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I took my old lady out for a drive today ♥️

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An article that I feel that is worth reading. It’s time the JW’s were shown for who they truly are.

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Hospice

Hospice.

That is a loaded word, isn’t it? Hospice is the word I dreaded, all through my Mom’s illness. Hospice is the word I dread for my father someday. Hospice is the word that I have dreaded for my grandmother.

In my previous post “Castles and Oatmeal”, I wrote about my grandmother, and her magical farmhouse. I wrote about her fall, hip replacement, and MRSA infection. Nearly three months have passed since then, and my wonderful Grammie is still with us. 

Grammie has been moved to another small house she owns in Presque Isle, ME. This house is within the town limits, and allows for nurses and emergency services to be more readily available. It is the tiny house she raised three of her children in, as a single mother. It is the tiny house my father grew up in. It is the tiny house my Grammie will most likely die in. 

On Saturday I called my father to wish my grandmother a happy birthday. Instead we spoke about her grave condition, and my father uttered that dreaded word. Hospice.

“Hospice will be started next week”, he said.

Hospice.

I spoke to my siblings right after my phone call with Dad, and my sister Ruth and I have decided to make the drive up to see her one last time. Unfortunately this trip also means we may be unable to attend her funeral, should the worst happen sooner, rather than later. We both agree it is more important to be there for her in life, than wait and go up in death. I, myself, would rather have my last memories be of my grandmother alive in a sick bed, than lying in a box.

I hope my father understands.

Dad says he understands that we may not be able to be there for her funeral. But will he? Will he need us then? Will we be unable to be there? Still so many unanswered questions. Why does money, or lack thereof, have to govern every inch of our lives???

My younger kids are excited to see their grandfather. I have five kids, though I haven't written about them yet. I will. Today is not the day. Today is about making plans, and falling apart, and trying to be enough, when I am so broken.

Hospice is such a loaded word.

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There’s this church...

I haven’t written much lately. I’m sorry for that. I’ve been very depressed about things that I will tell you about in time. For now, let’s continue where I left off.

There’s this church not far away from where I grew up. There was a time that my Dad didn’t live with us, and he lived in a second floor apartment across from the church. I would sit in the window, in his weird roommate’s LaZboy chair, and stare at this church. I wondered what it was like inside. I was taught priests were evil, and churches were beautiful to trick people into going inside. Could that be true? Because I really wanted to go inside. To this day, I drive by occasionally and I feel this longing to go inside. What would I find there?

When I was five years old, my father beat the hell out of my mother. I remember she was wearing an orange top, the sleeves were ripped to shreds, and there were bruises up and down her arms. I was wearing a white summer jumpsuit, with pink trim and little pink flowers and bare feet. My older brother Michael was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt which was also ripped, with white socks that were flopping at hjis toes, and he had a hand print on his neck. He was carrying my baby brother Nathan, who was wearing only a diaper. Together we fled the house, to escape my father but to also find my sister Jennifer who was out delivering newspapers. She was wearing jeans and white sneakers, and was riding a bright blue bicycle. For the rest of my life I will see the expression on her face when we found her.

I think about that day a lot. I have so many confused emotions about it. I remember not recognizing what was happening, and running to my room to hide. I remember my mother at the bottom of the stairs, screaming my name, and Michael standing on the front porch holdng Nathan. I didn’t cry. I don’t remember crying at all. This was my Dad, who I loved and idolized.

I never knew what the fight was about, or why he hit her, but it never happened again. Not ever. And as far as I can remember, it hadn’t happened before that either. So why then? Why that way? I don’t know. I’ll never know. I don’t think I could bring myself to ask him.

I remember the police coming to our house, when we went back to get our things. I was only;y able to take a backpack’s worth of toys with me. I chose the Barbie doll set I had received a few days before at my first dance recital. I remember my Dad standing on the sidewalk with a police officer, and the house a mess. 

Jennifer was sent to stay with my Aunt and Uncle, with the dogs. I believe Michael stayed with our sister Janine, who had moved out of the house by then. My mother, Nathan, and I stayed at a battered women’s shelter for a time, but I don’t know for how long. I remember the house was yellow, and there were so many women there. One very young girl was there with her newborn son, and I remember being so happy to be allowed to hold him. I also remember the women getting together to help make meals, and to build a large wooden play structure in the backyard. There was a boy who lived next door that was my age, and I remember walking with him to the store and getting penny candy. His name was Darren, and I will never forget him. He was my first boy crush.

Once my Dad moved out into his apartment across from the church, we were all able to go back home. I remember sleeping in my own bed again for the first time, and being so confused as to how quiet the house was. That was the first, of many times, that I was forced to accept a “new normal”. A life without my Dad being around, visitation, and child support.

Every weekend was the same. Saturday morning, Dad would pick us up for the weekend. We’d have our bags packed and ready. He would take us to McDonald’s for Happy Meals, then to Toys R Us for a new toy of our choosing. We’d then go to a nearby park with several huge playgrounds and a duck pond, or back to his apartment if the weather was bad. On Sundays he would take us to the reservoir to fish or go on a nature walk, or he’d take us ice skating or sledding in the winter. On school vacations we would go camping, and my Mom would come too. In late summer we would make the long drive to my Grandparent’s potato farm to spend a week running wild, and picking up potatoes behind my Grandfather’s tractor, and my Mom would come along then also. This routine went on for several years, and it was the happiest my childhood ever was. We spent less and less time at the Kingdom Hall, less time knocking on doors. Less time being beaten for small transgressions against God, like eating a cookie that said Happy Birthday on it, or asking for a magic wand at the toy store. Less time in forced prayer, begging God for forgiveness. It was the only truly happy time I can remember.

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How my day is going

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I’d like to share this link with you. It is the story off horrific abuse, inflicted by a Jehovah’s Witness. Over the course of 20 years, and obvious severe abuse, only ONE person reported this woman to police. Just further proof of the horrific abuse that is covered up every single day, within the walls of the JW organization

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AHHH!! My DNA came in. This is so exciting!!!!

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Introduction To The Cult pt 2

I signed my twin boys up for baseball last week. Something I never would have been able to do if I had stayed in that cult. You see, competitive sports are not allowed, not even Little League. It’s seen as taking away from God’s work. Watching sports on TV is also considered “conduct unbecoming a Jehovah’s Witness”, and therefore something you can be disfellowshipped (shunned; kicked out)  for.

I was thinking about making a list of things that are not allowed, and it's a long list. I won’t bore you with the full catalog, but I will offer a few of the sins which are considered offences worthy of “disfellowshipping” or shunning.

In no particular order:

 1.Holidays and Celebrations: No birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Flag Day, Valentines Day, Halloween, Memorial Day, etc, etc, etc. The only acceptable celebrations are baby showers, weddings, wedding anniversaries, and The Memorial. The Memorial is the only holiday the JW’s observe, and it is held around passover time. It is the “memorial” of Jesus’s last supper.

2.Competitive sports: Which also includes dance classes, gymnastics, spelling bees, etc. Really anything more competitive than Chutes and Ladders.

3. Gambling: Which includes slot machines, scratch tickets, the belief in “luck” and anything to do with encouraging your own good fortune.

4. Divination: So this one sounds like a no-brainer, but it goes as far as banning the use of a Farmer’s Almanac to help plant crops on time, alternative/natural/herbal medicine, or believing a deceased loved one is watching over you.

5. Smoking, drug and alcohol use: again, a no-brainer, but it includes using cannabis as a medical alternative, prescription narcotics as pain relief, antidepressants, antipsychotics, etc.

6. Homosexuality: This one is rough because it acknowledges that some humans have what the JWs consider “unnatural sexual urges” but that true christians should pray so that they “do not act upon them”

7. Sex: Specifically pre-marital sex and any “unnatural” sex between husband and wife. So if you’re into anything other than vanilla, you’re out. This also includes pornography, nudity outside the bedroom, and even possessing a naughty picture of your own spouse.

8. Any use of blood: Tricky, tricky stuff here. It SEEMS like an obvious rule, until you understand this also includes eating hot dogs, or any other food that may contain blood, such as luncheon meats and blood sausages. This rule also includes refusing blood transfusions, even in the face of death.

9. Not blindly believing what is being taught by the Jehovah’s Witness organization. This also includes reading any literature that speaks against the Jehovah’s Witnesses, searching Jehovah’s Witnesses on the internet (except for their own site JW.org)

10. Speaking to, or having dealings with any friend or family member that has been disfellowshipped by the congregation. This includes parents, children (even minors), grandparents, and spouses.

Notice anything strange about that list?? No? Look again? Notice anything...missing?

Here’s a list of acts that will NOT get you disfellowshipped unless you CONFESS or unless TWO PEOPLE PHYSICALLY SAW YOU DO IT:

1. Murder

2. Rape

3. Child molestation

4. Burglary

There’s still a few things missing. Have you noticed? Here are a few things that you can confess to and the Elders will shrug their shoulders and tell you that a man (NOT A WOMAN) is the head of the household and is therefore free to run HIS household however he sees fit.

1. Spousal abuse: this includes physical, verbal, mental, emotional, medical, financial, sexual, etc

2. Child abuse: this includes physical, verbal, mental, emotional, medical, financial, etc

Notice I did not put “sexaul” under the child abuse bullet. This would fall under the CONFESS or TWO WITNESS rule. So if you did it, and nobody saw you do it, and you deny it, then the Elders “leave it in God’s hands” and walk away. Yes. You read that right.

I know. I feel sick too.

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I added some stickers to my laptop. Having trouble finding the words lately. Hoping tomorrow will bring better results. 🙏🏼

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I would also prefer the alligator 🐊

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Hide With Me

It's hard for me to think of you

even though I know you're gone.

Sometimes I wonder where you are

and if it seems to you as long.

The stories that they told us

are for children to believe.

Fairy tales made to mold our minds

so we wouldn't know enough to grieve.

You were hurting for so long

and no one thought enough to care.

Why couldn't you have found a way to stay.

You couldn't know that I'd be there.

I can't recall your face anymore

though your laughter echoes through my mind.

I can remember the way you smelled,

like old spice and vintage wine.

There's a secret place that's never shown.

A tiny world I call my own.

A place where I can let go all the pain

that's been building up inside my brain.

A garden where my roses grow

and a where I can be alone.

A place where death can never touch,

where I know you'll be coming home.

Come and hide with me inside my world.

Find shelter from all the rain.

I know how dark and cold you feel out there.

Come and feel the sun again.

Tell me your deepest secrets

and I'll reveal to you my own.

Let me see the other side of you.

The dark side that's never shown.

You cried so many nights alone

and no one bothered to wonder why.

I was too young to understand

why you never said goodbye.

But so many years have passed

since that day you never came back home

and now I understand you were seeking peace

and a place to call your own.

Will I forever see you standing there

in my doorway like you did.

You said that you were going to work.

I was just a little kid.

And will I always remember

how you looked the day you died.

The day when my whole world crumbled

and I knew that you had lied.

There's a secret place that's never shown.

A tiny world I call my own.

A place where I can let go all the pain

that's been building up inside my brain.

A garden where my roses grow

and a where I can be alone.

A place where death can never touch,

where I know you'll be coming home.

Come and hide with me inside my world.

ind shelter from all the rain.

I know how dark and cold you feel out there.

Come and feel the sun again.

Tell me your deepest secrets

and I'll reveal to you my own.

Let me see the other side of you.

The dark side that's never shown.

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I found an old Polaroid of the farmhouse, with the station wagon out front. And also a picture of my parents on the porch, either right before or right after they were married.

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Michael’s Suicide

The April 2014 edition of Awake!, a magazine published by the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, says that suicidal people should “Go on living, because things may change”. Not once does the article suggest a chemical imbalance, brain malfunction or defect, or seeking the advice of a mental health professional.

The August 8, 1981 Awake! Counsels those contemplating suicide to “try to think positively” and to use the “lifeline of prayer” because God will give you “strength beyond what is normal”. Never once does it mention seeing a health professional.  

The September 8, 1990 Awake!, which incidentally was available to all members of Jehovah’s Witnesses approximately August 1, 1990 (Michael died August 28, 1990), offers the surviving loved ones of suicide victims the hope that their loved one will be resurrected, even though their “self-inflicted death is never justified, never righteous”. Using that logic, one would assume ANYONE has the chance of resurrection, and therefore even more people will tirelessly follow the bizarre teachings of The Jehovah’s Witnesses, in hope they will see their loved ones again. A carrot, endlessly dangled before the face of someone grieving.

In my bedroom upstairs, there is a cabinet, and in that cabinet, there is an old young adult novel that I will never finish. It is the book that Michael was reading to me when he committed suicide. I was 11 years old, he was 23. He used to read to me every night, and I loved it. It's been 28 years since his passing, and to this day I can’t go to sleep without the tv on or an audiobook playing.

Poor mental health is the biggest, and worst kept secret in my entire family. The proverbial elephant in the room, that everyone tries to pretend isn't there. But even invisible elephants find a way to make their presence known.

After talking with several of my siblings, and others who were around at the time, I discovered that my brother Michael had attempted suicide multiple times before he was successful. I do not know all the methods he tried, but it seemed to me that he was trying to make it look like an accident at first. I know for a fact that he tried to drown himself in the Connecticut River a few months before he died. I remember him wet and crying in a chair, in a room off the living room, and my mother closing the door when I tried to look in. His final, successful method, was by hanging. He chose a densely wooded park, not far from our home. A jogger found him, approximately a week after he had passed. My uncle, a police officer, was called down to identify his body to spare my mother the trauma.

Imagine if you will, being 11 years old, and helping your mother hand out missing person flyers with your brother’s picture on them. Imagine knowing exactly what the city morgue looks like on the inside. Have you ever stood in an apartment building hallway, while a man breaks a door down, to see if your brother is dead inside? These are memories that will never leave me. Those memories where I know exactly what I was wearing, exactly the way the air smelled, exactly the way the ground felt under my feet.

I was the last family member to see him alive. He had moved back home, and out of his apartment, a few weeks before. I remember laying in my bed, and looking out my open doorway. He was standing at the linen closet in the hallway, in brown pants and a green t-shirt. He said goodbye to me. I thought he was going to work. He left our house, walked roughly 30 minutes to the park, and ended his life. An Elder of our congregation saw him walking at some point, but didn’t think much of it. Michael walked everywhere, because he was worried about the effect of gas emissions on the environment.  

I’ll forever remember Michael and I making pancakes together, and helping me with school projects.

Michael didn’t leave a note, that I know of. I’ve often speculated about what his reasons might have been, but I have no way of knowing what they actually were. I have my theories. I believe it was the guilt that had been piled on him by the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

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Katie wearing a dress Mom made for Jennifer when she was little

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Introduction To The Cult

Good morning, dear reader. What shall we talk about today?

When last we met, I was babbling on about my immediate family dynamics, and I ended my post with the birth of myself and my little brother. I suppose that’s as good a place to start as any.

Like I said before, I was born on Friday, July 20, 1979. My mother told me that my original due date was at the end of August, but that I was born several weeks early. My mother hemorrhaged while giving birth to me, and needed an emergency c-section. I am told that I cried incessantly because I was too thin and could not hold my own body heat, so Mom put a hot water bottle in my bassinet with me to keep me warm.

My bassinet was large and black, and converted into a victorian style pram, with chrome decorative mounts on the sides and hood. Mom made both yellow and green skirts for it, with satin ribbons and matching sheets. She loved to sew when I was little. She made our clothes, dolls, doll clothes, pillows, and curtains. I still have one of the dresses Mom made, and my daughter Katie wore it when she was around 9 or 10. I cry every time I see the picture of her wearing it.

I don’t remember much of my early years. My very first memory is sitting on the living room floor, watching my Dad read the newspaper, and trying to get his attention. I must have been around four years old. I remember my Mom being pregnant and losing the baby. She named the baby Robin, because she didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl, and she spoke of them once in a while when she was especially sad. And then when she became pregnant again, I remember how scared she was of the baby making it. But he did make it.

Nathan was born April 19, 1984, and I remember spending several days at Baka*’s house while my Mom was in the hospital. I liked being with Baka, except for her religious fanaticism. She was old world Polish, and she cooked homemade perogi and borscht, which the smell of makes me sick, even to this day. And seaweed. Always this woman with the boiled seaweed. She swore it made her strong. She was strong. There’s a story of Baka buying herself a kitchen table set from a yard sale, and carrying it home piece by piece. She hurt her knee once when walking home from the grocery store, when she tripped over railroad tracks, and she limped all the way home. Groceries and all.

After Nathan came home from the hospital, life got interesting. Mom had had another c-section, because in those days once you’d had a c-section, that is the only way they’d let you deliver from then on. She’d hemorrhaged again, and I remember the blood issue coming up for the first time. Whispers in the hallway and at our worship meetings about whether or not my mother had received a blood transfusion, were hushed whenever I got close enough to hear. I don’t know if she did or not.

Why is this a big deal? Because, dear reader, now comes the first “unbelievable” part of my story. You see religious fanaticism was not just a flaw of my grandmother, it was a flaw of the entire community of people I was raised with. It is an affliction that three of my aunts and two of my uncles suffer from to this day. It is the affliction of two of my children’s paternal grandparents, and the affliction of multiple family members of dear friends, who have since escaped the horror we grew up in.

When I say the word “cult” people instantly think of scenarios like “Heaven's Gate” or “The Manson Family”. Compounds with barracks, polygamy, hundreds of children fathered by a handful of men, and escapes delicately orchestrated by social workers and the FBI.

Sorry to disappoint.

My life inside the cult was not nearly so dramatic, nor was my leaving. No news cameras, no guns, no blood, no poisoned kool-aid. Nothing but the pounding of my own heart as my two little girls clung to me. No husband, no job, no home, no family, no money, no electricity, no heat, no phone, and a car I had no way to pay for. Leaving was silent. And the silence was more terrifying than gunshots.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The cult my family belonged to was an extension of the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society. The Jehovah’s Witnesses. This religious organization estimates some 8.5 million members, although Wolfram Alpha estimates that number is closer to 16.6 million people who identify themselves as Jehovah’s Witnesses worldwide. They have 119,954 congregations in 240 countries.

“But that’s not a cult!”, you say.

I can hear you, dear reader. Rolling your eyes? Let me guess. You have a mother, brother, best-friend’s cousin who is a “Jehovah”, as so many people refer to them?

“They’re the nicest people I’ve ever met!”, you say. “I work with a guy who’s a ‘Jehovah”. He’s such a hard worker! Always on time, never swears, never a bad word from him about anyone!”

Yes. I’m sure all of that is true.

“But I’ve been to a few of their meetings! They’re so nice and welcoming! They’ve even been to my house and prayed with me. They study with my daughter and she loves it!”

Yes, yes I’m sure that has been your experience. There is a reason that has been your experience. And over the course of this narrative, I will show you what that reason is.

The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines religion as “a personal set or institutionalized system of religious attitudes, beliefs, and practices” and also as “scrupulous conformity”. I find both those definitions fascinating. I wonder what religion means to you personally, reader?

When I was born, I was born into a strange world. There were five religious meetings a week, split into three sessions, held on three separate days. Monday was our “Book Study” meeting. A bible based publication produced by the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, was studied in sections, once a week at the home of an approved congregational member in good standing. It was conducted by a male Elder, who was assisted by another male who read aloud from the selected publication. This reader usually held the title of “Ministerial Servant” or “Baptized Publisher”.

Wednesday was the night of the “Ministry School” and “Local Needs” meetings, held back to back, generally beginning at 7pm and ending between 9 and 9:30pm. This was the meeting that tested the backsides and skull resilience of every infant, child, and teen in the seats. Children were expected to be quiet and well behaved. Even infants were subject to physical discipline if they misbehaved. Children over the age of four were expected to sit up straight and pay attention to the speaker, regardless of the subject. My friend John’s father used to flick the back of his children’s heads so hard it could be heard several rows back. Every child within earshot would sit up straighter so the same wouldn’t befall them from their own parents or other congregation members within flicking range.

I remember very young children with pajamas on under their suits and dresses. Females were not permitted to wear pants during ANY religious event, regardless of weather, health, etc. Sleepy children with sore backsides, desperately trying to stay awake through the incessant droning of the speaker to avoid another lashing with the ruler or wooden spoon that stood straight up out of  their parent’s book bag or briefcase pocket. A proud symbol to the congregational Elders, and anyone else, that discipline was swift and merciless in their household.

These wednesday meetings were where constituents learned how to talk to “wordly” people, to “share the good news of God’s kingdom”. Basically it was recruitment training. Congregation members were warned to appear “blameless in all things” as “not to bring reproach on God’s name”. To be “no part of the world as Jesus was no part of the world.” Here male adults and boys as young as eight were called upon to give “Talks” or sermons that they had wrote themselves, and then publicly critiqued by an Elder. Role play for female adults down to very young girls about how to use charm, modesty, and bible knowledge to gain entry to people’s homes and start bible studies with the families they met in their door to door “teaching” work. These role play sessions were also critiqued publicly. Disabled and elderly congregation members were encouraged to write letters or make phone calls to families who had recently lost someone, and “teach” them about how they could see their loved ones resurrected. These families were found through obituary listings and newspaper articles, and by picking names out of the phone book.

Nothing like preying on bereaved families at their most vulnerable. The thought of it now makes me sick to my stomach.

Sunday held the “Sunday Talk” and “Watchtower Study” meetings. The sunday talk would consist of an Elder from another local congregation giving an hour long sermon, the subject of which was selected from a list of approved outlines, and then approved by the congregation “Talk Coordinator”. After the “Talk”, the congregation studied a preselected article in the “Watchtower” publication, which was a thin magazine, written and produced by the Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, that was also used in their door to door preaching. This meeting was conducted much like the Wednesday night Book Study meeting, with an Elder presiding, and a Ministerial Servant reading. Pre-written questions were asked by the presiding elder, and microphones were passed to constituents who wished to answer those questions, often by reading the answer verbatim from the article.

After the Sunday meeting, congregational members were encouraged to participate in the door to door preaching work. There was also preaching work on Saturday morning, usually beginning around 9am.  This “work” was to the dread and embarrassment of every school age member in attendance. We lived in fear of knocking on a door and finding a classmate, or worse a bully, on the other side. Congregation members who did not participate in going door to door regularly would be chastised by Elders, shamed by their peers, and ostracized by the congregation as a whole.

My entire family lived with the label of “Bad Association” due to my father no longer attending meetings beginning in 1984, and my mother’s severe and obvious mental health issues. My mother suffered from Agoraphobia, Social Phobia, Claustrophobia, Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and may have also been schizophrenic. All of which were exacerbated by my brother Michael’s suicide in 1990.

Mental health issues were not adequate to excuse you from your duty to preach door to door, participate at meetings, or to appear “blameless in all things”. Sufferers of mental health disorders (including Homosexuality, and Gender Dysphoria) were counseled to pray. If prayer didn’t work, they were shamed by the Elders and other congregation members for not praying hard enough, because Jehovah their God would save them from their suffering, if they only had faith. Mental health sufferers were forbidden to seek outside counseling, use psychiatric prescriptions, or speak of their struggles as not to “stumble other members of the congregation”.

My brother died, because of this heartless policy.

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Can’t wait to get the results from this baby!! 😱🧬🔬

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A few pictures from the farmhouse