The letter

Dear Judy,

I know that this letter may never get to you, or if it does, you'll even open it or just throw it in the trash unopened like all of the other correspondence I tried sending you over the last couple of years. But at this point I don't even care. I just feel that if I write even some of the things that happened (and in some cases didn't happen but should have) down I can figure out how to move past them and actually get on with my life.

Let's start at the very beginning, a very good place to start... <ahem> when mom was still pregnant with me. And I'll tell you in her own words as she told me on her deathbed on her final night. “You were an oops. A mistake that should never have happened. Since I didn't believe in abortion as the church I was going to at the time views it as a mortal sin, I was forced to carry you; but I didn't need to nurture you. I tried to initiate a miscarriage by starving myself since having a miscarriage was more acceptable in our church than an abortion. I had what I thought was a miscarriage (I think you know how that plays out) and I was relieved. It was a few weeks later, I had a good part of my stomach removed and during the procedure it was discovered that I was still pregnant. Oh, well. You should have died, but you still hung on and were eventually born. Survival of the fittest maybe? Who cares? I know I didn't.”

Now I have no idea how much of that was true, and how much of that she said just to piss me the hell off before she died, yet I do know that some of the things she said had to have a ring of truth to it. I do know she had much of her stomach removed at some point (she had the telltale scar), and at least some of my Cerebral Palsy is indirectly linked to malnutrition in the womb. And I know from my own experiences with her that she was in the hospital several times for both malnutrition and dehydration even though there was always plenty of food and water available to her; she just refused to utilize them on a regular basis.

I also realize that there is a 16-year difference between you and I, and that mom had me in her early 40's, and her health was already beginning to decline even then. I also always knew that she resented having me, and it rubbed off on you, Alice, Morgan & Linda; the youngest of those four still being 10 years older than me. Morgan & Linda resented me especially; Morgan was no longer the only boy, and Linda could no longer be considered to be the youngest period. Childish thinking that was carried well into adulthood.

You guys all left home when you were still in your mid-teens and then from then on only dealt with her over the phone or visited for a brief time. Was that all you could tolerate her? For an hour or so at a time? Or if you stretched it maybe the weekend? Even then only if she was on her best behavior? I can understand Alice, Morgan & Linda because they all lived down in the Cape May area. But you--, you lived only 6 blocks away, and you saw her the least!

Now, I know life with Mom was no walk in the park. She had a lot of both physical and mental health issues for which she stopped going to counseling for, and there was at least one time that I'm aware of (there may have been multiple times) that the authorities wanted to have me removed from her care; much like I know had happened with Morgan who lived in Boys Home until he was 18.

While Mom “wasn't a drinker” (to her drinking was beer and hard liquor), she did like her wine, and oh, how she liked her wine. You remember her getting those gallon jugs of wine all the time? When she had too much of it, that was when she was even worse. I remember a few times I came home from school, and she was ranting to me about something or other that I was supposed to have done, but never specifically said. I would ask her what she was so mad at me about. You know what her response was? “I know what I'm mad about; that's all that matters, but then again you should already know!” Well, I didn't know, and never did find out, but each time I saw that she had her wine jug out and empty. One time I even took a walk to give her time to calm down, when I got back, she was mad about that too.

I was never allowed to be a part of family conversations, even... no, especially the ones I should have been a part of to begin with; she would always tell me my opinion wouldn't have mattered anyway, blah, blah, blah.

She didn't allow me to be friends with anybody in the neighborhood and pretty much kept me not just close to home, but at home (my room, the yard, the porch, that creepy old basement that I swear was haunted). Things got worse as I turned 15, she was in a hospital bed for several weeks and I was volunteered (by you nonetheless) to be her caretaker until she died. I was 15, what did I know about being a caretaker? I don't think I fully knew what that even meant at the time. But I figured that it would last for a few days or weeks then she would die. But whatever she was in her sick bed for she recovered from, but I was held to being volunteered to be her caretaker which dragged on for another 21 years.

At this point, I should mention that Dad wasn't a model father in and of himself. There were long periods of time when he kept to himself in his room, (for various reasons he had to sleep in a room separate from Mom) He had these unexplained outbursts one of which almost killed me. All I remember from that one is that I came down the back stairs and he began using me as a punching bag for god knows what reason. I fought back and he picked me up and threw me onto a broken chrome frame chair where the back fell off, but the frame was still there. A part of the frame went through my left rib and stopped just short of puncturing a lung. Obviously, I recovered, but from then on, my association with him was limited and even Mom had to put her foot down.

At around that same time, I had a habit of sliding down a railing at school, but this one time I didn't take into consideration that I had a bag of schoolbooks on my back and fell three stories straight down onto a marble floor. They say the fall should have killed me, but the book-bag on my back took the brunt of the impact, and my right leg took the rest. I had to wear one of those removable metal frame casts for 6 weeks, which Mom did allow, but I was supposed to go to physical rehab as an outpatient for a period of time afterwards which never happened.

When I was 17, we moved to a different part of the neighborhood leaving the only friend I did manage to make behind, and I wasn't allowed to go back and visit, and was even told (by you nonetheless), that she killed herself, which caused me to go into a fit of depression. I was in Friends Hospital for a period of time, then was sent back into the same environment. I found out years later that what you said was a lie, even though at the time you said it it was gospel truth.

I tried several times to get a job, but I was put on SSDI when I was 16 because of having CP (even though I only have an extremely mild case) and Epilepsy (which turned out to be a misdiagnosis BTW). It limited how many hours a week I could work and what jobs I could take, so working just to get out of the house became problematic. I did get a few short term or “summer jobs” but none of them ever lasted very long.

Mom was famous for quoting Bible Scriptures that didn't exist or so out of context it changed the meaning. She would open the Bible to a random page and say something like “And Jesus said, “I will be the friend to the friendless” that means you don't need to have friends.” Then as I went to see the verse she was “quoting” for myself the Bible would slam closed, then she would conveniently forget where the non-existent verse was. One of the out of context ones was ““My God will supply all your need...” which means you don't need to get a proper job.” But that's not what was being said at all. While it is true that God will supply our need, it doesn't mean we shouldn't work.

She liked to take her “walks”. Only they weren't walks, not on her part; it was riding around on that malfunctioning scooter she had. Which always meant I had to help her down the steps, because she lost her ability to navigate on the steps, get the scooter out of the basement (because there was no place else to conveniently store it) and assemble it, then get her onto the scooter. The battery got so that it would only let her ride the scooter for an hour or so at a time before it died. That meant I had to walk with her, because if the battery died before she got home, I would have to push it [@150lbs] with her [@150lbs] over 8 blocks (the one time). Get her off the scooter, disassemble the scooter put it away, help her literally crawl back up the steps (which in and itself was a chore) and finally back to her room. Don't forget, this all began AFTER my fall down the steps and was walking with a severe limp. I tried several times to talk her into getting one of those stair lifts which granted would have cost a few thousand, but she fought against that, and would rather spend 45 minutes crawling up and down the steps.

Like I mentioned before, she wasn't the greatest person to be around, even on her best days, she was extremely condescending and self-serving. Even some of the things I did achieve, she would belittle me on. “If I can't do [whatever whatever] then I know damned good and well that you can't!” And don't get me started on her thinking I was colorblind. If I'm so colorblind, how come I have a stack of artwork in the art room at Comhar that I done? Granted, I don't know all of the names of some of the more exotic colors, but that doesn't make me colorblind.

Do you remember her practically living on that baby food the last couple of years of her life? Here's the story. She got herself into one of her fits of refusing to eat for a few days, why I don't know, but the doctor told her to eat baby food with high protein content for a couple of days, then she should be able to eat proper food again. That couple of days turned into the entirety of the last 5 years of her life, and she had 3 or 4 of them at a time 3 times a day. She made it my job to make sure she had at least 12 jars a day, and they were expensive, even 20 years ago, and cut into the proper food money.

It was around this time that Dad was put in the Nursing Home because he had become completely unable to eat solid food and needed a special diet. If you remember, around that same time, you and I wanted to have Mom put in there too, but she had a stipulation in her will that she wanted to stay at home and specifically mentioned the address (which also meant we couldn't move to a ground floor situation).

Shortly before she died, a few plumbing repairs needed to be done where a part of the living room wall had to be torn down to get to the area of plumbing that needed to be replaced. The final cost was around $5,000 or so. She got a loan from the bank, and how she managed to get it when she was already in HOSPICE CARE is beyond me. Somewhere along the line, the loan went from $5,000 to $50,000 with the house being used as collateral. And instead of using just the 5,000 and leaving the rest sit, she made donations to... I don't even know who to, but it was something neither you or I found out about until after mom died and the damage was done yet I got blamed for! But she wrote the checks to all those places, I only took the mail out to the mailbox not knowing what she was having me mail.

Finally, when I was 36, for about the 4th or 5th time, mom was in her sick bed, this time I knew that she really was going to die. It was about that time, she told... no almost bragged about what happened when she was pregnant with me. Shortly after she died, and I let out a sigh or relief. It was over.

Well, it should have been over, but the moment mom died, I called the paramedics first, then I gave you a call and had the head paramedic give you certain details I was unable to give. All at once after all that time of you avoiding coming over to help with mom (which I sorely needed especially in the last few weeks) you were finally there.

OK granted, there were a few things you did that were of help after Mom died, I didn't know thing one about making mom's funeral arrangements (although I do know she made some arrangements a few years before she died and you just needed to set in motion) and selling the house (which was when you found out about the loan). You guys thought you were going to get a lot of money out of the house; instead, the money from the house had to go into paying off the loan. That is something that mom did and I had no part of, yet it was something that especially you and Morgan made me feel responsible for.

Which leads me to the fact that all of a sudden, you were so upset over the way I was made to deal with Mom especially over her last few weeks. If you found it so concerning, why didn't you come over and help out especially with her more personal care (which I wasn't able to do). OK, granted she did have a hospice care nurse that came around once or twice a week to help her with certain things, but felt like you were completely avoiding Mom altogether.

Was it because of something she did to you as kids; there must be some reason you all left home en-mass all at around the same time, right? Or did you want to remember her from her “better days”, before her decline? Either way, it left me in the lurch, knowing nothing BUT her bad days and getting blamed for not doing things right. Which you could have helped with, and Morgan's wife was a proper nurse for Chris's sake!

Don't forget, I wasn't trained to be her caretaker and certainly wasn't paid. Nowadays, I would be through some agency, but we're talking around this ending 17+ years ago, before they started doing that. Granted, I was getting my SSDI checks, but the pay is not the issue. The issue was that I was made to do this when I was only 15 and was unaware of all that was involved and there were other family members who were better equipped to do what I was forced into doing.

Speaking of not doing things right. Granted, I needed to move out of the house eventually when mom died so you can clear her stuff out of the house, but you should have given me proper time to get my stuff out first. But NO.... I had no storage unit to put the stuff in, no apartment to take the stuff to and only two days to pack my stuff up. And the stuff I was able to pack up with my name on the boxes were the first things you got rid of when I was gone on a job that friend of yours Dave magically came up with then paid with a rubber check (which he was famous for doing BTW).

I got home from the workday to find everything out on the front yard with neighbors carrying the boxes with my name on away like they found a valuable treasure. And some of them WERE valuable (rare cast iron banks and the like). And finally after that was done, THEN you let me find an apartment. But getting me into an apartment and let me move my stuff there THEN doing that stuff would have been the more logical thing to do. But NO--. It had to be done your way and only your way. Then you had the gall to wonder why I was so pissed off at you for a while.

OK. You soon realized you went too far too fast and apologized for what you did, I forgave you and we moved on. And I moved into my first apartment. What happened there wasn't my fault, it was you and your buddy Dave's fault. By then I had a proper job and was making proper money. But Dave came up with the bright idea of me not paying the rent directly to the landlord, but I had to give you the money, so you can give it to him, so he could hold onto it for a few days, then give it back to you so that you could make the trip over there (at your convenience) and finally give it to the landlord. Then you guys wondered why my rent was always late and I was evicted. But you and Dave playing games with my rent money was the reason. What the HELL was that all about to begin with?

Shortly after that, I broke ties with Dave because he always found reason to either never pay me or if he did with rubber checks. He died not long afterwards anyway, cancer caused by some shady health product he was selling as a part of his Ponzi scheme.

Again, you apologized for your involvement in his little scheme. Again I forgave you. By this time, I was in a new apartment, and a new job. This place and job lasted for several years, and I was making enough that I phased myself off of SSDI, the peace between you and I came about.

After almost 5 years of working at the same place, I lost my job, granted it was my fault but it wasn't (I made the mistake of renting an apartment from my boss, yadda, yadda, yadda), but that's neither here nor there, and I managed to stay in my apartment for a few months before I could no longer do it.

I made arrangements with someone in my church to stay at a mission he ran; I was there for a couple of months. During this time Morgan died from liver damage as he drank several quart bottles of whiskey a day by this time. They were willing to give me a few days leave let me go to his memorial service, but guess who didn't want me to go (Hint: It wasn't me). I eventually lost my cool with one of the other residents who thought it was funny to push my buttons so to speak and had to leave there. But I wasn't the only person he liked to push buttons with, in fact about a year later he pushed the wrong person's buttons at the wrong place and time, and they killed him because of it.

It was at that time I went into Friends Hospital for a second time, but I refused to let them release me until they could assure me that they could set me up in a shelter, which finally happened after about a month. But the medication they put me on I was having a bad reaction to, I had completely lost the ability to speak, and we're not talking about my usual stuttering, but I was made completely mute and was unable to do even basic writing, which made my intake very interesting.

At that time, I started going to Warren E. Smith (aka: WES), where they noticed that I was having a bad reaction to medication and immediately changed it. Within a week I was talking normally for me, and I was able to settle in properly at The Station House on Broad and Lehigh. I was there for just about a year, did everything by the book. I reported my income, did the fees and savings the right way despite getting several jobs during that year. One of them was with the Zoo which I absolutely hated and eventually quit after an accident that almost made me lose my left thumb. You know what their major concern was? It was not the fact that my thumb was cut down to the bone, but they were concerned over if I was wearing the right shoes when the accident happened. Eventually, I was taken to University of Penn where they did an immaculate job of stitching up the hand and putting on one of those pin casts that kept the hand and wrist immobile for a few weeks until the nerves re-attached. When they took it off and I did my therapy, the hand was fully functional, leaving only a vague scar that you can barely see unless you know your looking at it. I tried going back to the job, but the only thing they were concerned about was my god damned shoes, not the hand, not what caused the accident to begin with, but the fact that I was wearing the right shoes, otherwise they wouldn't have sent me to the hospital!! I walked out and never went back.

Anyway, back to the Station House, where this woman would come in to the back office several times a week, and one of the residents started talking about this apartment that he had the opportunity to go to, but in order to get into the apartment they had to go through a group called Resource for Human Development (RHD), which was run by a (a couple of off color and explicit word deleted) lesbian and a giant woman who looked like she was a linebacker. I made the comment that unlike him, I'd be willing to deal with people like that if it meant getting out of the shelter system. The door to the bunk room we were in was open, and the lesbian woman was standing outside and could clearly hear every word that was said (including the derogatory comment about her). I looked out at her, she ripped up a packet of paperwork she was getting ready to have the guy go into the office to sign, looked at me, held her finger up to her lips and walked away.

Two days pass and I'm called back into the office where the woman who ran the Station House, the guy I did my fees & savings with, the lesbian woman and a woman from Columbus Property were all gathered. They had paperwork ready for me to sign which I did and within a week I was doing more paperwork with the PHA and got the key to my apartment, which after 11 years, I'm still in. As for the guy who badmouthed the lesbian thinking she didn't hear him; I think he's still in the same cot in the same room lying in the same position at the Station House.

As I settled into the apartment, I also began going to RHD where the linebacker woman and the lesbian worked. The linebacker woman was only there for a few weeks before she and another woman who worked beside her were let go for drinking and doing drugs on a 3-day community outing. As for Tori – the lesbian, we eventually became friends, actually closer to a brother/sister relationship; something I was no longer getting from you or any of my other remaining siblings over the next 9 years. She eventually had to leave to be closer to her wife and kids, which I found acceptable.

It was during that 9-year period that our brother/sister relationship fell apart. There were several things involved in that:

1. I had a different opinion about one of your friends than was on your list of acceptable opinions and was told that my opinion about her doesn't matter.

2. You, Alice, and a few other family members, I'm sure, were (and still are) playing a game of whisper down the lane about something I was supposed to have done 40 years before, as a kid but only then became a hot topic. What it was only you guys know, but like mom meeting me at the door after having her wine, I'm supposed to know what it was supposed to be all about without knowing any details and was supposed to have total recall over.

3. Lastly you said, “I speak for the whole family when I say that you're dead to us.

To that I can only say. “If I'm so dead to you then there's no need for you to keep my memory alive by playing “whisper down the lane”, is there? I'm dead, let me go.”

Back to Tori. She was one of the main people that made RHD work. Shortly after she left, my relationship with RHD fell apart, partially because they lost certain funding, but also because she was one of the main supports. For almost a year, I had nowhere to turn, granted, I was going to Comhar but only once or twice a month, but the opportunity came for me to join the Community Living Room (CLR) through Comhar, which has groups several hours a day several days a week. But by then I had completely shut down, my last visit to RHD was a bitter one, an almost what are you doing here? attitude. I had the feeling they were going to call security on me. Two weeks before I was fully welcome, yet nothing changed. Except, they lost funding, yet is that a good reason for them to show complete hatred for me?

I began going to the CLR almost completely shut down, my trust of people at an extreme low, only after going to groups on a regular basis after almost 10 months is my trust of people almost to the point of only beginning to return. But then again, in the past, with one or two exceptions; most of the people I should have been able to trust the most have become the people that I have come to trust the least. As far as you and I go, I forgive you for what you did, but you follow a pattern that makes me not want to trust you ever again. God knew that. He knows more about what is going on than even we know, he heard your “whisper down the lane” he knows the true reason you did what you did. He knows that both of us are better off without having each other in our lives because you're following too much in Mom's footsteps, just like Mom followed too much in her mother's footsteps because maybe, just maybe, that kind of life is the life she got from her mother, who got the same treatment from her mother who... yadda, yadda, yadda.

I don't know if this letter will ever reach you, or if it's something that I will proverbially burn. However, writing it has given me the clearest view of what happened I ever had and I plan on putting it up on one of my writing groups, and may even read it one day in the CLR.

OK. I agree with God and think that it's best we have no further contact in the future. Goodbye.

Timothy Jones