It has been a while since my last post.
Sometimes it is good to take a break and figure some things out.
Healing is sometimes much like a revolving door; only it is a revolving door that can act as an elevator taking you up and down as you circulate once again through the same hurts and trials.
Sometimes I feel like I am going through the same old hurts, only each time it's a different level or perspective. Like I said, a revolving door that also acts like an elevator and I am still going up (or down) while going through old trials again and again... that is what healing can feel like.
I guess what I am trying to say is, that is how my life has felt and why I have not posted in a while.
I have been dealing with things I thought I had healed only to discover another part that needed more work and healing.
One of these things is resentment. Honestly, resentment is a choice until it reaches a certain point and then it feels like it takes over. I have plenty of reasons to feel resentful. At the end of the day though, I cannot ignore the fact that all those things, are things that I can change now.
For example, I grew up home schooled and by home schooled I mean, past third grade, I taught myself everything I know. My parents failed in educating me. I was pulled from public school because my mother felt God had called her to home school all of her children.
Here's the thing, IF you really believe God calls you to do something then you should sell out and do it or tell Him, "uh sorry, you got the wrong one." Because I promise you, God did not call you to take the first step, stop and then say, "Okay, it's yours now I did my part."
This is exactly what my parents did. They took all of the kids that were in school out and the younger kids started kindergarten at home. I was a social butterfly. I had friends, I loved my teachers and most of all I LOVED learning. I was an honor roll student and aspired to stay an honor roll student with perfect attendance forever...well, until I was to graduate high school anyway.
When my parents pulled me from school I was depressed for months. I cried a lot because I missed school and my friends. I had to teach myself and it seemed the biggest lesson I learned was, you don't know what you don't know. My father used this quote all the time but, did nothing to change it for me.
He had an education, my father. He had a degree and opportunities growing up, yet did not provide the same for his kids. My mother barely made it out of high school. Aside from my parents education or lack thereof, neither of them possessed the will power to teach us. My mother read us books and had a wipe off board that she wrote scriptures or lessons on to leave up for days at a time. We took trips to local small town museums and this was extent of our education. There was never a consistent routine and whenever my grandparents called upon us for help at the ranch, we dropped whatever we were doing to go. This lack of structure was problematic for me. I am not a personality type who does well without structure and routine. All this to say that my upbringing has given me great insecurity. When I "graduated" (was old enough to say I was done with high school.) I immediately went into the work force. I tried later to go to college. Actually, I went to college successfully, sort of, despite being self taught and lacking any actual math skills. Truth is, I took a remedial math class at a community college. I failed it twice. My math instructor spent HOURS with me in her office teaching and tutoring me. She was so patient and encouraging but, when it came test time, I would freeze. She told me she could tell it was psychological. She said it looked like I was waiting for someone to hit me for giving the wrong answer. She was right, I was frozen in fear at the memory of my fathers voice calling me stupid. This has left me extremely resentful.
Someday I want to be an inspiring leader, not just to my fellow survivors but to people everywhere.
I have always felt I need a formal education for success like that. Maybe my measurement of what it takes to become successful is wrong. However, there is no denying that a good education never hurts.
I am facing a dilema of sorts in my life. I want to be something great but, I am so used to taking the path of least resistance, what I call the less scary way. I am afraid to go back to school and fail remedial math again. I am afraid to try and pick something to be in life. I fear being locked in and unhappy. I am good at many things and with even a little bit of education I could be the best at something. My confidence is all but shot though. I have to admit that I don't believe in myself to make it through school. I have been too prideful to admit my fears and failures. It has been EASY to say I just did not have the finances to go to school.
So, here I am facing more effects from the lack of education that was NOT my fault --and I say it in the past tense because now I am an adult and it is on me to fight and get an education or not. I can continue with my training as a nurse aide and try to be content with that and being a good wife and mom. There is nothing wrong with that if I choose that and no one would fault me for it. Yet, inside my heart of hearts... there is a hope in me that cries for more. It's been stifled for too long by fear and pride. I have let resentment steal enough of what I could have someday been.
It is a new year, more than that it is a new day. It's my day. I get to choose my routine and structure. It is my day to learn how to use a calculator. It is my day to learn how to read a face clock. It is my day to take a baby step and set a goal.
Survivors, it's so easy to choose resentment because it is less scary than facing forgiveness. There is no shame if you are not ready to go there yet. The only shame is if we choose to stay in our resentment and let it steal from us even one more moment from who we COULD someday be. I can not sit here typing this and lead you to believe that I forgive my parents for my lack of education. I don't.
I do however, forgive myself for being prideful and afraid all this time about it.
It's my day.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Male Abuse Awareness
What if you one day noticed a change in your son's behavior? He was suddenly quiet and kept to himself more than usual? Maybe your son started actng out, and it seemed out of the blue one day he just became angry? What if your precious baby boy could no longer be reached by your words and love?
My son is two and when I look at him and think about the fact he is on the cusp of the same age I was when first abused.... it kills me. As a mother, I would die for him. I can barely handle the thought of my son ever being bullied without tears. I have posted before about teaching my son word power as a step in preventing him from being abused by others. It is a step in the right direction and it is important. I always remember... abuse can happen to ANYONE.
My husband, a leader and strong personality was himself once a victim of rape. As a child someone decided they had more power over him and took advantage. Although he suffered no pain that he can remember it does not make him any less a victim.
It is hard to talk about abuse and sexual assault on women and children.
It is much harder to talk about sexual abuse to men. So often, society reads and hears about women and children being abused. It has sadly become all too common on the daily news.
This week is national male abuse awareness week. It is time to give the guys a chance, for help, healing and hope.
On November 25th Patricia Mcknight, Butterfly Talk Radio host interviewed Mr. Philip Paris
an author along with several others to discuss the topic of male survivors.
I am a sexual abuse survivor and have grown accustomed to telling my story and sharing with other women in their story of survivorship. I must admit though, the prospect of discussing male abuse, sexual or otherwise, makes me uncomfortable. All the more reason to talk about it. Male abuse effects me and if you think it does not effect you, think again. It is time to help raise awareness for this and the generations to come. If you know a male abuse survivor the following are a few links to help both you and your survivor.
P. Luna Foundation
http://help4guys.org/
http://www.malesurvivor.org/
http://www.naasca.org/2011-Articles/120111-MaleAbuseAwarenessWeek-NAASCA.htm
My son is two and when I look at him and think about the fact he is on the cusp of the same age I was when first abused.... it kills me. As a mother, I would die for him. I can barely handle the thought of my son ever being bullied without tears. I have posted before about teaching my son word power as a step in preventing him from being abused by others. It is a step in the right direction and it is important. I always remember... abuse can happen to ANYONE.
My husband, a leader and strong personality was himself once a victim of rape. As a child someone decided they had more power over him and took advantage. Although he suffered no pain that he can remember it does not make him any less a victim.
It is hard to talk about abuse and sexual assault on women and children.
It is much harder to talk about sexual abuse to men. So often, society reads and hears about women and children being abused. It has sadly become all too common on the daily news.
This week is national male abuse awareness week. It is time to give the guys a chance, for help, healing and hope.
On November 25th Patricia Mcknight, Butterfly Talk Radio host interviewed Mr. Philip Paris
an author along with several others to discuss the topic of male survivors.
I am a sexual abuse survivor and have grown accustomed to telling my story and sharing with other women in their story of survivorship. I must admit though, the prospect of discussing male abuse, sexual or otherwise, makes me uncomfortable. All the more reason to talk about it. Male abuse effects me and if you think it does not effect you, think again. It is time to help raise awareness for this and the generations to come. If you know a male abuse survivor the following are a few links to help both you and your survivor.
P. Luna Foundation
http://help4guys.org/
http://www.malesurvivor.org/
http://www.naasca.org/2011-Articles/120111-MaleAbuseAwarenessWeek-NAASCA.htm
Friday, November 22, 2013
Fellow Survivor, Author of the Year
Fellow survivors,
In a previous post, I encouraged victims to tell their story to someone. Today, I want to share with you about wonderful soul who found the courage to tell her story.
Her name is Patricia McKnight she is an Advocate, Author, Speaker, Blogger, Writer and fellow Survivor/Warrior. Basically she is a renaissance warrior super hero.
Okay, well, that's what I am calling her anyway.
She grew up in a nightmare at the hands of her step father an abusive, child molester and rapist. In her self published book My Justice, Patricia tells about her childhood and how she survived. She shares about her struggles even into adult and the hardships she suffered. I have read her book and found it to be an amazing example of survivor truths. It is never too late to tell, heal and help others.
Patricia is the founder and CEO of a not-for-profit blog talk radio called Butterfly Dreams. "Butterfly Dreams Talk Radio, a community outreach broadcast production of Butterfly Dreams Abuse Recovery." According to their website they help victims, survivors, family and communities dealing with violence, abuse and/or trafficking.
As you can see Ms. McKnight is not only telling her story and truths she is helping others find their voice and get help. I would like to ask fellow survivors who can, to help our friend by sharing on any of our social media outlets the following link. This will help in making Patricia Author Of The Year . Please share this link with the hashtag #Marsocial , each share will help spread the word about Patricia's book, work and give her a vote for this competition. There is not limit to how many times you can share/vote.
Let's make noise and show the world what survivors and warriors are capable of.
Join me in helping others through the work of Patricia McKnight.
Thanks everyone!
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Find Your Courage
Survivors will never forget that first time they told their truth. I remember the first time I called what happened to me rape. I could not even say the word. I am so glad someone heard me and protected me... FINALLY.
If you or someone you know, needs help check out RAINN .
I believe in you. I support and encourage you.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
I Know the Reason
I know the reason.
As a child it was always my place to sleep closest to the bedroom door.
I know the reason.
I remember watching the light under the door it would keep me up late so many nights. Light at night gives some form of stress. Will I see the light break tonight as he steps into my door way?
I know the reason.
At night I wake up when I hear footsteps. I remember listening for them as a child. Were they headed to the bathroom, the kitchen, or my bedroom?
I know the reason.
Hearing someone breathing on me at night especially if their nose whistles grates my nerves.
I know the reason.
Night never means rest, it means waiting. It means exhausting myself with tension, fear and feelings of impending doom until I fall asleep. That's how it's been most of my life.
I know the reason.
Falling asleep in my closet, under my bed, outside in the shed, anywhere but in bed, in the spot closest to the door was a crime.
I know the reason.
Hands with leather work gloves remind me of him and my blood boils.
I know the reason.
The feeling of his chest up against me from behind, as he would squeeze me until I was in so much pain and out of breath I'd collapse, brings tears to my eyes to remember.
I know the reason.
As a child it was always my place to sleep closest to the bedroom door.
I know the reason.
I remember watching the light under the door it would keep me up late so many nights. Light at night gives some form of stress. Will I see the light break tonight as he steps into my door way?
I know the reason.
At night I wake up when I hear footsteps. I remember listening for them as a child. Were they headed to the bathroom, the kitchen, or my bedroom?
I know the reason.
Hearing someone breathing on me at night especially if their nose whistles grates my nerves.
I know the reason.
Night never means rest, it means waiting. It means exhausting myself with tension, fear and feelings of impending doom until I fall asleep. That's how it's been most of my life.
I know the reason.
Falling asleep in my closet, under my bed, outside in the shed, anywhere but in bed, in the spot closest to the door was a crime.
I know the reason.
Hands with leather work gloves remind me of him and my blood boils.
I know the reason.
The feeling of his chest up against me from behind, as he would squeeze me until I was in so much pain and out of breath I'd collapse, brings tears to my eyes to remember.
I know the reason.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Mommy Issues
It's a common label society has given to women who choose to live provocative lives. "She's got Daddy issues."
Every Mother's day and Birthday these past few years have been bittersweet.
I used spend this day having "Girl Time" with my mother, sister and Nanny.
We would go out to eat and spend the day doing whatever Mom and Nanny wanted usually.
I remember one year Mom and Nanny were going to a conference for the weekend. My sister and I worked hard to clean the house and cook so when mom got home she would have nothing to stress about and everyone would be taken care of.
Now, I spend these kind of days trying to enjoy and be thankful for what I do have but, at some point something will remind me "You don't have a mother anymore." Not because she is dead... no, she is very much alive. She just chose a rapist over me.
There were times growing up that I believed I was close to my mom. She never hit me, once she broke her last wooden spoon on my rear end that's it. She didn't have to rule me with an iron fist. She didn't have one anyway. She knew she could count on me to take care of chores and organizing school or office work because eventually I would get sick of seeing it all piled up. I was a caregiver so I was counted on to care for any and all that were ill, be it human or animal.
She loved it when I would "nest" and have one room in the house tore apart because it was my "project" I had this drive to tear up a room and clean it out, reorganize and throw away junk.
I don't know that I enjoyed the renovating of a disgusting, cluttered, overloaded room so much as I enjoyed the feeling of it being clean afterwards. I had a knack for sorting, organizing, stacking, filing,
cleaning and even throwing away things that my mother did not.
My parents were hoarders. My father collected old tractors, machinery, tools etc. My mother collected books, papers, clutter etc. Add to this laundry for 9 people and various farm pets in and out of the house and it could get nasty, fast.
My mother knew the house needed to be cleaned but, she really had no idea how to handle and run a house that operated like grand central station, only the trains never had a schedule.
She was overwhelmed, had no ambition to conquer the place and part of me believes I helped enable this whether I meant to or not.
If I went to cleaning and taking on a project room my mother was so kind and close to me. She would fuss about what a wonderful job I was doing. She sat on her computer bragging to her friends about it. She would get inspired and cook a meal or tend to the ever growing piles of dishes and laundry.
When I was done, the house had a wonderful peacefulness that lasted for a day or two.
As a result when the house's chronic angers seemed more than I could handle my one of two escapes was destroying and redoing a room in the house.
Whatever room I cleaned and organized, was sat in and enjoyed as the new family room. We would all gather in that room and spend time teasing each other, playing games and pretending we were all comedians.
Mother loved this. She loved watching us all interact and laughing together.
She knew she could count on me to have a cleaning spurt, get tired of living in filth and clean.
I wonder if at times she relied on these spurts to give her happiness. She wanted her children to all get along and love each other. She wanted to have a clean house but had no idea how to do it or at least that is what she claimed. She said her own mother did all the house work when she was growing up so she had no idea how to keep a house.
When I think of my mother, I think of a short, stout built woman who sat at her computer or on the phone with friends and felt she deserved a reward for every load of laundry or dishes she did.
I kind of resent her. I wanted her to enjoy me for me. I know she didn't because she told me that I was "the girl in school everyone hated" and she did not know how she could raise such a person. I was loud, bossy and got results (AKA my way) she loved and hated that about me.
She did not like to fight or argue with me. I was defensive and could be an antagonist if I felt I could make it work for me. I studied my mother and her guilt trips. I learned which of her threats were just that and when she really meant it. I also knew that with my mother I could make her crazy angry in the morning and win back her love and affection if I did the house work and left her alone long enough to cool off.
I had to take care of my father when he got home from work. Fix him a drink, serve his dinner plate, pull off his boots and make sure the remote was near so he could watch the news. Taking care of mom consisted of cleaning for her. When my mother was sick I was the caretaker. I remember my mother being so sick for so long once that I was scared she was going to die. She refused to go to the doctor. Friends begged her to go and I volunteered daily to help her get cleaned up and take her myself. I was so afraid for her and so mad at her and my father for letting her stay that way. She spent three weeks in bed or on the recliner in the living room. I cried in my room at night begging God to not let her die. "I can't live with him without her, he's already mean and he will only get worse without her." I said in my prayer. I baked bread and made at least one meal everyday. I had to iron for my father. I had to listen for her whimpers from the living room. I was only 15-16 at the time and still had to go to the ranch with my brothers to help feed and care for the cattle. I tried to hide my fear of waking up one morning to discover she was dead.
To this day, I resent her for that. Our roles were reversed too often when I was growing up. I believed for so many years I had to protect her. I had to take care of her.
When I moved out, I barely heard from her. Often when I finally did call her she would complain that I always called at the worst time. I would go months without hearing from her. I spent several years being in torment over missing her and still being angry with her for my childhood. I wanted her and my father to divorce so I could take care of her and maybe she could love me then.
I shed tears even now, writing this because I miss her and yet I am so angry with her.
I believed I could've let go of all these things and have her in my life with a healthy relationship between us IF she had simply not chosen a rapist over me.
This choice she made, is the straw that broke the camels back. It is too late for us to ever be reconciled because of this.
I don't swing from poles, struggle with addiction or have any diagnosis on paper that says "She is Crazy". I don't judge anyone who finds themselves with these life choices or burdens either. I am complicated, stubborn, hard to love even. I know what it's like to have "Daddy issues" and I am also painfully aware of my "Mommy issues". Sometimes I feel mothering is all I am good for and yet, it is the one thing I am the most insecure about. I constantly question what message my two year old is getting from me? Does he ever feel like he has to make me happy? Does he feel like he has to protect me? Does he think he has to perform for my life and affection? I have Mommy issues and Mother issues.
The hard truth now is. It's no longer my Mother's fault. She is gone and this is my burden now.
You know if she is swinging from a pole, selling her body or is just complicated... She must have daddy issues.
I want to know where the "mommies" are in these girls lives?
Where are the mothers who raised these trifling, sad, crazy, lonely and every other label society blankets them with, women?
Where are the moms whose daughters run away from their abusive fathers, cousins and uncles? Where are the moms who live in the very same house with their child's rapists as abusers?
Where is their sight? Where is their voice? Where is her will to survive or fight for her child?
Every Mother's day and Birthday these past few years have been bittersweet.
I used spend this day having "Girl Time" with my mother, sister and Nanny.
We would go out to eat and spend the day doing whatever Mom and Nanny wanted usually.
I remember one year Mom and Nanny were going to a conference for the weekend. My sister and I worked hard to clean the house and cook so when mom got home she would have nothing to stress about and everyone would be taken care of.
Now, I spend these kind of days trying to enjoy and be thankful for what I do have but, at some point something will remind me "You don't have a mother anymore." Not because she is dead... no, she is very much alive. She just chose a rapist over me.
There were times growing up that I believed I was close to my mom. She never hit me, once she broke her last wooden spoon on my rear end that's it. She didn't have to rule me with an iron fist. She didn't have one anyway. She knew she could count on me to take care of chores and organizing school or office work because eventually I would get sick of seeing it all piled up. I was a caregiver so I was counted on to care for any and all that were ill, be it human or animal.
She loved it when I would "nest" and have one room in the house tore apart because it was my "project" I had this drive to tear up a room and clean it out, reorganize and throw away junk.
I don't know that I enjoyed the renovating of a disgusting, cluttered, overloaded room so much as I enjoyed the feeling of it being clean afterwards. I had a knack for sorting, organizing, stacking, filing,
cleaning and even throwing away things that my mother did not.
My parents were hoarders. My father collected old tractors, machinery, tools etc. My mother collected books, papers, clutter etc. Add to this laundry for 9 people and various farm pets in and out of the house and it could get nasty, fast.
My mother knew the house needed to be cleaned but, she really had no idea how to handle and run a house that operated like grand central station, only the trains never had a schedule.
She was overwhelmed, had no ambition to conquer the place and part of me believes I helped enable this whether I meant to or not.
If I went to cleaning and taking on a project room my mother was so kind and close to me. She would fuss about what a wonderful job I was doing. She sat on her computer bragging to her friends about it. She would get inspired and cook a meal or tend to the ever growing piles of dishes and laundry.
When I was done, the house had a wonderful peacefulness that lasted for a day or two.
As a result when the house's chronic angers seemed more than I could handle my one of two escapes was destroying and redoing a room in the house.
Whatever room I cleaned and organized, was sat in and enjoyed as the new family room. We would all gather in that room and spend time teasing each other, playing games and pretending we were all comedians.
Mother loved this. She loved watching us all interact and laughing together.
She knew she could count on me to have a cleaning spurt, get tired of living in filth and clean.
I wonder if at times she relied on these spurts to give her happiness. She wanted her children to all get along and love each other. She wanted to have a clean house but had no idea how to do it or at least that is what she claimed. She said her own mother did all the house work when she was growing up so she had no idea how to keep a house.
When I think of my mother, I think of a short, stout built woman who sat at her computer or on the phone with friends and felt she deserved a reward for every load of laundry or dishes she did.
I kind of resent her. I wanted her to enjoy me for me. I know she didn't because she told me that I was "the girl in school everyone hated" and she did not know how she could raise such a person. I was loud, bossy and got results (AKA my way) she loved and hated that about me.
She did not like to fight or argue with me. I was defensive and could be an antagonist if I felt I could make it work for me. I studied my mother and her guilt trips. I learned which of her threats were just that and when she really meant it. I also knew that with my mother I could make her crazy angry in the morning and win back her love and affection if I did the house work and left her alone long enough to cool off.
I had to take care of my father when he got home from work. Fix him a drink, serve his dinner plate, pull off his boots and make sure the remote was near so he could watch the news. Taking care of mom consisted of cleaning for her. When my mother was sick I was the caretaker. I remember my mother being so sick for so long once that I was scared she was going to die. She refused to go to the doctor. Friends begged her to go and I volunteered daily to help her get cleaned up and take her myself. I was so afraid for her and so mad at her and my father for letting her stay that way. She spent three weeks in bed or on the recliner in the living room. I cried in my room at night begging God to not let her die. "I can't live with him without her, he's already mean and he will only get worse without her." I said in my prayer. I baked bread and made at least one meal everyday. I had to iron for my father. I had to listen for her whimpers from the living room. I was only 15-16 at the time and still had to go to the ranch with my brothers to help feed and care for the cattle. I tried to hide my fear of waking up one morning to discover she was dead.
To this day, I resent her for that. Our roles were reversed too often when I was growing up. I believed for so many years I had to protect her. I had to take care of her.
When I moved out, I barely heard from her. Often when I finally did call her she would complain that I always called at the worst time. I would go months without hearing from her. I spent several years being in torment over missing her and still being angry with her for my childhood. I wanted her and my father to divorce so I could take care of her and maybe she could love me then.
I shed tears even now, writing this because I miss her and yet I am so angry with her.
I believed I could've let go of all these things and have her in my life with a healthy relationship between us IF she had simply not chosen a rapist over me.
This choice she made, is the straw that broke the camels back. It is too late for us to ever be reconciled because of this.
I don't swing from poles, struggle with addiction or have any diagnosis on paper that says "She is Crazy". I don't judge anyone who finds themselves with these life choices or burdens either. I am complicated, stubborn, hard to love even. I know what it's like to have "Daddy issues" and I am also painfully aware of my "Mommy issues". Sometimes I feel mothering is all I am good for and yet, it is the one thing I am the most insecure about. I constantly question what message my two year old is getting from me? Does he ever feel like he has to make me happy? Does he feel like he has to protect me? Does he think he has to perform for my life and affection? I have Mommy issues and Mother issues.
The hard truth now is. It's no longer my Mother's fault. She is gone and this is my burden now.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Abandoning The Family
I am not built like a man in any way. Fact is, most third graders in America probably outweigh me.
Suffice to say I am a twig of a human being physically. This fact never stopped me from attempting to work like a man though. On my grandparents ranch I saddled my horse all by myself as early as I can remember. I got in the sorting pens amongst 300 plus pound weaning steers and heifers and herded them with the cowboys. I have had my share of herds turning on me in the pens and running me over. I have had my share of being rammed by a full grown 2,000 lb cow up against a fence, the ground, and a truck door.
I have been stepped on, sat on, ran into, throw off of, and kicked by both horses and cattle more times than I can remember. However, even with all these "hazards of the job" I still found myself in love with horses and caring about the welfare of the cattle.
Nothing brought me more joy than the birth of a new calf or foal (baby cow or horse). I have witnessed this miracle literally hundreds of times in my short life and every time is still just as awe provoking as the last.
As I got older my grandmother turned over the responsibility of how the cattle were handled and worked to my father.
When Grandma was in charge we hired help to come out twice a year with horses and spend 3-4 days rounding up cattle. We would cut out the old cows who were beyond calving years, trade bulls to different pastures and take down all numbers for my grandma's records. We weaned, vaccinated, castrated, and de-horned 500-800 head of cattle in each round up. I rode across the 1,000 acres jumping creeks, swimming on horse back across ponds, getting bush whacked by buck brush and headed off a stray cow as best as my horse and I could.
I perfected my riding skills on these huge round ups and learned a lot about cattle and horse psychology.
As mentioned earlier my grandmother handed over the responsibility of these rounds up to my father.
He decided we did not need as much help and our green broke (poorly trained or newly trained) horses were enough to bring in the herds. He made me learn how to do all the castrating of the young bull calves so they could be sold as steers to the meat market.
I learned how to knotch ears, give vaccines, burn off horns, castrate bulls, deliver calves and more. I learned how to do it all by myself.
I learned how to operate the hydraulic chute (a metal box that holds the cattle still to be worked on) and I ran it well.
I had 4 brothers and a sister around at the time to help but none of them knew the whole system the way I did.
One afternoon during one of our "family only" round ups there was a cow in the sorting pens. She needed to be brought through the chute and checked. She was not one of our shorter red Limousine cattle (breed of cow). She was a much wider black Belgian cross. Basically, she was a big cow even for our chute and putting her through it was a risk.
On ranches it is a common practice to use shock sticks. They are a battery powered long stick that ranch hands use to "shock" a cow if they refuse to move or even at times get "stuck" in a corner. Cattle are so deeply herd minded they act blind or really stupid when they are being chased or driven and they will go in circles or stand in corners acting like they can't even see the direction they are being pushed or herded towards. When this happens a "bite" or "shock" is usually used to bring them out of it. However, the shock stick is over used often and can drive cattle over fences and make them charge too.
This wide black cow had made it into the chute and while she was being worked on she laid down in the chute. Cattle sometimes collapse under stress in tight spaces and that is what happened with this cow. My father grabbed the shock stick and repeatedly shocked the cow to get her to jump up. This is a great example of how this stick is misused. Like a tazer on a human beings the over use of shocking can cause the heart to act up and causes great distress in the body.
The cow was bawling and my father grew more angry the more he shocked her and she refused to get up. He beat on her, twisted her tail and shocked her more.
I finally screamed. I remember jerking the stick from his hand and yelling at him to stop it.
His eyes were wild and furious. I saw him clench his jaw and stare at me thinking of what to do next.
I couldn't stop my mouth now. I spent all day riding hard, getting knocked around, kicked and more. Between getting hungry and begging my mother to come pick me up early so I could leave (for what I don't remember anymore) I was spent. My filter was off and I just remember emptying my guts of things I wanted to yell at him for a long time. I returned his "You're so stupid" right to his face and at the top of my lungs I just kept yelling. "YOU CAN'T DO THIS! SHE'S DOWN, SHE'S STUCK! NO AMOUNT OF SHOCKING HER WILL GET HER UP!" This was, I am pretty sure, the cleanest of what I said and the only thing that made sense coming out of my mouth. I remember telling him we had to widen the chute and kick out the bottom board to get her up. He refused to listen and grabbed a regular board and busted it across her nose. She bellowed deep, and blood ran from her nostrils. I saw her eyes in a panic. More yelling and shouting took place and finally I kicked out the board myself. It was a miracle in a way. I am and was so tiny. The board was a actually a short heavy metal wall and with a cow laying up against it, getting it out should have been hard to say the least. I was furious and my adrenaline was up. After kicking out the board the cow jumped up and took several deep breaths and bellowed real deep again. Then I looked at my father and yelled "I TOLD YOU LARRY!"
It was an unspoken rule in the house not to call him by his first name. I had just broken that rule and I had no remorse.
This final outburst of rebellion was too much for him. He had held his tongue in front of my siblings and knew he was wrong, but there was no way I was going to get away with this. He swung at me and I dodged it. He then rose his hand up in the air positioning it to back hand me to the ground. I was still on an adrenaline rush and my eyes met his. I stepped closer into the swing and said "DO IT!"
He was caught off guard and hesitated. I took another step towards him and then in a very calm deep voice I said "It will be your last time."
My brothers were all witnessing this act of defiance and waited in fear and expectation of his next move.
I don't know if they were hoping to jump on him if he hit me or, if they were just as shocked about my blatant disrespect as he was and thinking I deserved whatever happened next.
What happened next was so strange (compared to other times) but, I was so glad it happened.
My father clenched his jaw more and straightened his body and dropped his hand from the air. He then took his index finger and pointed it right in my face and started yelling "You're a disrespectful brat, you are not helping anyone here. Leave and abandon us like you always do!"
Tears were welling up in my eyes from all the stress and the ever dropping rush of adrenaline. I turned and lifted my head as I "abandoned" my family in the barn and met mom at the car. I had tears in my eyes and she knew there had been a "disagreement" she was angry at ME for being the cause and being a brat "just running away from your responsibilities" she said.
I said nothing all the way home and left the house in my own car as soon as I got cleaned up.
I did eventually leave the family and "abandoned" them. It would take a couple more years before I cut them out of my life completely. I hold no regrets about this decision.
Suffice to say I am a twig of a human being physically. This fact never stopped me from attempting to work like a man though. On my grandparents ranch I saddled my horse all by myself as early as I can remember. I got in the sorting pens amongst 300 plus pound weaning steers and heifers and herded them with the cowboys. I have had my share of herds turning on me in the pens and running me over. I have had my share of being rammed by a full grown 2,000 lb cow up against a fence, the ground, and a truck door.
I have been stepped on, sat on, ran into, throw off of, and kicked by both horses and cattle more times than I can remember. However, even with all these "hazards of the job" I still found myself in love with horses and caring about the welfare of the cattle.
Nothing brought me more joy than the birth of a new calf or foal (baby cow or horse). I have witnessed this miracle literally hundreds of times in my short life and every time is still just as awe provoking as the last.
As I got older my grandmother turned over the responsibility of how the cattle were handled and worked to my father.
When Grandma was in charge we hired help to come out twice a year with horses and spend 3-4 days rounding up cattle. We would cut out the old cows who were beyond calving years, trade bulls to different pastures and take down all numbers for my grandma's records. We weaned, vaccinated, castrated, and de-horned 500-800 head of cattle in each round up. I rode across the 1,000 acres jumping creeks, swimming on horse back across ponds, getting bush whacked by buck brush and headed off a stray cow as best as my horse and I could.
I perfected my riding skills on these huge round ups and learned a lot about cattle and horse psychology.
As mentioned earlier my grandmother handed over the responsibility of these rounds up to my father.
He decided we did not need as much help and our green broke (poorly trained or newly trained) horses were enough to bring in the herds. He made me learn how to do all the castrating of the young bull calves so they could be sold as steers to the meat market.
I learned how to knotch ears, give vaccines, burn off horns, castrate bulls, deliver calves and more. I learned how to do it all by myself.
I learned how to operate the hydraulic chute (a metal box that holds the cattle still to be worked on) and I ran it well.
I had 4 brothers and a sister around at the time to help but none of them knew the whole system the way I did.
One afternoon during one of our "family only" round ups there was a cow in the sorting pens. She needed to be brought through the chute and checked. She was not one of our shorter red Limousine cattle (breed of cow). She was a much wider black Belgian cross. Basically, she was a big cow even for our chute and putting her through it was a risk.
On ranches it is a common practice to use shock sticks. They are a battery powered long stick that ranch hands use to "shock" a cow if they refuse to move or even at times get "stuck" in a corner. Cattle are so deeply herd minded they act blind or really stupid when they are being chased or driven and they will go in circles or stand in corners acting like they can't even see the direction they are being pushed or herded towards. When this happens a "bite" or "shock" is usually used to bring them out of it. However, the shock stick is over used often and can drive cattle over fences and make them charge too.
This wide black cow had made it into the chute and while she was being worked on she laid down in the chute. Cattle sometimes collapse under stress in tight spaces and that is what happened with this cow. My father grabbed the shock stick and repeatedly shocked the cow to get her to jump up. This is a great example of how this stick is misused. Like a tazer on a human beings the over use of shocking can cause the heart to act up and causes great distress in the body.
The cow was bawling and my father grew more angry the more he shocked her and she refused to get up. He beat on her, twisted her tail and shocked her more.
I finally screamed. I remember jerking the stick from his hand and yelling at him to stop it.
His eyes were wild and furious. I saw him clench his jaw and stare at me thinking of what to do next.
I couldn't stop my mouth now. I spent all day riding hard, getting knocked around, kicked and more. Between getting hungry and begging my mother to come pick me up early so I could leave (for what I don't remember anymore) I was spent. My filter was off and I just remember emptying my guts of things I wanted to yell at him for a long time. I returned his "You're so stupid" right to his face and at the top of my lungs I just kept yelling. "YOU CAN'T DO THIS! SHE'S DOWN, SHE'S STUCK! NO AMOUNT OF SHOCKING HER WILL GET HER UP!" This was, I am pretty sure, the cleanest of what I said and the only thing that made sense coming out of my mouth. I remember telling him we had to widen the chute and kick out the bottom board to get her up. He refused to listen and grabbed a regular board and busted it across her nose. She bellowed deep, and blood ran from her nostrils. I saw her eyes in a panic. More yelling and shouting took place and finally I kicked out the board myself. It was a miracle in a way. I am and was so tiny. The board was a actually a short heavy metal wall and with a cow laying up against it, getting it out should have been hard to say the least. I was furious and my adrenaline was up. After kicking out the board the cow jumped up and took several deep breaths and bellowed real deep again. Then I looked at my father and yelled "I TOLD YOU LARRY!"
It was an unspoken rule in the house not to call him by his first name. I had just broken that rule and I had no remorse.
This final outburst of rebellion was too much for him. He had held his tongue in front of my siblings and knew he was wrong, but there was no way I was going to get away with this. He swung at me and I dodged it. He then rose his hand up in the air positioning it to back hand me to the ground. I was still on an adrenaline rush and my eyes met his. I stepped closer into the swing and said "DO IT!"
He was caught off guard and hesitated. I took another step towards him and then in a very calm deep voice I said "It will be your last time."
My brothers were all witnessing this act of defiance and waited in fear and expectation of his next move.
I don't know if they were hoping to jump on him if he hit me or, if they were just as shocked about my blatant disrespect as he was and thinking I deserved whatever happened next.
What happened next was so strange (compared to other times) but, I was so glad it happened.
My father clenched his jaw more and straightened his body and dropped his hand from the air. He then took his index finger and pointed it right in my face and started yelling "You're a disrespectful brat, you are not helping anyone here. Leave and abandon us like you always do!"
Tears were welling up in my eyes from all the stress and the ever dropping rush of adrenaline. I turned and lifted my head as I "abandoned" my family in the barn and met mom at the car. I had tears in my eyes and she knew there had been a "disagreement" she was angry at ME for being the cause and being a brat "just running away from your responsibilities" she said.
I said nothing all the way home and left the house in my own car as soon as I got cleaned up.
I did eventually leave the family and "abandoned" them. It would take a couple more years before I cut them out of my life completely. I hold no regrets about this decision.
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