No Rain, No Flowers | Part 1

On Dec 9th, 2017 we hit a new low.

My daughter, K was working as a barista at the farmer's market when she noticed that her backpack was missing from her car. We looked everywhere. She thought she might have left her car unlocked since she was nearby the whole time and her car was technically parked in the parking lot of a fire station- what could be safer? Her backpack contained her brand new MacBook (which she had worked really hard to save for)as well as her wallet and a very specific folder containing some very specific documentation. All of it gone and she was devastated. 

And then around 10pm we got a knock at the door. One of the many that I opened to a New Braunfels PD officer. He was holding her backpack and wallet and explained that an establishment not far from the farmer's market had called it in as recovered. The restaurant is separated from the farmer's market/fire station by a set of train tracks. Some of the employees noticed papers blowing around and some random items scattered near the backpack. They did the right thing and reported it. Among the items recovered were her wallet- containing her driver license (which is how he ended up at our door) and I believe her debit card was there as well. Interestingly, her military i.d. was taken. As was her MacBook (obviously) and any cash she had. 

And that folder. 

The officer explained where the items had been found and said that it had been a pretty windy evening and dark by the time anyone noticed the papers flying around. He said they had done their best to gather anything that appeared to be the contents of the backpack, but that we might canvas the area on the following day when we had daylight. So, that's what we did. 

The jackpot item of the backpack was the MacBook and we never intended to find it. We found quite a few more items that came from her wallet that had been scattered up and down the train tracks. Then we decided to see if anything had made it to the actual surface area of the tracks. 

And that's when we saw the laptop. 

From the appearance it looked as if someone had strategically placed it on the tracks to be run over. And they had succeeded. It was mangled and completely useless...its vinyl decal mocking us: no rain no flowers

Still just thinking that this was a random act of theft, I thought that  the laptop had been stolen and -as we enabled recovery tools- perhaps the machine had started to make some kind of pinging noise to reveal its location...and when the backpack bandit couldn't get it to stop they just threw it out the window. Where it landed ...strategically ...and very precisely on the train track. What an unlikely stroke of luck for the bandit.

 

I drove around and made note of all of the security cameras in the vicinity and figured I would start making calls on the following Monday. For the past 2 days we had been thinking that she left her car unlocked and that it had been a crime of opportunity for someone who just happened to be in the area. But someone owed her a new laptop. And someone deserved to be held accountable for what they did to my girl. 

So...being the type of mom who can't just let it be a lesson in why 'I always tell you to lock your car' and 'cover anything valuable so as not to tempt someone w/ thieving urges' I took a stab in the dark at the possibility of getting fingerprints off of it and we drove over to the police dept. 

By this point we had made plenty of visits to the P.D. to file reports, though we saw someone different each time up to that point. But that would change after this day. 

We told them of our interaction w/ the police officer the night before and explained that we did in fact recover the laptop and hoped to have it examined so that we could press charges against the thief. 

They put us in a room and had us wait for a detective...

Detective M would change everything.

He walked in and introduced himself. A taller than average man, unassuming and with a gentle kind of strength and authority that brought to mind the Paul Newman movies my grandpa forced me to watch as a child. 

He listened intently to our retelling of the past 36 hours and wrote down every detail. Once we were done he said he'd check if the forensics team was on-site to fingerprint the laptop. They were. Minutes later a young, beautiful woman with a perfect French braid walked in with her fingerprint dusting kit and we watched in awe as she went to work dusting and then gently applying and removing the clear tape. 

No luck. Nothing useable. 

Damn. Well, it was worth a shot. 

But just as we're wrapping up and feeling defeated, Detective M asks, "Is there someone that would have a reason to do this? Someone who has something against you and would want to hurt you? This just feels too personal and too methodical."

K & I turned to look at each other in complete shock that it hadn't even crossed our minds that it could've been HIM. 

OH.

MY. 

GOD. 

   

It's Not About the Ice Cream.

In your family, there likely exists healthy boundaries. Chances are that specific words may trigger memories from your childhood, but- in a family with healthy boundaries- you can allow yourself to be nostalgic for a moment and perhaps even bring someone into the 'remember that time . . . ' memory with you . . .  to laugh and recall the event followed by a deep sigh and the brief, yet profound realization that 'life is short' or 'where does the time go' or 'It's a miracle that I made it to adulthood'.

In my family however, specific words trigger deep feelings of regret and sadness and even agony in us. Everyday words like: spaghetti, bacon, and ice cream. Tragic, right? Those are some of the GREATEST things ever. But, once in a while I'll recall the painful events that took place with these things at the center and spiral into a momentary depression as I ask myself, "Why didn't you leave then?"

It's much harder when the kids are the ones to bring up the events, but I know they understand the position I was in, and I know that through the years they've learned to be resilient and strong and protective of those in a position of weakness as a result of their experiences as the victims of emotional abuse. And ultimately they're just relieved that I finally got out.

-The Spaghetti Incident-
In 2008 I was going to school to be a Medical Administrative Assistant. We lived in a tiny duplex as we'd just sold our house and needed to relocate quickly. I made dinner for the family as I waited for him to come home. He'd get home from work and I'd leave to attend night school. At the time, the twins were about 8 and my other daughter was around 2 years old. He arrived home as I rushed around gathering my things to leave. He served the girls their spaghetti on styrofoam plates in the kitchen- which required walking a few steps to set their food down on the table. As I'm about to walk out the door one of the girls pivoted on her heel to transport her food from the kitchen to the table, and as she did this, the slippery spaghetti slid off of the plate and onto the carpet. It happens. And for whatever reason, he was triggered. She was extremely apologetic and got on her hands and knees as he yelled at her for the accident:

A: I'm sorry! It was an accident! I'll clean it up!

Me(running late and trying to get out the door): Ugh! It's fine. It's not the end of the world. Accidents happen.

Him: THAT'S WHY YOU SHOULD'VE BEEN MORE CAREFUL. THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS. 

Me to him: ARE YOU SERIOUS?? IT WAS AN ACCIDENT! SHE DIDN'T DO IT ON PURPOSE!

At this point she's scooping up the spaghetti through her tears and sobbing.

AND THEN HE SAYS:

"YOU WANNA EAT YOUR FOOD ON THE FLOOR LIKE A DOG???"
As he said this, he simultaneously shoved her face into the floor spaghetti. A sobbing, hyperventilating, hungry 8 year old little girl who had just had an innocent, honest to God accident. 

This was one of several occasions where I brought the kids to school with me.

And I stayed with this monster. Because he was really good at apologizing and manipulating not just me, but the kids as well. He'd cry and sob and convince us that this wasn't the real him and that he'd make it up to us and blah blah blah. You know the drill. And the incidents were spread out enough that he was able to take advantage of our goodness and forgiving hearts. We wanted to believe him and he knew that.


-The Bacon Incident-
My kids and I prefer bacon cooked through. Crispy. That's a thing. And it's okay to prefer your food a certain way. It's allowed. I was very picky as a kid, so I learned to pick out the gross stuff or fix it how I wanted it, and in general I wasn't forced to eat something that would make me gag- just for the sake of getting it off of the plate. If I didn't like something, for the most part whoever prepared the food wouldn't take offense to it. But, for whatever reason, he was in a mood on this morning. The twins were about 9 years old and we were having breakfast as a family at home. They were given a plate of eggs and bacon.The bacon was significantly undercooked and a blubbery, fatty consistency. Gross. Not a big deal, right? Just throw it back in the pan for a few minutes, or even microwave it for half the time. Not a real problem. But in our house this turned into a monumental argument that went like this:

A: Momma, do I have to eat the bacon- it's raw?

Him: Yes. Eat it. It's fine.

Me (simultaneously): *No, it's okay.
*(of course this is seen as me undermining him)

A: It's raw though. It's gross.

Him: EAT THE BACON. THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH IT.

Me: It's RAW. I wouldn't eat it. She doesn't have to eat it. What's the big deal???

Him: REALLY??? You're going to undermine me in front of the kids after I just made breakfast?

Me: She's allowed to have a preference on how she wants to eat her bacon. It's RAW.

Him(screaming in her face at this point): EAT THE BACON. EAT IT NOW. EAT THE BACON. 

A(terrified and crying at this point) . . . proceeds to eat the bacon and gags and can't get it down.

Me to him: GET AWAY FROM HER. 

Me to her: You don't have to eat the bacon! It's okay, Honey!

Me to him: SHE DOESN'T HAVE TO EAT RAW BACON. THIS IS NOT OKAY!


He storms off. One of countless meals ruined.



Now- here's where the boundaries come in: enter Blue Bell. 


-The Ice Cream Incident(s)-

The ice cream wasn't so much an isolated incident like the others as much as it was an ongoing mind-f**k through the years.

In a family of 6 we didn't always agree on ice cream flavors, so to make everyone happy, it wasn't uncommon for me to forgo the 1/2 gallon for individual pints. Everyone wins. Everyone is happy.

Well, the twins didn't always finish their pints. And so, often they'd have quite a bit left over to put back in the freezer. But when they'd go to retrieve it the following day, they'd discover the pint was nearly empty and contained only a bite or two (if the pint was still there at all). 

Now, my overall thought on the pints was that- I bought them their flavor, and therefore it's theirs- individually. If a sibling ate some without asking, they'd be in trouble- because boundaries. So here's how it typically went down: 

(mind you- this is going on for years upon years)

A: MOM, SOMEONE ATE MY ICE CREAM! THAT'S NOT FAIR! IT WAS MINE!

Me(grilling the other kids): Did you eat your sister's ice cream??
 . . . no? Okay, there's only one other person it could be. 

So when he'd get home,

A to him: Did you eat my ice cream?

A prideful Cheshire cat grin would spread across his face. 
(Picture the creepy bully, "Sid the Sadist" from the movie Toy Story . . . you know- the one who mutilates toys and blows crap up.)

Him: Yep.

My Heart: BUT IT WAS MINE.

Him: Oh yeah? Who paid for it??

A: Mommy did.
(sweet angels)

Him: Really? With what money?? Who gives her the money?

A: You do. But-

Him: But what? It's my money. It's my ice cream.


Fast forward a few years and my girls are now 15 or 16 and have had jobs since the day the state of Texas allowed.

A: HE ATE MY ICE CREAM AGAIN. I EVEN HID IT THIS TIME. I PAID FOR IT! WHY DOES HE KEEP DOING THIS? IT'S NOT FAIR! HE CAN'T SAY IT'S HIS THIS TIME BECAUSE I PAID FOR IT!

And then came the time to confront him.


A to him: Did you eat my ice cream?

Him: I did. It was yummy. 

A: BUT IT WAS MINE.

Him: Really?? Who paid for it?

A: I DID! I HAVE A JOB! I BOUGHT IT WITH MY OWN MONEY!!

Him(eerily calm like a true psychopath): Hmm . . . well who paid for the freezer?

A(defeated and hopeless): you.

Him: And who paid for this house you live in?

A: you.


So you see, it's not about the ice cream. It never was. It's about control and the ability to lord things over people. In a healthy family, the grown adults of the house ideally model a person's right to their own things. It's a daily exercise in respect and boundaries. Yes, families share things like ice cream. You could argue that the contents of the freezer are community property. But in our case, the kids never had a chance at the ice cream. They lose regardless. It didn't matter if they paid the rent or the mortgage. The argument would be 'who paid for your diapers all of those years?' or 'who provided you with health insurance?' 

Sometimes insanity isn't about the monumental, traumatizing life events. For us, it was pint-sized.

The Line in the Sand

In May of 2014 I had an epiphany. My husband (at the time) had been drinking to the point of passing out on a nightly basis. Not the cute kind of passing out (is there a cute kind?) . . . but the sloppy, food on your face and down your chin, snoring like a forest bear kind. The kids had even begun to recognize that it wasn't funny anymore; it was a problem.

At the time, I had been filling my head with every free piece of material on youtube by Tony Robbins and was ready to confront the drinking and offer my full support and encouragement. I was convinced that we could tackle this together and would come out stronger in the end.

We sat in church on Mother's Day when I got the internal prompting that this was the moment. I couldn't wait. So, mid-sermon I turned to him and said, "Hey, let's go out to the foyer and talk. It's important."

And everything changed after that. It was supposed to get better. I only wanted to do the right thing in the eyes of God. To have a marriage and family that honored Him. To be a supportive wife and (together) overcome this obstacle that had begun to infect every facet of our home.

"You have to stop drinking. It's destroying our family and it's really unhealthy for the kids to see you drunk and passed out every night. And you're mean when you drink; you're a different person. We can do this. Together. I'll help you. Please."

I honestly truly expected him to gently take my hand in his and gaze into my eyes as they welled up with tears and thank me for saving his life and his relationship with his children and our marriage. After all, GOD'S WILL was for him to overcome this. It was the right thing to do: see a problem, face it head-on as a team, and forge a stronger bond while being an example for the kids on what a REAL marriage is supposed to look like. For better or worse. Things definitely got worse.

There were no eyes welling up with tears. He didn't take my hand. He sneered. A hardness came over his face. It was the unmistakable glare of denial and pride, and whatever he said was the predictable script of an addict: "I don't have a problem . . . I don't know what you're talking about . . . YOU drink wine . . . " insert the hostile response of your choice.

I was dumbfounded.

Didn't he wake up every morning and apologize for the night before??
For passing out and spilling food all over the floor?
For snapping at me as I tried to wake him to go to bed?
For not waking up when someone ran over our cat at midnight . . . forcing me to (alone- except for my 2 year old son) transport our gory, gasping beloved pet to be put down at the emergency veterinary hospital?
For not waking up to my phone calls when I was 3 months pregnant and involved in a head-on collision with my 2 young daughters?
The years came to mind. The ever-increasing loneliness I'd felt every day and night.
How the hell could he possibly be in denial? And to mock me with a sneer.

"Really, God?? This is how this is going to go down??? I even had the conversation IN CHURCH. A little help here?"


The years that preceded this pivotal conversation were peppered with subtle abuses that only slightly resembled a Lifetime movie; nothing major. What one might refer to as a 'domestic incident'- but really, no established pattern that I couldn't explain away.

But see, the drinking and occasional fits of aggression along with the fact that he kept stealing my (doctor prescribed) Adderrall were just the island teasing the water's surface. What lie beneath was something much more pathological and all-consuming as the coming years would reveal. In 2003 I hadn't married an alcoholic . . . though he was drunk nonetheless as we said our vows. Had he merely been an alcoholic there may have been hope for us.

But no.

Through years of frustration which would eventually lead to obsessive research (which is characteristic of me) I'd later discover that I'd married a psychopath.

Lucky me.

Summer's Eve

You know that point in a marriage . . . when you're in the shower and you reach for your feminine wash only to realize it's missing . . . so you yell for your daughter to see if she's stolen it out of your shower. And she has, except that when she brings it back she says, "I wanted to use it because it smells like strawberries, but it's nail polish remover." 

I'm sorry, what? 

"It's nail polish remover. Smell it"

And I do. My daughter standing in wait as the shower continues to pour over me. I flip open the cap and cautiously take a whiff; the sharp chemical odor stings as I inhale. 

Sure enough. It's acetone or something that smells very similar. 

In my bottle of freaking Summer's Eve lady parts wash.

I smell the rest of my shower products. 
Dove body wash . . . brand new and in a GIANT bottle- acetone. That crap's expensive.

Redken shampoo. About 15% left in the huge salon bottle- acetone. 

Or is that NOT normal for husbands to do?

Normal.

Two weeks ago to the day, if you were to drive down my street around 11pm . . . as you approach my house- an unassuming, yet charming duplex . . . you'd see no less than 3 New Braunfels Police Dept patrol cars and a detective's unmarked (badass) black Dodge Charger surrounding my driveway. And as you get closer, you'd observe the officers and the detective on full alert and reaching for their weapons as they assess your level of threat through the blindness of your headlights. 

This has become our norm.

Inside the house you'd find me asleep on my couch, fully dressed and ready for whatever the night required of me. Down the hall you'd find my daughter (15) and my son (11) sound asleep and un-phased by the unpredictable conditions we've become familiar with. We sleep soundly on this night. We feel protected and at ease. 

Then 7am rolls around and I awake to a loud, panicked knock at the door. Surprised by the abrupt wakeup call, I open the door to find the detective is already taking steps back in the direction of his car as he speaks with an authoritative urgency, and tells me to "Get the kids; I'll explain in the car. You have 5 minutes!" (picture Armie Hammer in a uniform- seriously. This guy is straight out of a movie.)

We only need 2 minutes.

As we hurry to his car we pass another officer, poised in my driveway and ready for anything. Though by this time, the only immediate threat is the drive-by of parents on a mission to get their kids to the nearby elementary school on time. We climb into his car and are greeted by Snoop Dog's Ginn & Juice. 

Of course. This guy's such a badass. 

He's the last one in the car. He turns off the music and radios in to dispatch to alert them that he's en route to transport us to NBPD. Then we're off . . . the kids: groggy and confused in the backseat.
 . . . I comfort them with a gentle pat on the legs as the detective fills us in. 

"SAPD couldn't get the warrant to arrest your ex-husband at 5am as planned. His ankle monitor just went frozen, so they're heading over to pick him up now. You'll be safer at the station in case he tampered with it and is on the run or coming to find you."

That's all? Seemed an unnecessary intensity for just "...he could be on his way to find and kill you." 

But this is our norm. 

It's a dramatic prediction- if not for the fact that it happens all the time and doesn't discriminate according to socioeconomic standing or lifestyle or various other factors. 
It does happen.

And from the backseat, the kids want to know . . . with pleading, unamused voices:

"When can we have our phones back?"