I live in Texas. I have four children. Ida was my paternal grandmother who lived her entire life with an alcoholic preacher. She loved Jesus and would’ve danced on her husband’s grave if her sons hadn’t beaten her to it. Mae was my maternal grandmother who’s story wasn’t much better. Ida Mae seemed appropriate and I like it. I think I’ll keep it. But I am not hiding any longer.
I’ve been gone a long time.
Just about the time I finally grew the manparts necessary to write about the violence and fear we lived with for decades, my four children found the blog. Believe me, you want to trigger a bunch of kiddies birthed into a home dominated by a raging bully, just write an innocent little blog post about the crazy man beating their dog. It’s a good thing that cell phone plan had unlimited minutes, just saying.
Next up, the divorce drama kicked into motion. (Finally.) I’ll write an update first thing. In fact, I’ve got enough fodder for several years of updates and bitter/angry/feminist blog rants. Some self-editing might be in order.
In two weeks, I’ll stand before a judge and celebrate God’s merciful gift of divorce in this broken world. My new friends are taking me out shortly thereafter. I am one fortunate, blessed, to be envied woman.
Last winter, I started work as a school nurse. Never, ever saw myself working in a public school or as a nurse ever again but God knows me so much better than I know myself. I love my job with a passion you only discover after living in hell for thirty years. My son and I found a little rental in a townhome community with big oak trees outside the windows and an awesome swimming pool outside the front door. We floated around all last summer just for fun and I bought three swimsuits with polka dots and cherries from Walmart, just because it felt so good to flounce around without someone telling me five times a day that I need to work out.
I’ll keep writing because I have no choice. Years of lies, half-truths, compromises, deceit– evil found root and grew because a bully bought my silence. The time comes when you own your story or you slip back to the quicksand of doubting the reality of who you were and what you left behind and why you had to leave in the first place. I do not want to repeat the patterns of generations previous. I want better for my kids. I want freedom. In my heart, I write for Ida and Mae.
For my friends here, thank you for your support and kindness during this time.
Today, I updated the About Me portion of this blog. Click on the link above and scroll down to the bottom if interested.