"Don't Should On Me." Standing Up to Abuse, Finding Freedom ............ 2/1/15

Copyrighted Image: "England: Northamptonshire:Summer Day" by Tim Blessed.  

       A funeral I attended.  I even strapped a guitar over my suit and performed, playing the song the deceased--- a lovely woman---asked me
to play at her funeral, "Just A Closer Walk With Thee."  After the memorial service was over,  Yolan-da, a woman who had the direct nature firstborns can have---probably because she was one---said, "Are you going over to the reception at DeAnna's?"  She, the daughter of the deceased.

        "You should go," this oldest adult child in her family said.  She hadn't seen me in eight years, these---her first words---was the way she greeted me.  With my girl-friend at my side, and four others standing by me,  I calmly said, "Don't should on me."

        "What did you say???"  Her eyes widened, as she replied, thinking I swore.

        I said, "Don't should on me."  Her head moved back as if I had punched her, which would have been satisfying.  I continued, "I am of the age that I am not accustomed to others telling me what to do."

        I said this with love apples.  They are having a gentle smile on our face.  They refer to a small rise in our cheeks when we smile in a calm way.

       When we have love apples we reveal we are neither scared, nor angry.  We are not affected by the person confronting us. We are confidently standing in our power.

       Back to the cemetery.  Speaking to Yolanda, I did not glare.  My voice was serene.

       I expressed myself in my soft-spoken way.  My eyes looked steadily into hers, a reaction she was not used to, from anyone.  She sputtered for a second and left as I stood there with my son and friends.

        Oh yeah, I haven't seen her since.  It's been eight years.  Forty-five seconds.

        That's all it took.  And what did I gain?  Plenty.

         My dignity and self-respect, I maintained.  I did not cower to someone who was well-practiced at bullying others since she was nine.  It felt good, responding, not reacting.

         I nurtured the little Pablo who lived within.  I was not allowed to speak his truth as a child.  I was happy that afternoon among gravestones.

         I knew what to do, did it and was calm when I did.

          My insights and strength was gotten through my time invested with Al-Anon Family Groups.

       What else did I receive that day?  Peace of mind.  We get what we tolerate.

        We train people how to treat us.  On that day I was liber-ated from a person who had tormented me for decades.  It was intoxicating, being freed from the shackles of an unbalanced relationship.

        All my life I took a subservient role because Yolanda is twelve years older than me.  Once we are eighteen we are the equal with every other adult on earth.  I know that now, but not as a kid.

         You see, Yolan-da is my oldest sister.  This event I'm describing hap-pened at my mom's funeral.  DeAnna is my sister, the third-born in our family, eight years my senior.  I am the fifth.

        I have not seen Yolanda since, in eight years.  Am I glad.   If you did the math, that's forty-five seconds with her in sixteen years---that was long enough.

        What did I do, after my oldest sister left?  My friends and I returned to our cars, and waited.  After every one left---my siblings, relatives and friends of the family, we returned to the burial site.

        We watched my mom's casket low-ered six feet into the ground.  Dropping a wreath on her coffin, I asked my friends and son to form a circle around the open burial spot, holding hands.

       At that spot, not only did I leave my mother.   I prayed that the toxicity of the mistreatment I experienced during childhood, adoles-cence, and adulthood be buried, there, too.  There weren't bad memories about my mom.

     She was loving, gentle, affectionate and warm.  I would not be who I am, without her impression upon me.  My dark days of youth was what I suffered from Yolanda and my father.

      He was a perfectionist, but they both mistook blame, shame, guilt, fear and judgment for discipline.  They did not see it for the abuse it was, and is.

      After dirt was piled on top of my mom's coffin, I treated everyone to lunch at La Cascada Mexican Restaurant on Whitmore in Ceres.   This is where I took my mother when my wife, sons and I visited her.  Once inside, I asked everyone to tell me about their mothers.

     For two-and-a-half hours we celebrated together with glorious stories about them, including mine, Cecilia Fuentes.  Friends are the family that we choose.  And that is how it was that afternoon.

How About You? 
How do you handle emotional bullies? Any suggestions?