PART XIV - Bloodsucking

      I was trapped in a home that I didn't want!  I brought realtors, but my mother dismissed each of them for trivial reasons.  When I urged the need to sell the house, she reminded me of my waived rights!  Using the NY Bar Association's legal services, I sought legal advice to extricate myself from our sinking home mortgage.  I was referred to attorneys for free consultation, but all wanted approximately $10,000 to take my case!  I couldn't afford that.  Wells Fargo Bank claimed that I couldn't get out of my co-signer status unless my mother could afford to support the whole mortgage by herself, which was impossible.  A nervous wreck, I tried to pacify my mother to sell our property, and to illustrate how much better our lives would be with the profits.  
     To keep paying the household expenses and unexpected costs/repairs, I wiped out my savings and 401k plan.  I cashed in my mutual funds with Thrivent Financial For Lutherans.  When my mother neglected to pay the school taxes, I maxed out a credit card to make the $3,000 payment.  I considered finding a roommate/tenant, as many neighbors did, but our house was not set up for private entrances or upstairs cooking capabilities.  My mother was afraid of the idea.  I confessed that I was unsure how much longer we could keep going—only paying the interest on the mortgage.  That hadn't been the plan!  I would never have agreed to my parents' documents if I was going to get stuck living in that house!  My mother’s use of me as a main source of income had to stop.  I realized that I needed to capture my own life and stop letting it pass me by.  My mother reminded me that since I had unwittingly signed that legal paper (that her lawyers snuck in), it waived my rights to our home and prevented me from selling it without my her approval.  However, she told me not to worry.  She had befriended the woman I loved.  
     
     The old woman belonged to my church.  

Background Note: Whilst in middle school, I volunteered at church as an altar boy and crucifer.

(With military-style polishing that I learned as a Boy Scout, my penny loafers were the shiniest of all the acolytes).  I was trusted and "promoted" to swing the incense as a thurifer. 

My speaking voice got me a role of lector, reading the lessons at the pulpit.  

As a college student, I was sometimes a suit-wearing usher.  People liked my manner and appearance.

     Lastly, I was "honored" to be appointed as a Communion Assistant, alongside the pastors at the altar.

     All of that obligation discouraged Saturday-night revelry, but it got me invited to join church organizations.  Pastor liked me and asked me to join "key" committees with the biggest budgets.  

     I was appointed to serve on the Stewardship Committee, the Music & Worship Committee, and the Long Range Planning Committee.  Alas, none of the egocentric men—whom were Vice Presidents at their companies—admired me for sitting "shoulder to shoulder" with them.  

     In a fair world, my efforts might've earned me relationships with those influential men, and maybe a career.  Instead, they mocked me.  It was something like this...

Amidst such an environment, you will not be surprised to learn that young people did not get involved in our church.  I was the only one, and I tried my best.

     I already proved myself with the success of the church newsletter.  At a Church Council meeting, I emphatically pointed out that we should use the newsletter as an informative marketing tool.  With the data I collected—which those VPs grunted/scoffed at—most folks in our 2,000-member congregation only came to church for the big holidays.  If you wanted to get more donations, you had to describe what the church was doing/why the church was worth it... via the newsletter mailed to the members' homes.  Pastor Eberhardt loved it.  My surefire strategy doubled the amount of donations to the Music & Worship Committee and tripled the "annual giving" to the Stewardship Committee.  During the meeting where I presented my results, I modestly-but-proudly looked around the room, hoping those VPs would say, "Wow, you're intelligent.  Wanna work at my company?"  But no.  Alas, my church favored men like that because they had titles on business cards, albeit no abilities.  

     Regardless, I considered those simultaneous non-paid roles to be good deeds, random acts of kindness, examples for others, and noblesse oblige.  (After all, a Boy Scout is reverent)!

     I was a confidant and éminence grise of the Pastor and his new Assistant Pastor.  It gave me “purpose” and helped me forget my home life and stalled career.

     It also won the hearts of an elderly couple (below) who detected that I had a sad life at home.  Edith and Rolf lived in a nearby town and unofficially “adopted me” in a friendly way.

     They had two sons and four grandchildren.  Rolf was a retired engineer and a smart stock investor.  He was from the Kingdom of Norway, and he had many amusing anecdotes—especially the time he was driving and also collided with the king's car!  

     I admired his Nordic furniture, and he talked about the idyllic Norwegian ways of life.  (Northern Europe and Scandinavia are truly amazing).  He compared its redevelopment—after WWII Nazi occupation—to how postwar America deteriorated.  Edith was a retired secretary.  Their unsuccessful bachelor son lived with them.  Their eldest son died, and his four kids lived in different parts of the world: one partied in Amsterdam, two lived in Florida, and one in Texas.  Those grandchildren only visited Edith and Rolf for "a place to crash" when desiring time in Manhattan, and to keep the money flowing.  Edith and Rolf loved me, and we had many fun nights playing games, cooking dinner, and just talking.  They hoped to see me start “bringing a nice girl around”, and I hid that part of myself from them.  

     The three of us were convinced that my mother had a crush on the new (married) Assistant Pastor.  He was very chummy with Mom.  

Pictures from those nights show Mom and the assistant pastor looking overly cozy (I won't show those).  Alas, the man was married to a traveling ballerina.  She returned, we saw less of him, Mom began over-eating again, and he smiled at all of us on Sundays.  At the end of that year, they relocated to California for the ballerina's career.

     The older couple was emotionally “there for me” after a (post-college) night when I got fed up with my father’s outbursts and his slaps and punches at me.  I finally "stood up" to him, as I also considered myself as the true breadwinner in the family.  After he knocked me out of my chair in the dining room, I picked up a wine bottle, took a swing, and hit him on the head.  He was dumbfounded!  No one had ever resisted him.  In no uncertain terms, I told him that if he ever laid a hand on me again, he'd better kill me because I would come after him with everything I had.  I also telephoned the police. 

     It was the third time that I called for help.  You know about the first time.  The second time occurred two years earlier, yet Mom actually unplugged the telephone so I couldn’t make the call to the police.  (She didn't want my father to get into trouble).  This time, I used my cellphone, and the police came.  

     [In other parts of the world, neighbors might see an emergency vehicle at your home and rush over to see if assistance is needed.  Those are caring communities.  In my suburb, nobody did that.  You recall when I ran to a neighbor's house for help against the child abuse given by my father.  Those neighbors clearly knew that something was wrong: a hysterical crying boy pleading for help.  Yet, they apathetically avoided me and my household.

     Despite nearly all of those neighbors moving away and being replaced, the same thing happened when the police car—with flashing lights—parked outside our home.  Instead of coming forward to see if anything could be done for us, my neighbors withdrew.  Furthermore, they shunned us.  In the following weeks, if I greeted one—as I took out the garbage or walked to my car—they ignored me.  With typical uncaring, they did not want to get involved.

It was neither neighborly nor humanely helpful].

     In an arrogant huff, my father ignored the police officers, finished his dinner while they talked to him, and then remained silent on the couch watching television, while they investigated.  Against my mother’s pleading that I “shouldn’t cause problems”, I wiped the blood from my forehead and pressed charges against my father.  At the court date, the judge wanted to proceed, but my mother intervened for a recess.
     She pulled me aside and told me that she had found a lawyer who would fix everything, if I just dropped the charges.  I demanded proof, and she actually made a “fake call” on her cellphone (that I bought her), asking her “lawyer” to make an appointment for us to all talk.  She was merely speaking into the phone… to nobody.  I foolishly believed her and dropped the charges!  I soon found out it was all a lie.  After all my father had hurtfully done to us, why did she protect him?  To ensure that he could take advantage of me and leave me with a house and his ex-wife... to ruin my credit?  The fact that she let him (and let my sister) escape from legal prosecution, repeatedly, will be ironic soon (when she throws me in jail).  Such appreciation! Thanks, Universe!

     No, the police never followed-up to make sure that I was safe or okay.  In my part of the world, nobody expected our overpaid police to do such things (like they do elsewhere).

     Appalled, Edith and Rolf shunned my parents.  Tragically, Rolf died.  That was also the ONLY time my Pastor made a vague attempt to discuss my sexuality!  Such timing!  It was immediately after the burial, where I volunteered as an acolyte.  Pastor Eberhardt drove me to the cemetery.  After, he drove me back and commented how Edith might suffer, and that her live-at-home bachelor son seemed stricken.  Pastor commented that some folks in the church thought he was gay.  My Pastor let the comment hang in the air.  I was emotionally overwhelmed, sobbing, and it didn’t seem the time/place to announce that I was gay, too.  He never asked again (I guess he never really asked me at all), and I didn’t bring it up.  

     One month later, that bachelor son committed suicide, indicating that he couldn’t cope with having to live with his needy mother.  Edith had severe depression.  For that, Pastor approached me and directly warned me not to get too involved, or “she’d lean on me like a crutch” and—with my overwhelming tasks at home with my own incapable mother—I would have too much trouble.  It pained me to take his advice.  He got Edith connected with counselors, as his predecessor had gotten my family into “family therapy”, during my teens.

     {An interesting tangent about our family therapy… After hearing me talk about my family, Pastor Corgee suggested that we do it, and he referred us to a therapist.  Her name was Adele Barrero, and she was a dignified Brazilian lady.  My father stopped going after a few sessions, declaring that there was nothing wrong with him.  For the next two years, my mother earned the nickname “Mrs. Nice” from Adele because Mom never admitted that anything was wrong.  (That pattern comes into play later).  Alas, Adele never suggested Child Protective Services to save me, nor did she connect me with authorities (whom I wouldn't know about at that age, during pre-internet years).  After I described how my father beat me, she merely instructed me on how to prevent it from bothering me.  Each week, we paid her and my abused life continued.  

     Eventually, the therapist told us that unless we worked together, she couldn’t help us anymore.  Adele complimented me on developing very well, and she broke her long-standing professional standard by choosing to stay in touch with me after our therapy finished.  Below, Adele joined my outdoor 18th birthday party (which I created for myself, instead of having any expectation that my parents would do it).  As a rule, she never did such things with her clients, but I was exceptional.  :-)

     Years later, as my parents’ divorce neared finalization, I told my mother that I wanted to visit Adele again.  I left Adele a voicemail, and she had called back.  Mom heard her message on our answering machine before I got home from work.  While I wasn't around, my mother called Adele and requested that Adele keep away from us.  After that, I didn’t get any return calls from Adele.  How unfortunate that Life let another possible helper stay away from me, otherwise my life would've had more guidance.  Adele only reappeared in my life after I was kicked out of my home.  Randomly, I saw her on a street and approached her.  She told me what happened, and she regretted her mistake of not replying to my telephone calls.  I still have her number.}

     While Edith floundered in despair, my scheming mother saw an opportunity.  Between calling our mortgage bank to promise payments and forestalling the gardener for payments (he began to only pound on our front door when he saw my car in the driveway, knowing I’d write him immediate checks at the threat of Small Claims Court), she began cozying up to the old woman.  She spent evenings with Edith, took her to matinee movies, listened to her sad venting, and acted as “the crutch”.  
     By the time Mom told me "not to worry about our mortgage", she had become Edith’s “power of attorney”!  Illegally, the old woman’s money had been paying for our mortgage, my mother’s new Mercedes C-class, and Mom's trips to Atlantic City!  I confirmed with Wells Fargo Bank that Edith had been added as an "authorized payer"... all orchestrated by my mother.  Why hadn't they told me?!  Why had they allowed it?  Wasn't my signature required?!  The bank refused to answer, and they hung up on several of my calls.  I was powerless to do anything about it, as Edith consented to giving her money.  In my mind, that wasn't a solution: it only kept me tied to the mortgage longer... and drained another person.  
     My mother used one of the aloof-but-inept men who sat next to me on church committees, who had been fired as Vice President from Air France and was now a real estate broker, to sell Edith’s house.  Without my knowledge, Mom agreed to his commission, and the house was sold quickly.  (No, the action of selling our house wasn't her priority!)
     Mom managed that new revenue with another sleazy man from church: a "money manager" who got paid by clueless old people at our church to take ever-bigger fees from them.  Mom moved Edith into a "gated senior community", where Edith set up a guestroom and parking pass for my mother.  I rarely saw my own mother or Edith, as time passed.  Like a con-artist, Mom was brain-washing her... and avoiding me and the responsibilities at our home.
     It painfully occurred to me that I had truly cared for that elderly couple (my mother initially disliked their presence), yet my mother was the only one benefitting from them… because of the way Fate let things turn out: the man and son were dead and the woman had become demented.  (Edith's church friends told me that she didn't associate with them anymore… only my mother).  I certainly didn't want to be involved in Mom's illegal "money management"!  Guess who did?

     Suddenly, my joyriding thieving sister re-entered the picture.  She grandly announced her marriage to her blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, and financially-secure fiancée.  Edith was suddenly going to pay for everything.  Edith felt terrible that my poor sister “had been driven from home by my brutish father”.  That was a fairytale lie!  No credit was given to me for keeping our household together while living under the same roof with my crazy father and dodging his fists for years.  My mother described Dad as the devil, and Edith was going to make my mother feel good by supplying a nice wedding for my sister.  The groom’s parents didn’t pay for much.  The kind-hearted old woman also paid for our flights to Florida, charitably even for my father ("a girl should have her father to walk her down the aisle—devil or not").  I was shocked that he attended, but I suppose he liked the idea of a free vacation.  She also flew in that young married pastor (whom Mom liked), who now lived in California, to officiate the ceremony… because my sister apparently "liked his sermons".  Yeah, sure.  At our Florida hotel, he told me that I looked "tired".  When I asked for deeper advice, he chose not to assist me.  It seemed like the Universe gave me unhelpful pastors.
     Edith also surprisingly paid for all of our individual hotel rooms, and meals in the hotel restaurant!  She and my father only split the cost of the rehearsal dinner.  Edith bought my sister's wedding gown, all the flowers, and the faux tiara that my sister wanted.  I didn't want Edith to pay for our stuff, but nobody listened to me… not even her.  The wedding was fun for sis, but boring for me.  The following picture is appropriate—considering the circumstances: Edith has her "eyes closed" to what's going on... and my sis is provocatively advertising her cleavage.

     During the trip, I tried to talk to Edith about the mortgage issues.   Fearful, my mother interceded, and I think that's when she began poisoning Edith's mind against me.
     Edith flew us all home… and Mom went back to spending nights at Edith's gated community… with pool, gym, and clubhouse events.  I was suddenly NOT on the "admittance list" to gain access to Edith's gated community.  She didn't answer or return my calls.  
     Meanwhile, I paid the gardener, watered the flowerpots, cleaned the roof gutters, shoveled the snow, cleaned the windows, scrubbed the bathrooms, did the housekeeping and my laundry, and changed the light bulbs at our home—like a Cinderella caretaker.

     Looking at my relatives' bliss, I realized that I was the only one getting the burden of it.  LIFE LESSONS: