When Ties Break: Thriving After Loss
A web site hosted by
Margaret Norton devoted to
creating abuse and
domestic violence awareness.
Book Excerpts
My father was barely cold in the ground. The asbestos he had worked with for a short time as a young man had finally taken his life. The cancer struck during his first year of retirement and would rob my parents of all the things they had planned to do in their golden years. In spite of the many prayers offered up to God for his healing, in spite of God's work he still wanted to do, and in spite of how much I wanted him to stay, it was not meant to be. A life well lived had come to an end, before I was ready to let him go.
His scent lingered in the bedroom where he had spent his last days. It was a mixture of medicine, old spice and a sick man confined to his room for weeks. The blinds were open with sun shine pouring in while his favorite flowers adorned the room. But the flowers could not cancel out the smell of his death. Just down the hall his office remained untouched. It was here that he had spent much of his time preparing sermons and talking to God. Built in bookcases held reference books and treasured mementos he had spent his life collecting.
Sitting at the dining room table sipping a cup of hot tea, I suddenly had a premonition that something horrible was about to happen. What could be more terrible than burying a parent? Even though I had planned to stay longer, it was as if I were being compelled to return to my own home.
Placing the suitcase at the side door, I went into the den to tell my mother I had decided to go home for a few days. Just as I finished hugging her goodbye and turned to speak with my sister, the horrible feeling came true. Stan approached me with a snarl on his face.
The saddest day of my father's life had been in July of 1984 when my sister, Pam, had lost her battle with cancer at the age of 36. He learned to accept her death, but in some ways he never got over it. On the day of his death two of the people that I had loved the most would now be together, but I had been left behind. Left to fight with a brother that had disowned me, a sister caught in the middle, and a mother unequipped to handle this family tragedy.
Thomas Moore in Soul Mates says, "The heart has its own reasons. When we try to understand why some relationships come into being and others fall apart, why some families are nurturing and others devastating...we come face to face with the unknown core of the human heart. Rather than finding solutions for understanding and controlling this heart, we may have no recourse but to honor its mysteries."
This is the true story of my life. It is a story of emotional and physical abuse, loss and pain, the struggle to find myself and to understand God. It is a story of survival and rebirth, and it is my hope that it will be an inspiration to those who are discouraged, desperate to find their way, or whose faith in God has grown weak.
In 1951 I was born in Martin County Hospital in Williamston, a small town in northeastern North Carolina. Christmas was almost here; our house was sparsely decorated with homemade ornaments, and there were a few gifts under the tree. It had been several years since my father had been discharged from the Marines and had surrendered his life to the call of God.
He had organized a church, but it was small, and money was tight. My mother had more than she could handle with three children under the age of six and me on the way. My due date was Christmas day, but I chose to come three days late. Perhaps I knew the hardships that awaited me and did not want to leave the safety of my mother's warm womb. Coming late was a precursor - for many years I would feel that I was always trying to catch up.
My father was warm and loving, but in many ways, my mother was cold and withdrawn. My relationship with my father developed naturally, and we were close. He was always generous with his hugs but my mother had difficulty showing affection. I struggled to know her and felt that I needed much more from her than she was capable of giving.
"Beulah, you shouldn't do that at the eating table," my father lectured. As usual, I was playing in my food while waiting to see what my grandmother would do next. Long before we had a TV, she was our comic relief. My mother was sick most of the time we lived on the island. She was often gone for weeks, either hospitalized for medical conditions or receiving shock treatments at Dorothy Dix, the state mental hospital. During her absences, my grandmother would sometimes stay with us, other times I'd be sent to an aunt's house, and sometimes my immediate family members would watch me.
In some ways, it seems we raised ourselves. This would change as time went by, but it would be too late to fix the damage that had been done while we were growing up. As the baby child, I just wanted to be like my brother and sisters - to do what they did and go where they went. But as all babies in the family, I was usually told that I was too young.
"Stop whining. Stop picking your nose. Go to your room. Leave us alone. Get lost. You're too little."
Tattling became what I could do to get back at them. Sometimes when they were doing something they should not be doing, my dad would ask "Have you seen Stan and Olivia?"
As a child, I did not realize the resentment my sibling felt toward me. I just knew we fought a lot. I must have thought that was normal. Through the years, I have asked God to help me understand my relationship with them, thinking if I could figure out the problems, I could fix them. I preferred to be alone as a child. That seemed easier. Since I didn't have a lot of playmates, the island where we lived became a whole new world for me to explore.
As often as I could, I'd go out in my skiff. Usually by myself since it really wasn't large enough for two people. Most of the time I'd stay close to home. One day though, I got too far away, so far that I couldn't see my house anymore. No matter how hard I rowed, I could not get the boat to go in the right direction. I knew it would be dark soon for I could see the sun getting lower and lower over the water.
His scent lingered in the bedroom where he had spent his last days. It was a mixture of medicine, old spice and a sick man confined to his room for weeks. The blinds were open with sun shine pouring in while his favorite flowers adorned the room. But the flowers could not cancel out the smell of his death. Just down the hall his office remained untouched. It was here that he had spent much of his time preparing sermons and talking to God. Built in bookcases held reference books and treasured mementos he had spent his life collecting.
Sitting at the dining room table sipping a cup of hot tea, I suddenly had a premonition that something horrible was about to happen. What could be more terrible than burying a parent? Even though I had planned to stay longer, it was as if I were being compelled to return to my own home.
Placing the suitcase at the side door, I went into the den to tell my mother I had decided to go home for a few days. Just as I finished hugging her goodbye and turned to speak with my sister, the horrible feeling came true. Stan approached me with a snarl on his face.
The saddest day of my father's life had been in July of 1984 when my sister, Pam, had lost her battle with cancer at the age of 36. He learned to accept her death, but in some ways he never got over it. On the day of his death two of the people that I had loved the most would now be together, but I had been left behind. Left to fight with a brother that had disowned me, a sister caught in the middle, and a mother unequipped to handle this family tragedy.
Thomas Moore in Soul Mates says, "The heart has its own reasons. When we try to understand why some relationships come into being and others fall apart, why some families are nurturing and others devastating...we come face to face with the unknown core of the human heart. Rather than finding solutions for understanding and controlling this heart, we may have no recourse but to honor its mysteries."
This is the true story of my life. It is a story of emotional and physical abuse, loss and pain, the struggle to find myself and to understand God. It is a story of survival and rebirth, and it is my hope that it will be an inspiration to those who are discouraged, desperate to find their way, or whose faith in God has grown weak.
In 1951 I was born in Martin County Hospital in Williamston, a small town in northeastern North Carolina. Christmas was almost here; our house was sparsely decorated with homemade ornaments, and there were a few gifts under the tree. It had been several years since my father had been discharged from the Marines and had surrendered his life to the call of God.
He had organized a church, but it was small, and money was tight. My mother had more than she could handle with three children under the age of six and me on the way. My due date was Christmas day, but I chose to come three days late. Perhaps I knew the hardships that awaited me and did not want to leave the safety of my mother's warm womb. Coming late was a precursor - for many years I would feel that I was always trying to catch up.
My father was warm and loving, but in many ways, my mother was cold and withdrawn. My relationship with my father developed naturally, and we were close. He was always generous with his hugs but my mother had difficulty showing affection. I struggled to know her and felt that I needed much more from her than she was capable of giving.
"Beulah, you shouldn't do that at the eating table," my father lectured. As usual, I was playing in my food while waiting to see what my grandmother would do next. Long before we had a TV, she was our comic relief. My mother was sick most of the time we lived on the island. She was often gone for weeks, either hospitalized for medical conditions or receiving shock treatments at Dorothy Dix, the state mental hospital. During her absences, my grandmother would sometimes stay with us, other times I'd be sent to an aunt's house, and sometimes my immediate family members would watch me.
In some ways, it seems we raised ourselves. This would change as time went by, but it would be too late to fix the damage that had been done while we were growing up. As the baby child, I just wanted to be like my brother and sisters - to do what they did and go where they went. But as all babies in the family, I was usually told that I was too young.
"Stop whining. Stop picking your nose. Go to your room. Leave us alone. Get lost. You're too little."
Tattling became what I could do to get back at them. Sometimes when they were doing something they should not be doing, my dad would ask "Have you seen Stan and Olivia?"
As a child, I did not realize the resentment my sibling felt toward me. I just knew we fought a lot. I must have thought that was normal. Through the years, I have asked God to help me understand my relationship with them, thinking if I could figure out the problems, I could fix them. I preferred to be alone as a child. That seemed easier. Since I didn't have a lot of playmates, the island where we lived became a whole new world for me to explore.
As often as I could, I'd go out in my skiff. Usually by myself since it really wasn't large enough for two people. Most of the time I'd stay close to home. One day though, I got too far away, so far that I couldn't see my house anymore. No matter how hard I rowed, I could not get the boat to go in the right direction. I knew it would be dark soon for I could see the sun getting lower and lower over the water.
