At War With Myself and My God - Please Critique Grammar

(This is a true story; a story about my mother's murder.)

December 4, 1974, I was hurt the day my mother left and filed for divorce giving sole custody of my brother and me to my father.

August 30, 1975, my mother was brutally raped and murdered.

August 31, 1975, I was in church when the detectives informed us of her death. I always expected good things to happen in church, not news that would crush the hopes and dreams of a ten year old child. My spirit began to break as my heart burned with sadness. I felt pain pierce and absorb every fiber of my body; I wanted to die.

September 1, 1975, I sat quietly as the detectives handcuffed my father and brother. They were to be interrogated and submit to polygraph tests for their part, if any, with my mother’s brutal death.

September 2, 1975, I was numb when the detectives informed father that her murdered had been caught. The man who murdered my mother had been in prison before for assault and rape; he had only been on the streets for several days before he murdered her. Father asked about the murder weapon and the detectives informed him that it was a tire iron and never recovered. I tried to stop the tears from streaming down my face but I couldn’t. I buried my head into a red and black pillow and laid on the couch in disbelief.

“Thank you,” father whispered and embraced the two detectives.

I felt a chill go through my spine as the detectives left and the door clicked shut. I waited for father to come and put his arms around me and tell me everything was going to be alright. I held my breath and dried my tears; I didn’t want my father to see me cry. Father walked slowly toward me, he gently knelt and pulled the hair from my face.

“Sis,” father’s voice was soft, “today they found…the man who hurt…and killed your mother…her face was…the bugs and heat…her casket will be closed…”

I covered my ears with my hands and tuned father’s voice out.

September 4, 1975, the day of mother’s funeral, is the day anger became a constant and familiar reminder of how cruel life could be.

It was an exceptionally hot and humid day in Michigan, air conditioning was still a luxury and this particular funeral home chose to be frugal. A man in a cheap polyester dark blue suit began to read the Bible. The funeral home gave me the creeps and I began to slouch in my chair. The longer this man talked the more agitated I became. My heart raced and I began to swing my white patented shoes back and forth defiantly against the chair in front of me causing a loud and annoying sound. Each time I hit the chair I became deliberately more aggressive and my posture grew straighter.

The man than addressed father and began to say what a caring mother and Godly wife my mother had been.

Father nodded and his shoulders sagged, I stole a quick look at father’s usual handsome face. “I hate her daddy for what she did to us,” I silently screamed in my heart. Even though my heart was on fire my lips were cold and mute.

The man asked father to come to the casket and say goodbye. My cheeks grew hot as father’s voice cracked as he said his goodbye. I could feel a dark ominous feeling consume my heart and then begin to penetrate my soul

The man motioned for me and my brother to accompany father; my brother grabbed my hand and tried to pull me to a standing position. I refused and the harder he tried the angrier I became. Even my brother’s sorrow filled yet now tainted sky blue eyes could not persuade me to say goodbye.

“Sis,” my father beckoned, “please come.”

I furiously shook my head and strands of hair fell wildly into my face. I increased the rhythm of my kicking and watched as my brother fought tears and bravely said goodbye. My mother said goodbye to me a cold afternoon in December, as far as I was concerned we had already said our goodbyes.

The next ten years anger became my constant companion; whenever my heart would fill with sadness, I reminded myself that a loving God would never have allowed me to become hurt. I knew anger and anger knew me; I was at war with myself and my God.

:-\

 

Re: At War Withmself and God

:'( :'( :'( :'( :'(

 

no matter the nature of your mother's dead it is normal to be angry. She deserted you, the little girl. Grief is one of the most personal things ever in a person's life. No one can tell you or me how to grieve or how long to grieve. BLessings to you.

 

I wonder what would happen if you gave up the anger? Who can say what has been waiting all this time to present itself? I wonder.
More blessings to you.

 

i honestly don't know

xoxox

 

ah, and therein lies security. It can be terrifying to give up that security when you do not know what will come next.

 

sweet lady, I can't help with the grammar, but I know about the war inside. outing the bad and sucking in the good is the only way I've found to make it through. You are deserving of so much more :-*

 

Did you get someone to edit for you? If not, I can do it. Just let me know.

 

it would be my pleasure as well.

 

My humble suggestions:
September 1, 1975, I sat quietly as the detectives handcuffed my father and brother. They were to be interrogated and submit to polygraph tests for their part, if any, (with) in my mother’s brutal death.

The next ten years anger became my constant companion; whenever my heart would fill with sadness...
Perhaps a reword of: Anger became my constant companion for the next ten years. I would end the sentence there to emphasize the statement/feeling. Begin next sentence with "Whenever my heart would begin to fill with sadness, I reminded myself that..."

It's always easier to edit someone else's words than come up with our own ... or pour out our most tender & secret feelings...

Be well, my friend...

 

merci

 

I am glad you are able to write about it now. That is part of the healing. I am sorry you had to go through such a childhood, but I also hope there are some good memories of Mom in there, too. No one is all good or all bad. Do you know yet what was going on with her to cause her to make the decisions that she did?
Keep writing.

 

Alladin,

Hi. I caught some grammatical errors. I'm not sure how to proof on this post, so I'll just put the error in parenthesis in the appropriate sentence. I hope you are doing well. This is a sad story, and I'm sure it was a very difficult time for you and your family. It sounds like you certainly wrestled with God. Thanks for sharing with us. I hope my comments help.
Sue Goodreau


December 4, 1974, (This is a fragment. I would put either "On December 4..." or "December 4, 1994--or :" Or, perhaps you just want to make it stand out as its own statement, "December 4, 1974. )

I was hurt the day my mother left and filed for divorce (,) giving sole custody of my brother and me to my father.

August 30, 1975, my mother was brutally raped and murdered.

August 31, 1975, I was in church when the detectives informed us of her death. I always expected good things to happen in church, not news that would crush the hopes and dreams of a ten year old child. My spirit began to break as my heart burned with sadness. I felt pain pierce and absorb every fiber of my body; I wanted to die.

September 1, 1975, I sat quietly as the detectives handcuffed my father and brother. They were to be interrogated and submit to polygraph tests for their part, if any, with (in) my mother’s brutal death.

September 2, 1975, I was numb when the detectives informed father (this should begin with a capital "F") that her murdered (typo, murderer) had been caught. The man who murdered my mother had been in prison before for assault and rape; he had only been on the streets for several days before he murdered her. Father asked about the murder weapon (, needed since this is a compound sentence) and the detectives informed him that it was a tire iron and never recovered. I tried to stop the tears from streaming down my face (,) but I couldn’t. I buried my head into a red and black pillow and laid on the couch in disbelief.

“Thank you,” father (F) whispered and embraced the two detectives.

I felt a chill go through my spine as the detectives left and the door clicked shut. I waited for father (F)to come and put his arms around me and tell me everything was going to be alright. I held my breath and dried my tears; I didn’t want my father to see me cry. Father walked slowly toward me, (he gently knelt and pulled the hair from my face.

“Sis,” father’s (F) voice was soft, “today they found…the man who hurt…and killed your mother…her face was…the bugs and heat…her casket will be closed…”

I covered my ears with my hands and tuned father’s (F) voice out. (you may want to rearrange this sentence since it ends in a preposition.)

September 4, 1975, the day of mother’s funeral, is the day anger became a constant and familiar reminder of how cruel life could be.

It was an exceptionally hot and humid day in Michigan, (; or new sentence) air conditioning was still a luxury (,) and this particular funeral home chose to be frugal. A man in a cheap polyester dark blue suit began to read the Bible. The funeral home gave me the creeps (,) and I began to slouch in my chair. The longer this man talked (,) the more agitated I became. My heart raced (,) and I began to swing my white patented shoes back and forth defiantly against the chair in front of me (,) causing a loud and annoying sound. Each time I hit the chair I became deliberately more aggressive (,), and my posture grew straighter.

The man than (typo-- "then") addressed father (F) and began to say what a caring mother and Godly wife my mother had been.

Father nodded (,) and his shoulders sagged, (; or new sentence)I stole a quick look at father’s (F) usual (usually--I believe this is modifying handsome, so it needs to be an adverb) handsome face. “I hate her(,) daddy (Daddy,) for what she did to us,” I silently screamed in my heart. Even though my heart was on fire my lips were cold and mute.

The man asked father (F) to come to the casket and say goodbye. My cheeks grew hot as father’s (F) voice cracked as he said his goodbye. I could feel a dark(,) ominous feeling consume my heart and then begin to penetrate my soul (.)

The man motioned for me and my brother to accompany father (F); my brother grabbed my hand and tried to pull me to a standing position. I refused (,)and the harder he tried (,) the angrier I became. Even my brother’s sorrow(-) filled yet now tainted sky blue eyes could not persuade me to say goodbye.

“Sis,” my father beckoned, “please come.”

I furiously shook my head (,) and strands of hair fell wildly into my face. I increased the rhythm of my kicking and watched as my brother fought tears and bravely said goodbye. My mother (had) said goodbye to me (on)a cold afternoon in December,(. Start a new sentence) as far as I was concerned we had already said our goodbyes.

The next ten years anger became my constant companion; whenever my heart would fill with sadness, I reminded myself that a loving God would never have allowed me to become hurt. I knew anger (,) and anger knew me; I was at war with myself and my God.




« Last Edit: 08/09/07, 05:28:17 pm by Aladdin » Report to moderator Logged

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Meniere's Talk Forums At War With Myself and My God - Please Critique Grammar
« on: 08/09/07, 02:44:05 pm » Quote

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thank you

merci
xoxo

 

bump

 

Oh sweetie, I cried when I read this. I think a lot about the reasons WHY people do what they do. I don't think your mother was deliberately trying to hurt you or the rest of your family. But of course her leaving would hurt a little girl. She must have been in a place that left her unable to cope. In her mind, she was probably doing the kindest thing for you, by leaving you with your daddy -- someone she knew could and would take good care of you.

And God hears all your prayers, oh yes He does. Forgive your mom for her short-comings. Ask God to help you forgive. You will find peace there.

Much love, hugs & prayers,
Christine

 

i'm trying and been asking God for a long time but just recently wrote the man who murdered her and told him I forgave him

 

Oh what a wonderful and brave thing to do. I'm sure you'll find it healing, to let go of some of that, that you've been carrying for so long.

And you know what? It honestly doesn't matter what their reaction is. It doesn't matter if that person ignores the letter, rips it up, throws it out. You are really beginning the healing process and NO ONE can take that away from you.

 

Hi Aladdin,

I will leave grammar to those who know it better than me.

I think it could be helpful to write about this maybe as a journaling exercise. I can feel alot of pain and anger, justifiably so. But, its in the past and that is what I want to write about. This isn't to minimize your story which made my eyes sting. It's to let you know you aren't alone.

I have my own horrible skeletons, I am almost positive we all have some, I have tried to deal with them. It hasn't been easy, I still suffer from their effects 50 years later.

I did, eventually, forgive my sister for what she did, I even understand why she did those things, but the physical effects are a reminder of dangerous times. I even was thankful that my mother had died when I was very young. My rationale was if my mother raised my sister and she was that bad, how bad could the original have been? OMG! As a kid, that made really good sense.

Anyway, fastforward 25 years. I just had my son and once again had postpartum depression. I saw myself doing things I knew were wrong. On a whim, I made an appointment with the pediatrician, a very old school doctor, who must have sensed my desperation and spent an hour with me. This from a doctor who was so precise in time management...lol. When we left the exam room ( he never even checked the kids ) the waiting room was full, his receptionist was completely shocked, it was funny.
Anyway, he referred me to a psych. and I called. Or I tried to call. It took a week of dialing all the numbers except for the last one. Finally, I did it and started seeing her, twice a week for a while, then once a week for a couple of years.

We went over all the normal stuff as I am sure you probably have. But she did say that if I ever wanted to get past the "stuff", I would have to forgive my sister. WHAT!?
It was like being slapped, how could I forgive her after all that...stuff. We sure know how to hold on to that "stuff" no matter how horrible it is. But then after I got over being full of myself, I began to give thought to what she was proposing.

Forgiveness does not mean we forget. To forgive, you allow yourself to heal. You don't allow them/that to take up precious space in your heart and soul.
Those feelings are living rent free within you and its costing you a fortune.

Of course you don't forget. But by NOT forgetting, you also grow. You learn what NOT to do so you don't repeat the toxic circle.

Then the psych. said that within me was a "wise woman". At this point, I wasn't sure if anything was "in" me. But as she went on to explain, children who have these horrible experiences often grow up to make very poor life choices. It could be substance abuse or sexual problems like prostitution. But I ended up on the right side of the fence, she seemed genuinely surprised! Which brings us back to the wise woman, a guiding force within me.

Don't we all have that small voice inside us? How many times have we heard it but disregarded whatever it was whispering?

I bet that after all these years, you still have questions why and what prompted your mom to do what she did. You may suspect, you may even know. Did you, have you talked with your dad or any other relatives about this? Or has it remanined the elephant in the living room, just stinking up the place, not to mention what it did and still does to your life?
People make choices without realizing who they may impact, how they may affect that person or people's lives. They may not realize that their decision, which at the time seems so logical, may reach far into the future.

I must go but I have often reference an Eric Clapton song, link to follow. It was a couple of years ago, I took a literature course and the final project was a paper. My topic was Hamlet and I spent considerable time on it. I think my professor made all of 3 comments on it, one was asking for permission to use it with future students.
Anyway, this song was one of my sources, LOL. So was Billy Joel's, "Your only Human".
I chuckled that I could get Billy Joel, Eric Clapton and Shakespear together to make perfect sense.

Feel free to pm me, we could talk for hours. I hope I didn't upset you but I feel like I know exactly where you are.
Sending gentle hugs, Janine

http://www.eric-clapton.co.uk/ecla/lyrics/its-in-the-way.html

 

janine

wow what a journey - I can relate to so many things you said - some I'll discuss here publicly while others I'll pm to you - when my mom was murdered I was angry but when she left me and my brother I was furious - two months after her murder my father remarried - and then soon two brothers were born - I felt like a freak and definetly 'left out' - I spent years running from the past (no one wanted to talk about it let alone allow me to cry) I definetly made bad choices with men and relationships - I drove myself to attend college and came short of entering a doctorate program for ...Forensic Scientiest - Profiling - I was goind to any extreme to deal with the past but not doing what I needed to do was to get inside me and heal and forgive - I would go to psychologist (most were my friends and I'd end up counseling them) I always had this mask/facade that I was okay that 'her' death was....but inside I was scared and hurting...i wasn't this calm woman but rather a scared child...i'm trying and am taking baby steps --- i've been thinking of starting a web site for children who've lost their parents -what do you think?

xoxo