don’t got no food again, Howard! Why the hell don’t you apply for that job with more pay?”

“Will you shut up about that goddamn job, Veronica? I like sweeping the floors at the machine shop!” Howard  shouted. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

Mom’s voice rose in pitch. “Because we are hungry and I can’t pay the bills. Why are you so stubborn and selfish about sweeping stupid floors like some kind of backward idiot? Who the hell likes sweeping floors, anyway?” Then her voice lowered, and dripping with contempt she snapped, “What  kind of man are you, anyway?”

The vicious stab found its mark, and Howard roared, “The kind of man that married you, you bitch. Who else would accept a four-year-old boy and bastard baby girl while saving your ass from shame and starvation?”

Not understanding his words, I still cringed under the lash of his bitterness towards Ronnie and me; but he wasn’t through yet. He had more to shame my mother with. “Then there’s your mother. That god-damn leech never leaves the house and slinks around here like some kind of whipped dog. She’s nothing but a freeloader—same  as you, Veronica. I’m sick of it all, do you hear me, you stupid, useless woman?” Forgetting the  original spark that started this latest battle, my mother took up the defense of her mother.  “Why wouldn’t she hide from you, you’re nothing  but a bully. Last week you beat her up and threw her off of the front porch. The whole neighborhood seen it. I hate your guts and everyone in this house hates your guts. You’re a good-for-nothing fool. All you care about is your whiskey. If you ever put your hand on my mother or these kids again, I swear to God, I’ll kill you!”

“That bottle is the only thing that I do care about, you crazy bitch. Put down that goddamn knife before I break your arm!”

Terrified, I couldn’t sit still any longer. I came out of the bedroom, my knees so wobbly I could hardly walk, just in time to see my mother throw a knife that narrowly missed Howard’s head. I peed my pants, which disgusted them both. Howard yelled, “Oh for Christ sakes, what is wrong with this kid?”

Mother screeched at me, “Clean up that mess and get out of my sight, NOW! I don’t want to set eyes on you one more time today, do you understand me?” Ashamed, I skulked away.

Howard’s face was dark with rage; he retreated to the garage where he kept his liquor stash. Mom withdrew to the dark sanctuary of her bedroom until the next day, or maybe even the next week. I didn’t want to see her or know what she was going to do. I avoided going near her, in part because I knew how her eyes would look at me: with an ice-cold stare of hatred that shriveled my insides. To be continued……

Resources:What Are the Causes of Family Violence? | eHow.com http://www.ehow.com/list_6695957_causes-family-violence_.html#ixzz2OZzRAYet

• Children who suffer from family violence may continue the cycle. In a survey of parents by the National Longitudinal Survey of Children and Youth, parents were asked to report behavioral outcomes of children who had witnessed violence in the home. The study revealed that 28.1 percent indicated physical aggression, 19.8 percent indicated indirect aggression and 20.7 percent had committed delinquent acts against property.

Drugs and Alcohol

• Family violence is occasionally triggered by drug and/or alcohol abuse. Addicts and alcoholics often suffer from poor emotional health, leading to secondary anger and violence. A 1993 study of over 2,000 couples showed that in households where husbands were described as “often drunk”, domestic violence rates were almost 15 times higher than households where husbands were described to be “never drunk”.

www.Amazon.com

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This gypsy lifestyle of roaming the woods and the neighborhood was a daily ritual from the time I was barely four years old. From sun-up until well past dark, I was on my own in my wanderings. Sometimes I would seek shelter in the hot afternoons by sneaking into an abandoned barrack. Many had not yet been converted to homes, and it was easy to break into broken doors or holes punched in the walls by vandals. But most of my comfort came from the exhilaration I felt when supported  in the loving arms of my trees. No one, except my brother, ever questioned my whereabouts or went looking for me. Usually he didn’t come, either, because we both knew the farther I stayed away from the house with no paint, the safer I would be.

Even hunger didn’t make me feel like going home. Much safer to check out the latest contents of the dumpsters where foodstuff was abundant. Dumpster “storage” also provided the remains of broken dolls, dolls waiting for some loving hands to rescue them. I’d take them to my grandma. While sitting on her bed beneath the altar where her Jesus, Mary, and Joseph statues stood, she’d clean the dolls, mend them as best she could, and baptize them with a sprinkle of the holy water that the priest brought to bless her with every Friday when he came to the house to give her Holy Communion.

That holy water and those statues, as well as her Bible, gave continual comfort to Grandma, just as the arms of the eucalyptus trees gave continual security to me. To her, they meant God loved her. All things were bearable to my grandmother if she could  just see the eyes of Mother Mary—just like I knew that as long as there were soft curls of eucalyptus bark and sweet peas to nestle into, I’d be okay.

This willingness to believe had skipped my mother, though. She could not seem to see past all the things that had infused her life with worry and bitterness. But my grandmother had only one approach to life—to accept God’s will in all things, the result of the teaching and influence of Sister Veronica, the head nun at the orphanage where Grandma was raised from age four. I’d someday come to see this quality in her as both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness. But as a child, sharing the same bedroom with her, I found her faithful nightly prayers and scripture reading as comforting as my beloved outdoors.

GLASS HOLY WATER BOTTLE – ST. FRANCIShttp://www.ewtnreligiouscatalogue.com

Ragdoll Redeemed: Growing up in the Shadow of Marilyn Monroe at www.Amazon.com

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In posting this week’s excerpts from my book Ragdoll Redeemed: Growing up in the Shadow of Marilyn Monroe, I am reminded of the developmental challenges of children who feel safer attaching to things in nature, animals and soft toys like tattered ragdolls. I was luckier than some children in that I had the consistent connection of my beloved grandmother and the watchful eye of my older brother even though both were either too scared or too young to protect me from abuse.

In terms of, The Faces We Live, and the Internal Family System Model (both metaphors for roles or aspects of our eventual personalities) the parts of us that become hardwired into our developmental processes, it becomes apparent why I developed parts that became hyper-vigilant (manager part), dissociative (firefighter) and alcoholic (firefighter part) preferring to “hid out in the woods” for safety (exile parts).

Esteemed author and expert on attachment and intimacy, Dr. Karen Walant says, “Very early on, children are generally taught not to disclose to others when feeling “weak” or scared, “needy” or alone. Many of the emotions we felt in childhood – what people call the “negative” emotions – we were taught not to share. So, we sought comfort from blankets, pacifiers, and teddy bears, and we learned not to seek comfort from our mothers, our fathers, our family. As we got too old for blankets and teddy bears, we turned instead to other comforts – food, alcohol, money, etc. As adults, we struggle with holding our emotions within because we fear that by sharing our inner souls with others, we will – as in childhood – be discounted, dismissed, or denied.” Dr. Karen Walant

Creating the Capacity for Attachment: Treating Addictions and the Alienated Self

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