When People Don’t Come From A Good Place

If you know me, you know it takes a lot for me to get mad. A lot!

I wrote this letter to a local rabbi….Rabbi Kulwin after he tried to get me to sign my voice away.  I was harassed from the moment my alienated adult son, Jared, was engaged to Kerri Berson.  I was ordered to keep my history of domestic violence, etc. , to myself.  And remove myself from ALL social media platforms. Marc Berson (Kerri’s  father) wanted to continue to be portrayed as a New Jersey hero of sorts avoiding the connection to a domestic violence survivor…and Robert Levine didn’t want people to know what he did to me and to others.

I was way too kind to a man, this man who called himself a rabbi….Because I wasn’t yet in touch with defending myself and protecting my rights. 

A person exerting coercive control may try to limit your freedom and independence.

Coercive control is a pattern of acts and behaviors that an abuser uses to take away your freedom and to control your life. The abuser may use fear, pressure, shame, or rules to wear you down and take over your choices.

Until eventually you have no more choices. No more voice.  You are erased.

Some people wanted to destroy my freedom and own my voice via a document I was demanded to sign.

An important note here is that a Rabbi Clifford Kulwin presented the document to me, and as he slammed it down on his library’s table with a pen….ordered me to sign it.

I told him I wanted to read it first.  Again he kept urging me to sign myself away.  I would be removing myself from all social media platforms and essentially be silent.  As I told him I help others on social media, his response was “It doesn’t matter. Sign it.”

My gut told me not to sign it, but take it with me and walk out of that synagogue.

I expressed no anger back then but I sure am angry now.  It has taken me a few years to expose what these people did to me.  And here I am!  Fighting battles not many know about.

Below is the letter I wrote to  Kulwin. And his response.

Reminder: anyone “coming from a good place”, as Kulwin says,  doesn’t demand someone’s silence and isolation.

—————————-

Dear Rabbi Kulwin,

I returned home this evening at around 5:30 and opened your email.  Honestly, I wasn’t going to answer it right away.  I’ll explain that.  After reading your sincere update, I opened another email….And it is basically the motivation for this letter.

A child in our community died today.  He was 15 years old .  He barely made it to his birthday today.  My heart aches for his family.  Jake Kestler (BDE) was killed by a brain tumor .  Cancer murdered him.  There are no words.

When a husband loses a wife, there’s a word.  Widower.  When a wife loses a husband, there’s a word.  Widow.  When a child loses a parent, there’s a word.  Orphan.  But when a parent loses a child, there is no word.

I’m sitting here not knowing exactly what to say.  I feel kind of empty and very, very sad.

I’ll do my best, using words to attempt to say what I hope to convey.

Life should be about love.  About kindness.  I know what you’re thinking – that would be a perfect world.  Yes, it would be.  But we can try to bring all that we can to the table.  I’ve learned that it isn’t only about what people say or do.  It’s about intentions.  And being kind.

My sons were my life.  My world in plain English.  If you don’t think that there can be hell on earth…well, I’ve lived through some things that astonish me.  I survived because of 2 sons.  Sons I love unconditionally.  I love them both with all my being.  I wish them both only the best.  But I feel like I lost the loving sons I knew.  And I did.

With each passing year, it doesn’t get easier.  The missing them.  Having children – no matter how old they get- is like having a part of your heart walking this earth outside of your own body. Their own behaviors and actions have made me reinvent a life without them.  But it is still a loss.  In fact, it feels like a mourning that never ends.

I wish Jared would come from a place of kindness. It is through his recent texts that I have come to realize that warm fuzzy feeling I had hoped to re-establish with him…well, he is not being kind.  More “plain English”….

Where the world can rip apart a son from his mother (like what happened today)…Jake loved life, and deserved so much more…. life is so precious.  Who knows how much time any of us have left. Which brings me to something that I hope you can obtain an answer for. There is a so called “Agreement” in place, and for reasons unbeknownst to me – my son will not permit me to have a relationship with my grandchildren.  No, he wouldn’t even send me a photograph.  Instead, I get texts of total manipulation.  Texts telling me to sign “a document” if I ever want the CHANCE to meet my grandchildren.  In all the numerous meetings with Marc, in all the communications over the last 2 years – that agreement was operative.  But still – no grandchildren at meetings – no photographs – nothing.  Why not???????

Realizing that the warm mother son relationship I had prayed for is just not something Jared is interested in, I held out hope that I could be the grandmother that I am to my grandchildren; the grandmother that loves to sing, dance, play, laugh, read and have fun.  The grandmother who finds such joy by teaching nursery school that she forgets she gets a paycheck for it. (Smile.)  With the 2015 court agreement in place – the one that Jared and Marc are obsessed with – why have I had this journey over the last 2 years with Marc…and STILL never met my grandchildren?  No one gives me an answer.  I can tell you it makes no sense.

You are such a wonderful Rabbi – and I appreciate you more than you can imagine.  I know all the time and effort you have made in attempting to rectify this situation.  You have gone above and beyond.  Yesterday, I felt awful for how you were in the middle of this.  And, with no reflection on you,  I walked away deeply saddened by the document you were asked to give me.  I was also a bit put off that Marc sent you a court transcript that he promised to keep to himself – which is not public information- but that was certainly not your fault.  It just took me off guard that he didn’t keep his word. 

Within that one page agreement, I felt like Jared wanted me to sign away my life – my identity.  It wasn’t just about keeping names and information confidential. And I can’t find one single thing in it that Jared committed to on his half of this effort.  Nothing.  While I promise to never use their names, never share Jared’s nor his family’s information, etc…..that does go without saying.  I want peace.  Regarding my grandchildren, I want to see them first – before writing and signing another agreement.  Regarding my grandchildren, they deserve to have more love – not less.

I cannot think about a rewrite of any sort today.  Between you and me, my heart feels empty and hurts at the same time.  It was aching after seeing how my son wants a document signed (he doesn’t exhibit interest in wanting a loving mother).  I have lost 2 friends to brain tumors over the last 1 ½ years….now Jake.  It shakes up my world.  And reminds me that we need to come from a place of love.  And kindness.  That piece of paper didn’t sound like it came from a good place.

After meeting my grandchildren, I’d like to revisit the said “document.”  I will continue to pray for Jared.  I truly do that.  A misheberach every Shabbat.  He has a lot of healing to do. May he one day only come from love and kindness.  And may he realize that we should focus on what holds us together…rather than focusing on anything that can tear us apart.

With immense gratitude,

Julie

—————————————————-

KULWIN’S RESPONSE:

-------- Original Message --------
Subject: Re: Yesterday
From: "Kulwin, Clifford" <CKulwin@tbanj.org>
Sent: Wednesday, April 17, 2019, 5:32 PM
To: jhlstyle@aol.com
CC:

Julie:

I have refrained from answering until now partly to digest what you wrote and partly to take a break.  A little, some or all of what you write may be true - BTW, I officiated at Jake Kestler's funeral - it is also simply not relevant.   Below is a newly drafted and much shorter document.  I think it accomplishes what everybody wants in a few, simple words.   If you sign it, great.  If not, I don't know what more I can do.

Personally, I think Jared is coming from a good place.  If he weren't, this communication would not be taking pace at all.

I urge you to agree to sign this, and will be happy to arrange an opportunity for that as soon as possible.

Thanks,

ck

​

What is Your Legacy? (Children and Grandchildren Not Included)

​I want to leave something behind when my life is over; some small legacy of truth and triumph. Sharing my knowledge, my experiences and my past has given me strength and wisdom. 

Maybe my legacy is what I’ve done with my life. All I can tell you for sure is that silence will not be my legacy, despite those who have insisted on it.

I have written and spoken openly about rape, domestic violence, and parental alienation (domestic violence by proxy). There have been several lapses in my writings – sometimes years, times when I’ve needed to take a break from all I remember, times when I’ve tried the silent route (thinking it would promote my alienated sons coming back to me, or I’ve been too fragile to feel certain feelings).  And times when my cancer journey has been overwhelming.  A decade ago, when I was writing my original blog, entitled “Until You Say Uncle,” I credit it with saving my life. One word at time. Never judge someone by the way they had to survive. I went through over 18 years in the New York court system that retraumatized me, rather than grant me any form of justice. I had my heart broken over and over again by 2 then-teenage sons who parroted their father's behaviours to such an extent that it was so much more abuse. And I would sit down at my laptop and write it out.

I tried journaling at first. That just didn’t do it for me. I’d fill the pages in a book but still carried it with me in my essence. After seeing the movie, “Julie and Julia”, I got the idea of creating a blog – and sending my voice out there into the universe.

It worked.

Sometimes, when you share things – things you carry around in your heart, soul, and mind – it makes them less heavy. That is the only way I can attempt to explain it.

And in the process of healing through writing, I have met a community of the finest and strongest people you could ever wish to meet. It’s sad how we have come together by our common adversities, but the strength we award each other is priceless. Courage, dear heart. I’m talking about women and men who have endured situations and continue to hold it together in spite of the things they endured. We share our stories to hold each other up. And we share our stories so they don’t have to be someone else’s future.

A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories we leave behind. It is who we were, are and are becoming. By the way, each of us is always “becoming” every day – no matter how old or young we are. Each day brings a new version of me. A piece or plot twist is added to my story, the story of me.

Rather than struggle with certain thoughts and feelings in silence, I’m back. On good days, and the not so good days. I’d like to re-continue my word sharing. And if it helps just one person (aside from me, of course) , well that is a win in my book.

One day, years ago when I was teaching, at the school’s carpool drop off, a parent watching me dance and laugh at drop off….came up to me and said, “You are the happiest teacher.” I’ll take that for the win!

It’s not easy sometimes – the finding joy. I can tell you that after 20 years of mourning my 2 sons from parental alienation, there is not a day I don’t think of them and send a prayer out to the universe. I’m not going into the whole definition of what PA is here – if you know you know – and my heart goes out to you. What I do want you to know is that it just may be the one thing that is forever. 

My sons were alienated by their abusive father when they were in their teens. And they never got away from their father’s control, influence, lies, and manipulation. Not all alienated children escape. I will not give anyone false hope.

What I will tell you is that you, as a targeted parent of this abuse, must build a life of your own. Courage, dear heart. Fill it with small things that make you smile. And yes, you will smile again – even when your heart is being ripped to shreds.

Years ago, I spoke to Amy Baker, PHD, who specializes in parental alienation. My sons did not get college degrees and went to work for their father in his family business. A very affluent business with many financial perks. Dr. Baker had told me that unless my sons separated from their father (left the business), there pretty much was no hope in undoing the lies they were told and breaking the cycle of the alienation.

So now my sons are in their 40’s , still working in their father’s business. Both married with children of their own – my 4 young grandchildren. And the four young children are not permitted to know that I exist. It is all part of the domestic violence by proxy. A continuous cycle of abuse. It matters not that children deserve more love, not less. It is not about the children at all. It’s about control. And this sickness goes generation to generation.

So here I am telling you that there may be a chance where the cycle is not broken. I’m begging you not to let it break you. It is a mourning that never ends. A struggle that I do not wish on anyone. But know that you can survive it and create a new narrative.

When I didn’t know how to breathe without my sons, it took me years to figure out a way to keep going and actually look forward to tomorrows. It was a lot of work. And I struggled, believe me! Boy, did I ever. I remember the days I was immobile and didn’t want to go on. And then one day, I just did.

I started helping others in my community. I volunteered at a senior center, I dedicated days to volunteering at a food pantry…I returned to my art work, I assisted in animal rescues. The things we do for others remains as part of one’s legacy .

And every time someone told me what a difference I made in their life, it gave me strength to put one foot in front of the other another day. Purpose. Life became purposeful. Eventually, through therapy, I was able to give speaking engagements where I shared my story in the hopes of inspiring others to overcome difficulties and break cycles of abuse. I helped raise thousands of dollars for domestic violence shelters, so others would be safe and rewrite their own narratives.

All this did not stop my heart from aching, though. At this point in my life, I realize it is just something that I have learned to live with. Kind of like a constant bleed.

But I’m not bleeding 24-7 anymore. With a BFA in art education which I earned before I was married, I finally returned to the art of creating; painting and my Julie’s Bloomies magnetic flower pins.  A part of the organization Soldiers’ Angels, I have been supporting our troops for 23 years now through a letter writing team.  But I’m no longer teaching preschool as I focus on surviving a current obstacle, a rare blood cancer.  

Something I’d like to pass on: sometimes the best way to help yourself, is by helping others.

I don’t ever want to stop writing.  My blog means so much to me.

So my past won’t become someone else’s future.

My blog: www.untilyousayuncleagain.blogspot.com

Mothers Not in the Media

Famous mothers, celebrity mothers, instagram mothers, even presidential mothers…The media loves to cover them and to expose them. Whether they like it or not.The media does not cover the women who have lost custody battles to perpetrators of domestic violence. Their abusers are almost never exposed. The children in these cases are damaged, their lives stained forever. Some of those lost children grow up to be abusive in their own right.

Over and over again, these children are torn from the arms of a loving parent-their mothers.When will you read of Debbie, Rachel, Susan, Maria, and hundreds of others who have lost their children in a court system that enables such injustice? Probably never. And the silence is breaking them.In our judicial system of today, powerful men, dominating men, are able to use the court system as a weapon. Tragically, they are able to use their children as ammunition.

The media doesn't know the women that have fallen victims to our courts. We should read about the personal enfolding of celebrity moms, professional athletes' spouses, and other characters that are deemed of high interest to the public. Or so they say. When do we read of the other mothers?

No one wants to report on the woman whose husband repeatedly raped his 5 year old daughter. That man was then given sole custody of the young girl, as the woman could not fight the court battle laid out before her. Who would want to read of the woman whose husband broke every bone in her face, over a period of years? He was then given custody of the children who witnessed this horror. 

In another case, a forensic psychologist stated (as in photo below) that he was of the professional opinion that two boys had observed their father being psychologically and physically abusive towards their mother. Documentation regarding physical abuse of the mother was evidenced. Then the judge deciding this particular custody dispute awarded sole custody of the two boys to the father.

When this woman sought safety prior to the divorce dispute, her husband warned her that she would never see her children again. After custody was "awarded" to this male perpetrator, the mother never had a relationship with her sons again. A judge looked her in the eye and told her that just because her husband had raped and beaten her, it did not mean he couldn't be a good father. 

Not understanding the court's irrational instructions, she contacted newspapers, radio stations, and magazines. In our wonderful United States of America, there was not a single reporter that would come to her aid. No one wanted to speak of her story, her life....It was her own, never to be shared. Her silence was expected and demanded. This was me. And I am healing out loud because the silence almost killed me.

Because courts did not protect us nor understand (or want to recognize) the capabilities of an evil narcissistic abuser in a divorce court….my two sons were brainwashed to hate me.  This was orchestrated by their father. Because he had the opportunity as awarded by the Court.  He had full “soul” custody. The judge did not even enforce a visitation schedule which my ex sabotaged. Alienated now for two decades, both my sons, having grown to be alienated adults, have taken on their father’s behaviors and personality traits.

This could have been prevented.

In our country that promises protection and justice, judges are awarding custody to men with violent histories. Women that have made their children a priority, are left childless. Many times, these women turn to the media for assistance...only to be turned away.

My case was years ago, with legal abuse keeping me in court for over 15 years.

But this is still happening today.

These are the mothers not found in the media. Reporters refuse to reply to coverage requests, as judges are never held accountable for their poor and damaging decisions. If these cases are told to the public, how are they remedied? Perhaps this is why reporters run from such stories. Rather than ignore such tragedies, it seems that finding an answer would be a much better conclusion. In order for there to be a solution to many of these horror stories, the stories themselves must be told. Bullied and emotionally battered by judicial figureheads, the mothers not mentioned in the media must be heard. They need a voice. We need a voice.

If you are reading these words, that proves there is hope. It says things can get a little bit better. This is all being told from a mother who lost her children in a court of law to the abuser; my children were weaponized; I am a mother not found in the media.

 

They Tried to Silence My Voice- Again

​A few years ago, they demanded I sign this.  Marc E. Berson, my younger alienated son’s controlling father-in-law, drafted it and had Rabbi Clifford Kulwin present it to me with orders to sign it.  I DIDN'T sign it.

They wanted my social media presence dismantled and erased. "Forever." 

I would be totally isolated.

And they did not promise me anything.

Nothing.

They still wouldn't let me meet my grandchildren.

When I showed this document to a psychologist he said he was glad I didn't sign it.  It was his opinion that if I had signed it, it would feel like "getting raped again."

It was disgraceful! .... And even a rabbi telling a survivor of domestic violence to keep her history of abuse to herself!

Abuse thrives in the dark, as perpetrators depend on secrecy, isolation, and the victim’s fear of using their voice to speak out. 

#abuse

#silence

#parentalalienation

#domesticviolencebyproxy 

#untilyousayuncle

A Wedding of Sadness

​I walked away- but will never disappear. Let me explain, briefly. On June 21, 2014, my younger son (alienated by his abusive father since he was a teenager) was married at The New York Public Library.  Rabbi Clifford Kulwin officiated. I was not invited, nor included in any way. I knew where the wedding was to take place, I knew when it would take place. Some people suggested I just show up, others offered to take photos for me - as they would be there......I chose to "walk away" that day. Instead, some wonderful friends made a dinner party for me on June 21. It was a difficult heartwrenching evening - but I was even able to laugh once or twice with my friends (in between a few tears, as I did not deserve how I was treated by my son the groom)....For 15 years of his life, I was the one who raised him - pretty much single handedly. I loved him with every breath in me. But on this night of June 21, I knew that the bride deserved her special night - drama free. Even though my phonecalls and emails to her went ignored. I walked away that night - in order to give the groom and bride their special evening - a fairytale that did not include the mother of the groom. I will repost my letter to the father of the bride here on my blog below and the hurt these people have put me through- they could have organized a dinner/lunch where I could have met my future daughter in law - and the mother of the bride. Nothing was done. 

As he befriended my abusive ex (both controlling narcissists), Marc Berson did not want my history of domestic violence to taint his family name.  

They just wanted me erased.They just wanted me to disappear. Well, I walked away with dignity. But I will never disappear.  

They were crueler than words can describe. 

And someday, may this couple and all involved realize exactly what they have done to me. 

The wedding was followed by 10 years of torture demanding my silence.  As of today, Kerri and Jared now have two children, my grandchildren, whom are not allowed to know I exist. Chase and Lara are now another generation of alienation. I tried to be hopeful in someday seeing my grandchildren. ….in 2022, Marc Berson, over the phone, asked me to tell him I had good news….he knew I had cancer….so I replied, “what, you hope I’m almost dead?” And he said “yeah.” Then he told me was he was helping “them” ( my abusive ex and son) to keep my grandchildren from me.

And guess what?

He died from pancreatic cancer months later.

Marc Berson passed away December 2, 2023.  I hope God had a good talk with Marc.  

On a day in June of 2014, a day that caused a mother such extraordinary heartbreak, how could our Higher Power reward anyone with a bright beginning? A sad way to start a life together.  But I lived through it. I endured the unendurable.

I have a full album of photos of their over-the-top wedding.  I was told close to 500 guests were in attendance .  But not the mother of the groom. Me!  After reading a letter that  I had posted and sent to the father of the bride, Marc E. Berson, so many people who attended sent me photos and words of support. Various wedding photos from this event were found on the Internet. God bless Google.

When Jared and Kerri were first engaged, Marc demanded to meet me in the office of Rabbi Kulwin, associated with a temple in Livingston, NJ. ONE meeting to demand my silence months before the wedding.  He didn’t like me blogging about my story.  He didn’t like my speaking engagements to raise awareness of domestic violence, legal abuse, post separation abuse, and parental alienation.

More victim blaming followed.

I begged to attend the wedding.  He said, “No way in hell.”

Here is the letter I had sent, right before our children’s wedding, to the father of the bride, Marc E. Berson (and was published on Patch):

Dear Father of the Bride, 

I'm guessing that as I write this, you are probably enjoying all the festivities leading up to your daughter's wedding - when she is to marry my son. In only two more days, you and I will be related.  Amazing.  Isn't it?

According to Midrash, after God created the universe in six days, He began arranging marriages.  According to Talmud, 40 days before a male child is conceived, a voice from Heaven announces whose daughter he is to marry (in Yiddish, such a heavenly match is called "bashert," a word meaning destiny). It is with all my heart and faith that I believe our families are going to be joined for a greater purpose.  People come into our lives as either a blessing or a lesson. 

Growing up in Bedford, New York, what were the chances that my 29 year old son would meet your daughter, a young woman from Millburn, New Jersey (only 15 minutes from my new hometown).  And the mere fact that you and I share so many friends and acquaintances?  Amazing.  I can't speak for your wife, as I have never met her, but I do think our paths will cross one of these days.  The world is getting smaller each and every day.

After you and I met, I was hoping things would play out differently.  Most often, parents play a key role in organizing and planning their children's nuptials.  It is an occasion of tremendous emotional magnitude. A wedding is one of the most significant of all lifecycle moments that a parent will experience.  Or not.

In this profound time, you may think you have merely inherited a situation.  I think differently.  It is my belief that if you are not part of the solution, that you effectively become part of the problem.  When, as a parent, you walk your daughter down the aisle on Saturday evening, the mother of the groom will not be present.  You have chose to exclude and shun me. Yes, I know my alienated son instructed you on that issue - but we all have choices to make.  If someone robs a bank, the guy driving the get away car is charged with a crime as well.  

My son is no longer a child.  He may think I don't know that.  But every scar in my aching heart tells me that he is now an adult.  You see, every Mother's Day, every birthday, every Chanukah, every Passover, every illness and every joy has been quietly calculated in the crevices of my heart.  And it all adds up to years of alienation.  Time that will never be regained. Every one of those moments when the fall out of our histories bled into the pain of the present. Today, he is my son.  And on Saturday evening, June 21 - he will be someone's husband.

As you walk your daughter toward the Chupah, on that trail that may seem endless but takes only a minute.....you may shed a tear or two.  As the wetness trickles down your cheek, I ask you to think of me.  Your daughter's mother-in-law.  And my own tears.  You see, I've been shedding them for days over this wedding.

My son is committing to a partnership with your daughter.  May it be one of blessed happiness and good health.  In a moment that will no doubtfully include feelings of great joy and celebration, will you not be reminded of the sadness and loss I feel?  The moment will never come again.  You could have done so much to change the circumstances.   It is easier for you to ignore me and hope I fade away. Sometimes the right decision is not the easiest. 

Neither you nor your wife will acknowledge me, nor reach out to me regarding this blessed event that is to take place. This is my only way to communicate with you at this time. The bride - I wish I could meet her, but she has had no interest in returning my phone calls or emails as well.  I'm not going anywhere.  And every time you look at my son, I will be a sparkle in his eyes.  The good your daughter sees in my son, comes from me.  And I have the references to back that up.

Think about the way our children came together. Bashert, then it was always meant to be; it was fate.  Perhaps you can be the catalyst to bring peace between us.  Or perhaps your daughter will be the one to melt the ice surrounding my son's heart.  When my son was born, I held him in my arms and imagined his future - a life that always included me.  I never would have thought that a child who adored me so - right up until his 15th year of life, would turn on me as he did.  Hate has to be taught.  So, when you say that Parental Alienation is only a word - I beg to differ with you.  It's funny how I have all the documentation exhibiting a paper trail of estrangement, and you never asked to see any of it.  There isn't a day in the last decade that I haven't missed my son.  Even through his most unacceptable of behaviors.  For I remember the baby, the little boy, the young teenager - the one with the old soul and the heart of gold.  The young man who will be waiting for your daughter at the end of the bridal entrance, will forever be my son. And he knows that no matter what, he has his mother's unconditional love.

So, as the father of the bride, please relay a message from the mother of the groom.  I wish our children all that they wish for themselves and so much more.  May they find everything in each other that brings out the best of them. The goal of a great marriage is to go beyond the idea that you treat the other person the way you would like to be treated yourself.  I hope my son always puts your daughter first.  That is something that needs to be emphasized to my son. Unfortunately, he could not have learned such things by example.  May our children both treat each other better than they each want to ever be treated. I'm sorry, there is so much I wish I could write - but my own tears are getting in the way. 

My present life partner teaches me something special every day.  So many times, I've heard him say, "It makes me happy to see you happy."  I pray that our children have reached the point where they achieve more joy making each other happy than in pursuing their individual happiness.

And as you "give your daughter away" on Saturday evening, you will no doubtfully feel a loss and bit of sorrow letting her go. Your eyes may become watery, should emotion take over such a sacred particle of time.  I will be crying with you.  Differently of course.  Remember, how you have the chance to feel that. To experience that with the young couple.  And how you have participated in denying me that - my own experience in seeing a lifecycle that will never come again.

Julie Levine
Mother of the Groom

Think about the way our children came together. Bashert, then it was always meant to be; it was fate.  Perhaps you can be the catalyst t

This all was a casualty of abuse, control and parental alienation.

#abuse #control #parentalalienation

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.