The Lava Tornado Within

They say that depression is anger turned inwards. Of this, there is much that I know. I try to get past my anger, but it has always been here. It seems I get over one hurdle to find another waiting. My childhood was constant inner rage that presented outwardly as depression. During my teen years and early adulthood, it took a more self-destructive turn. By the time that I returned from living with my mother and the man that killed her, I was a virtual tornado. At that point, I was destructive in a physical sense. After he killed her, I went back to inner-turmoil and the depressive side of it. I was so lost in my grief, I did not have the energy to fight the world around me.

It always seems a struggle. I do not wish to have this inner volcano/tornado raging within me. I do not want to have the violent outbursts that I did twenty years ago. I do not want to walk around with a clenched fist, praying that someone says the wrong words to me so that I can release my anger on them. During my teen years, all I wanted was the opportunity to beat someone senseless--for the wrong person to say the wrong thing so that I had an excuse to physically release my rage. I had so much anger but no idea where to direct it. Some emerged in my art, some through writing; but mostly it consumed me and became self-loathing.

I don't think it is really in me to hurt others. When I had the opportunities to physically fight, I would stop myself before letting the anger release. I think I was too afraid of crossing that line. I remember having a girl try to fight me once during my early 20s. She decided that I was some sort of threat to her relationship and felt she needed to kick my ass to prove herself. She came at me, pulling my hair and being ridiculous. After I had her on the ground and was on top of her, there was that part of me that saw myself grabbing her head and smashing it off the ground, repeatedly--that rage in me wanted nothing more than to just release and didn't she ask for it? But I remember having her pinned on the ground and just thinking it was all stupid. I got up and walked away. She didn't truly earn the anger that was pent up in me. To release it upon her would have been an error on my part.

Surprisingly, it took several years of being hit by my abusive boyfriend before I ever raised a hand back. Logic, with my own anger issues, would suggest that I should have sought out the opportunity to release my own anger. I suppose I was probably drawn to his anger in some subconscious manner. I was drawn to him and I know a large part of that was understanding how he felt. I knew he had anger issues, perhaps I just simply related and thought we would work through them together? I honestly can't say, now. I do know that often his anger had little to do with me as a person, but when he was drunk or high--I still became the target. Often, he was mortified the next day upon seeing the physical damage he had done.

The gentleman that I was with for two years was very emotionally abusive and likewise, claimed to have no clue the following day of the damages he had created. But since words are like the wind and leave no visible marks, his sober remarks were nearly as bad. He would become angry that I was upset and hurt by his statements and would deny having ever said such. He would go into tirades about how I was crazy; he wouldn't say those things; on and on--day after day. But what I learned about myself was that I had painful things I could have said back, but I loved him and didn't want to hurt him in return. And I think also, he was much as the teenage me--praying for that wrong word to be uttered so that he had an excuse to unleash the physical rage. Much like my father, he would get angry that I couldn't be drawn into fights and would unleash verbal hail and brimstone bent on my destruction. Much like with my father, I would retreat inside myself and only tears would show my inner-distress.

Eventually, the fear began to subside; the PFA was granted; the police incident was over--I was able to begin moving beyond the utter shock and disbelief. Disbelief at how the two-year gentleman, my father, family and friends--were all much different people than I believed them to be. People that had all professed to love me, care about me--people that I loved deeply--not only turned their backs upon me and cast me out, but spit upon me and made my life hell. Much of this, I began to realize, was due to having faith in and trusting people that never truly cared for me. I saw, with hindsight, all the signs I ignored, all the places I forgave when I shouldn't have, the love I should have never offered to begin with.

To quote a kindred spirit, tonight: "Anger is passion offended." So much wisdom when those four words are strung together... so much truth...

As my shock wore off, it was replaced by blind rage. Rage that people I trusted and loved would act as they were acting. To know that relationships that had meant everything to me had all been a facade. My trust in people as a whole faltered. I isolated myself and let only a handful of people into my world. At times, I even doubted their motives. After all, I never thought the others would turn against me as they did--who can ever truly be trusted in this world when our own family would destroy us given half the chance?

There were times during those months that I wanted more than anything to release my physical rage. My artwork increasingly became violent scenes that I hid away, disturbed by the deep anger I was harboring. I was too fearful to truly tell anyone what I was feeling--after all, my father tried to get me committed on the premise of being suicidal and homicidal when there wasn't an ounce of truth to it--what would happen if someone found out how truly angry I was now? I didn't even feel safe crying in my own house for fear that it could some how be used against me. There were times I was sure that I was going to explode.

One of my closest friends saved me during Father's Day 2010 when my rage was again consuming me. He explained it to me as such: "Who needs fire when you have got plenty inside? Create and recreate. It is what you do best. The art of creation and destruction are but one in the same. Just destroy with a smile on your face and don't get rid of what you truly need."

And so, through my writing and art, I prevent the rage from becoming physical. My hands now release my anger through images and words. This provides temporary sanity. It is the only release I have at the moment. Soon, I can begin working the soil again and find sanity through kayaking and nature. For now, I create my story; I destroy my pain and anger.

Months after that Father's Day, the same friend also provided these words: "I have never doubted the fact that our families are our worst critics. Give your brother room and time. He will remember how to see you. The heart seldom forgets. Until then, don't discount your own vision for yourself...You must continue. If anything, you must not forget your worth. You are going to be a better you. One day, they will rise to meet you on a ground unseen by them. Pity them, if it helps... but continue. You are better for it, hard as it may be. You are not alone."

These words still carry me. It has been an immense struggle to rediscover my own value and worth. It is hard to see one's own good when the ones you loved have marked you as evil. The worm planted in the brain questions it and asks "What if they are right? Am I evil?" And seeds of doubt are sown.

I try to remind myself that it is better that they are no longer in my life--they did not deserve the gifts of my soul--my own value can not be based on their negativity and misery in life. But it is still so hard sometimes. I am still the young girl consumed by rage. I am still the angry teenager full of self-loathing. I am still the young adult struggling to find myself. I am still the wounded child that just wants to be loved and accepted. I am still growing and finding myself.

At times, I recognize that they do not know me. I recognize that they never did. I recognize that I am much more than they realize. They do not deserve to have me in their lives and I do not deserve them, either. But it still hurts. I am thankful for my current relationships. I have good friends and have weeded out many, thanks to those events.

I am grateful to be in a relationship where I am treated well and while I sometimes struggle because it is foreign--he is patient. I am learning to open up and trust again. Having a supportive partner is amazing and well worth the wait. I also recognize that much of the beauty in this would be missed had I not had the past relationships and heartbreaks. He reminds me of my worth and value when I am down; I struggle to believe him. He is an anchor in a sea of confusion. I pray that I do not disappoint him or let him down.

Part of not letting him down is learning to heal so that I may be a better person for him. Part of it is learning to keep my anger in check lest it consumes. I work on these things as much for my own sanity as for him. I do not wish to be that person. Anger hurts. Mine often rages within and becomes depression. I know these aren't true pieces of me. I know I need to learn to cope, to forgive, to heal. To move on and enjoy the present. I want to live in the here and now--but the here and now still offers many triggers that dredge up the past and the anger. So I vent as I am able and continue digging up the boulders. I will eventually succeed. I know this now. I will be stronger because of these past struggles. I will be okay.

What If?

I don't generally post videos on here. However, tonight I viewed Amanda Palmer's version of "Polly" (a Nirvana song written about the abduction, torture, and rape in 1987 of a 14-year-old girl by Gerald Arthur Friend) and was left a tad bit emotional. Please watch the video before reading on; just so we are on the same page:



I burst into tears when the video ended and found myself watching it, yet again. At first, I couldn't quite pinpoint the reason behind the heavy emotions. The video is indeed powerful, in my opinion, but the reaction I had was clearly triggered by something deeper. Shortly after, it hit me... I was crying for my mom and what her last moments on Earth must have been like.

I know her life with her second husband was horribly abusive and humiliating. I lived with them for some time before he killed her and it was a terrifying chapter in my own life. I managed to escape several months before he murdered her and I still wonder what would have happened if I had still been living there at that time? Would you be reading my words today?

I still don't know the full details of that day. All I have are newspaper clippings and bits and pieces I have learned from his parole hearing transcipts. None of them follow the same story and chances are I will never really know what exactly happened. Maybe that is for the better; but maybe the visions I have are more horrific than the reality of it. I don't know. I do know that he was a very sick individual and he enjoyed causing pain--physically, emotionally--he thrived on the pain he brought to animals... to humans... to my mother.

What I do know about that day, in the very condensed version, is that it started out with him and his best friend taking my mom out to a rifle range and it ended with him shooting her twice. He and his friend then threw her body in a ravine, covered it with garbage and proceeded to get rid of the van. They drove over 70 miles to an area that they thought the van would be stolen in and left it running with the keys in it. They then drove the 30ish miles back to the apartment they shared with my mom, bagged the majority of her possessions and threw them out with the garbage. They went to bed and my mother's husband/murderer got up the next morning and proceeded to his classes as though nothing happened. However, while he was in class, his best friend/accomplice went to the police and confessed. Again, that's the very condensed version. But in reality, these are the parts I am pretty sure of--these parts of the story don't change.

What I don't know is, what my mother's last moments were like. I imagine the terror. Did they torture her first? Did they rape her? I wonder whether they made it a game and humiliated her during the trip? I lived with them, also. I know what life was like for her. I know how sadistic he was and how his friends would encourage him to "take it that extra step." More than once, his best friend encouraged him to "Do it. Just kill her." How many times had I heard them plot "the Perfect Murder" and joke that they couldn't get caught? They bragged that even if they did get caught, insanity was an easy defense. No fear on their end.

I know the first shot was to her neck. The second one was to her left eye as she was lying face up on the ground. She was facing him and looking at him both times that he pulled the trigger. What were the minutes and hours leading up to this like for her? To face the man she loved and gave up her children for and know that he was going to end her life? Maybe I am blessed for not knowing the rest.

She tried to leave him many times. She went to the police, at least once, trying to get protection. They told her that until he caused her physical damage they could do nothing. Two days before he murdered her, they visited an attorney to have a legal division of their personal belongings drawn up in the event of divorce. And I apologize. Me and my tangents... What does this have to do with Amanda Palmer?

After watching the Amanda Palmer video, I wondered so many "What Ifs." What if they hadn't been in a secluded area? What if another car had come along? Would she have tried to escape? Would she have been too frightened? Would she still be alive? What if she were still alive today? Who would she be? Who would I be? You laugh, but nineteen years is a long time. Losing a mother is quite devastating to begin with. It changes a person. Losing anyone to murder changes a person, let alone a parent. I am quite sure that I would not be who I am today without having those many events that shaped me--including my own time spent in their "fun house."

These "what ifs" generally are not healthy because we can't change the events and often they increase our suffering, guilt, and other negative feelings. We never understand the reasons when tragedy strikes in our lives. How do we make sense of events like this? Why couldn't he just let her go? She had three children that loved and needed her in their lives. Wasn't that enough reason to permit her to live?

What if somebody else had happened along that road that day? Maybe that person would have lost their life, too. Who is to say? But what if, somebody had come along and she had gotten away? The police would never have believed her story. Regardless, nothing would have or even could have been done.

But let's just say, none of that ever happened. He went his way, she went hers. How many other lives might he have damaged over the past nineteen years? How many more children would he have abused? How many more women would he have beaten, humiliated, and tortured? How many more animals? They bragged that they had beaten and killed homeless people before. I saw other things they did. I do not doubt these boasts. Would they have eventually had the girls that they wanted chained in the basement? What might nineteen more years in society have led to?

Maybe my mom's life ending saved countless others? Again, you laugh. Again, I say, I lived with him. I saw the things that they did. I know the things they were capable of and enjoyed. I can't imagine how much more damage he might have done over the past nineteen years. He was only twenty-four when he killed my mother and went to prison. I saw him do a lot of damage, to numerous lives, over the two and a half years that I knew him. Laugh, but you truly have no idea. And how are we to know? Maybe her death did prevent others. At the very least, it has prevented harm and abuse in other lives. Maybe it is the only justice I can find in the situation. Maybe nineteen years later, I still ask WHY???

*END NOTE: In case you are finding yourself confused by some of my pronoun use--only my mother's husband/murderer was put in prison. He has come up for parole numerous times but is still currently serving his sentence. His friend that "participated" in the event never served a day due to being the one that went to the police. To the best of my knowledge, he still walks the streets. "They" often participated in these events together, although there were often many other people involved in the animal torture, abuse and deaths, too. But when I refer to "they" it is in reference to the two individuals that last saw my mother alive, her husband and his best friend.