Today I am thankful for my past and the wisdom my stupid parents gave me.
Yes, I know DaddyOFive and MommyOFive will probably never see this.
It may help for this to get out into the universal consciousness.
I KNOW the reason the internet is pissed off and concerned is because too many kids live this nightmare.
*****
Most of the crap I write here is....crap. It's mostly based on gossip.
This isn't crap. As the saying goes 'truth is stranger than fiction.'
I've been told a famous congresswoman is trying to get my sister to write a book, so I don't want to give too much away. She's so supportive of my sister, it's hard to admit I've built websites for people who run against her (my badd....).
We had parents like Michael and Heather Martin.
Luckily, in the 70's my parents couldn't afford a camcorder. We were, for the most part, spared the public humiliation.
Pranks aren't pranks.
Sometimes they are deadly. If the Martins continue on this path, they may not live very long.
Let me explain.
*****************************
My parents wanted to name me Patsy.
Isn't that the perfect name for a scapegoat?
Patsy.
I certainly identify with the red-headed scapegoat of the Martin family.
******************************
I was due to be born in early-November. My mother didn't want a Scorpio, so she took a bunch of drugs in an effort to abort.
Fate has a sense of humor. I came into this world on Labor day and nearly died. The Latter Day Saints prayed over me for days, telling my family that I would live to be a famous speaker in their church.
I love public speaking -but- I don't think they'd like the things I have to say about modern religion.
The nurses called me baby girl. That's my name - Australian slang for girl - I'm a sheila.
******************************
My sister came into the world in much the same way. You'd think my parents only copulated on Valentine's Day or something.
Same due date. Same birth circumstances. We are only a few years and a few days apart. We often celebrated our birthdays on the same day.
The nurses couldn't name my sister girl this time. They named her by the tint in her hair. She's a ginger.
That poor little baby spent weeks in ICU. There were no Mormon missionaries giving her a life mission.
She had it worse than I....much, much worse.
******************************
My parents were pranksters, too.
Well, I say parents. It was my mother and step-father. My step-father ran my father off when I was seven. Luckily, I had the opportunity to learn for myself that my father was less than stellar when I was older.
My mother and step-father would play games. Sometimes they would splatter ketchup on everything and pretend they were dead.
They ruined so many books doing that.
Books....that was my only savior. For as long as I could remember, they'd get mad and lock me in a room with hypnosis, tantric and witchcraft books. That's probably why I know so much about the spells and hypnosis and why sex education/health psychology was my focus of study in graduate school.
Strange....getting back to the story.....
There were other games, too.
Once someone spit chewing tobacco into the toilet on Halloween.
I was beat for that.
It was either me or my baby sister.
It was easier to feel the pain than to hear her cry.
My ass must be leather because I didn't feel a thing.
After a while, nothing hurt me.
Punishments, to work, have to become stronger and stronger or else a child will become immune to them.
I developed a tolerance for the pain.
So, my abusive step-father started killing animals to get my attention.
This is probably the source of my rage against the local pound.....but that's another story for another day.
In the 70's people could kill animals and no one batted an eye. Now, you rightfully get owned for killing an animal. The people who own that shelter (e.g. taxpayers) will stake their claim eventually. The owning up to the behavior will come.....just not soon enough.
*************************************
I referred to my parents' pranks as "White Trash Theater" because that's exactly what it was.
Trashy.....Theater
The trash got worse as I grew up. The abuse became sexual. I was a religious nut. My step-father didn't get to touch me because I got very good at kicking him off of me and running to the firehouse for help.
I had my eyes on being married in the temple. No one was going to ruin that for me.
We didn't have a phone so it was hard to get help. I had to arrange to be away from home.
Teachers would pick me up and take me out of there to volunteer at school. People from church would pick me up and take me out of there (not only the Mormons but the Baptists would promise food to my mom in exchange for taking me to church gatherings). Relatives would pick me up and take me out of there.
I had creative heroes in my life.
I think they saved me.
My sister wasn't as lucky as I.
She chose to stay home with mom.
Eventually a wise social worker picked us up and took US out of there.
We were placed in foster care.
We still visited my parents. During one of these visits, the game turned tragic.
If it weren't for the foster homes, my sister and I would have thought this stuff to be normal.
Think about that for a moment.....
************************************
Heather Martin, do you want to know what happened to my mom?
During one of these pranks, my step-father grabbed a cat and kicked it. Then he went after my sister.
I was too busy protecting my sister to protect my mom.
I was fourteen. I was her size. I could have protected her. I had to choose. I chose my sister.
My step-father gave my mother pills.
She refused to take them. So he grabbed her by her hair, shoved the pills in her mouth and massaged her throat until she swallowed.
Then he turned on the burner on our gas stove, while my mother was choking on the pills, grabbed her face and shoved it on the burner.
Her hair caught fire.
At this point, I took my sister outside and ran to the firehouse two blocks away. My step-father's brother was the fire chief. He claimed my mother committed suicide. I KNOW the truth. My sister KNOWS the truth.
It was Valentine's day 1984. My mother died on her birthday - two days later.
The very next time I was in that apartment was 2015. I bought a washer off of Craigslist. The washer was in the very spot I last saw my mother breathing on her own. I was relieved when I saw that the new landlord installed electric stoves.
Heather, get help.
This guy is going to use you for whatever he wants. From some of the things I've found online, he's used you to harass his ex-wife.
You'll always be scapegoated for his behavior.
He'll make himself out to be the victim.
If you think you're not in danger, think again.
This man is dangerous.
The situation is dangerous.
All those things he has done to the women before you will happen to you. Yeah, it's not uncommon for these guys to groom new women to abuse their exes.
I'm sorry it happened to you.
I don't want you to suffer the same fate as my mother.
Yeah....you might think it's a stretch to say you're going to get killed. I'm not so sure. There was the video where you pretended that the house was broken into.....and he grabbed a firearm.
If you care......
I know what my parent's prank was....it was incredibly dumb. My mother feigned jealousy because a man at the store called me pretty. My step-father must've took it too seriously. Why would my mom need the attention of other men?
He beat her over a prank.
It was a nightmare living there. I know death was kinder to my mother than the life she was living.
My mom died on her 36th birthday. She couldn't have been that much older than you.
*******************************************
Michael Martin, do you want to know what happened to my step-father?
He shot himself in the head three years later.
He did this in front of my sister. She claimed he was playing Russian Roulette. He shot at her first. She was fourteen.
It would have seemed like a prank except.....he was hit.
We let him languish in the hospital for three days before the doctors got the okay to pull the plug on him.
He was a narcissist, too. If I could hold a séance and talk to him, I'd tell him that out of spite we had an open casket funeral so people could see what remained of his head.
The make-up couldn't do too much to conceal the damage.
He was buried in an ugly suit, too.
Yep, we gave that narcissist a final insult.
I wore a sparkly silver party dress to his funeral. I told everyone he would have wanted me to remember him with joy rather than sadness.
I lied.
It's not nice to say -but- I can love him in death far more than I could love that man in life.
I was happy NEVER to have to see him ever again.
********************************************
These people are abusers.
There is NO spin on the planet that will change that.
None.....
Mr. Martin - get help. I'm not going to diagnose you but I'm going to bet someone already has.
Mrs. Martin - you're not a tool, stop acting like one.
For the kids, I pray they turn out like my sister and I.
Except for one thing....I pray they don't have my fearlessness. You see, after living like that, I've become fearless.
Nothing fazes me (except the abuse of other people). I don't fear bodily harm.
The problem with that is that I've tolerated all sorts of crap from people I shouldn't tolerate it from. It took me 45 years to learn that my patience is what gets me into trouble.
Yes, I'll be the first to admit that I'm a hateful bitch. I'm a well educated hateful bitch who dabbles in politics. If something moves me enough, I'll find a way to change it. Sometimes, I have to convince other people to change it.
Things will change. Things always change. Sometimes they just need a little push.
My sister is a licensed nurse who is known in political circles for advocating for former sex workers. She's a Democrat. I'm nothing. Sometimes I wonder if she's the reason some Democrat lawmakers help me out on issues.
Given what we've been through,
it could be worse....
We could be drug addicts.
We could be on welfare.
We could play White Trash Theater to get clicks on YouTube.
We both outlived our parents by many, many years.
Our children are growing up. Every one of our children who has reached the age of majority has gone to college (so far we have a paralegal, an engineer, a medical student and an aspiring social worker).
Think about that......
So much for the myth of the cycle of poverty.
I hope these children are transitional characters, too.
I hope the crap they've endured will make them stronger.
I hope the crap they've endured will endow them with empathy but not fearlessness.
I hope they learn from the mistakes of their parents so that they are not doomed to repeat them.
As far Michael and Heather Martin, I hope they change their course. If they continue on this course, they probably won't live very long.
Mark my words,
S.