1. THIS SIGHT HAS MOVED TO   https://ididnotraisemychildren.wordpress.com/
  2. About this book and how to contact Lynda Poysor
  3. Open Just for Fun
  4. My Intention
Advertisements

Thoughts on the Election

Thanks for saying all that, I was too afraid.

Minister Is A Verb

​So, yesterday I was proven wrong. America does elect fascists after all. The Greatest Generation must be rolling in their graves, wondering what they fought for.

I can only hope that the GOP will continue to be as ineffective at actually governing as they’ve been for the past many years, for their platform and this man’s statements make me scared for my many friends whom he and his will attack, as well as deeply concerned for my own future if these changes he’s mentioned get passed.

May God have mercy on the USA, as my fellow voters have just fraked things up beyond belief.


God IS love; love continues; love is not finished with us yet.

Find occasions to be grateful today and every day; express gratitude where it will do the most good.

Focus at least some time today on goals; work to get them done.

Continue seeking knowledge…

View original post 59 more words

My intention with this blog, began with spilling my guts about # I Didn’t Raise My Children. Not very long after making my intentions known, a very big moment came to pass in my life.

Sometime in the mid-’80s, I was staying with my only sister, her husband, her 4 or 5 kids; and the house was full. After a few weeks, she kicked me out
STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION
without explanation. I was brokenhearted. She told me she hated me and always had. The last thing I said to her as I left was, ‘Call me when you’re ready to talk.’

I called her this week, some 30 years later, and she worked for 45 minutes at communicating with me rather nicely. I know it wasn’t easy for her and she had questions which are a good sign. She wants to know stuff, too. So do I. I also want to say, shout, scream, WRITE stuff, to clear the air finally. I am thrilled.

But it all connects. Family connections are, at best, complicated. When I was 12, I asked our mother why she didn’t like me. She said, “You ruined my waistline.” I was the first born. My sister, Pamela, – I think she doesn’t like Pam, but I always slip and call her that. – told me things, lots of stuff I didn’t know, some I had guessed, and some were just misinformed and enlightening for me to hear what had been assumed. She said, ‘You left your kids. You abandoned them.” This was not true, but how was she to know any different when we had never talked about it or anything else for decades. I think she was surprised to learn I do not have a criminal record. I think she would be surprised to learn I am not a drug addict or a thief.

I would love to see her, hug her. I am thousands of miles away and tied to my location for now by medical and legal obligations. That will have to wait.

That phone call with my only sister was like a visit from Santa Claus for me, big time. I am pleased. I am elated. My dreams have come true.

I have not seen my children in decades and was told they are little bitches. So, they didn’t turn out perfect or maybe even well, but I had hoped. Children need their parents throughout their lives as guideposts, sounding boards, examples, sources of knowledge, comfort and love, and mine didn’t get that. This breaks my heart again, but I will not stop. I will go on.

In 1972, my young husband and I bought our first home and moved in with our two little girls. After his schooling, he had his first big job in the city, and we owned a complex of our two bedroom home with swimming pool and garage which included a large rental apartment upstairs and a little country General Store in the front. We probably thought we were pretty special and blessed. My parents and my brother came one weekend to help us clean up the store so I could begin to work there. The customers were mostly from the little town of York, but some stopped by on the highway to other places.

Not too much time had passed before Art and Eve came in to buy supplies. They began coming and staying longer. Art brought a guitar and sang Christian songs because he knew we were very dedicated to the Lord. Soon it was a habit that Bob would come home from work and drive them back to their campsite.

In May, there was a holiday weekend when Art and Eve invited us to come camping where they stayed on the Grand River on an island about a mile down river. We arrived with our little girls and tent and sleeping bags. Art met us with the canoe and ferried us across the river. It looked like we were going to have a wonderful time roughing it without running water or electricity.
STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION

To get here, to this point, I squirmed a lot. Long story short, my husband and I were drugged that night while our children blissfully slept in their sleeping bags undisturbed. My husband slept long and hard that night. I was raped and threatened. If I told anyone, I would be killed. He had a gun.

First thing in the morning when I saw my Bob, I asked him to come for a short walk alone with me while I told him everything, I finished with a request. Please, take the children away from here. I wanted their safety above all else. Then maybe I could think and plan what to do. My Bob left immediately with the girls, and the torture began. I thought Bob would be back the same day with the authorities, but I guess he saw his opportunity to once again run around. I didn’t know then that would continue for a year and a half.
STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION

in the end Bob shot Art in the upper thigh just missing his most precious possession. According to Mom, my father was sorry he had shared this idea with Bob, but Dad could not bring himself to tell me he was sorry. When it was over for me, my torturer died. When it was over for others was when I walked free a year and a half later. People did not understand that I was not free, I was a mess inside and no one helped me. I was unable to hold a job. I lived at the YWCA in a little single room with no cooking. I had no friends. No one called. No one wanted to talk to me. I had no conversation to offer anyway. I was frozen, in limbo, in a permanent state of disbelief that life had twisted me around as it had.  I think my family was afraid of me. Their distancing was a great source of pain that continued, both the distancing and the pain.
STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION

I watched a documentary about the Lost Boys from Africa, thousands of boys walking for years alone without family for years until it was over. One of the strong survivors in that documentary said, “God has forgotten us.”

I felt God had forgotten me. I went to college and wrote a paper called Belief in God is like Belief in Santa Claus.
STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION

My husband divorced me. I didn’t get custody which I justified over his much larger income, but I believe my obvious state of mind, my state of being was so unstable that it was better for all maybe. I tried the weekend visitation, but that did not go well. The first visit, I had to take a bus 100 miles and stay overnight. Bob invited me to stay and I volunteered to sleep on the sofa. After we were all tucked in, he came to invite me to sleep more comfortably in the bed with him. I said I would if he promised not to touch me. I could not stand anyone touching me in those days. My skin felt like bugs were crawling on me. Bob promised he would not touch me. We were not in bed 5 minutes before he threw his arm over me and forgot his promise. I panicked. I ran to the bedroom where my daughters shared a bunk-bed. I turned on the light and to make a long story short, I found myself carrying my suitcase about a mile down the highway to the local bus stop. It was midnight when the police stopped to explain that I could not wait all night in the snow because there were no buses until the morning. I hitchhiked home without a care for my own safety. I was still frozen.

STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION

My mother handed me a document about Patty Hearst and the Stockholm syndrome, but it made little difference. I was frozen. Eventually, people took pity on me because I was pathetic. Those beautiful souls just accepted me into their lives and allowed me to be. They did what they could to include me and eventually I began to heal. I began to act like a human being. Thank you, God, for that gift. Those people were in my life for a few years and then gone, unconnected, but they meant and still mean a great deal to me. Thank you all. I will name them here. Barbie, Henry Matola, Jim Burton, John, Marrianne, a girl who knew sign language, Brian, a Maori, from New Zealand, Pat Hebblethwaite, names? as I remember the names from 40 years ago.
STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION

I did eventually go on to further my education, a student loan was my solution to not being able to hold down a job. I got a University degree. It made no difference. I was frozen. Eventually, some more kind counselors came to peal away my layers and look deep inside enough to let the mind and spirit begin to connect to life again, or for the first time. I never remembered the first 10 years of my life. My cousin, Wayne, had the same affliction, he didn’t remember the first 10 years of his life. Our Aunt, Mrs, Nielsen, told me she had a secret. Her father had sexually molested her, and I was the first she told 50 years after the fact. Family connections are complicated.

STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION