Monday, October 8, 2018

Unspoken burden between a mother and daughter

When I was fifteen, going on sixteen, I wrote an angry two-page letter to my mother after I ran away from home. I wanted her to know how tired I was of being abused by her husband, my dad. Well, I had just been pulled down the stairs and then dragged by my hair, so like, I had had enough. Not only that, after I was dragged, I swore at my father in defense of me to which my mother raised her hand, about to strike me for swearing at my dad. Can you believe it! But the crazy thing was after I ran away I never did send her the letter because I was afraid of hurting her feelings. 

How does one repair from that?

About two years after the stairs, my parents divorced. You would think once the 'problem' was out of the house everything would be normal and fine. But it doesn't quite work that way. At least for me it didn't. After eighteen years of abuse, anger, tension and eggshell walking, a new battle was brewing. One that said, "You're mother didn't defend or protect you from the monster."

Monday, June 18, 2018

Wounded Song...Where Are You?

Did it bore you? Have you read it yet? It has been 10-months since my book has it affected you? Did you read part of it, or all of it? Did you pick it up and put it down? Not sure if you liked the topic? Or perhaps, you were afraid it might tap into something buried deep in you. Maybe it didn't move you at all. Maybe you'd rather have a hot fudge sundae! Like...who wouldn't!

Is it still sitting on your table waiting for you to read it? Do you think it will take forever when other's have read it in two days? Did it make you cry or laugh? Both or neither?

I would love to know how the thought or presence of my book has moved you or spoken to you or why it's kept you at bay.   
Book Launch August 18, 2017
Believe me there is no right or wrong answer. I have spoken to several people who started to read my book then realized it hit too close to home. I've spoken with other people who simply bought it to support me. Others have read it in two-days while others think it will take two-months. It shows me that my book is speaking to everyone in a personal way. I find that exciting!

L to R: Family
Mike, Cyndi Jo, Mom
Did you know 100 people came to my book launch and I did a pilot support group in the fall?

How is my book speaking to you?

And did you realize there are questions in the back of the book should you want to dig a little deep for yourself, do a support group, or a book club?

What town and/or state or country has my book, Wounded Song, landed? Please share.
My Dad's banjo from the 1970s
Curtis Willey played era songs and
original "Your Gift is You"

My Grandpas Violin - book cover
Bill and Cyndi Jo Hemby (Sister & bro in law)
They manned the book table

Lil' Shadow (aka Cyndi Jo) and me
L to R: Dawn, Tammy Sue, Linda
(my childhood friends in the book)
Candle - gift from Linda
Link to Wounded Song on Amazon
Link to Wounded Song website

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Dad's Aren't Perfect stop trying. Swallow your pride and let go of false expectation of yourself so you can become the best dad you were designed to be!

No matter how hard we strive for perfection, we will fail at something and then we feel guilty, inadequate, or we try even harder and still fail. So stop trying to be perfect. Rather, live your life with integrity and the best you have to offer with the truth of your heart.

I am the oldest of three siblings and the daughter of a dad who abused me. The abuse and anger made for not a great father-daughter relationship. Mom always tried to smooth things over by saying, "He really loves you ya know" and "Don't you know, you're the apple of his eye". She knew he loved me because her memories of the good times referenced when I was mostly four years old or younger.

Apple of his eye

L to R - Tammy Sue & Cyndi Jo
I don't blame mom for clinging to the "good times." But sad for me. I missed out on knowing the man she knew and loved in the early years of their marriage before he went south. Before Darvon and booze mixed with his self-pity helped him push his family away.

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Fed Up With Men

and tired of being the fifth wheel...that's when I met him...Curtis...twenty-six years ago on June 6, 1992. 

Below is an excerpt from my book Wounded Song, released on amazon books July 2017
[excerpt from chapter 26 - titled The Fragile Dance]
Who says Prince Charming has to come on a white horse and kiss me awake to a better life? Sure, a princess dress looks pretty but I’m not a fan of bras, never mind corsets. Jeans with patches, bare feet and daisies in my hair are more my speed.

So rather than lying in a sunny field of wild flowers day dreaming and waiting to be rescued by a kiss, I sat alone at a table for six in a dimly-lit room which failed to appear romantic. It was more like a dungeon of souls hoping to find Mr. or Mrs. Right, but ready to go home with Mr. or Mrs. Tonight. Divorced three years and meeting Mr. Wrong every time I turned around, I was fed up with men and empty promises. The only reason I had been at this joint was to support my sister C.J. and brother-in-law Bill’s fifth wedding anniversary.

They wanted to cheer with an evening of two-steppin’ and shooting pool. Finding local bands that played country music in Connecticut during the 90s wasn’t as difficult as finding a venue with a dance floor larger than two tables put together, but we did.
He didn’t ride in on a horse, but rather buzzed like a bee to honey as he made his way across the dance hall and asked, “Is this seat taken? Can I join you?” The day I met my future, I was wearing a blue calico skirt with a white eyelet top and Tony Lama cowgirl boots from El Paso, Texas. He was wearing tight jeans, cowboy boots and over his shirt was a purple denim jacket with the sleeves cut off. His white Stetson cowboy hat, from Salt Lake City, Utah, slightly revealed his long sandy blonde curls pulled back in a ponytail while his most adorable frame revealed a healthy fit male who bench pressed at the gym. Nothing about him was shy but his demeanor was polite and courteous while his bright blue eyes made life seem possible. 

Curtis was in a band
The Trailers

As the fifth wheel of the group, I’d been sitting alone at least twenty minutes to save our table while the other two couples shot pool. Somewhat intrigued that a man came to life and wanted to talk to me, I assessed the situation and deemed he looked harmless enough so I granted him permission to join me. This man, my future husband, a seasoned musician, was there scoping out the club to book a gig, not a wife. I, his future wife, was there to support her family, not interested in making stupid small talk.

Reserved and not impressed at this time of life with the male species, here we were anyway as we managed small talk across the table from one another. The loud music forced me to stand and lean over the table to hear him. Each time I leaned, my hand held the scoop neckline of my shirt so he wouldn’t get the impression I was inviting him in.
 It occurred to me this guy wasn’t throwing me one line clich├ęs but rather stringing complete thoughts and sentences together. I became hopeful as he redeemed for me that a man and woman could have an intelligent conversation. By the time I relaxed and let my guard down I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked up to find my brother-in-law Bill behind me. He wasted no time, looked right at this man Curtis and said, “Why are you talking to my wife?”