Princess Elsa

I will not offer her real name because she tells me personal things. We became good friends the year she passed.  As some of you know, I hear from people who have passed on.  I know some of the people I hear from and some I do not.  It is sporadic, not something I can make happen all the time. I will be doing a series soon called Tuesdays with J.B., My Dad, who comes to me regularly with great wisdom.   Below is what I indeed heard from my dear friend I will call "Princess Elsa."

 My Crystal Angel:                         

She came to me in the spirit:

Me: I see you. You're in a long white gown.  Your hair is the same, blonde, long, and curly with waves like the soft blue ocean when it gently rolls onto the soft sands.  You have a continually beautiful smile. I spoke aloud:  You make life fun there, comical sometimes.

  She laughed and told me:  "You are funny there!"  We both laughed. 

Me: You look like Elsa in Disneyland's Ice Movie. (And I cried at her innocent beauty)

Her:  She said for me not to cry, it's okay. It's just different here.  It's not always easy at first, but you learn how to navigate the celestials quickly. I have only begun.  I am allowed, asked, and led to help others who feel like I felt on earth.  Not worthy enough or as worthy as I should have been. My passing wasn't easy, but it gave me perspective while it was happening. What I could have done or been.  So, when I passed, I was able to lean on the new me. Me with endless love that offers help to others.  I live in a castle.  A strong, beautiful white castle with some things that are endearing to me.  We don't need things here, but we can have whatever we want, and I wasn't finished loving some of my earthly things.  At some point, I will move on and leave the castle and those things behind.  For now, I wish to remain to watch my grandson grow, and  I want to help you grow too. 

Her:  I did not and have not seen my mother, which is fine.  I have seen my father but not close up. They tell me when I move past this phase, I will be able to spend more time with him if he is still in my area. Area means my mental (energy) area here.  I am finishing some things here that I didn't get to finish there. 

I go to see Rob in Ireland.  You may tell him of this. I know he senses my presence at times.  I would like to walk the cliffs with him soon.  Please tell him this.  He was and is a good forever friend.  I'm sorry he overstepped your boundaries.  

Fill yourself, Diane.  Fill yourself with as much good as you can. Don't sit alone like I did.  Oh, I had people, men, around me, but they left me personally empty. They were fillers.  Fill yourself with good people and energy.  Kind people.  Caring, intelligent, and giving people.  You have yourself in one of the cardboard coffins you write about, and you DON'T STOP WRITING.  Keep looking for your nitch. Seek the WHO YOU ARE.  The who you are spot in writing.  You are way more than you know. I wish I could reach you.  I wish I could come into your room, look into your eyes, and tell you verbally, not just mentally.  I know you hear me, but it's earthly to question if you really do hear or see me.  You do!  I wish I could wave a magic wand and fill you with all your needs.

Me:  I asked you for a sign of a red feather.  But I haven't gotten one.

Her:  Okay, I will send you a red feather. 

Her:  As for your personal life Diane.  Like I said, fill yourself with goodness.  Good people, good times, good talks, good good all good.  Seek it!  Don't sit and wait for it to come to you as I did.  Seek it.  Seek, and you shall find. 

Me:  You look so pretty. So Angelic, like a princess.

Her:  I am learning to be; it is so much fun.  There are so many wonderful people (energies) around me.  The Universe has sent many to me for them to learn and for me to learn from them as well.  Like your Dad told you.  He is in school like I am.

Her:  Remember how I yearned?  How I sat and longed for that particular man to come to get me and love me?  But he couldn't even find a way to take me on a decent date.  That's what you are doing.  I died, and I think I died sooner because I didn't listen.  I was not going to change.  I was in a cardboard coffin, not believing I could get out and do anything different.  I did my grandson, my garden, and a few men online and waited for that special man to come to me.  As you know, he never did. I wasted precious time and emotional energy for NOTHING.  Poof. Poof.  Nothing.  And then I died.  Is that what you want?

Me:  She blew me away, and I sat silently.  She knew my thoughts.

Her:  So, stop thinking that way.  You are older, and it will take longer to get better, but you will.  You will get better.  Your Dad just popped in here beside me.  He is so sweet, and those dimples give his kindness away.  He is pleased I am talking to you. He is flirting with me of course.  He always liked the pretty ones.  Your Dad and I are going fishing. He never got to go fishing much because he worked all the time, just like you.  We can go fishing here, by the way.  I bet he catches a big one.  Then he is going back to our Mom's.  He is waiting to help her cross over because she fears it.  Please do some "fishing" while you are still on earth.  Fishing of all sorts.  For new friends, for a partner, for help with your books, for advice, for restfulness, for pleasure.   Don't just sit in your apartment like I did and then die.  The regrets I felt while I was dying were awful.  That is why I am getting to live out some of my regrets here in the beyond before I move on to higher destinations.  Your Dad would have moved on by now, but his mission is to remain until your mother passes.  At first, they may not go to the same areas, but she won't be alone. He will see to that. She will know who he is by his energy. 

Thank you for being my friend Diane.  You got me out of my house and told me I was a wonderful person, unlike what my mother said.  And I know I helped you as well.  I showed you a bit of "gutsiness."  You could use a dose of guts!  

Me:  Ha, true

Her:  I wish we would have had more time together.  We were a pretty good team.

Me:  Yes, we were, and maybe we still are.  

"The Penis and the Tree Stump" An excerpt from a novel by Julianna Rowe

 Property of Julianna Rowe

Chapter Twenty:  The Penis and the Tree Stump:  

The Greatest Salesman in the World

Our world had settled down since the custody ordeal.  The boys were in school, and I stayed home caring for little John and the other children while Roger worked, but money was an issue.  I had been confiding in a friend that we were falling behind financially. She suggested I go to the local employment agency and see about a job in sales.  My self-confidence was still dangling like a string frayed from my inability to truly see my own good reflection.   The picture I saw of myself had been taken from other people’s judgment, all who knew me not.  An avalanche of pain and generations of garbage had been brought into my world of innocence as a child and laid me in their mud at birth.  But that was about to change.

My friend continued to boost my self-esteem, and our financial troubles grew.  She called me after seeing an ad for sales in the local paper.  She watched little John, and I went in for an interview.  The very well-dressed gentleman was a sales representative for an insurance company out of Dallas, Texas.  He sold me his bill of goods, I bought it, and, on the spot, I hired myself.  He was shocked and told me I couldn’t do that.  I told him I just had, so when could I start.

My flight was paid for by “The Company.”  The training was in Dallas at the Twin Towers Insurance Building, where before entering was the most beautiful giant bronze statues of several horses running through magnificent fountains. The city was grandiose to me, considering I had been stuck in a little one-horse town USA Virginia, fighting with family demons while pregnant, not to mention moving across the country to get the privilege to do so.  Roger and my friend were tending to the children making this new positive challenge in my life less complicated than the norm.

The first day of class was vigorous, to say the least. The instructor's name was Ronnie West, and he was out to see, no, test us, then to see if we had what it took to make the company money.  I was the pretty little housewife, somewhat shy yet as tenacious and determined as he had ever seen.  At one point during class, he used me as an example in a staring down contest, a tactic used in closing a sale.  I won his challenge and heard tell I was one of the only people that ever had.  Take note, I can weather the storm or storm (training class, custody courtroom assaults, marriage, a new family, all in one year!) and then fall apart after the fact. Yes, I am a fall-apart-after-the-fact person.  I believe that was due to having to disassociate from mental pain all my life.  I was like a bottle of soda pop sitting on a quiet shelf that got knocked off repeatedly until its insides blew its lid off and exploded.  The one-time bubbly, sweet, tasting pop could finally offer no more and erupted like a volcano.  I did. I became dizzy, disorientated, and nauseated after dinner.   I returned to the Hotel room where friends from the class called Dallas 911, and I drifted out of site in an ambulance to the hospital.  They thought I had food poisoning, but I believe I had an anxiety attack.  I was so frightened of this new venture, afraid of failure again.  My life had been plagued with failures, along with the old tapes playing in my head saying I couldn’t do it.  Mummie dearest tapes had their own damn racetrack inside my head, and she still held the checkered flag. 

They kept me in the hospital overnight and part of the next day.  I laid in that bed alone that night, looking out over the beautiful, exquisite lights shimmering over the entire city like a trillion diamonds.  I always loved the big city lights but was so alone and frightened.  I knew I was stronger than wishing because wishes were merely little desires of the heart, but it takes the heart and the mind to connect before they can manifest into life. Yet there I was, missing my opportunity, missing class, and I was sure they would make me come back and do it over again later.

I had practiced memorizing my sales pitch for six weeks.  I studied it so hard that I would wake up dreaming about it.  I ate it, drank it, and dreamed about it more, and they let me pass the course due to my sheer enthusiasm.

I flew home on Friday and met with the team on Monday morning, where we worked the street store to store, door to door, floor to floor, until there “weren’t” no more!  We were taught there was no bad territory, only the bum in the territory.

I broke all sales records and loved it like my employer did.  I was finally distinguished, slashed felt redeemed for the first time in my life. Something I did on my own for a prestigious company that put on yearly conventions and quarterly affairs, all full of hoopla. The annual celebration was black tie and evening gowns.  The quarterly achievement gifts were out of this world, like the old days of some of the wealthiest pyramid meetings where prizes were something to achieve.  I personally won 24 Karat gold plated goblets, gold ware, plaques, diamond rings, and statues that imitated the golden globes.  Not to mention Sales Team of the year and Sales Person of the year. In fact, I was so revered for my excellence they walked me to and from my vehicle in terms of my safekeeping.  Obviously, I made them a lot of money. It was a joke yet somewhat reality.

During the training classes of the new salespeople, I was required to call in from the field to share how many policies I had sold that day and how to do it because when most salespeople quit and went home, I would find a grocery store or factory and get permission to see the employees one by one. I could convince the owners to allow me to use company time for my presentation.  I was best with Banks because I was not intimidated by any Banker. I knew I made as much money as they did, if not more. Men no longer intimidated me in the least.

You see, I was trained by the Greatest Salesman in the World, which is a fact.  Ronnie West had been named the greatest from his entry into a world sales contest he won.  He told the company I was a natural-born salesperson.  He was right.  I could sell ice to an Eskimo, but it was a grueling, never give up job because you are only as good as your last week’s sales.

I had a couple of scary encounters while selling in the country around Virginia and Eastern Kentucky.  Some mountain folks hadn’t entered the century I was living in, which showed its ugly “head” a few times. That would be a pun in the upcoming pages. My training taught me to never miss a store, a business, a home, or a man standing on the corner because all were prospective sales.  I was also taught to do what successful people told me to do, so I did, and on one stop, I saw a man sitting on a dead tree stump who appeared to be whittling, and behind him, a small boy about nine years of age tending some goats.  I had pulled up to a locked metal gate outside Red Oak, Kentucky, where I parked, got out, and gave a shout-out.

Hello there, I have something I believe will interest you, sir, as it has some of your neighbors.”

I waited, but no response.  And then I saw “it.”  A pink penis hanging outside his unzipped pants.  It was not a small penis, might I add, and not at any sort of erection state that I could tell even though I was a good thirty feet from where “it” was hanging low against the dead tree stump.  I always carried a small pistol, but it was not within reach.  The old man stood up with “it” still dangling about between his legs.

I responded to his no response, although I believe his response was apparent.

“Sir, I am looking for Highway 59 South. Could you point me in the proper direction, please?”

Obviously, that made no sense.  Why would that interest him, as it had his neighbors? He began walking toward the fence line gate where I could clearly see a grubby old man who had not bathed in months and whose eyes glistened like the devil was about to win a piece of me. Did I mention he was carrying a real live shotgun?  I still had enough wits about me to see him raise that gun high with pecker still hanging low. I put my sweet car in R and spit gravel about twenty feet in all directions.  If he did take a shot at me, the Kentucky dust bowl I had created would make his visibility zero.  And so, from then on, my little pearl-handled nine-millimeter would be lying on the seat next to me!

We usually traveled in teams. Met for coffee, split up on city streets to work the door-to-door sales, then back at four p.m. to meet for end-of-day transaction reports.  Sometimes worked the country farms and homes on the weekends because I was professionally driven. I liked getting attention for doing well because, during my life, that was not something I had ever gotten.

Roger had found a job at a factory as a quality control engineer. I had hired a young Indian woman named Betty to care for the children.   The kids loved her because she gave them one-on-one while I was out trying to outwit the ghosts of Crestview. Or should I say I was growing up getting what I never got as a kid?  The boys still remember Betty.  She had anxiety and would run for a long time when it hit.  Kind of like Forest Gump but only around the yard where she could still see the boys.  She taught them about food, Indian food.  I am talking cowboy and Indian-type Indian. Need I say I didn’t have to worry about the children, which left me ample time to sell, and I did.

I have one other Insurance sales story that could have put me in a compromising situation and did. 

I was working in an apartment building from a referral that always brought good sales, and because I knew if I could sell one, the rest of the apartment dwellers would fall like dominos. So, I knocked on the outside door of Unit 5.  A young man answered who seemed very friendly.  I told him John Sever, one of his co-workers at the Piggly Wiggly, had given me his name, and I felt I had something that would also interest him.  He invited me in and ushered me to his black velour sofa with the enormous black velvet Elvis picture behind it.  Yes, I had my nine-millimeter in my purse next to me as always since the stump man incident. Clyde was seated in the chair to the right of me. There was a coffee table and a wall to the left side of me.  The exit door was behind Clyde.  I knew better, and not only that, but I had told no one where I was going, which was very unusual for me.  This one slipped by me somehow, and it was too late.  I had gotten caught up in the role of the excellent sale versus the use of sound judgment.

We chatted briefly, and then I gave him my sales pitch.  And then he gave me his! How he had always wanted a woman to watch him masturbate, at which time he wasted no time in undoing his zipper and pulling down his pants.

I had a gun, but I was frozen.  Anyway, would I shoot him?  He was a mere two feet from me and my portfolio of sales.  That was not what I was selling, Mr. Clyde.  I knew enough to know this could go downhill fast if I didn’t think of something. Meantime he is Rolfing his sadly limp dick diligently while I watch.  I was afraid to make eye contact versus eye-to-penis contact so I began talking to him while I watched him try to masturbate, which wasn’t going well.  DING DING DING. I asked him if he had gone to church.  Nothing like diving right in.  I talked to him like he wasn’t doing what he was doing while I watched what he was doing. I mentioned a couple of God experiences I had while meeting different types of people in my travels and a few of my personal stories as he finished his “always wanted to masturbate in front of a woman” fantasy.

He put his head down and cried, but I didn’t feel safe.   He continued to apologize and said he believed in God as well.  I took a chance and stood up to leave, showing confidence and stature, telling him I would check back with him regarding his need for the policy.  He walked me to the door, where we said our goodbyes and I drove away.  As I look back, he would have signed on the dotted line!!  Okay, I am just kidding, maybe.

 

Blessed by Righteous Words

 

Blessed by Righteous Words 

Written by Tommye Allen, inspired by the Holy Spirit

Narrated by Julianna Rowe, aka Diane Ogden

find more of Tommye's writings at http://dearonelovegod.blogspot.com 

(Forgive the bad lighting)

The New Covenant Written by Tommye Allen, inspired by the Holy Spirit

 

   

Blessed by the Every Word of the New Covenant

Written by Tommye Allen, inspired by the Holy Spirit

Narrated by Julianna Rowe, aka Diane Ogden

See more writings at http://www.dearonelovegod.blogspot.com

Comments are welcome at dianeogden.ogden@gmail.com.    

"The Cinderella Syndrome" Part II of The Ghosts of Crestview Manor property of Julianna Rowe

 

Part II: "Cinderella Syndrome" 

The Same as Make-Believe

Hello, My Name is Katerina, and I have so much more to tell: Gangsters and Guns, The Hooker and Charlie Rich, The Dentist, Virginia, and the Mob. Here is where it began;

Being raised as a female in the '50s is self-explanatory to some but not to others. Most girls were raised to find a good husband and have babies. To be quiet, cook, and clean. Example: Lucy and Desi in "I Love Lucy!"  I was raised in the ’50s, Living in the '70s.

The tragedy for Katerina became familiar in those days in the form of being a sexual party favor looking to fit in and be loved. (Not as in hooker) Crashing on occasion into a self-loathing victim.  The “Pretty Girl” Syndrome.  Searching for the glass slipper with a foot that didn’t fit any shoe, much less a glass slipper… anywhere.  Waiting for a break, never looking in the proper direction within.

I didn’t know how.  I was taught I was trash.

At that point in my life, my mind began listening to the faint whispers of the heartbreaking memories of the past twenty-some years.  I was likened to the deaf man who could not hear the crackling dead veins within the autumn leaves swirling in the wind as their life was no more.  Such was my mental order that sobbed and groaned to my own “blind” ears.

I must go forward, not backward, were the mental words trying to embed themselves into my ordinarily self-distracted mind.   To go forward, I was to ward things off or dust them off, to be expected of and in favor of.  To go backward was allowing myself to wallow in being behind or going in reverse and remaining there.

I knew what I wanted in life, so I moved forward while living mentally backward.  It was all make-believe slash fantasyland.  I wanted to be married, but I was not.  I wanted love, but I got none. I tried to fix my situation, yet it was not redeemable in my mind, and nor was I. So, I lived in a “Make Believe” world of many emotionally based bad choices.  I am not saying I always made terrible choices, but they were derived from emotions versus the truth guiding me.  Those emotional choices opened the door to the old Crestview curses over and over.

Yet somehow, I believe a higher power had protected me from all but myself and my own hidden emotions. I was like the Biblical woman at the well who had many husbands and needed to find out what was inside herself before she moved on to more.  John 8:11. God told her to go and sin no more.  I was also Queen Esther, the humble Jewish woman who married the King who planned to kill all the Jews.  Esther married a problematic man and then stated her unsurity as to how she got where she was.

Everything was an outward leap while I was drowning in the rapids of life, waiting for rescue. Only to be pulled further downriver by self-serving men escaping death many times over. Those men were sharp as the Eagle who soared high above the river with piercing eyes that could see beneath the surface, allowing the dive to catch its unknowing prey.

I would choose situations reflecting the unsuspecting game I was led into playing.  The victim.  Living in a continuing state of blindness to everything surrounding me, the people, the places, and events that deftly showed the chilling effects to come, all the time thinking I was getting when in reality I was in a city of the garbage, still searching for Crestview.  It wasn’t there, nor was it anywhere.  Have you ever searched for years for a haunting spirit you couldn’t see?

Sometimes we need not ask so much but rather hold our position for it may be valid beyond our understanding.  Or, as some would say, “Learn when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away and when to run.” I had no clue because I was living in a mentally induced make-believe world derived from the opposing forces hidden in the halls of Crestview Manor. My Disney World. It's all I had.

Make-Believe can be painful, and it kept me in a precarious place as on thin ice, a lie, or denial.  I was grieving the ghosts of Crestview.  Thinking they were good when in fact, they were terrible. All my energy went toward conjuring them up through my make-believe life.  It was unhealthy, and I got no reward for it. No movie rights, no publishers contract, no anything but pain.  It was a worthless place to be.

 

'Blessed by Faith'

 

"Blessed by Faith"  

Written by Tommye Allen, Inspired by the Holy Spirit.

Narrated by Julianna Rowe, aka Diane Ogden

"The Ghosts of Crestview Manor" by Julianna Rowe

The Ghosts of Crestview Manor   Property of Julianna Rowe                                                                    The Life Story of Katerina 

Chapter Six: Dr. Pig.......

I must backtrack a few years for my following error in judgment to be understood.  Some would say it was an excuse.  No. How can people excuse themselves for something they did or did not know they were doing? It takes time to evolve; sadly, some need to learn through life's hard knocks. Do I wish I had been able to rise above my raising?  Sure. But the cells needed were not there, so the Universe had to use Plan C.

My father bought me a horse when I was fifteen years old.   Her name was Sally.  She was a lazy stocky pinto, but lazy was suitable for someone who had never ridden horses.   That is until one day, while riding, walking down the old farm lane toward the barn, she spooked and bolted. My skinny friend and I were riding double bareback.  She flew off the rear and landed like a feather.  Not me; as usual in life, I hung on as I slid sideways down and around her neck while continuing to hang onto her face halter. So, she kicked me to get me off her face!   I fell a mere two feet, but somehow those two feet fractured my left arm, swelling like angry storm waters in a raging river.

The local Dr. Pig, we will call him, tended to the healing of my arm while having dishonorable advances toward me.  Back to my Grandfather's relative in Colorado, right? My God, I was only sixteen years old. Back then, sixteen to a man was perfect.  Note the songs; She Was Only Sixteen by Sam Cooke; Your Sixteen Your Beautiful and Your Mine by Johnny Burnett; Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen by Neil Sedaka; Tramps and Thieves by Cher; Stray Cat Blues by the Stones and many more.  Basically, songs promoted the sexual permissiveness of young women.

Then during my physical therapy sessions, he began making more advances. Massaging my arm up to and under my arm, obviously close to my breasts.  I was so frightened, not to mention frozen I never returned to his office for years.  As well as, I never completed the healing therapy for my arm he oversaw. Back then, Physical Therapy was at your local GP's office.

He never gave up!  I re-connected with him years later as a physician during the abusive phase of my marriage to Ronnie Lee.  Dr. Pig had an excellent bedside manner, especially if he thought he could get you in it, and he eventually did.  He used the horrible situation I was in to use me.  I felt somewhat important seeing the infamous local surgeon, even if it was behind closed doors. A far "cry" from where I had been and was. Where else was I to get uplifted kudos? My family? My husband? His family? NOT! So, the Pig and I had a quiet affair for some time.  He told me all his troubles and vice versa. How sad I look back to see my lack of ability to see reality. At least I didn't have to deal with a Procto!!

I have always used the analogy of a man riding a motorcycle to a man’s need for a woman.  He rides with his legs spread, high handlebars giving him a sense of power, the gas tank, you, between his legs, revving his engine as he shifts his gears to the final ultimate ride!  He has found a home for hairy, my dears!!   And so, it was Dr. Pig who did also, I am embarrassed to say.

As time passed, I was hospitalized twice by him.  Once for pneumonia and later in life for the embarrassing hemorrhoidectomy. I must laugh at that one, considering I feel he made an “ass” of me in my ignorant neediness.

Until the time my father was hospitalized with a life-threatening condition.  I felt it was my KARMA and feared my father would die because of my sin. But no, Dr. Pig saved his life in little town USA hospital with all its/our secrets.

I knew he had more problems than I did somewhere inside my mind.  But in retrospect, I realize he had started his sick mental takedown of me years previously when I was sixteen.  One of those conquest things, in particular men.  Again, I did what was expected of me…..although my payoff believed I was bettering myself when in reality, I was digging another hole I’d have to deal with at some point in time, probably still do somewhere on the CD of life inside my head that no one sees or dreams or feels but me.  He was a band-aide for an open wound in my life.  As a professional, he could and should have tried to set me on an uphill course rather than push me further down the destructive rabbit hole I had already set in motion or was born into?? Heck, I wasn’t just falling; I was on a collision course.  I guess I was ready-made for him.  I was looking for an external answer to an internal problem.  I never stopped trying to make that method work for many years.

Dr. Pig moved from his little town shrine and remains an excellent unhappy surgeon who never figured life out.  From what I heard via the grapevine of Facebook, he was a cruel husband to his new wife.  At least I missed that bullet!

I continued with Ronnie Lee for a time, and to my knowledge, no one ever knew about the doctor and the young girl who didn’t realize her potential.  In my later years, when I visit the old small town, the old folks look at me and smile somewhat understandingly. Maturity shows us our genuine connection with one another even when it seems too late to use it in ways more beneficial to our lives.  It is possibly a step towards the level we will live in our next life. I can only hope and believe.

Ronnie Lee was having an affair after affair.  I had caught him many times, but I didn’t leave.  I was on a mission to fix his lousy reflection of himself. I think I wanted to be for others what no one had been for me, but that usually is ineffective and merely stole what little energy I had to start with.

One of his affairs was with the woman who lived behind us. One day I was doing dishes looking out the window, and saw them throwing crab apples at each other and giggling like children. It couldn't get more obvious than that. He would play with her little boy and take him in the truck he drove for a living, leaving his son Robbie behind.  Robbie was rejected many times by his father in his tender years and shot at with a gun in his teen years. Yes, by his father.

Ronnie Lee was not a good person mentally or physically, but then I also had my emotional curses going on.  Ronnie Lee had a bleeding ulcer, so he said.  One time while drunk and after he had hit me several times, he was on his knees crying for sympathy. He said he had thrown up blood…. so I called 9 1 1.   I knew he was simply trying to get out of how abusive he had been that day.  Our family doctor, not Dr. Pig.... knew how he treated me and figured he was lying about the blood because he needed redemption for hitting me the day before.

Doc said, “Let’s see how sick he really is?”

He ordered tubes for every orifice of Ronnie's body.  I was thrilled.  I thought it might make a difference, but, of course, it did not.   From somewhere in my mind, I had made another wrong decision.  Not to leave him but to get pregnant once more and then leave.  This was my new mission.  What was I thinking?  I will tell you.  I felt that my firstborn Robbie needed a brother or sister.  I believed Robbie shouldn’t be alone in this world; if anything happened to me, he would have blood family.  So, I enticed Ronnie Lee.... and got pregnant.  He said the child wasn’t his, but it was.  Ronnie was also a pathological liar; therefore, he believed everything he said.  He was also diagnosed as a sociopath.  I was planning to leave as his behavior was becoming more destructive, and I was terrified of him.  I recall one day, he asked me to sit in the driver’s seat of our car while he did something to repair the engine.  Hood up and me behind the wheel in the driveway.  I wanted to kill him.  That was the only time I ever wanted to seriously kill anyone.  All I had to do was step on the gas and run over him, but I did not.  I left him and returned to the frying pan farm with my parents.  They were not my favorite people, but “it “was all I had.

Since Robbie's birth, my mother became even more controlling, telling me everything I did wrong for or with him.  No, I didn’t; I loved that little boy with all my heart.  He was the cutest and sweetest boy in the world to me.  My mother would complain I dressed him wrong and would physically take him away from me.  I couldn’t do anything right, according to her.  She was cruel, and I was living with her and expecting another child there.

One day Ronnie Lee called the farm and wanted to talk to me. I said, fine…..so Mother and Dad reluctantly dropped me off at our friend's home, where Ronnie Lee was waiting.  My Dad was uncomfortable with this situation, but I told him I would be fine.  They drove away, and I went inside.  Another man owned the house, but when I came in, he left the room for the kitchen to give us privacy, or so I thought.  That is when Ronnie Lee began to beat me up even though I was seven months pregnant.  He kicked me in the stomach and threw me all around the room.  I remember being more terrified than I had ever been. I realized he would kill me, so he didn't have to pay for another "kid."

I loved that baby inside me.  The man that owned the home would not help me even though I cried out for help.  He hid and watched the beating of the pregnant woman. I prayed as hard as I had ever prayed for my parents to return.  And they did!! I have no idea why they did, but they did.  I suspect it was my father’s intuition.  My Father and I have spiritual sensing, and it paid off.  When Ronnie Lee saw my parents return and pull up in front of the house, he ran out the back door like a scared rabbit.  Dad told me he just had a feeling, and I thank God for that GUIDE or ANGEL messenger who got through the veil to my dad.

I divorced the bastard in 1972.  I was in my early twenties living back at the funny farm with one four-year-old and expecting another.  It was life nightmare number twenty-two, plus I developed severe anxiety, making breathing difficult. The stress was unbelievable.  Mother had taken over entirely with Robbie, and her perfectionism and narcissism were horrible.  Dad just mumbled and went about his business outside.

My ninth-month pregnant, I decided to ride my bike into town, thinking I would go into labor and get it over with.   It was sweltering, and I was about halfway to town when I realized I had made a dangerous mistake that could hurt my baby and me.    Thank God again because along came my dad in his old blue truck because he was worried about me.  He put my bike in the back and me in the front, and we went home, no words spoken.

My parents hosted a party a day or two after the bicycle incident.  The gathering was about advertising the program and products of a multi-level marketing company mother had signed up with.  Something like Shaklee, I think. 

My luck, I went into labor around seven p.m.   I was in the upstairs bedroom, deciding to wait until the contractions were good and strong. I wondered if I would sit at that hospital all night again like the last time. Enema's, poking, prodding, and aloneness!  By the time anyone came up and noticed, I was really in labor, meaning seven centimeters dilated.   Mother drove me to the local hospital, dropped me off, and returned to her party.

A nurse named Mrs. Schumann spent the entire night with me.   She was the mother of a lovely boy I graduated with named Jimmy Don.   I will never forget her.  No one ever did anything nice for me like she did.  I mean Auntie brought me nice used clothes…. I can’t think of anything else, even though I am sure there were more decent memories.

I was in the delivery room with Dr. Reiner, who had just informed me the baby’s head was crowning, when I decided to QUIT and mentally fell apart. I told Dr. Reiner I couldn’t do it…. I had an awful life, no way to care for my poor baby.  Old Doc Reiner left the crowning baby, walked up and stood near my head, bent over, and asked me if I wanted to give my baby away.

I said, “No.”

He said, “Then let’s do this; you can do this!” 

He continued cheering me on like I was his favorite football team.   And so I did.   Richard (Richie) was born that night with me and the Doc and his nurses.   I loved Richie so much.   He was six pounds thirteen ounces with black hair and blue eyes.  He was a gentle baby and a gentleman.