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Teaser Tuesday

The book A Prisoner by No Crime of My Own has been professionally edited and will be published this year. To pique interest, I will share tidbits from the manuscript with you some Tuesdays. I hope my story helps you find your story!

Chapter 17 – Murder | A Flip Book

“You’re breaking generational curses. That’s why this doesn’t come easy for you. You’re who your bloodline has been waiting for.”
–Unknown

Redmond and I continued our work through the years, and I began to piece the story together. As if writing one of those small books where you put together a different picture, slightly different than the last, and then thumb through it to make an entire story. That’s exactly what I did with my memories.

One evening in my old Craftsman home, I grabbed a bottle of wine and began the journey of putting it all together — everything my body and mind had discovered to this point. I brought it to Redmond in our next appointment and read through it with him.

He said, “Jodie, that’s remarkable what you’ve just done that. It’s very smart of you to put it all together in the timeline as it happened.”

After forty painstaking years, this is the sequential events of the day we murdered.

The month was June of ‘68. I was three, but not for long. I’d turn four the following month. My father and I were driving down a lonely, local interstate highway in a four-door sedan. The car was a silvery blue, with black interior. I learned later from my mother that this was my grandmother’s car but that is no part of my memory. Dad was preoccupied, but he was enjoying the lit cigarette pinched between his fingers.

It was a sunny day, and I was happy to be with him. He was my world. It didn’t matter what he did. He was the power. He took a left off the highway and drove slowly up to an unfamiliar building. He took me out of the car and sat me in a white plastic chair, my little legs extending beyond my summer dress. He disappeared. I looked around, taking in my environment. It seemed something I had learned how to do, to try and keep myself alert, away from harm. Across the highway was a hill topped with railroad tracks. My brother’s toy train made me wonder what a real train flying past might sound like. I was lost in this moment of childish wonder, until I felt a woman with soft, small hands reach out and take my own, ripping me from my thoughts. This moment is one I will guard for eternity.

She was a blonde woman, dainty, pretty, and petite. She tried to speak with me, but my father interrupted abruptly, grabbed my arm, and moved me away from her. I remember wanting her to stay. I pranced on my tip toes to keep up with Dad as he dragged me down the concrete sidewalk past the windows and doors. He was angry and I couldn’t afford any indifference to his need, only compliance. He opened a door to a room with no sunlight. He picked me up by one arm, swatted me, and sternly told me to stay put.

. . .

Featured

Teaser Tuesday

The book A Prisoner by No Crime of My Own has been professionally edited and will be published this year. To pique interest, I will share tidbits from the manuscript with you each Tuesday.

Chapter 1 – He Called Him Cholla

“You and I will always be unfinished business.”

–Unknown

They were in love. My Dad and him. Or, at least, he with my father.
Craig was Dad’s best friend. As a child, I knew Craig better than I knew my own mother. Who knew if my Dad ever loved him or my mom, but I know Craig adored my father.
In my fifties, Craig was put into a nursing facility with early signs of dementia. I’d been to see Craig a few years earlier and he told me he was starting to be forgetful, so this came as no surprise. His nephew and wife were given the task of cleaning out his home and preparing it for sale. In his garage, under some heavy clutter and a toolbox, they found a letter. That letter was from me. I’d written to Craig years earlier asking him to help me close the murder case and return the buried woman to her family. 
They emailed me and wanted to meet. I agreed. We met for several, long hours. It was difficult for all of us. His nephew bore a strong resemblance to Craig, which made my entire being uneasy.  I quivered trying to rid myself of the panic attacks.
His eyes wore the same color as his uncle’s but gave a warm depth of understanding. The light from his uncle’s eye twinkled with delight when he was allowed to love us, as he called it. The only depth in Craig was a bend towards deviance.

A few days later, I received a call from his nephew’s wife. She told me they had found a personal photo album that Craig had kept. The contents were a meticulous gathering of everything that mattered most to him. They’d found slews of other albums comprised only of landscape and nature photography, but this album was different. Very different. It held the most important people and moments of Craig’s life – most prominently featuring my father. She told me that she could see their friendship was more than platonic. She was sure I’d find the evidence I needed to recover their secret bond.  

~ Bloodguilt ~

I am not saying I still believe that I’m guilty of murder, but being a witness was something that moved me on, made me turn over stones, and hunt for evidence.

All my life, I knew something happened in a motel room with my father and his best friend, Craig. I always assumed that they’d just played their child-porn games with me like they always did. It wasn’t until my 30’s that the curtains were finally pulled back and I could see fully and clearly: the murder.

Flashbacks from the scene of the crime were staggeringly strong for years after my first memory. But the piece I found the most difficult to live with was the guilt. It was a current that wanted to haul me off by my heels. I had to fight constantly to struggle against it. My daughter and I were recently chatting about “perpetrator trauma,” also know as perpetration or participation-induced traumatic stress (PITS). This occurs when PTSD has been caused by an act of killing or witnessing an act of killing.

PITS carries a distinct difference in that it has a perceived moral transgression which produces profound shame.

When I’d see this murdered woman in a full-blown flashback, with her blonde hair and white, short sleeved buttoned down shirt, walking towards me, it was terrifying. To live with the guilt of watching a soul leave this earth was, well – there are no words. I’ve talked with a few war veterans who have seen people die in front of them. I asked one point blank, “What do you do when you see a spirit leave the body?” His reply stayed with me always, “You don’t do anything.” When you witness a human spirit be extinguished from their mortal body you are left completely immobilized by fear and anguish.

The problem with not doing anything was I had this tremendous burden to solve her murder and bring justice. So, I hired a detective that was a 30-year-homicide veteran to help me. I gave him a file with all of the facts I’d gathered, the date of the murder found on hospital records from 1968, and the only matching woman in the missing persons’ database that fit those facts.

I can never be certain that we found the right woman, but I have so many reasons and facts to believe that we did. It was an extremely nasty pill to swallow when I had to give it all up and stop.

My father and I spent 6 hours talking on his last night on earth. The only thing he apologized to me for was the guilt I told him I lived with since the day we left that room alive and she did not.

He never said he loved me.

Without a confession or a body, the police closed my case at his death. I carry on and try tremendously hard to lay down my desire to set her free by convicting the men who killed her. It’s just not going to happen, but I can and will tell her story and keep her memory alive and along with me.

She deserves that.

Read our full story in the book A Prisoner by No Crime of My Own:

Blasphemy

The word means impious utterance or action concerning God or sacred things. In other words, lacking in proper respect.

I have never met a pedophile that had proper respect for anything in life. And, I do mean anything, except themselves. They hold their own being in high esteem, but anything else means about nothing to them.

If the pedophile is a woman, she most likely hates men and you will hear about it. If the pedophile is a male, he probably hates woman. They hate anything but themselves. God is off the table for most pedophiles. Some hide behind a hypocritical veil of something that resembles a form of godliness.

Pedophiles are liars. It is the core of who they are.

To be in any kind of relationship with an unrepentant pedophile is based on sincere lies. They mean to deceive you. Very few will ever say they are sorry. And, even if they apologize for what they’ve done, be very leery about joining them in a relationship. It will take them years of counseling to undo and unlearn the very nature that made them a good pedophile. Period.

They are not safe people.

If they have told you they are sorry, that is a good beginning. You stay on the other side of the street and listen. Keep yourself away from harm as they try to change and heal. They are not your issue.

You are your issue.

I know it’s difficult when it is a family member. We want their love. We often want their time and attention. Unfortunately, this is based on deceit and lies.

Get on down the road. You will be better there.

“Few people have the imagination for reality.”

Quote from Johann Wolfgang von Goethe a German poet, playwright and novelist, considered the greatest German literary figure of the modern era. He died in 1832.

The courage to see reality has been around a very long time.

Memory screams for interpretation, so it seems. Or does it? And, who should give that interpretation? The person who has the memory or the person who is listening?

Memory is housed in many ways. The experience of the memory interprets what the mind sees. If you have memory without any feeling or emotion, is that memory still valid? Sure, but it is a memory that is most likely underdeveloped. By that, I mean – the memory is just barely poking through the guardship of the mind.

Our mind was create to protect us, to show us, to lead us. Oh, we use our mind for manipulation, courage, cowardice and everything in between.

But, it is the coward who cannot, or better stated, will not, see reality.

The sexual brutality that comes against children is unfathomable. Millions of stories surround us. Those that stand by and listen to these crimes without the experience will not be capable of fully exploring or understanding them.

So, what do these folks without experience say and do to the brutalized person? They judge. They try to decipher. They cannot understand and so in their lack of bravery they proclaim the memories of the abused to be false.

Shame on every single person who has judged the abused.

Shame on the church for not exposing these vicious wolves that live among you.

Shame on our court system that is set up NOT to protect the innocent but the guilty.

I stand with each of you that came through childhood tragedy. Don’t listen to the accusers who have nothing to stand on. Do not let them take your courage through their inability to stand with the truth.

You got this! God is one our side. Of that I am certain.

Mirror Mirror

Introspection — what better way to start a week.

Question: Do you envy people who had protective parents?

I do. Then, I remind myself I don’t and will not ever know differently. Or will I?

Father God tells me time and time again in his love letter written to us all that his love never fails and always protects.

I believe that. I guess I do have a protective parent.

Jewels, Gems & Gunpowder

I would love to hear from you! Sharing Saturday with you.

A Jewel: Struggle. Struggle is a gift. Without struggle we would stay the same, wouldn’t we?

A Gem: Do you know how to walk away from a destructive childhood? Follow someone that came through it and is on the other side.

Metaphorical Gunpowder: I am NOT the experience I came through. The scars I carry represent courage.

Please comment below by leaving your jewel, a gem or something you keep yourself free from with metaphorical gunpowder.

All love!

F N’ F (Fear Not Friday)

On the discussion of fear — Do you fear success?

I was a good daughter. To be a good daughter in the house I grew up in meant I had to allow myself to be brutalized – a lot. I had to accept that I was not loved and smile anyway. I had to hide my downcast inner being and show up happy, to make the beasts around me happy. And, I was good at it. I needed their acceptance – I thought. What else did I know.

That was what success in my family of origin looked like.

I left there not liking success very much.

Do you fear success?

Repentance ~ wHO, Me?

By definition repentance means sincere regret or remorse. Through healing I found myself looking more at my own actions more than looking at the actions of my abusers. It is the only way to heal.

If it is the fault of everyone else, how do I have control over anything. Yes, my family did miserable things to me. And, yes, I still have to look at my actions, my heart — the way I respond to things.

If I stared only at the actions of my abusers, I would find myself at an impasse. Oh, telling my story is not just accusing my abusers. It is far more than that. Telling my story brings accountability to how it affected me — who I became in the process of that abuse. That is my responsibility. Period.

If a bear happened upon my property and attacked me, what would I do next? I would see what wounds I have, go see a doctor to care for them, and then heal from the damage. Right?

What good would it do me to lock that bear up in a cage, take away his light, feed him only rotten food and mistreat him daily. How would that heal my wounds? If I only focused on the bear and not my injuries, my wounds — without attention — would never heal. Period. They would try to repair themselves, leaving horrendous scarring or worse they would fester and bleed and cause infection. Without attention they could possibly lead to death.

I know that if I cast my focus on my abusive past, on the people who hurt me, it leads to death. Death of focusing on the future. Death to my journey. Death to joy. Death to just about everything good. It only keeps the abuse alive.

I ain’t doing that!

I am going to focus on me. U C U – God tells me. That’s when my journey took a huge leap forward.

#UCU

Book Giveaway | 20 Print Books

##GIVEAWAY | I am giving away 20 paperback books of my newly released book A Prisoner by No Crime of My Own!

Noir Memoir True Crime | Buy A Copy Today on Amazon

##GIVEAWAY | My goal is that we be encouraged in heart and united in love

How to win:

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Giveaway ends 2/1/2023. Winners will be randomly selected and notified by DM. Please do NOT share any personal information with any other accounts. Must be 18 years or older to participate.

This book explores the way out of a childhood filled with trauma using faith, courage, and the truth. In honor of the murdered woman, I tell her story.

Reading Chapter 13 – An Olympic Race

F N’ F (Fear Not Friday)

On the discussion of fear — Do you fear you are like your abuser?

No! Most of us would say. But, let’s look closer.

Do you hate them?

Do you have them on a high pedestal of esteem through your active denial?

I used to smoke. Not that much – about a pack a week. But, there came this time when I was smoking constantly. I hired a hypnotherapist to come to my home to help me rid the disease of cigarettes *(insert smile face here). She began with all of her methodologies to bring under her spell. It didn’t work, so she sat down next to me.

She said, “Jodie, nothing I do will work for you. I am not able to bring you under my suggestion.

Then, she held up a cigarette and asked me, “What does this represent to you.”

My immediate response was, “My father. And, I miss him.”

She wisely spoke, “And I assume it’s not okay to miss him.”

Moral of the story — I don’t smoke any more but I did a lot of habits of my abusers to keep them close to me. After all they were my rule makers, they held the power (then), and they were family.

Be very careful that you are not emulating your abuser.

Learn more here:

An Open Letter: To Those That Harm Children

Your secret is known. I will teach the children you hurt to talk. You will be found out. God is watching. He is the witness to each crime you have committed against a child.

I am going to spend my life telling my story and teaching others that were hurt by you to tell their story.

There is a shift in power coming against you. We will stand. We will talk.

Your secrets will be known.

#tellyourstory #tellsecrets #booklovers #incestsurvivors #csa #pstd healing #cptsd healing #exposeabusers #stophiding #standup #storytelling

God is coming against you and we stand with Him!

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