At the Dinner Table

"Do you want me to throw that pot of spaghetti sauce?" "You better ask Linda if she is going to clean it up, because I sure as hell am not going to do it." Having come home from college, I developed a smidgen of moxie while being away from him as much as he would allow. But I had learned earlier on that when he was confronted on his behavior, he would back down. I don't enjoy my food. I am unable to sit down to dinner to savor my meal; I engulf my food as quickly as possible and clear the table. Even while visiting Paris, where Parisians are known to move slowly with their dining fare, I made haste, inhaling my meal. A nurse once told me that this is a trait of abused children as much of the abuse often happened at the dinner table. My oldest son and my step-son are choosey eaters, to put it mildly. Christopher only eats "meat." We are a vegetarian household. My son hates "dinner." Everything, and I. Mean. Every. Thing we put in front of him, without tasting it, he blurts, "I hate this!" Dinner is a battle that is wearing both my husband and my nerves thin. My internal reactions to this behavior are strong. It is times like these that I am brought back to dinner time during my childhood. If you didn't like a meal, or a new food was introduced to the table that Ron didn't want, there were dire consequences. Soon after we moved in with him, his nephew Johnny came to live with us. Johnny was a sociopath in the making from early on. And Ron did what he could to solidify it with his abuse. Johnny either complained about his meal or made faces, or something that a 4 year old kid does, and Ron pushed his head into his dinner. Bits of carrots and peas and goo dripped from his face onto his lap. It was a striking scene. Unfortunately, for me, this scene plays in my own mind as I grow frustrated with my son, tempted to do the same. The thoughts peak when my mother is present. To avoid this from happening the first time my step-son gave me a difficult time with a meal, I put on my shoes, grabbed my purse and walked out, driving to the movie theatre to settle down for Toy Story 3 for the evening. Children learn what they live; and what they learn doesn't disappear when they reach adulthood; they carry it with them. I have to rewrite the scene to play it out differently so as to avoid this type of despicable behavior toward a child. There's more. My brother Sam hated creamed dried beef. Then again, what kid does like it? It's called shit-on-a-shingle for a reason. My brother protested eating it. He put a tablespoon of it on his plate. When he refused more, my step-father had us all pour our portion back into the yellow mixing bowl and give it to him, where he demanded my brother eat the entire bowl of s-o-s. Once, he argued with my mother over peas. He threatened to throw the bowl. She said, "Go ahead." And he did, breaking the only serving bowl of their fine China wedding pattern. Both my mother and I were demanded to clean the mess. And we did. Hot dogs were thrown. Temper tantrums over meals were commonplace. Have you ever attempted to pick out shredded wheat from a shag carpet? My mother had just had a hysterectomy and was home recuperating. Ron commanded me to make him shredded wheat. I would often mix up how he liked it: do I put the sugar on first and then pour the milk? Or do I pour the milk and then add the sugar? On this particular occasion, I broke up the shredded wheat, because, that's just how you eat it. He flipped! "WHY ARE YOU SERVING ME THIS SHIT!" This paired with a barrage of other questions that had no correct answer. He then threw it at me. We were in the den. There were sliding glass doors between the den and the dining room. The milk landed between the doors and bled down the glass. The shredded wheat landed in the shag carpet of the dining room. "CLEAN IT UP! CLEAN IT UP! CLEAN IT UP!" My ears rang from his piercing scream. The chant is as clear today as it was then. For the next week, I was cleaning shredded wheat from the carpet, milk from the sliding glass doors, and I even spotted milk drippings on the window screens behind him. During one weekend lunch time while in the middle of some onerous "fun family project," my mother accidentally made my sandwich with mayonnaise. I hate mayonnaise. I have never liked it. I walked to the counter to smother the sandwhich with mustard to cover the taste. That was too much for him. My punishment: "You'll put mustard on every food you eat for the next 30 days." Peas with mustard. Cereal with mustard. Yes. I did eat mustard on everything at the lunch period. Preparing meals where just as obnoxious. While making breakfast, the butter ran out. I had to get out a cold stick of butter from the refrigerator. It wouldn't soften fast enough when the toast was ready, so the toast tore. (We couldn't soften the butter in the microwave. It just wasn't allowed.) My step-father demanded more of me. "GET US MORE TOAST. NOW! GET IT. AND IT BETTER BE GOOD. IT BETTER NOT BE TORN. DON'T DESTROY MY TOAST OR YOU'LL BE EATING ROTTEN TOAST ALL DAY." My patients are no different. A few weeks ago, I had to evaluate a patient who struck a food service worker for putting bacon on his tray. "It's not heart healthy! I have a heart healthy diet! She is supposed to put on turkey slices! Not bacon!" He was arrested...all over a slice of bacon. Another of my gems threatened the staff worker because she wouldn't give him prune juice at lunch. Prune juice isn't served at lunch. She just didn't have it. The manager offered him prunes. He threw them back at him and threatened to kill the staff members...over prune juice. These patterns of behavior are consisted with the temper tantrums of children. Child molesters not only identify with children on an emotional level, but on an behavioral level as well. To give in to these types of behaviors is to give power to those individuals: to the children and to the pedophiles. Limits need to be set and choices need to be offered. What I said in my opening is setting limits. "If you are going to behave in a way that is unacceptable, you are going to be held accountable." For the children in adult bodies, swift consequences; support to the service workers; immediate removal from the dining hall, charges pressed if necessary, and shutting down the line when incidents occur. For our boys, they will be given democratic options: "This is the offering. You have a democratic right not to like the meal in front of you, but this is what is offered. You may eat it, or you may leave it. But we appreciate your presence at the table. Rudeness at our table is not acceptable. You have a choice: sit at the table and join the family, or leave the table and read a book on manners. It is your choice." My husband and I will need to role play these lines with one another. We need practice. Lot's of practice. I don't want my child in my hospital.

Sitting on the Front Porch

My father wasn't the only one that was torn away from me. We had visited my father's family often during my first six years. My paternal grandmother was a loving woman. She adored children and treasured the three of us. Holidays and birthdays were never forgotten. Mom Mom was crafty. She crocheted me adorable ear warmers with curls hanging from the back and sewed dolls for me: matching Raggedy Ann and Andy, Mr. and Mrs. Humpty Dumpty. While recently moved into the blue house, she and my aunt, both whom lived in Florida, came to visit us. My aunt recalled the story: "We weren't allowed in the house. I thought it odd. We had to sit on the porch to visit. He [my step-father] wouldn't allow us in the house." I do partially recall the visit. While I don't recall the limited access they had to me, I do remember that was the last time that I saw my aunt, who was pregnant and soon to deliver our youngest family member. It would be another eight years or so that I would see my grandmother again, and another 24 years before I would see my aunt again. I never understood why I wasn't allowed access to my Mom Mom. She would send gifts that were never received. I saw them: in the bottom of my parents closet. She knitted us slippers, but they remained in a plastic bag at the bottom of my parents' closet. She knitted me mint green mittens and a matching hat, my favorite color and one that would match a jacket I had received for Christmas. There they sat, at the bottom of their closet, never to be given to me to be worn. When my SF was at work and while my mother was at the barn, I would go through their closet and look at the gifts that I was not permitted. It was as though I was taunted by this severance from my family. A family divided; a separation that remains to this day. Divide and Conquer. I have no ties with my family. My brothers and I do not speak to one another and have not done so for a very long time. Even when we were in contact, those times were strained. While I have attempted to reconcile with my brothers, shame and resentment persist. They have allowed my step-father win in the end, even though there are 25+ years in between. My step-father was grooming the environment, setting up for the abuse, with absolute brute force. Separating us from our family attenuated his chances of getting caught. What we later learned, after I finally left home, was that my step-father had threatened his previous wife's then 6 year old daughter. As he left her, he threatened, "She's really pretty. I'm going to get her."

Tearing us down

As my mother describes it, my step-father came to our apartment in his work truck and said, "Move in with me." Just like that. Matter of fact. He didn't profess his love. He didn't ask her if she would care to move in with him. He just told her. It was a command. Just do it. My mother describes that she consented because she thought, "We will have a family again." We already were a family. And while we struggled financially, my mother did her best without child support payments or government assistance. We ate fish sticks and drank powdered milk, but we had what was important. We had one another and a three-legged dog. Mom had a one prior boyfriend and an additional guy for a few dates. Teddy was her steady and I loved Teddy. He had kind brown eyes and soft wavy brown hair to match. His voice was soothing and he was hard working. He was smitten with my mother. He loved us. And I felt loved by him. But Ron, my step-father became another story. My immediate dislike for him was as a premonition for what was to become. That day we moved out of the apartment and arrived at his rented home changed my course forever. Ron was mastering Machiavellian concepts. He was manipulative and ruthless. Our furniture didn't go to his home, it went to his friend's house. He gave it away. My mother lost her car. A 1969 Pontiac Grand Am. Silver with Black Leather Interior. My mom takes pride in her vehicles. She loved that car. It was an exciting day for her when she earned that car. He gave it to his alcoholic, drug addicted sister. When Arlene pulled up to the house for a visit, my mother was devastated at what had become her prized possession. Filthy, dented, and sounding rough, her voice wept at her loss. My mother's doll collection was ruined from a leaky garage roof; purposely, I'm sure. He forced her to quit her job as a telephone operator. Six months after we moved in with him, he conned her out of the six-thousand dollars worth of CDs she had saved from the sale of our family home. He paid his bills with it. He had me go through all of my toys to eliminate most of them. "If there is something here that doesn't belong here, I'm going to throw all of them away. Choose wisely." My mother realized she had made a mistake. But by that time, it was too late. We had nothing. No money. No car. No personal possessions. And lastly, he took my father away from me. I remember it like yesterday. I was sitting in the living room, making a list for Santa. Sitting on the bland brown plaid couch wearing his white t-shirt and denim cut-offs, he demanded of the three of us, "You are going to call your father and tell him that you don't want to see him anymore." Bill got on the phone first and did as he was told. He then handed the phone to me. "Daddy, I'm making my Christmas list. When am I going to see you again?" "I want to see you..." his voice trailed as the phone was torn from my hand. Sam picked up the receiver next and did as he was told. I begged to talk to my daddy. Eighteen years would pass before I saw him again.

What is a psychopath?

Antisocial. Sociopath. Psychopath. These terms are often used loosely and interchangeably. While those who describe themselves as "antisocial" because they don't like to be around others, they are really describing themselves as "asocial." Antisocial is a personality disorder that begins in childhood, usually before or about the teen years, where a series of bad behaviors including truancy, lying, cheating and fighting are key elements. Cleckley was a psychiatrist who described while the superficial appearance of one may seem normal, it serves only as a "mask" for mental illness. The most modern term, based on an older DSM (Diagnostic Statistical Manual) popularized by Robert Hare, PhD, a Canadian psychologist, describes a particularly type of evil person, on a scaled rating for their behaviors on a deeper level. Dr. Hare created a scale utilizing symptomatology common among particular criminals. My step-father could score between a 36 and 39 on the scale, by my assumption if I were to rate him. Through my training as a physician, I have found others very much like my step-father. I couldn't make much sense of my childhood. It was filled with trauma, blame, guilt and shame. But in medical school, learning about psychiatry, I was able to suture my life as I recovered. While I had already been learning about grooming behaviors in regards to pedophiles, the epiphany about my step-father didn't come to me until my third year during an interview with a particularly vile "patient." I was rotating through an inpatient psychiatry ward in an inner city when we met "Mr. Smith." Mr. Smith was a diabetic patient married to a nurse. He had an addiction problem and when out of funds, would either sabotage his blood sugars to gain admission or become "suicidal" to hang out in the inpatient unit where he would be protected from outside bill collectors. He openly admitted this and boasted proudly of how he could play the doctors and his wife. He answered affirmatively to questions regarding fire setting as a kid, numerous fights, thefts and harming animals. Accusatorily, he remarked, "What are you going to do now? Analyze me?" As a young student, I looked to my attending for guidance. I explained that I would discuss his case with my attending and we would formulate a treatment plan there after. "What do you think!" he demanded. Again, as I looked to my attending, my superior nodded his approval to offer my opinion. "I think you have antisocial personality disorder." "What is that?" "Well, it is where you do a lot of criminal behaviors and have no remorse for it. You use people to your advantage, and you don't feel guilty." "Is she right?" he asked my attending. "Hand me that book over there." My attending opened the pages of the then DSM-IIIR and read aloud the criteria. I studied every word and one by one, I was taken back to the braggadocio manner in which my step-father would boast about what he did "as a kid" and what he continued to do up until the day I left home: "repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest...conning others for personal profit...repeated physical fights...reckless disregard for safety...failure to honor financial obligations...lack of remorse." The last one hit me hard. I remember that is what he said to me when I left; that I had no remorse for what I had done. What I had done? What did I do? I left home for my own safety. But I remembered that he had been seeing a psychiatrist just before I left. Projection is a common coping strategy that I witness my patients utilize. He was projecting what the psychiatrist had told him onto me. He had accused me of being the "antisocial." This was an eye opening experience. One that I would encounter many times later in my profession.

The First Time

I remember the first time I met him. There I was, age 5, getting ready for school in my red, white and blue cheerleading outfit. Out of the room my mother and I shared in the two bed room apartment, stood who would become my stepfather. My mother, incensed over my obsession with that outfit, pulled off my sweater in front of him. "Oh, no you don't!" as she whisked the sweater off of me, my slip showing. I ran into our bedroom, but not after I noticed the smirk of this stranger whom I took an immediate dislike. Days later, as I was on my way to Sunday school, he was there again, in front of our apartment in his "stupid" car. My mother gushed over the 1962 Corvette that was in need of repair. My middle brother jumped in to what he thought was cool. I left for school, but reluctantly as I didn't want to miss out what was going on at home. But at the same time, I was reluctant to be near. I had reservations of this man, and rightfully so. Two weeks went by from our initial meeting. I had come home from school and got out the Fisher Price Playschool. The living room was empty as was the rest of the apartment. My mother again swooped in. "We are leaving. Don't get that out." We arrived at his house to move in: A two bedroom, blue house in the woods. Away from everyone. Our only neighbor was a surly elderly woman who threatened to call the police on my brothers when the football landed on her property. It was a strange place. Far from comfortable. Nothing homey. And guns everywhere. Guns on the walls. Guns beneath the beds. Loads of guns. It was the beginning of the end of my childhood and innocence. I would no longer be that sensitive but pretty little girl with blonde curls. Instead, I became one who was tortured with anxiety, unable to protect my family from this beast. Our broken family of four and our three legged dog just entered the lair of a psychopath.