This is an absolutely true story Book Index
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When reading both installments and comments, I believe as Milne said:
The third-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking with the majority. The second-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking with the minority. The first-rate mind is only happy when it is thinking.
Life as a wife (and hippie)
So why did I not find my calling?
My parent's divorce, and then the 60’s. Finally puberty.
The good Lord had the audacity to make me a vixen. And I embraced this. My brothers were horrid creatures who taunted and tortured me from a young child. They would call me fat, ugly, Dumbo because of my big ears and nose, and fat ass (much the rage now). I had such low self-esteem.
But as it often does, I grew out of that ‘ugly duckling” stage.
One of my brothers, the worst of the bunch, the one who truly despised me actually said, “You are so beautiful, if you weren’t my sister, I would date you.”
That statement was a turning point. No one can take that away from me. He still to this day is a spiteful overgrown brat. Others in my family have twisted this statement, through their own agenda's and made him believe I actually felt he was making a physical advance. Nothing of the sort happened. The thought is disgusting. No one will be able to deprive me of that one conquest. Getting the approval of my sibling.
My teenage years were turmoil. My parent's divorce had precluded parenting. They were both caught up in what the other was doing. I was the middle child. My two older brothers had their own lives away from home, and my little brother and sister were too young to recognize any unfavorable family patterns. I, on the other hand, was the middle child.
Both parents played me against the other. Both were convinced I had information on the other and used me as a threat to take to court. It was propaganda as I knew little of their shortcomings and truly, did not give a shit. I was old enough to know that what they were doing was nothing close to parenting. My mother was a loyal wife, I must say, but she screamed constantly and never seemed to be happy. And she did not understand that just because the checkbook was full, that did not necessarily mean there were funds to back up those checks. The only time she treated me fairly was during the time we evaded a process server who was to serve her with divorce papers. We spent true quality time together peppered with interrogations about my father.
My father on the other hand acted despicably, having an affair and damaging any hope of a family life together.I lived with my grandparents for a bit. I adored them, and they me. However, a teenager was far too much to handle, and I was a mess. I required a lot of supervision since I had no idea which way to turn. A family friend, Roy, had been a mentor of mine during that time. He came to my rescue often with lectures of how to be a lady, and remedies for my horrific pain after having my tonsils out. Aspergum.
I was put in a foster home, which, due to my family’s ability to manipulate the system, turned out to be my grandmother’s cousin. The only person to come and see me was the brother I mentioned earlier. He would do things like that from time to time. I am sure it was torture, trying to be a brother. I feel he somehow had a feeling of duty. But he came, and I was scared, so it all worked to both our advantages. Eventually, the social worker, and my guardian angel, Jeanne Ihlenfeldt, involved with my case, took custody of me. That will be one of those events that would haunt me and my ability to bond forever.
Sitting at a restaurant by Washington Bowl in Kenosha, my father walked through the door and slipped into the seat next to me, signed the documents and left. That was it. Jeanne, the social worker, had custody of me, and we packed up and went to Fon du Lac to avoid gossip and rumor.Had she not made this controversial decision, I probably would have died before I reached drinking age.My parents got their “War of the Roses”, three years of court and crying divorce, which cost a fortune, and everyone settled into their new lives. Jeanne and I into ours. I had met a boy during one of my visits to Kenosha. He was a worldly young man from Chicago named Jim. He fell in love the day he met me, as he reminded everyone often.
length. The pockets hanging below the fringe. I sported a black felt hat, one of the uniform accessories worn by the hippies of the day. I disposed of the hat after word got around Kenosha that a known drug informant wore the same model.
After a short courtship, and a scare of my almost dying from a ruptured ovary, Jim asked me to marry him.
I did not love him, but after he threw himself down on the street in the middle of Paulina in Chicago, my best friend Gretchen said, “Dianne, if someone loved me that much, I don’t care how I felt, I would marry him. She made me feel like this would never happen again. And maybe, if he was so in love with me, why couldn’t I be in love with him?
And soon Kenosha would have its societal wedding...and I had to wear shoes.
And a bra.
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