Dear Jason

When we understand that each day isn't one more day, but one day less, we'll start giving more value to the things that truly matter.

Dear Jason,

I'm not quite sure where this writing will take me as I follow my heart to an unknown destination.  Writing here is my only possible way to communicate with you, so I'm hoping that by some miracle you find my words. The last time I received any communication from you, it was regarding my old blog, the original "Until You Say Uncle," when you emailed me that you didn't care if I wrote because in your words, "no one read it anyway."  I still have that old email from years ago.  So long ago.

I do my best to try not to remember you as the raging 17-year-old at the Westchester County courthouse when I was there to obtain an order of protection against your abusive father, and you were literally screaming at me that you were going to kill me if your father went to jail for domestic violence.  The guards had to escort you away.  The domestic violence shelter counselor who accompanied me was appalled by your behavior and left my side only to leave the waiting area (which remained guarded) to speak directly with Judge Braslow regarding your threat.  Your face scrunched, frowning and mouth foaming as you yelled at me - an image I fight every day of my life for over 20 years.  And when Judge Braslow entered a restraining order against you to protect me from your threats, it only fueled your anger.  

Even when I tried to rescind the order of protection against you, my son, you were still hostile toward me.  And it never ended.  I filed for divorce from your abusive father and you sent me a letter telling me how much you hated me and did not regard me as your mother anymore.  Instead, you referred to the woman your father cheated with as your "new mother" saying you liked "your new mother better."

Well, there's this concept.  When you squeeze out a tube of toothpaste, you can't put the toothpaste back in the tube.  Same with words.  They have lived in the darkest corner of my heart for two decades.

As you probably already know, I have cancer.  I have a feeling that you celebrated when you found out about that.  Sad.  But you were not always so cruel and mean.  I saw how you changed at only 16 years of age, when I had to pick you up from the Pleasantville police station.  You had stolen my car from me when I was sleeping and met up with other Byram Hills High School students.  I was told you exhibited extreme road rage and threatened to "kill" one of your fellow students.  The phone call from the police station was terrifying as I did not understand it immediately.  I thought you were home, upstairs in your room.  I didn't even know my car was missing. 

Rather than have you address the consequences of your actions, your father used his connections to have the incident record expunged.  And what did that teach you?

When I picked you up from the police station, I was speechless.  And to be honest with you, scared of you.  You were showing signs of such anger that I knew you were your father's son.  You had even beat up your brother and threatened to kill him, too, at one time.

During my divorce from your abusive father (can't say father easily without adding the abusive part, as it is and was a part of his identity), you were interviewed by 3 forensic psychologists.  They all told me I had reason to fear you.  They all diagnosed your father as a sociopath and said they saw similar signs in you - they said you needed help, but you refused to go to therapy.

I think one of the worse things in the world is when a mother has to fear her own child.

And here I am, writing to you.  When you have nothing left to lose, some types of fear diminish.  I treasure my days on earth.  but a funny twist is that you are still in so many of my thoughts and memories.

The past can't change, but memories can through brainwashing.  And like it or not, your memories were altered by your abusive father.  As he involved you in every aspect of the legal proceedings in divorce, he told you lies after lies after lies.  And you ate them up.  It was easier to hate me than lose me.  I never wanted to leave you.  I just didn't want all that violence and abuse in my life anymore.  Your father was going to kill me - yes, he said those words way before you did.

You were once such a sweet, caring and sensitive child.  Even more so than your brother.  I remember when I had a miscarriage and you were 7 years old, your brother was 4, that you were the one crying for me when I was in the hospital overnight.  Not your brother.

I miss the you before you changed.  Before you were gradually taught to hate me.  Remember when you were asked in court (because your father listed you as a witness) if your mother ever abused you?  Do you remember what you said? It's actually documented in court transcripts until the end of time....You said, yes.  You told the judge I abused you!  When asked how...your reply was priceless.  With a straight face, you told the judge that I went out one night at dinner time and when you were 16 years of age, I left you dinner with instructions to reheat the lasagna I had made; for you to use the microwave by yourself.  I remember I heard laughing in the courtroom, but I thought it was a pathetic reach for even your father to imply such a thing as that being an example of abuse.  I did nothing but love you. 

Do you remember how I fought for you to go to college after your high school graduation (the graduation where your father said you did not want me, and threatened to have me arrested if I showed up)?  I met with your guidance counselor; I spoke to judges....and your father insisted that you were not going to get a college education because he didn't want you getting smarter than him.  Your father is not a "smart" man - he is a bully who destroys people, families and businesses to make his millions.  Foodirect was built on taking advantage of others and many many lies.  Your father got his stake in it after he had drugs planted in his cousin's husband's car (they were going through a custody battle).  His Uncle Paul, the original founder of Foodirect/ P & L Provisions, was so impressed by how your crooked father orchestrated Steve Sussman's demise, that your father earned his brownie points.

Hurting innocent people does not make you smart.  It does not mean you are a good businessman.  It just means you are cruel and a bully.

My point is, you could have been anything. You still can be.  Don't stay stuck in a job you hate.  

When your brother married Kerri Berson, of Millburn, Jared's father-in-law told me so much about you when he was still alive.  I learned much about you up until 3 years ago.  Marc Berson would always give me an earful, but I don't know what was true or not.  I know his own agenda was to hurt me anyway possible, as he aligned with your abusive father in the post separation abuse, and he succeeded in the result of emotional damage.  Marc E. Berson told me he was helping to make sure I could never meet my grandchildren.  He told me things and sometimes showed me photos that left me hurting and in such pain.  Berson told me you were miserable.  That you were very unhappy in life.  Marc said you hated working at Foodirect for your father and Jared.  Marc told me you kept buying things to make you happy but nothing you purchased ever could erase the anger you expressed to the world.  

Things Berson told me hurt me in ways I cannot describe.  One of the worst, aside from your unhappiness, is that your son…my grandson, has a learning disability for which you are not getting him the proper care.  Should Logan need any sort of extra help or care, he should be a priority. Always.  I wish there were something I could do to see his education is all that he needs it to be.

You may not understand this, and then again - maybe you will.  No matter what has transpired, I want you to be happy.  Somehow.  You have 2 sons of your own now, Lucas and Logan who are not allowed to know I exist.  I hope you are better at being a father than the example you had/have.  I always told you and Jared, "Don't be like your father."

Unfortunately, neither of you listened to me toward the end.

You are 44 years old now.  I hope you hear some of what I am relaying.

For two decades I have lived with the fear that if your father didn't kill me, you would.  Cancer changes perspectives in many ways.  Realistic or not, whenever I hear about a son killing a mother - I think of you.  And I pray you have found a way to settle down.  I also pray you don't harm your wife, Crystal.  Marc told me that she "wears the pants in that marriage."  So I hope she is a strong enough woman to see through her father in law's demeanor and agenda in life - your father brags to people that you and your brother work your "asses off" so you can send him checks in the mail....not sure what that all meant, but it sure didn't sound good.

I hope you want what is best for your own sons.  That is all I ever wanted for you and your brother.  I wish I had a family to lean on all those years ago, I wish I had some financial independence all those years ago, I wish I had somewhere to put a roof over your head and food on the table all those years ago....without your abusive father.  I would have left sooner.  I would have gotten us all out.

When we lived under the same roof, for 17 of your years, I made a huge mistake - I covered up for your father.  I made excuses for him all the time.  Especially to you and your brother.  I tried not to show my pain.  And where people say don't bad mouth the other parent in a divorce, let me tell you - I should have called your father out on his abuse long before I did.  I should have let you know all I lived through so you could have a father and a lifestyle you were accustomed to.  I truly suffered.  You are old enough to know the reality.  Perhaps, not strong enough to face it.

Here I sit, tears in my eyes as I remember the curly haired little boy who wanted to marry me, his Mom, and live with me forever.  I knew you had to grow up some day.  I just never knew you would grow to be so cruel.

Maybe you are getting help for your temper.  Maybe you have pursued other job opportunities by now.  Maybe you remember some good memories about your mother.  Me.  The original one.  I hope so.

And maybe you will one day have an Ahah moment.  The kind where you wake up, face reality, and reform.  I'll be waiting for you.

Love,

Mom

ps. If you can't remember the good stuff, I'd be happy to fill you in.

Cancer is a Whole Other Lesson

I recently came across a quote on someone's words of wisdom Instagram page. It read,

“Be the person you needed when you were younger."  

And it made me laugh.  

Because I was the person I needed when I was younger - for so very many years. But what about the person you need now? When you are older and life is turned upside down?

Up until the COVID pandemic and my cancer diagnosis (I was informed I had cancer via a phonecall a year into the COVID isolation), I had attended Shabbat services. In my Jewish faith, every Shabbat a list of people's names would be read as we prayed for healing. The special prayer, Misheberach, hopefully brought peace to many in various ways. For me, it was also a way of learning who in my community might need some extra support or comfort.

I did not need a "caring committee", nor any form of organization. What I did, I did on my own, believing it was my obligation to help others. I would remember some of the names recited in temple for this special prayer and reach out to them. Knowing how important one's privacy and boundaries are, initially I would only send them a card and a note introducing myself. I did the very same in my local secular community. If I heard someone was ill or struggling with life difficulties, I reached out. Being financially challenged, it was not about money. I wish I could have done so much more in that sense for others, but what I was willing to give was my caring, attention and good will. So many times, I ended up giving my heart, too.  

These individuals I would reach out to...I have lost so many of them. Many of them had partners, family members, spouses that are still with us on earth. But those individuals I wrote to, and many befriended - unfortunately most are gone.

I would also send care packages when I could. A Superman t shirt to someone fighting cancer, Superman socks for them to wear through chemo treatment, a blanket with positive affirmations on it, ginger candy for their nausea, and sometimes even a handpainted denim jacket with words of strength and bravery painted on it. I even made someone a gallon of matzoh ball soup when that was all they could digest due to their colon cancer. In other words, I did what I could.

And the cards....oh, I must have been sending out three a week to various people - for years. Decades. Just saying that someone was thinking of them. And I was. Sometimes I would hear back, sometimes I wouldn't. And most often, I made new friends. Losing them was the hardest.

I'm not saying this to announce my own praises. I'm saying it because never in a million years did I think I would be the one on that Misheberach list in temple. Never in a million years would I have predicted I would have cancer. I ate right, exercised, was never overweight. But I guess all the stress of being a domestic violence victim, then survivor, took its toll. 

I was the person I need now.

Life is so unpredictable and precious. I am beyond grateful to have my own angels. Since my diagnosis, I think I take notice of things more. I also take things more seriously than I did in the past. There are people that I would literally do anything for because in the last three years, I have seen them show up for me in ways I would have never imagined. How lucky am I? They have literally carried me through this horrible journey, navigating a disease with oncologists and a superb medical team. Unfortunately there is no cure for my blood cancer and the chemotherapy treatment is perpetual in order to keep me alive. But I can do it because people, who are angels, give me strength each and every day. I believe I would be dead without them. Unfortunately, I do not have the support of a single family member - cancer ghosting. I'll tell you more about that. Cancer is the hardest thing I have ever done. And let me tell you, I've done alot of hard stuff!

I have learned many cancer lessons. What an eye opener it has been. The world will not treat you better just because you are a good person. It is said that a fake friend can do more damage than five enemies. There were people in my life who were like shadows. They were there in the sun, but left me in the dark.

When something is stirring within me, it festers when I don't let it out. And if you have ever been through any type of psyche therapy, journaling is the first thing you do to heal. I'm writing my disappointment out.

Let me begin by saying losing fake friends is a win.

I was friendly with a group of women for 10 years. I met them through my Torah classes at two different temples. I loved Jewish studies and always participated prior to COVID and cancer diagnosis. Having moved to NJ from NY and CT, these women were my social circle. And I held them very dear to my heart. We saw each other various times during each week. Torah study on Saturday mornings, breakfast at Eppes Essin every Saturday morning, Jewish study in one night a week at someone's home, and eventually Mah Jong every Tuesday. 

We played Mah Jong outside during COVID and several times met for outdoor dinners. These people were my world. One woman's husband was dying from cancer and we made sure to be extra careful regarding germs, etc.  

Then came my cancer diagnosis. Once diagnosed, I told them that I would be starting chemotherapy and my immune system would be tremendously compromised. I cordially requested that they let me know in advance if they ever felt ill or like they were coming down with something - so I would stay away and excuse myself. I did not know how difficult this was to adhere to for some of these women. I was rudely snapped at by one women telling me that colds weren't contagious after the second day, like she was a medical professional. But the worst was when the woman whose husband had recently died from cancer, acted out. She had just had COVID, tested negative for one day and wanted to sit next to me at a class!

Back then, there was COVID protocol. And for me that protocol was taken to a high level, oncologists' orders. I was seated at a table with friends when someone said they were saving this woman who just had COVID a seat at my table. I spoke up. After all the years I had swallowing my silence, when it comes to my health now - I stand up for myself. I kindly asked if a seat could be saved for this woman at another table because she just had COVID and I had to keep my distance for another week.

Knowing I had cancer, the woman moved to another table...saving "post COVID" woman a seat with her.

I knew about her health status because she was in my Mah Jong group. Otherwise, she didn't tell anyone else at this lecture that she had just tested negative after being sick for a week.

Long story short, I returned home to a text on my phone saying that I was no longer welcome to play Mah Jong with this group of women. I had respectfully set up my own health boundaries and they did not like it. I was not worth it to them to keep a safe distance when they were sick or recently recovering.

I'm sorry to be rambling but it feels good to get this off my chest. I thought these women, and their spouses/partners, were my friends but they abandoned me at the worst of times. I was then cancer ghosted. Never to hear from any of them again. (And these are the women who study Torah related subjects?)

I had to set health boundaries not to upset them, but to protect myself.

Fake people.  

The best way to move on from fake friends is to focus on the real ones. And let me tell you....if you want to know who your real friends are - just get cancer. My heart is bursting from all the love my real friends show me. I am grateful for every single bit of caring that they show me. From my bestie of 40 years (JS) and her husband, to my dear friends M and P(BDE) to J (whose husband was lost to the harrowing big C), to my Canasta group ( beyond amazing- so good to laugh with!), and especially to the owner of In the Pink, a local Livingston boutique. Just writing this - I am bursting and so uplifted. Because there are too many real good caring friends to include here, but please know who you are. Phoning me, texting me, showing that you remember me - you are carrying me through the most difficult journey of my life.

So be the kind of person you needed when you were younger....and be the kind of person to others that you might need some day if life turns upside down.

Memorial Day - Truly Memorable

You've got to stand for something.  Justice, freedom, the right to dye your hair pink...something!  And we live in a country that enables us to make that stand.

Each year on Memorial Day, I remember that.  Without the soldiers that fought for us, sacrificed for us, and many times gave their lives for us - well, without them, we couldn't stand for anything.

Memorial Day is a very special day for me.  I was never in the military, the armed forces, the Navy; no, I never served our country in such a capacity.  But in my lifetime, for various reasons, I have learned the value of freedom.  You know the old saying, "Freedom is not free...." It isn't.

One year, on Memorial Day, I experienced one of the finest days of my life.  The town Of West Orange made Memorial Day of 2009 extraordinary.

As a volunteer in a local Senior Center, The Margulies Center of the JCC, back then, I came to regard many of those members as my dearest friends.  I was blessed for the members there to open their hearts to me, as I was a New York transplant resident and so new to New Jersey.  As we began to get comfortable with each other, many shared their own histories.  And what history you can find through such amazing people as I was lucky enough to meet.  One in particular such person was Ashley Paston, of blessed memory, a true hero.

Over a few years, Ashley had told me of his service in the Army.  The stories he would tell led me to find out about all the medals he had been given.  So, when it came time to nominate veterans for their role in our country's fight for freedom, I asked Ashley if he would allow me the honor of putting together the necessary documents - and submitting all the information to the mayor's office.  John F. McKeon was the mayor of West Orange at that time.  Now Ashley was not just any hero.  In his late eighties, he remained so humble when asked about his Silver Star, Bronze Star, and Purple Heart medals.

On a warm and sunny Monday, a most memorable Memorial Day in 2009, Ashley stood tall - cane in one hand and a salute in the other - as his six foot plus stature shone before all those in attendance for a spectacular ceremony.  Ashley was awarded New Jersey's Distinguished Medal of Honor.  

And on that day, he was also in a battle with his third bout of cancer.  A true warrior in every sense of the word.  He was literally beaming on the West Orange Town Hall steps as he was kissed, hugged, and saluted by family, friends and strangers alike.  Not one to ever complain, any discomfort Ashley was in - well, it was not visible through the pride and humility that blinded us.  The Mayor spoke of Ashley in the highest regard, as all attention was truly deserved.

My dear friend passed away not long after this ceremony.  And it is a sentence he stated to me that will truly stay with me for all of my days....

At the end of the Memorial Day ceremony, Ashley Paston, the hero, thanked me for giving him one of the best days of his life.  I have goosebumps just remembering him saying it to me among all the veterans in uniforms as he seemed to be so very happy.

My dear friend risked his life for his fellow soldiers, and for me.  Yes, for me in many ways.  I look at each and every veteran, every military man and woman, as a link to my own personal freedom.   And Memorial Day is not the only day that I feel this way.  I feel it 365 days a year as a Soldiers' Angel, assisting our soldiers and showing our support.  I have been a Soldiers' Angel for 23 years now. (Www.soldiersangels.org)

The Memorial Day of 2009 was one I will never forget.  It was a special day that honored my very special friend.  It is a day of honor and tribute.  Not just for one veteran or one soldier, but for all those who gave their time and devotion, their heart and soul, to us and for us.  I salute them.

God bless America.

And God bless my hero, Ashley Paston, of extremely blessed memory - for his life was truly a blessing for us all.

Testing of the Water

A victim may be defined as anyone who experiences injury, a loss, or misfortune, resulting from an event or series of events. Trauma can trigger this and send the person's mental stability and self esteem into a downward spiral. The experience one may muddle through allows for the emergence of a somewhat victim mentality. A sense of victim hood. Always feeling that they deserved their bad luck or harmful situation, a person can be conditioned to take the bad....over and over again.

I did just that. However, with all my writing, I hope you realize that I was able to transform victimization into a victory of survival. Honestly,there are still people who are cruel to me, verbally abusive….but I’m not quiet about it. It’s not easy when your independence is compromised with a cancer diagnosis and financial struggles.  But I'm alive and kicking, a voice against all the injustices done to me. I am a survivor. All that I am is clearly exhibited in Until You Say Uncle. Right here for me to share. And it has been quite a journey. I still catch myself when I'm scared to fight back and stand up for what I believe in against an aggressor. And then I remember...things are not what they used to be. I will not be silent.

In 1978, I did not believe in myself. I was easy prey for a predator. I will not dwell on the what ifs...but know surely with all my being that if I had a parent who believed in me, my life would have turned out differently. Sometimes, I still imagine what it would have been like. Me, as a child, with a mother who loved me, and told me just that. But that was not my lot in life. I was dealt a Mom who told me the contrary. She also told me she should have had a miscarriage when she was pregnant with me, wished I would die from cancer, and how I ruined her life. I was told I was never going to amount to anything - and that is what I held on to. The nicknames my mother had for me were wielded like a sword to cut through any self esteem I could have had. When you are constantly told how ugly you are, especially from the one person who can shape all you hold dear, well - it becomes who you are - the way you see yourself.

So, in 1978, I was not in the most confident of mindsets. I was a senior in college - seeking employment and housing (my mother said that I could not live at home after college), with little to no self esteem. Then along came a young man, someone whom I knew since childhood, and he lavished me with attention. That is, until July 4 of 1978 when he raped me.  

We all have a moment in our lives when we know we are changed forever. I can tell you that at 11:30 pm on July 4, 1978, was mine. Most victims of rape don't talk about it. I didn't. Who could I tell? My parents were not the kind of people I could go to. Instead, I internalized the crime. I withdrew. Became silent. I isolated. I felt branded by this incorrigible young man who stole my future in that one act of sexual violence.

And after this life altering night, it was as though he owned me. The only way I can describe it is to tell you that he stole my dreams. Every single one of them in his selfish act. Branded. I remember watching Bonanza shows, and seeing how they branded their ranch's symbol on the cattle. That is what rape did to me. And more. This young man - Robert, at 20 years of age, saw me as a body he was able to control, manipulate, use and abuse. I couldn't fight back. I didn't even know how to. 

I became a perpetual victim after that. I continued to "date" my rapist, if that's what you can call it. And he escalated his abuse on a weekly basis. Robert, the abuser, became Robert, my "boyfriend."

My victimization empowered him and he become more brazen. I guess he figured if he could get away with rape, he could get away with anything. It no longer mattered what he did to me in public. We went out to eat with another couple at a yacht club once. When our meals came to the table, I saw that Robert asked for a side order of macaroni salad, which I loved. When I asked him if I could have a taste, he turned to me with a look of disgust on his face and spit into the bowl of macaroni salad. Right in front of the other couple, Evan and Lisa! They were shocked. I was numb. Evan took Robert aside to talk to him. I did nothing. I no longer wanted any macaroni salad.  

Another time, my friends from college came down from Connecticut for a visit. We were all set to go out to dinner, with Robert and I in the backseat of their car. Headed to a nice restaurant in New York, Robert brought up the subject of my religious faith. He didn't like my relationship with my Rabbi - I admired the Rabbi alot and it infuriated Robert.  Robert was probably fearful that I told the Rabbi about all the abuse. I never did. I didn't tell anyone back then. When I opened my mouth to defend myself - whack! Robert smacked me on the side of my head. Then again - all while my friend was driving us. But seeing this in his rear view mirror, my friend stopped the car, screamed at Robert to cut it out...Silence. And we continued like it never happened.  Something that my friends did not forget.

1978 was quite an eventful summer. It was my first summer of being a victim of sexual assault and violence at the hands of someone I was dating. I was sucked into hell at a slow pace. A pace which was speeding up at all costs toward the end of the summer.

The warm summer weather left us. However in September, Robert still wanted a few more weeks of taking out the speedboat he owned. The name of his boat was Foreplay. Distasteful, but I never saw the signs back then. I was oblivious to anything - except accustom to being scolded, criticized, demeaned, and hit. One chilly afternoon, Robert demanded we go out on the boat. I thought the weather was not accommodating, but I had to accommodate "the boss", as he liked to be called.

Well, we took the boat out that day. We left the Castaways Yacht club in New Rochelle, NY, and headed to Mamaroneck's Orienta Point. It was so cold that afternoon, that I wrapped myself in the two huge bath towels that we brought with us. It was not the kind of weather for a boat ride. I was about to put my sweat pants and sweatshirt on over my bathing suit, as the breeze was overwhelming and chilled my bones. His voice loud and ringing, Robert told me not to touch my clothes. His face was red, about to go into rage mode? I thought. We were alone in the middle of the Long Island Sound. Anchored off the shore of Mamaroneck's coastline. I could see Orienta Point Beach, but not another soul was out on the water. Or on the beach.

"Get in the water!" Robert demanded. "I want to see if it's cold or not. You're going to test the waters!" 

I don't know what got into me, but I refused. Huge mistake. But I didn't think that until the second after I said, "No. I don't want to."

Robert pulled his penis out of his swim trunks and peed all over me.

And then the what I call hyena laugh. There was the wicked laugh and evil smirk that he became known for.

"Now, I bet you'll go into the water!" "And let me know what you think the temperature is - I might want a swim."

Okay - so how disgusting was that? I don't remember crying. I certainly don't think I said another word. What I do remember is getting up, feeling like I was going to puke from being drenched in Robert’s urine - and I jumped off the boat, and into the water.

It didn't end there. Demanding my opinion on the water temperature, I said it was too cold. He helped me back onto the boat and took out a joint. Then he had another thought.

"Take off your bathing suit and get down on the floor (of the boat)."

It was time to be his sexual victim again...

I didn't fight, I didn't yell. I had already lost myself and my voice.

Do you know the story of the frog that dies in boiling water? 

If you drop a live frog into a pot of boiling water, it will immediately jump out of the pot. To escape and save itself from sure death. However, if you put this frog into a pot of room temperature water, and then slowly, steadily, bring the water to boil...the frog will stay in the water until it dies.

I was a frog in a slow boil. Rape, public humiliation, denigration, and mind control were the tools Robert used to bring the pot to that slow boil. Thinking I deserved what I got, who knows what else went through my mind back then...I married him. After all that he took from me, my dignity was shattered. I didn't think anyone else would ever want me, as the remains from Robert’s torments left me a broken person.

I didn't think anything could get any worse. However, in married life as husband and wife, the hell got hotter than ever.

Why am I telling this story, my history? 

If you ever think my voice comes from the soul of a victim, I wish to correct you right now. At this moment, I can tell you differently. I don't know who I was back in 1978. After that July 4th evening, I lost who I was.

And now I feel like I have finally found her. Me. But how many other girls end up being abused during the dating period, not knowing the signs from the very beginning?

Robert lavished me with attention. He would call me several times a day in the beginning. I thought that was sweet, showed that he cared. Wrong. It was a means for him to know where I was at all times. And is all part of the control these perpetrators need to have.

The gifts I was given? I came from an affluent background, so Robert had upped his out-of-the-blue surprises to Gucci handbags, a Louis Vuitton briefcase, flowers, jewelry....He'd hit me, buy me gift. Rape me, send me flowers. A cycle that was tumultuous in and of itself. Beyond damaging! Crazy making. 

And this all happened PRIOR to my marrying him. Of course it is with a huge amount of humility that I share my experience. I was not shallow, being swayed with gifts - but I did always believe that Robert was sorry and could change. I ended up thinking that for 2 decades - and it never happened. Never any remorse. 

My concern now is for young women everywhere. I never had any daughters. But I pray for daughters everywhere. Young women need to believe in themselves to a point where no one can take their dignity away from them. They need to be taught the differences between a man who truly cares for them, and a man who needs them like every prison guard needs a prisoner.

And young women need the unconditional love of their mothers. Mothers should nurture their daughters, guiding them to develop into strong women in their own right.  

Teen dating is much like testing the waters. In order to end domestic violence, women must escape situations whether the abuse is swift and unyielding...or slow and unassuming. Young women need to learn the signs of abuse at an early age, so they don't have learn how to undo the victim mentality like I did. It's not an easy road to transform the v for victim, into the v for victor. Not everyone is as lucky as me. Not everyone ends up finding their voice. 

Teach your daughters the difference between a man who considers her property, and a man who views her properly. The difference between a man who wants to control her, and a man who wants only the best for her.

Teach your daughters the difference between a man who needs her as a means to an end, and a man who cherishes her until the end of time. 

And we must teach our sons to be the better kind of man. 

      

Mother's Day - Here It Comes Again

 I notice my close friends seem to tip toe around me this week.  Careful in discussions and references.  It is the hardest time of the year for me.  Again.

Mother's Day.

It's a day every year that my adult alienated sons get to punish me...for things I did not do...and for loving them too much.  

I want to thank both Jason, now 44, and Jared, now 41, for another Mother’s Day I will never know if I can live through.  For teaching me of the limitless love my heart can hold.  For making me a mother.

My two sons taught me all about love.  And I will always love them - though now they bleed their alienating issues into the next generation, as I have four grandchildren that are not allowed to know I exist.  The mourning that never ends.  There are no words for certain feelings.  I live with a vast dark hole within me - they are missing from me.

I'm not with Jason or Jared anymore.  I'm not in their thoughts, their memories, their prayers or good wishes.  I will not receive Mother's Day cards nor messages of love.  I will not proudly display drawings from my grandchildren, Logan, Lucas, Chase or Lara, because I will not be gifted such treasures.

A while ago, Chase and Lara's other grandmother (Randi B. of Millburn, 10 minutes from where I reside) told a mutual acquaintance that she liked not sharing the grandchildren with me.  For that, I have no words.  Children deserve more love, not less.  She actually goes along with inflicting this harm.  

So, I will not be there this Mother's Day, again.

But I remember when I was there...and the moment I became a Mom.

I was there....

When my son, Jason was born, almost 5 weeks premature.  My first baby.  To this day, I am not sure if he "came" early due to my physical makeup, or from his father hitting me and pushing me down on a bed, with tremendous force, only hours prior.

December 18, 1981.  I was watching "Dallas."  I wasn't feeling well.  Then came the cramping.  I wasn't due until weeks away.  I was terrified.  I told Robert, the husband, and he told me to be quiet.  He told me not to call the doctor because, according to him, it was just because I had eaten Chinese food that night.  I knew differently.

I phoned the doctor only seconds before my water broke.  Robert started yelling at me that I was going to stain the apartment carpeting.  He shoved towels at me. 

Getting me down the elevator and into my little Datsun 280Z, he continued to yell at me that I was going to stain everything - because I was "leaking."  He shoved another towel under me, telling me I had better not stain the seats. 

I had no family to call.  My parents and sister had abandoned me years prior at that point in my life.  All I had was Robert, fully dosed up with his cocaine habit, screaming at me on the way to Lawrence Hospital in Bronxville, New York.  I did not know what to do, other than cry...and pray.

To make a long story shorter, I made heart wrenching requests to God.  Please, to just let my baby live.  I was already warned that the baby's condition was dangerous.  His original due date was January 28.  It was December 18th.  

I was registered quickly and taken to a hospital room.  After a few hours, now December 19th, Robert said he was tired and wanted to go home to sleep.  He left me there, alone.

I remember being there for hours and the pain of labor.  After 11 hours of labor, I was eventually anesthetized and given an emergency C section.  

I awoke to be told I had a son.  He weighed only a little over 4 pounds and was on a respirator.  The doctor told me. Then Robert entered my hospital room and gave me more information.  My son was to be ambulanced down to NYU Hospital for intensive care.  They had a special Preemie unit.

Dazed, making deals with God, praying until I was empty, and helpless more than ever...I saw my son for the first time as he was being wheeled in an incubator to an awaiting ambulance.  I was restricted to my bed.

I asked Robert to please go with our baby, Jason.  He didn't want to.  After Jason was transported, I cried and cried.  I was placed in a room with another new mother - but one who had her baby with her.  I felt a severe sense of grief every time I'd glance at this new mother and her newborn.  I asked Robert to please get me my own room.  He refused.  He said I didn't need my own room.  So I stayed for a week watching a stranger's family.

One afternoon, Robert returned (no, he did not visit me each day).  He looked at me as I asked how our baby was doing.  I was begging for information and updates constantly.  

Robert laughed at me with a smirk.  He said, "How will you even know if he's alive?  I could tell you anything."  He laughed some more and left my room to play pool back at our apartment building with his brother-in-law, another coke head at the time.  I asked for photos of Jason, assuming Robert was at least visiting there every day.  My husband laughed at me.  He loved to torture me.  

So that is the day Jason was born.  The day I became a mother.  Jason taught me so much.  I was on my own, no manual, no baby nurse, no mother to guide me....and no husband to partner with me - Robert acted like he couldn't care less.

Years went by, and I will firmly state I did the best I could.  Three years later, Jared joined our "family."  My sons were my world.  

I made sure I gave them everything I never had with my own mother.  Sometimes you can learn how to be from the people you don't want to be like.  

And I had to make up for the father that showed no interest in them until over a decade later when I wanted a divorce.

I read to them each night.  Sang to them as much as possible, too.  We went to Mommy and Me music classes.  I brought them to the Y to learn to swim when they were babies.  I was the one that was there for them.  Always.  Sleeping on the floor next to their beds when they were sick, not leaving their side.  Being an assistant soccer coach for years, because I felt badly that they did not have the kind of father their friends had.

I did everything I could to compensate for their father's behavior.  But when I was abused, yes, they saw it.  I could not tell their father, "Let's take this beating to the other room."  I live with that.

I'll always remember how Jared attended a court ordered psychiatric appointment with me during the custody/divorce and told the Doctor, "Everyone wanted her (me) as their Mom.  I thought she was a Goddess.  But my father opened my eyes."  Jared at 15 years of age - the hurt he bestowed on me left me breathless.

May God continue to watch over my sons.  Unfortunately, I don't believe they can be whole or happy until they confront the past and their part in it...until they acknowledge their own father's abusive behavior…until they stop hurting me.

And as for my grandchildren, I'm not giving up on them.  Some day they will find me.  I pray.   And I will continue to write and share my story.  For now, that's all I can do.

I am not with my sons now.  But I can say with certainty that no mother could have been closer to her sons...from birth until their teen years when their father successfully brainwashed them to hate me.

Would I do it all over again....be their mother?  Even though the unbearable pain in my heart feels like it will be the death of me on most days? 

Love is worth losing it.  To welcome life is guarantee loss when it comes to abusive relationships.  Abusers use children as weapons of destruction, especially when you try to end the abuse by leaving them.

On every Mother's Day I grieve the loss of what was....and I grieve the loss of what isn't.  I can't be with them, but I wish I weren't without them.

I know I would be the greatest Grandmother.

Nicknames

 Words have meaning.  Names have power.  And in between, there are those phrases, those groupings, that we identify as "nicknames."

I've been saddled with quite a few nicknames in my life.  Sometimes, nothing can hurt more.

"A nickname is the hardest stone that the devil can throw at a man." - -author unknown, quoted by William Hazlitt 

"Nigger Lips" was the first nickname I ever owned.  As a young child, perhaps all the way back to when I was only five years of age, it was thrown at me.  Spewed like poison.  By my mother.

I am a white American Jewish woman of half Italian heritage, half Austrian and Hungarian.  Was it the absurdity that made it so powerfully damaging?  Now decades older, this senior woman doesn't understand what would make a mother nickname a daughter as such...Nigger Lips.  That would lead me into a discussion about my abusive, unstable mother but better left for another time.  The damage she was able to do, the power she held by her mean name-calling, was to scar me for life.

Always directed at me in rage and disgust, as I grew older the nickname became meaner.  I began to understand that it was meant to hurt and admonish.  As a child, not knowing what the term "nigger" referred to, I did realize that the words were meant to cause pain and sorrow.  Deeply negative in reference.  My mother wanted to hurt me.  While other children had nicknames of endearment, mine was of scrutiny and embarrassment.  It made me feel disfigured, ugly, dirty, bad and confused.  I don't remember understanding it, just the pain that went along with feeling it and the look in my mother's eyes when she said it.

Talk about childhood memories...are you still considered a child when you are in 9th grade?  I believe so.  I remember things.  I was a senior at Albert Leonard Junior High School, sitting in my English teacher's class.  Mr. Sherer's class.  We were to begin a book discussion, when he began playing a song..."The Shadow Of Your Smile."  My reaction to the song began slowly.  All these years later I can still remember how the song shamed me.  I had a habit of sucking my lips in when people looked at me.  When this song started, I reacted with a vengeance - biting my lips as I thought everyone was thinking about me when they heard the song...and my "Nigger Lips."  Blood started trickling down my mouth.  Mr. Sherer stopped the music. He then stopped the class and directed his stare in my direction.  He pointed at me and then pointed at the door.  I got up and was escorted by him into the hallway.

I let it all out then.  Cries of shame, embarrassment, and confusion bounced off the walls of my school.  Mr. Sherer literally held me up by my shoulder as he walked me to the office of my guidance counselor.  It was the first time I had told anyone my nickname - and who gave it to me.  They must have contacted my mother on that afternoon, for I don't remember her screaming it at me again.  At least not out loud.

Nigger Lips was not the only nickname she had for me.  Just the first I remember.  She constantly told me of my physical shortcomings and criticisms, "Cousin It" was yet another label my mother placed on me.  She referred to me as "Cousin It" from the Adams family - a creature behind a mop of hair.  Soon I really began hiding behind my hair, almost covering my eyes so I could not see, and no one could see me.  Or see how ugly she told me that I was.  

There was never any affection lost between my mother and me.  As a young adult, she often told me that she never wanted me.  She often told me how she had a miscarriage before me - and that the miscarriage should have been me.  I never had the mother who read story books, attended back-to-school nights, was a class mother, brought me to after school activities, who nurtured and cared for me.  None of that.  In fact, for my high school graduation, she handed me a $5 bill, told me to get a cab, and did not attend.  My father traveled 9 months out of the year for his work and was hardly ever around until the summer times.  I had no one.

(I pledged my soul to be the opposite of my mother. I made my sons my world and dedicated every breath I had to them. I gave them everything I never had - the unconditional love of a mother who adored them.)

So, surprise, surprise - I married an abuser after college graduation.  Raped and smacked around by him prior to marriage (he had even hit me in front of my college friends), I never had a parent to run to.  I only had me.  My mother smacked me around so much I was used to it.  I ended marrying the monster Robert thinking no one else would want me.  I couldn't live with my mother so I thought I picked a way out that would be the lesser of 2 evils.  It was a throw of the dice.  And I lost.

I had new nicknames.  I soon answered to "Piece of Shit."  With all Robert did to me, that was the least of my troubles.  In fact, when my son Jason was only three years old, he was on the phone talking to his cousin, Britt.  I heard him yell at her, "Britt, answer me you Piece of Shit!"  Eventually, my two sons would be taught to verbally abuse me as well.

I just wanted to be called "Julie" and "Mom."

During my divorce, Jared, the younger of my sons, as a teen started calling me "Cunt."  And it only got worse with post divorce abuse. 

I look around me now, my mother deceased, and wonder what she would think of so many women getting lip fillers these days to enlarge their lips.  I look at people I know in their Instagram feeds making duck faces into their selfies.....and I remember.

My lips were always a bit on the larger side.  It's part of who I am.  I am without shame nor embarrassment.  I guess I kind of grew into them....I don't suck them in anymore; I'm not ashamed of them.  I even have red lipstick now.

Nicknames should only be words of love, of kindness.  Because the damage they can do might just last someone's lifetime.  Nicknames can damage self-esteem, foster insecurity, and act as a tool for bullying.  The psychological impact hurts beyond any measure.

Use your words carefully, please.

XO,

Just Julie

(I apologize for the use of terrible slangs.  They are, were, and always will be unacceptable and offensive.  I am just reflecting on my history - the story of me.)