“Family Trust” Pt.1

ONE OF THE FEW THINGS I MISS ABOUT BEING ON INSTAGRAM IS THE ASSORTMENT OF INSPIRATION I USED TO STUMBLE UPON… LIKE @BROMSTHEPOET.

Are any of you familiar with or ever struggled, as I used to, with the Dallas/Fort Worth freeway system (or similar cities) with their hundreds of loop arounds, on and off exits, and the multiple routes to choose from, all of which are necessary to know and understand if you are going to successfully navigate the area? Odd question, right? Maybe… but that’s one of the memories from time in the Lone Star state that continues to stick with me. Why is that? Well, if you look at an aerial graphic of the city’s roads and highways, it’s a bit like looking at a circus act. That image resonates as the gyration of highways seem akin to the maze that swirls around my mind and holds the ability to stymie personal progress. My last blog post appeared back in April, and even though it occurred close to the month’s end, that’s still more than four months ago; far too long a pause and so not cool. While I have been working on professional demands as well as other blog posts, a book, and moved to a new home, the operative word in that statement and the one that’s most concerning is “other.” The delay is just flat unacceptable and doesn’t represent the background, effort, or original goal which inspired the foundation for “DearEasyDiaries.” So, what’s up; what’s the issue?  Here it is. I’ve been troubled… reluctant to expose the unnerving vulnerability I have felt for the past six months or more. Because of that inner turmoil and my reticence to confess it, my recent writing and contribution to DearEasyDiaries has been sorely lacking, and for that I owe you a mighty big apology. It’s hard to expect you to keep reading if I don’t raise the bar, let go of my apprehension, and get back in the mix, so to speak, and not just for you, but for me too. That’s what I’m setting about to do… right now. Time to re-focus and move on, but not before taking one more opportunity to make amends.

I’VE SHARED PLENTY OF TIMES THAT I AM, BOTH, UNAPOLOGETICALLY CATHOLIC AS WELL AS A FLAWED INDIVIDUAL. WITH THOSE FACTORS IN MIND, TOGETHER WITH THE LATIN & RELIGIOUS ROOT OF THIS EXPRESSION ACKNOWLEDGING ONE’S CULPABILITY FOR FAULT, FAILURE OR SHORTCOMING, THIS PHRASE REALLY HITS HOME FOR ME ABOUT NOW AND WHAT BETTER TIME TO EMBRACE IT?  WITH THAT SAID… AGAIN, I APOLOGIZE AND LET’S MOVE ON.

I tend to get a bit mired in the nuances of a situation and find myself holding on to people, places, and things longer than I should, beyond a healthy measure one might even say. That’s what’s happened here. I’ve been swimming so deep in a sea of disbelief and disappointment that I haven’t been able to stop and surface long enough to realize that I’m allowing old patterns and habits to dictate my behavior. BIG mistake. I’m better served by remembering the progress I’ve made over the past years rather than wallowing in doubt. Acknowledging that to move forward, I must fully wrap my mind around the specific point where I lost my way last Spring is essential, and so that’s where I’m headed. Back to basics, à la “shrink Steve style.” Accept it, speak it, and move on. So, let’s go there?

In my last post, “Be A Light,” I mentioned that I had been working on a piece called “Family Trust.” It’s probably no small coincidence that it’s right about then when I got tripped up. See, trust hasn’t always been a priority, if it exists at all, among my family members, whether of origin or by marriage. It’s also been the case in relationships beyond family too. According to past shrink Steve… “unfortunately Missy, your naivete and need for approval seems to make you a magnet for attracting all the wrong kinds of people.” That combination of factors comes back to bite me every so often and is the basis for my recent “spinning,” but it stops now.

Weeks ago, while waiting and having heard way too much hype over an alleged super storm headed our way, the rain finally started falling, the wind howled, and trees swayed in ways seldom seen in California. Nothing about the storm approached the tumultuous and dramatic weather that’s commonplace in Texas, Boston, Georgia, or New York, all of which I’ve experienced at various times over the years, but for coastal Southern California, sure it was a bit unusual. I was fussing about windowpanes of French Doors which appeared to have lost their seal, while drying off sopping wet dogs (none too pleased with the change in weather) and inquiring, or rather babbling, about the particulars of a new work assignment, when my daughter said, “Mom, please stop. Give yourself and us a break. Do you ever realize how exhausted your brain must be?” She then compared my inability to “chill” to the DFW road analogy I referenced earlier. Something snapped, and I realized she was right. I’ve been going in circles for the past six and a half months trying to reconcile a betrayal I did not see coming and haven’t been able to move on from. What the devil is that about? I mean, apart from ending a sentence with a preposition, which I just did, (thank you Mrs. Worthington at Evan’s School, Mrs. Flood at Rancho Santa Fe Elementary and Mrs. Robbins at Dunn School) together with the litany of other crazy distractions going on “upstairs,” what the hell’s the matter with me? I thought I had a decent handle on, and had all but stopped second guessing my every action, or inaction? Guess not.

Bear with me please a quick minute while I attempt to explain a bit of backstory… somewhat in keeping with the Texas road reference, and something I hope will help guide my path forward. When I moved back to California from Texas, it was with incredibly mixed emotions. I will forever miss my dream “Cantina” property and the wonderful redo of it, into which I (we) poured so much heart, soul, and LOTS of sweat, but I also welcomed the thought of a new business opportunity which was waiting back in Santa Ynez. I looked forward to the far more moderate climate, sans scorpions, poisonous centipedes, and pit vipers, but was going to miss the plethora of proud patriots as well as the cowboy lifestyle and western legacy that is so emblematic of Texas culture. Potentially, though, my biggest source of ambiguity about the impending move was the disturbing new family dynamic that was accompanying our return to Santa Ynez. We set off in late October for our new Texas home with both my Son and great-nephew Bamsome still enormously intrinsic parts of our hearts and lives. The return to California exactly one year later presented a very drastic change of circumstances. The details of both, now almost decimated, relationships are probably best saved for a later time or separate post, but each severance can be directly linked to an illustration of my misplaced trust? Heaven knows each of those “sweet boys” and the huge void their absences have left warrant deeper introspection, but the bottom line remains unchanged; that was a very conflicting time. My son no longer even answers my texts, and Bamsome has probably been instructed (as his mother falsely told him regarding several other relatives) that the three people who took him in, fed, clothed, potty-trained, loved, and raised him for a year while his parents worked out their own issues… are dead. It’s probably also a reasonable assumption that’s why Bamsome’s mother blends into the Texas reptilian landscape so well. Years ago, she willingly signed away the custodial rights to her first-born to keep the love of a guy; it’s doubtful she’s developed a soul since.

The tragic loss and deaths our family experienced in 2016 along with several lingering questions, betrayals and unhealed wounds which consumed the years prior to my exodus from California had not only NOT improved with the passage of time and a new location but was sorely exacerbated instead.   

THIS PHOTO OF MY BELOVED “CANTINA” FRONT ENTRANCE WITH ITS CUSTOM-PAINTED BUT ANTIQUE WOODEN DOOR IS A GOOD REMINDER OF THE SAYING, “WHEN GOD CLOSES A DOOR, SOMEWHERE HE OPENS A WINDOW.”

Begging your patience while I attempt to piece together and try to explain a series of events which have delivered several “come to Jesus moments.” These milestones, while not all covered in this particular post, redefined what “fidelity” represents to me, and may have spurred the closing of Texas doors, but also opened a window or two back in California.

One of those windows included an exciting business opportunity with a couple of friends from our Georgia days. They visited us in Texas during the Spring of 2018 to celebrate a March birthday and mentioned they were interested in spending more time in California, particularly during Georgia’s oppressively hot Summer months. The project they proposed was intriguing and having worked together on numerous events in the South’s Golden Isles, Cheryl and I were kind of like creative, mad geniuses when in each other’s company. Her husband, Victor frequently commented that if he had a dollar for every idea the two of us thought up, he’d be a very wealthy man. I wouldn’t disagree.

At that juncture, Emily, Alex, and I knew that we’d never be able to sustain a full-time residency in Texas. Between our changing family dynamics and a host of other issues, the hopes we had collectively placed in a new, but potentially permanent home weren’t being realized. Nevertheless, the proposed new projects and planning made for an exciting time, and within the span of Cheryl and Victor’s four-day Texas visit, we had created not one but two new business opportunities to dream about and work on together. They arrived Wednesday evening; we did a Birthday dinner at Weatherford’s “Fire & Oak” in the town square on Thursday; took a ‘field trip’ to Fort Worth’s famed Stockyards on Friday, enjoyed a great meal, dancing, as well as front row table seating I had secured to take in a “Locash” concert at the iconic Billy Bob’s. Sunday morning arrived too quickly, but we bid our farewells while promising to continue developing the project ideas, especially the California part. Both Cheryl and Victor insisted that with Emily and I knowing the Santa Ynez Valley backwards and forwards as we did, our input and contribution to that aspect of the business plan was essential. We took them at their word, and excitedly got to work. We brainstormed, reconnected with our California contacts, and created a comprehensive outline and proposal which we then forwarded to the couple for their perusal. There was much back and forth exchange, but by the time we had covered all the intricate details of the project it was mid-Fall and by then, my crew was in “full go mode,” as we had decided to relocate in entirety. Back in California, exactly one year to the day following our departure, our tentative housing options had crapped-out and resembled nothing close to what we had planned, but by that time, the three of us (Em, Alex, and I) had also become fairly adept at improvising.  

We settled back into our home turf, reconnected with old pals, strategized our plan to move forward with the startup, and recruited resources for advancing the cause. The closer we got to realizing the final prototype of our project though, the more resistance we detected coming from our cross-country partners. It was both frustrating as well as defeating to have expended the efforts we made, only to feel the door of opportunity closing in our faces, particularly since the entire project was initially proposed by the very people now openly voicing hesitation. It all felt too familiar. This wasn’t the first time Cheryl had dangled a carrot only to snatch it away at the last minute. Nevertheless, we proceeded and hoped that the sharper aesthetic Em and I designed, together with the excessive financial returns they requested would solidify Cheryl and Victor’s participation. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Once again, I was duped, and as before by people I trusted.

Sharing this material may seem a bit tedious and even repetitive, but, again, it goes to the heart of this post as well as my life in general. I have never intended to portray myself as a victim, nor do I ever plan to, but I believe in knowing and sharing what is real and what is true. Loss and how we deal with it is one of those issues and has been particularly pervasive in my experience, evidenced by the gray hairs peaking from beneath the topknot which I now sport atop my head most days. Thankfully after my divorce, as I struggled to balance the demands of an unexpected but ongoing legal battle with the day to day challenges of parenting as well as the overwhelming stress of an uncertain future, I stumbled upon a psychologist who would play a pretty big role in bridging the gap between what used to be a people-pleasing pushover into a woman who acknowledges her flaws, but now too recognizes her value and knows when to get up from a table if respect is no longer being served. He once told me, “Missy, your problem is that you give too much, too fast, and too indiscriminately; that’s why you end up getting disappointed over and over. One of these days, if you’ll just slow down and really get to know who you are, you’re likely to find a new tribe of people? There are people who won’t need or expect you to give them anything to be a part of your life. You just haven’t known too many yet.” It’s been a long time since Steve spoke those words, but the memory is kind of like static cling… tough to shake.

Relapses still happen from time to time, but it occurs with less frequency now. Our return to the West Coast followed by a busy next year, with its array of opportunities and challenges, delivered several more occasions to walk away from “duplicitous tables” and while I discovered a lot of hard truths, I never anticipated the numerous lessons left to learn. It turns out that when you step out of the lane you’ve been “assigned” in life (by any assortment of people) and go on to find success, resentment and jealousy can become a very real consequence. Somewhere between our return to California and the year or two which followed, I was presented a chance to reconnect with a couple long-lost members from my family of origin and because I was feeling vulnerable from many recent losses, I welcomed those reconnections. After years of distance away from the majority of my family, and despite the continued conflict that seems to hold my family of origin captive, I still grabbed at any familial lifeline thrown my way.

See what I mean… relapse!

One of those relatives just happened to be the last living member of my father’s family and while we didn’t live near one another or even speak terribly frequently, we did rekindle some modicum of a relationship, and for whatever reason I clung to the sentiment that connection represented. But why? I can only guess it was part of my quest to understand a legacy of lengthy and bizarre family dysfunction. During that same time, I also became aware of the litany of fraud exacted by my ex-husband which had plagued not just our entire marriage, but our divorce process, as well as its tumultuous aftermath. Perhaps I was so desperate for answers and clarity that I sought information wherever and from whomever I could find? That sounds as probable as any other reason I might come up with, so let’s just go with that.  Slowly, our kinship grew, and Aunt Dora was able, and even eager to answer my questions, filling in a huge gap of time following my parent’s divorce. I think I was trying to make sense of my own divorce and its effects, by learning more about the demise of my parent’s marriage. Dora provided context for the dribs and drabs of familial history I had heard over the years but wished to expand upon. She also held strong opinions regarding my parent’s divorce and didn’t hesitate to share them with me. A part of me understood the obvious resentment her words communicated when she spoke of my mother, but I never fully grasped the depth of her disdain until this past February.

THIS PICTURE OF MY PARENTS AND OLDER SISTER STANDING AMONGST DAD’S FAMILY IN FRONT OF THEIR 222 ADELAIDE DRIVE HOME OF OVER THREE DECADES CERTAINLY PAINTS A PICTURE-PERFECT IMAGE OF A FAMILY, DOESN’T IT? TURNS OUT… REALITY DOESN’T ALWAYS SQUARE WITH THE IMAGE.

Okay, anyone who has read even a little bit of DearEasyDiaries, knows that there’s little chance of me making a long story short, but I’m going to give it my best shot right now. I was 12 when my parents divorced. My Mother was awarded full custody and contrary to what I had been told my entire life, their actual Dissolution paperwork (which I’ve recently found) provides that my Father was granted “reasonable visitation.” Mom definitely preferred sharing her own “special” spin on all the nitty gritty details like falsely relaying that a divorce court judge told her “these children never have to see their father again if they don’t want to.” A bit extreme to tell your kids, right? But our family of six had shared a home long enough to recognize that my Dad was both a serial alcoholic and cheater, as well as being capable of reckless behavior on many occasions. Calls from San Diego Law Enforcement were frequent and more than half a dozen trees in both La Jolla and Rancho Santa Fe wore scars of color from whichever vehicle my Dad might have been driving at the time. That he was a practicing attorney and “from a family of means” often provided cover for his transgressions, but make no mistake… my Mom was a fierce protector of “her girls.” She wasn’t willing to concede control or let us know anything other than what she, herself, told us. My Dad’s predilection for fine Scotch as well as the female barkeeps who served him, combined with a very volatile temper, armed my Mom with all she needed to ensure any visits he might have requested were kept to a bare minimum. And from what I knew at the time, he wasn’t exactly “jonesing” to spend a ton of time with us, so his prevailing absence from our life was as much a relief as a hardship. We had spent much time (pre-divorce) speaking in hushed tones and tip-toeing through the house when he was home so as not to disturb him and stir his wrath. “God damn it, Bid… can’t you shut these kids up” was something we heard A LOT. When we didn’t comply with the request, then the demand, it most always resulted in an even harsher verbal lashing or worse, but the ‘worse’ was usually reserved for my Mom and older Sister, Viv. Notwithstanding all those “egg-shell” moments, I still loved him tremendously and was also his, openly admitted, favorite. When the solemnity of his presence was replaced with the jovial, kind, and patient manner of my Stepfather, I was relieved, peaceful and happy. It was lovely to see a display of true devotion. George was everything Mom never knew she needed, and she beamed with happiness, obviously very much in love.

There was probably much about my parent’s dissolution that wasn’t common knowledge; like the STD that Dad brought home and “shared” with my Mom, or the instances when he came home drunk and climbed into bed with my older Sister and her best friend, who would stay over at our house from time to time. Still matters such as those, along with a couple beatings, were things we were forbidden to mention, much less share or discuss with others. It’s also a safe bet, Dad would have withheld subjects like that from his parents or siblings, so I suppose it’s quite understandable that his family viewed my Mom with great animosity. After all, theirs was the first divorce to occur in my Father’s family, and the shame that action brought to the Collins name was apparently far worse than the alcoholism or alleged mental illness, which was also prevalent in the bloodline, despite their family’s impressive history, educational achievements, careers, and by all means, don’t forget… the money.

Regardless of the rest of his family or my Mom’s attempt to distance herself and us from them, one of Dad’s Sisters made a huge effort to stay connected over the years. She loved entertaining us with Saturday luncheons and her famed Shrimp Salad; she taught my youngest sister Lilith how to drive through the streets of Hancock Park, gave me a part-time job at her company, John Gibson Travel in Los Angeles after my year in Boston, provided the Justice of the Peace for my wedding to Al, and generally made every effort possible to stay in touch with not just her nieces but our Mother. Dad’s other siblings remained mostly absent. That was the case until shortly before my divorce. At that time, both Dad’s sisters re-entered our lives, attended my eldest Nephew’s wedding, and years later offered their presence when I christened Rancho Valiente. Shortly thereafter in 2011, Aunt Cara passed, and with my Mom and daughter by my side, I attended her Rosary and Funeral in Carmel, California. That marked a turning point and until 2019/20, when Dora and I reconnected, there were few visits in between. When we did reconnect, it was as I previously mentioned, a pleasant remembrance. She invited me to participate in an Advent Book Club with cousins from my Dad’s side of the family, all of whom live in different states and which I hadn’t seen since the mid 1980’s; there were even a couple I’d never met. I was thrilled. Maybe I was going to get an opportunity to add people to my life, rather than lose them. That didn’t end up being the case. I suppose the distant cousins weren’t as eager to welcome me into their lives as I was them. Our months of Advent readings and group texts were infrequent at best, and every time I tried to share more of myself inviting a deeper bond, I felt rebuked, if answered at all. It was then, I realized that my willingness to open-up and extend myself was exactly as shrink Steve had told me years earlier… a liability and source for disappointment.

Regardless of the detachment I felt after participating in the Advent book club, Dora and I continued to exchange calls, texts, and little mementos. She even invested a small sum in our new business, after having her financial advisor thoroughly “vet” our credentials, review our “P & L Statement, etc… I wanted to believe we had found common ground and shared a fondness which I valued tremendously. Then one Saturday last Spring when I called to check in with her and inquired about Butch who was then in hospice, she relayed the news that he had just passed. I did my best to listen, offer comforting words, and reassure her when she inquired about plans for a Memorial Service, that I would do whatever she needed and was happy to coordinate putting a lovely celebration of life together. At the time, she happily accepted. A few days later, the tenor of our communications changed. I was told that an assortment of people who were in Aunt Dora’s life on a more constant basis from her Northern California base, would be steering the ship. Just as had happened months earlier when I showed concern about Dora’s health, I was cast aside in favor of a cousin who relayed in no uncertain terms, “she held Dora’s power of attorney and would be steering the process forward.” I understood but was confused by the tension and mixed messaging the cousin projected. Truthfully, Aunt Dora’s decision made sense to me. I live 6 – 7 hours away, am running a business. and didn’t have access to all the resources available to Dora locally, nor was I included in the continuity of a relationship that was extended to the other cousin.  Nonetheless, I texted Dora several photos of Orchid arrangements I’ve done for clients as well as our own home and offered to at least do the floral arrangements for Butch’s memorial.

ONE MODEST EXAMPLE OF AN ORCHID ARRANGEMENT I SHARED WITH DORA THAT I HAD CREATED PREVIOUSLY FOR A CLIENT WHO EXPRESSED A SIMILAR DESIRE FOR SIMPLICITY, A QUALITY WHICH MATCHED AUNT DORA’S WISHES FOR BUTCH’S MEMORIAL SERVICE.

Initially, Dora gratefully accepted my offer. Then a few days later, I was “mistakenly” the recipient of a text message meant for someone else which not only disclosed but mocked a confidence I had shared with my Aunt concerning my Son-In-Law’s family and an emergent health procedure he agreed to undergo in order to save a sibling wasting away in a Los Angeles hospital. That same text “inadvertently” sent to me was proof-positive that I was, once again, being treated and talked about in a manner that I have come to describe as… “your Collins is showing,” a.k.a. watch your back! The past few years of Dora’s feigned concern, investment, and interest in my life were undermined by the reality of deception and hypocrisy which rule the bloodline and background from which I’ve always struggled to come to terms. Experiences such as the one with Dora last Spring, remind me of the vigilance required to stay free from the pettiness and bitter taste of betrayal so pervasive in my family of origin.  

THIS ODD ASSORTMENT OF CARDS AND POST-IT NOTES WAS THE RESPONSE I RECEIVED FROM DORA LAST SPRING AFTER A COUPLE MONTHS OF CALLS AND TEXTS WHICH FOLLOWED THE PASSING OF HER PARTNER.

Apparently, the recent exchanges and interactions with my aunt, which I permitted (or practically begged) to take place and be a part of, were just a sad, but necessary glance backwards. That she chose to attack me via the tool of manipulation and “gutting” of my Mom and by extension me, was a painful but necessary reminder of some valuable wisdom imparted once by Denzel Washington on social media…

“AIN’T FOR THE WEAK,” INDEED. BY THE WAY, “EQUALIZER 3” DOES NOT DISAPPOINT. KUDOS TO YOU DENZEL FOR BEING TRUE TO YOURSELF… AND AN INSPIRATION TO MANY.

I’m pretty sure Dora’s bizarre “post-it” attack and back-stabbing behavior is not exclusive to just my family of origin’s bloodline, and for those of you who also know it, I couldn’t be more sorry or empathetic, but it does remind me of shrink Steve’s words, and yes… time for a new tribe!

Oh, and by all means, if you don’t know the series or just want to listen to a “badass” song, ask Siri to give the following a spin…

“Don’t Put Dirt On My Grave Just Yet…”

by Hayden Panettiere & Nashville Cast

I thought things couldn't get much worse
But guess what they did
You hit my heart upside with a wrecking ball
Oh but that's what I get
But I'm not going nowhere
I can live on my prayers
'Cause I'm done playin' nice
I'm done running for life
'Cause you think that you got me scared

This time it's goodbye trouble
I feel the light at the end of this tunnel
I get stronger with every step

Come Hell, come high water
You push on me I'm going to push back harder
I got a whole lot more than a little bit left
Oh, so don't put dirt on my grave just yet
Oh, don't put dirt on my grave just yet

Everyone can save their breath
They can spare me the change
You can point your finger somewhere else
If you're looking to blame

I'll give you something to believe
Nothing on me says defeat
No I'll never look back
So you better think fast
If you think you can cut me deep

This time it's goodbye trouble
I feel the light at the end of this tunnel
I get stronger with every step

Come Hell, come high water
You push on me I'm going to push back harder
I got a whole lot more than a little bit left
Hey, so don't put dirt on my grave just yet
Oh, don't put dirt on my grave just yet

Hey!
Well it's going to take more, going to take more, going to take more, to pull me under
Going to take more, going to take more, going to take more than that to pull me under!

This time it's goodbye trouble
I feel the light at the end of this tunnel
I get stronger with every step

Come Hell, come high water
You push on me I'm going to push back harder
I got a whole lot more than a little bit left
Oh, so don't put dirt on my grave just yet
Oh, don't put dirt on my grave just yet
Don't put dirt on my grave just yet.

AS WITH SO MANY OTHER TIMES WHEN I FIND A SONG THAT FEELS APROPOS TO THE SUBJECT I’M EXPLORING, THIS GEM FROM THE SHOW, “NASHVILLE” STRUCK A CHORD. I’M HOPING IT WILL SERVE AS AN APT SEGUE TO MY NEXT AND LONG-PROMISED, POST… “FAMILY TRUST” - PT. 2

Stay tuned…