The Road To Normal

Preface

There are many people who have had a much harder life than me. Tragedy is an unavoidable part of life, no question about it. Unfortunately... people are mentally isolated from each other, and we hide our problems. As if the human condition is not something we all share.

Children can get lost in the system, and go through unthinkable circumstances. Even though people are all around them, no one really notices the undercurrents of torment and sadness.

I know because... I experienced it.

I’m not looking for sympathy, but it’s important to write about my past for a number of reasons.

First... so my children will know why many things happened and recognize the same patterns of behavior in their own lives.

Second... if there is someone in a similar situation, I want them to know they can survive and overcome what seems like impossible odds... and even find happiness in life.

Third... (Maybe this should be first)... To give glory to God {the true Father} who has sustained me through it all and saved me from myself and others.

And last but not least... It’s part of my recovery. Seeing the major events of my life in a timeline... patterns emerge. This helps me to understand what has contributed to the many ups and downs I’ve experienced in my life.

Intro

As I sit in the back yard of my Houston home, writing this, the sound of water splashing in a small pond, and the movement of flowers and shrubs in the wind, provide a soundtrack. The flowers and shrubs were carefully planted, by my wife and me. I built the pond myself. It was difficult to dig the hard clay ground, work the concrete mix, and place the bricks, which left blisters on all of my fingers. It took work to make these surroundings comfortable and peaceful. But, I learned early in life that, anything worth having... is worth working for. This was my first new home. During the first few months, I felt as if I were a guest in someone else’s home. It didn’t seem real because a home this nice couldn’t be mine. This home is a two-story brick home in a suburban neighborhood. The furnishings are modest, yet elegant.

Sitting here, under the wrought iron gazebo, enjoying a gentle breeze, usually lulls me into sleepy serenity. I listen to the water and the sound of the canvas top flapping in the breeze, taking in everything around me, and prepare to look back on a very troubled beginning...

It is by the grace of Almighty God, that I have made it through my childhood and early adulthood.

I am a survivor of physical abuse, verbal abuse, sexual abuse, extreme poverty, and neglect. I grew up in the middle of drugs, alcohol, and violence, even brainwashing. Brainwashing is telling someone the same thing over and over, until they can’t fight it mentally anymore, and they just accept it. My stepfather used to tell me repeatedly, that I would never be worth anything or have anything. I managed to survive my youth and prove him wrong. I have found an environment of stability, civility, and career success. In a word, normality, which is something I longed for, and worked hard to achieve...

Fast Forward

I am now 47 years old and 3 years have passed since I wrote the introduction you just read.

Most people will agree that somewhere around 40, scars and pain from physical injuries you suffered as a child, resurface. They remind you of the pain from the original injury. Sometimes they must be treated in order to remove their otherwise, lasting effect.

Amazingly, somewhere around 50, (earlier for me) scars and pain from psychological injuries also resurface. Once again you are reminded of the pain from the injury. Likewise, they too must be treated or dealt with, in order to remove their lasting effect. People going through this stage in life, are said to be going through a mid-life crisis. Crisis is a very appropriate word, because it is an extremely difficult and critical time. Many people lose everything they have worked for in their lives. They lose love.... dignity... direction.... sometimes, even life itself.

Thank God, that you cannot lose your salvation.

Like it or not, life really is a journey.... We are traveling through time and we pick up things along the way. Things that we carry with us everywhere we go. Like all travelers we carry baggage. All of us have baggage. This baggage weighs us down. We can’t seem to let go of it so we are not free to grab anything else... we just desperately (sometimes subconsciously) clutch this baggage. One type of baggage is Bitterness... Anger... and Resentment, which spells the word BAR.

When we have been wronged by someone and we can’t forget, we are imprisoned by these things. We look out beyond the bars, wishing we could be free, but we remain a prisoner. It’s been said that Bitterness... Anger... and Resentment... are a poison that we drink, hoping the other person will get sick. We keep waiting for them to get sick and keep drinking, becoming sicker ourselves, while the person who hurt us is completely unaffected.

Thanks to God, I survived my mid-life crisis, and everything is ok. So after a 3-year distraction, let’s begin....

Normal Life

Chapter One

I was born in 1959, in the days of black and white television, and Elvis. I’m told it was about 6 am, on June 22nd... The Wood County Hospital was located in Quitman, a small town in the middle of Texas. My family actually lived nearby, in Trout Creek, a rural town in the Alba community, not too far from Dallas.

My Dad’s father, Jimmie Lee Sr. was an auto mechanic. He had a reputation for being the best in the area. He was a tall thin man, with a stern and serious disposition. One of the few people I’ve ever known, who claimed to not like music. He told me stories about having worked on Bonnie and Clyde’s car, and racing through town in his 1930’s Model A Ford. He was a die-hard Ford man, who seemed to have a frivolous past, of which he volunteered little information. He was very passionate about baseball and used to listen to it on the radio, religiously. In his latter years, he became less mobile due to physical impairments and multiple heart attacks. The radio by his bed was his life.

My Dad’s mother, Katie Lucille was a cook in a restaurant, whose country recipes were second to none. She was a small woman with a pleasant and mildly comical disposition. She had a fiery temper and would chase you through the house with a skillet, broom, or whatever she could find, if you had done something wrong. She played the piano very well and had performed in piano recitals as a youth. Her favorite style was rag-time (the pop music of the 40’s). She could also sing really well.

When I spent the night with my grandparents, she slept with me on the sofa bed. We talked through the night about all kinds of things, important and unimportant.

My Dad’s only sister, Billie Ruth was the intellectual of the family. She worked as a switchboard operator, and later, at Texas Instruments Co. She was a few years older than my dad and treated him almost like a son. She was the breadwinner for her family and worked very hard to take care of them. She was a small woman, but surprisingly strong for her size. She had inherited her mother’s temper and could hold her own, physically and mentally, in any situation.

The three of them played a very important role in my survival as a child. Their influence still contributes to the quality of my life today. When my brother and I would visit them, they talked to us the entire visit, about right and wrong. Sometimes they talked so much it made our heads hurt from information overload. Their relentless effort to teach us became a voice in my head. They believed in striving for excellence in everything they tried to do. They also showed no exhaustion after hours of hard work, and were always willing to stand up for right against wrong. They had an abundance of determination, and no matter the odds, giving up was not an option. These traits were also passed along to me. I know because I am still alive to write these words.

When I was about 4, we moved to Orange, Texas, into a house on Flint St. It was a small white house with wood siding. Now living in Orange, we regularly visited my mother’s parents.

My mother’s mother, Annie Essie Lee sold Avon to help pay their bills. She was a very loving woman, and my brother and I, always looked forward to visiting them. She always made sure there were plenty of hostess cup cakes in the breadbox, for us to eat. Sno-balls, with the pink marshmallow coconut coating, and chocolate cake in the middle, were a favorite. And who could forget Twinkies, golden colored sponge cake with creamy filling. There was of course, peeling the top off a chocolate cupcake, to eat the icing first. That’s probably why I’m such a snack cake fanatic now. She also made French toast, which I loved to eat.

I remember... she would hide my grandfather’s whiskey in the washing machine, to keep him from drinking.

My mother’s father, Samuel Marion was a lineman electrician. A lineman’s job consisted of climbing telephone poles. It was a very dangerous job, because if you accidentally slid down, you could drive huge splinters of wood through your legs or arms. He gave us money and made rubber band guns for us in his shop. We would shoot china balls with the rubber band guns.

My grandmother (Annie) died of a heart attack, while we lived here. It was very upsetting. It was my first experience with the death of someone close. My grandfather (Sam) was an alcoholic and did not handle his wife’s death very well. I don’t think I ever saw him sober after she died. Sometime that year, we moved.

The new house on Jasper St. was a small wood-frame house with beige colored slate on the outside. I was around 5 when we moved in. My dad’s parents moved their mobile home in our backyard, so my grandmother (Lucille) could watch us. My mother went to work part-time at the local bag factory.

My father, Jimmie Lee Jr. was a truck driver for Decker Oil. He hauled plastic pellets from Dupont to Schulman plastics. He had driven 18 wheelers and other transport trucks in the past, but was driving a dumpster truck. I remember taking the plastic pellets off the back of the truck. And chewing them like gum, when he would come home for lunch.

My father was an exuberant man. He rode a bicycle backwards while sitting on the handlebars. He rode the bicycle down the steps. He raced go-karts. He also loved motorcycles. My grandfather laughingly told me about the time my father rode a Motoguzzi 750, from Orange to Alba, and back. He was having trouble walking the next day from the blisters created by the seat. He learned auto mechanics from his dad. They told me that he always kept everything neat and clean as he worked. They joked that he could probably overhaul a motor with a suit on.