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.