Tag: abuse

Not So Stupid After All

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment


So, I have been reading What My Bones Know by Stephanie Foo. It’s a wonderful book so I’m reading it for the second time. She was horribly abused as a child, physically and emotionally. The physical abuse was quite significant. I worked with abused children for 20 years. Her story is horrible and compelling. Her ability to describe the process she went through to heal is so honest and real. It’s brilliant…hence the second time reading it. I highly recommend it.


Families are funny, as in strange, for many reasons but for now I’m thinking about how each child in a family is raised by a different parent than the others. I don’t remember who came up with the idea…definitely a family systems person…possibly Bowlby. Family systems theory basically says that a family functions as a system, and everyone has their unique role in keeping the system functioning. That’s a simplistic one sentence summary but it gives you the general idea. Within the system if someone changes or does something different it can throw the whole family off kilter. Kind of like throwing a stick into the spokes of a bike someone is riding…there’s gonna be a crash…. Speaking of bikes and crashes, when I was 9ish I was riding a tandem bike with my friend…who shall be nameless because I don’t remember her name. She was in the front steering, and I was right behind her. With the inherent wisdom of 9-year-olds, we decided that she should steer with her eyes shut and I would direct her, all while riding down a hill that, at the time, seemed huge…we lived in Wisconsin, so it was definitely not huge. Anyway, we started down the hill, and I yelled, “Go left! Go left!” And she went right, way right…into a mailbox. Huge crash, blood everywhere…not exactly. My friend ran off crying and I scraped my knee. And I’m pretty sure it was her mailbox…and it was made of bricks and cement. Only did that once.


Now I’m back from my wandering…All of that was to say that families shift and change, so each child’s experience of their parents is different…as if they were different people all together. That seems to be true for my sister and me. She’s 17 months older than I am, even though she convinced my children that she was younger than me. It took years for me to convince them that she was kidding…I probably had to show them my birth certificate. Little fuckers. ❤️


My sister and I have some very different memories from when we were kids. Our perceptions were different as well. I remember things that my sister doesn’t, and she remembers tons of stuff that I don’t. I seem to remember more painful memories. I was emotionally abused as a child. I believe sister was too, although her perception is different. I was told that I was dumb and stupid. That when they passed out brains, I thought they said trains and I missed mine. When it came to brains I got the short end of the stick. That I didn’t know anything about whatever we were discussing…especially if it was something I majored in or involved my career. My sister was told those things as well. “I don’t know how we had such stupid children.” While my parents lived with us my mom frequently called me a dummy. I am very sensitive about being called dumb or stupid or being told, as I regularly was “that’s the problem you’re thinking again.”


The insults to my intelligence and my ability to think were the most hurtful to me. I am someone who thinks a lot. In fact, I overthink a lot. But I make sense of the world by thinking. My thinking leads to my writing. I think about patterns in my life, I read books and think about the information in connection to my experiences. Sometimes I just sit and think…kind of like Winnie the Pooh sitting there tapping his head and repeating, “think, think, think.” If something is heavy on my mind…I sit and sort and think. So, the implication that I don’t think or I’m too stupid or dumb to understand something really hurts me at my core…in my heart. It damages my understanding of myself and the world…or it used to.


Sometimes I think I have so many degrees because I was trying to convince myself that I wasn’t stupid. When I was getting my master’s in counseling, I wrote a paper on…I have no idea. Too long ago. What I do remember is the professor writing on my paper that I had the second highest grade in the class and that it was a “brilliant” analysis. No one had ever used the word brilliant in connection to me. I cried. That was the first time that I realized I wasn’t stupid. The tears were full of anger and relief…anger at the messages I’d been given growing up and relief that they were wrong. And sadness that I spent so many years believing everything my parents said. They were the adults and so I thought they were right.


I have mentioned before that I have done a good amount of therapy. At one point in my psychological journey, I did EMDR…eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. I called it the light bar…sounds like a bar that serves only lite beer…and I was there drinking with my therapist. Anyway, in EMDR you focus on one memory that is particularly painful and emotionally charged for you…it’s juicy, as Pema Chodron would say. It’s a trigger. I picked being told I was stupid. Back then that was fireworks for me. So, I got the memory in my head and tapped into my feelings, all the while tracking the lights on the light bar moving rapidly back and forth across the bar. When it was over, I had an epiphany. I told the therapist that when my parents told me I was stupid, I wasn’t stupid, I just disagreed with them. I had a different perspective and to them that was being stupid. EMDR took a lot of the fire out of the word stupid…not all of it but it was a huge difference. I thought EMDR was magic.


I also think there was physical abuse in my house. I never had marks or bruises. Although when I was little, I never looked to see. I had some bruises, fingerprints on my arm, once when I was a teenager…from my dad. I think that hitting children is abusive. My sister and I were hit with a belt and a brush…that’s abusive. Even though spanking may have been standard practice in the 60’s, that doesn’t make it less abusive.


I spanked my oldest daughter but not my other two kids. I feel bad because I had to learn parenting with her. At the time, the far-right church I went to encouraged spanking your children. And the church was my teacher. They told us not to use our hands to spank but to use an object…like a wooden spoon. Which I did. Once. That’s all it took to realize they were wrong. We tell children to calm down and stop crying while we hit them…that makes no sense.


The thing about spanking children is that we do it when we’re angry. We ask our child to do something or stop doing something and they don’t. We probably ask more than once and then exasperated we spank them. We teach them that it’s okay to hit people smaller and less powerful than them. We hit the most vulnerable people in our world. We teach kids that when you’re angry and don’t know what to do you can hit someone…and then blame them for it.
We’re teaching our children that physical violence is a legitimate way to solve problems…and it’s not. “Spare the rod and spoil the child” and all that other bullshit. We confuse fear with respect. We think if our children are afraid of us then they respect us. But fear doesn’t breed respect, it breeds resistance, defiance, shutting down. It leads to avoidance. I avoid people I am afraid of. There may be people I fear that I respect but I do not respect them because of that fear. I respect them in spite of it.


One day we were talking about corporal punishment with my parents…not sure what started that mistake of a conversation. My dad told my wife that he made my sister and I go and get the brush to hit us with to humiliate us. My wife was gobsmacked for sure. I was too. Who intentionally tries to humiliate anyone, let alone a child? My mom was angry we were having the conversation and said, “I’m sorry. I guess you had a horrible childhood.” But that wasn’t my point. My point was that hitting children is not a good disciplinary tactic. It doesn’t teach any of the positive things we might want it to. It teaches fear and division. It teaches lying and deception…if I don’t get caught, I don’t get hit. It’s hypocritical to tell children they aren’t allowed to hit and then we turn around and hit them. That’s crazy making shit.


So maybe I’m not stupid but why did it take so long, and so much school, to come to that realization? And why did I need a teacher to praise me to recognize that? Why couldn’t I see it within myself? Hard questions. Maybe we form the internal vessel in our children that holds their thoughts and beliefs about themselves. Children think their parents know everything…at least until they’re teenagers…so when a parent throws around words like stupid, dumb, lazy, or tells them that they are too much or too little, their children believe them. Children incorporate that information as a fact in their lives. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me…that’s some unhelpful bullshit.


Our words hurt and wound and damage other people. The good news is that our words can also heal. If you tell your children how much you love them, that you’re proud of them that means something to them. That is validation that helps them form their image and beliefs about themselves. Instead of tearing them down, build them up with praise…praise for the wonderful qualities they bring to this world. We don’t tell our children often enough that they are kind, compassionate, intelligent, capable, honest, loyal, hardworking, determined, loving, understanding…the list could really go on and on. There is no shortage of words available to describe our children and to encourage them to grow and believe in themselves. And really, I still want to hear those things. I want to feel that I am loved. Everyone wants to be loved. I still tell my adult children how much I love them, that I’m proud of them, and how lucky I am to be their mom. No one is too old for praise and encouragement. No one is too old to love or be loved.


Let’s focus on love. Let’s lead with love. We get plenty of negative messages about ourselves from the world. Now maybe there are people thinking that we can’t just be all about love with our children because the world is a hard place, so we need to do our part to toughen them up. No we don’t. Life will happen and they will grow stronger…they don’t need the negativity or bullying to come from us. That does so much damage. Let’s make sure our homes are places where we encourage and challenge our children to become the best version of themselves. And with respect, kindness, compassion, understanding, and tons of love that person will emerge. In the end, all that matters is how we love people. Let’s love our children and each other fiercely.

I’m An Orphan…Right?

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

Can you be an orphan at 63? Well, 63 and ¾’s to be accurate. Personally, I’m not sure but my sister says that we’re orphans now. My mother died March 17th. St. Patrick’s Day. My sister and I think she did that on purpose. Now no one will ever forget the day she died and it’s a national holiday for us Irish folks. What more could you ask for…green beer and toasts to you all night…toasts lengthening with each Guinness consumed. Omg! She would be so pleased. I’m happy for her about that. We did many toasts Sunday. My favorite was, “May heaven know you’re dead a full half hour before the devil finds out.” She wouldn’t like that one for herself, but my dad was probably laughing his ass off. Hopefully I didn’t create a conflict there…I wouldn’t want them to fight on her first day in heaven.

My mother died peacefully in her sleep Sunday morning. The rehab center called to tell me. It was a call I had been expecting at any time, but I was still surprised when it came. My mother wanted to die. She was ready. In her good weeks, she told me she had a great life but that she had lived longer than she wanted to. She missed my dad. She had stopped eating and drinking. She curled up in bed and went to sleep. She stayed asleep several days before she died. My dad passed away exactly the same way. I’m sure after 70 years it was hard to be apart. 

My first phone call was to my sister. I told her and then we just stared at each other silently for a minute or two on FaceTime, and then she said, “Well we’re orphans now.” I would have been surprised by that except she had been practicing this idea on me with “We’re gonna be orphans soon” or “We’re gonna be orphans when mom dies” and “We’ll be orphans. That’s what it’s called when both of your parents are dead.” That’s what it’s called alright…kind of.

An orphan is defined as, “A child under the age of 18.” This definition made my sister super sad, so I told her I’ll adopt her, and then she won’t be an orphan. I can be her “sister mother” kind of like “sister wife” only legal…at least I think it would be legal…super creepy but legal. And I won’t make her wear a long dress and braids…well maybe braids. I’m thinking Pippi Longstocking’ish. I need some red hair dye.

When I hear the word “orphan” I think of “Little Orphan Annie” the title of which became “Annie” probably because you don’t address a child as a “little orphan” or any kind of orphan. It’s not a title. The movie “Annie” reminds me of, “It’s a hard knock life for us” and “Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow….” And of course, Carol Burnett as Ms. Hannigan. She was some bitch.

For my sister’s sake, I also read that adults who have lost their parents can (and do) identify themselves as orphans. Merriam-Webster says, “A child whose parents have died, are unknown or have permanently abandoned them” are orphans. By that definition my mom was an orphan from a young age. Her father left my grandmother when my mom was 6, I believe. She told me that he was crazy about her and loved to take her places with him. She said that he loved her so much, but he still left, and she never saw him again. And she doesn’t know why. My mom was devastated by the loss of her dad. She had a double loss, her dad and being left with her mother, who she told us, never loved her. My grandmother’s brother, my Mom’s Uncle Mike, lived in the apartment with them. I’ve heard horror stories of how my grandma and great uncle would scare my mom and how they were mean to her. She was traumatized as a child. And I guess no one really cared. I know she felt abandoned and unloved.

It’s no surprise my mom had a lot of phobias…claustrophobia, acrophobia, and hydrophobia are the ones I remember. Not understanding why she was treated so harshly she came to believe that she was “bad” somehow and everything that happened was her fault. When children don’t understand what’s happening around them, they make up a story that solves the riddle for them. Our brains cannot manage the stress of not knowing or understanding what happened, so our brain creates a solution…even if the solution is hurtful to us…or untrue.

I was also an orphan, way before this St. Patrick’s Day. I was abandoned by my mother almost from birth. Not technically, not physically, but emotionally. My mom and I had a complicated relationship. I’m not sure exactly why.  I think many of our issues stemmed from her own childhood. They were hers but projected onto me, so what was hers became mine. Her mother favored her brother, 4 years younger than her, I believe. My mom used to say, as if she was joking, that her brother was “the sun, moon, and stars” to her mom and that “he could do no wrong.” She felt unloved and unwanted. I felt the same way. My mom and I had years that we were estranged from each other and that led to my estrangement from my dad, my sister, and all my extended family. I’m sorry for the lost years, at the time I was doing what I thought was best for me, and my own mental health. Would I do it differently now? I honestly don’t know.

I’ve used this blog to write about my mom and I will continue to write about her, probably a lot. I’m going to write about her because she was my mom. She was a very influential person in my life. The ways she loved and hated, was pleased or disappointed, what she accepted and what was just tolerated shaped who she was and who I am. Now with awareness, I want to choose my shape…I will shape who I will become…or am becoming. We are always becoming.

My mom had mental health issues. My primary caretaker had mental health issues. Issues that were never fully addressed and definitely not talked about. It was perhaps the biggest elephant in the room growing up…and there was a small herd. I’m going to free the poor elephant, actually, all the elephants. They’ve been chained up for too fucking long. I’m going to write about, and talk about, the issues in my family, with my mom, my dad, my parents (because they were different together than individually), maybe my sister, extended family…I’m gonna talk about patterns and habitual behaviors, familial and personal. I’m going to talk about the legacy of abuse, mental illness (in different forms), abandonment, grudges, withholding, and I’m going to talk about forgiveness, mental health, insight and change…I hope lots of change, for myself. I’ll leave other people to determine their own path through whatever life brings to them. Life brings a lot…a hell of a lot. 

If you’re reading this and you loved my mom, you might be offended when I talk about her…so this blog may not be for you. Remember though, I loved her too. I loved her and she was my model for motherhood and womanhood. I was sculpted out of my responses and reactions to her. In order to understand me I need to understand her. I need to develop my compassion for her. She was just a woman doing the best she could. It didn’t always feel that way. I’m sure it doesn’t always seem like I’m doing my best either. I’m gonna do my best with this. I’m gonna do my best for my wife, kids, and family. I’m gonna do my best for her and for me…so I keep moving forward.

Let’s be real…losing a parent is hard. Losing both in less than a year feels like a lot. That’s my official assessment of myself…it’s a lot. Sorting through baggage, that we’ve carried for years is hard work. The starting point is to put it down. Set the baggage down. It may feel like you can’t because it’s such a part of you and after all it’s part of a matched set. Do it anyway. Set it down and look around it. Finding a new perspective can get you started on a new path, and intentional path…a path for you and your health, both emotional and physical. I am choosing an intentional path. I am choosing my path. No one is making me do anything. I’m taking the path that leads me through all the shit I’ve been avoiding for such a long time. No more serpentining…constantly running in a zigzag line because I’m afraid of what will happen if I stop. What happens if I stop? If I stop and set down the baggage…I guess it’s time to find out.

So I’m headed on to a path of transformation. My transformation. I am way the fuck too old to be blaming my mom for anything. It’s time I take charge of my own life. My own life and my own behavior. In order to love someone, you have to know them. And to know them you have to listen, deeply. Its time for me to know, listen to, and understand myself. To give myself the same consideration I’d give a friend. And of course, it all starts with love. Love is the greatest gift we can give someone, including ourselves. I’m going to lead with love, in the world and with myself. I’m gonna try some tenderness. In the end, all that matters is how we love people, and that includes ourselves. I want love to win in my life, and in yours. Let’s be love warriors…starting now. I’ll go first….

What’s In A Name?

~ Kai Raines ~ Leave a comment

I remember when I was expecting my first baby…it was all very exciting. Everyone was asking if we had picked a name yet. Naming a human being is an interesting task…an important mission. So, we started looking at names. How do you pick a name from literally every name in the world for this little being you have not even met? No pressure there. And the possible list is a bit much. We didn’t even know if we were having a boy or a girl (more discussion on gender assigning at a later date). I suppose we weren’t picking from every name in the world. We were never big on Boris, Ivan, or Helga. Anyway, it was hard to even know where to start. I bought name books and spent days scouring them for the perfect name. 

Recently, my grandson, and his girlfriend, had a beautiful baby boy. My first question was whether the baby was healthy and the second was what’s his name? He told me they didn’t know yet. I’m way too type A to register “we don’t know yet” comfortably. How do you not know?! You’ve had nine months to decide. You only had two jobs…grow a healthy human and name him. Fifty percent completion rate is not that good…it’s a D. My great-grandson (and yes, I am way too young for that ancient title) deserves better than a D.

Of course, I did not say any of those things to my grandson or his girlfriend…those were just the musings of my mind…”musing” might be too gentle of a word…the roller coaster of my mind…the bumper car…that’s more accurate. I did ask when they were going to decide and my grandson said, “We don’t know. We’re going to get to know him a little and then decide.” When did my grandson become the Buddha or the Yoda? The simple wisdom in that answer did not escape me. Now my question was why doesn’t everyone do that? You give birth and then there’s a three-day waiting period before you can pick a name that child will have for the rest of their lives. That seems reasonable.

When I was pregnant, I spent a lot of time repeating names over and over, trying to see if I would like the name forever. We had a beautiful, healthy baby girl, and named her Jessica. It’s been almost forty years and I still love saying it…and Amy and Ben…can’t have anyone feeling left out. 

When I was born my parents wanted a boy, so the only name they picked was Kenneth, after my dad. That’s not really a pick because they didn’t have to come up with the name. For it to be a “pick” you gotta do the work. My family has a thing about names that begin with the letter K. My sister’s name is Kathy, well Kathleen. We only use the full name for dramatic effect. My parents decided on Karen for me. My two cousins are Kevin and Kelly. I’m not sure of the reason for the attachment to K…but there I was Karen Ann Morrison. 

You would need to live in a box to not have heard of all the bad press the name “Karen” has been getting. My summation is that some “Karen’s” have been complete assholes and managed to get themselves all over social media acting like the privileged fuckers they are. Now you can “be a Karen”… that’s a real thing…and it’s a really bad thing. It is bad to become a verb. WTF?!

The BBC gives this explanation. “‘Karen’ has, in recent years become a widespread meme referencing a specific type of middle-class white woman, who exhibits behaviors that stem from privilege. To give some examples, ‘Karen’ is associated with the kind of person who demands to ‘speak to the manager’ in order to belittle service industry workers, is anti-vaccination, and carries out racist micro aggressions, such as asking to touch a black person’s hair. But a predominant feature of the ‘Karen’ stereotype is that they weaponize their relative privilege against people of color – for example, when making police complaints against black people for minor or even – in numerous cases – fictitious infringements.” Now who wouldn’t want to be associated with that bullshit? Don’t be a “Karen.” But I am one. Thanks parents.

In the last two years, I’ve heard my mom say my name hundreds of times. The majority of the time she wasn’t saying it as much as screaming it…with much hostility. She used my name when she told me she hated my fucking guts. She used my name when she told me she was going to call the police, lie, and tell them I hit her. She used my name when she told me I had always been the bad seed of the family. She used my name when she told me the worst thing she ever did was move to Florida with me. I’ve heard my name a lot…too fucking much really.

My mom doesn’t actually say my name. She screams it, yells it, and spits it at me full of venom and animus. I can feel the hatred when she says it. She spews it at me as if it’s a curse she’s put on me. I have heard the name “Karen” more than I ever wanted to. I dread hearing my name now. I cringe when my mom says it because I never know what’s coming next. I have become so conditioned to the hostility in her voice that when she says it nicely, I don’t believe her.

Names are a strange thing. I’ve been thinking that parents should only be able to give a child a temporary name. You name the baby, after the three-day waiting period, and that name sticks until the child is old enough to pick their own name. What age would that be? I’m not sure. It can’t be too young. We don’t want a slew of Cinderella’s, Snow White’s, Spider-Men, or Thor’s. Someone might grow up and regret that choice…at least it was their choice. There’s power in naming something…power in naming yourself. You picked it, you own it.

I’ve read that the sound that people love to hear most is the sound of their own name. Personally, I’ve lost the enjoyment of hearing other people say my name. I used to love hearing my wife say it in her sweet Texas drawl. Family, friends, acquaintances, I don’t want to hear it at all. So, I have decided to pick my own name. I’m 63 so I should be old enough to pick a reasonable name…P!nk is tempting, but already taken.

When I was little my family called me KayKay. So, I thought maybe Kay. That might work. Then I heard my mom call me that and I understood something…I need a name my mother has never said. When I hear “Karen” I hear it from my mom, regardless of who’s speaking. It’s painful to hear it at times. The hate is all I hear now. I need a name that no one says around her, so she never hears it, so she can’t repeat it. Then I can get rid of “Karen” except with her. She’s the only voice I hear anyway. Then I will no longer be a “Karen.”

So, what do I want my name to be? One of the things about the name “Karen” is that it doesn’t mean anything to me. I wasn’t named after anyone…no best friend, favorite relative, or someone loved and admired by my parents. I’ve been pretty much the only “Karen” I’ve known. Well Karen Carpenter…I might have accepted being named after her. 

I realized that the name I pick has to mean something. It has to mean something to me. Meaning is very important to me. My tattoos were selected because of their meaning. All the jewelry I wear, and even my key chain has special meaning to me. Meaning is a big deal.

So…sticking with the “K” theme, my family seems fond of, I’ve decided on “Kai.” Why “Kai”? I’ll tell you. I like the sound of it, and I love what it means. “Kai” is a gender-neutral name that is Welch in origin and means “keeper of the keys and earth.” In Hawaiian, “Kai” means “ocean” or “sea.” In Japanese, “restoration” and “recovery” are included in the meaning. The ocean is my favorite place on earth, and I am restored when I am there. I am renewed and free in the ocean. I am not in pain in the ocean. I don’t have a disability either…I am restored. 

The Navajo say that “Kai” means “willow tree” whose spiritual properties include “protection” and “healing.” It’s also associated with “love” and “being lovable.” I think we all know love is an important theme to me…I do mention it on occasion. After a lifetime of negative messages, it took a long time to finally believe that I am lovable. Everything I talk about, everything I read about, everything I think about is focused on healing…my own, other peoples, and the worlds. “Divine is the task to ease pain.” I choose a name that means healing, lovable, and ocean. Kai. It’s perfect. It’s me in a name. Kai. It’s my name. It’s MY name. Kai Ann Raines…hmmm…I will not be using my middle name…lol.

Let’s be real…choosing a new name doesn’t necessarily solve anything. It does give me the joy of not being a “Karen” anymore. The name change moves me and creates a change of perspective…I’m not that person, I’m this person. The pain and damage caused by the misuse and weaponization of my name aren’t suddenly gone…although that would be awesome. The name change allows some space and fluidity in my thoughts and perspective. That movement allows me to see myself differently. It allows me to see myself through my-self…my own eyes…my own knowing. I see a bigger picture, not someone else’s narrow or biased view. I can be brand new, like a baby you get to know before you name him. I have gotten to know myself. I know who I am. I am a Kai, not a Karen.

Oh yeah…my great-grandson’s name is Zacary…it’s perfect just like he is. Good job mom and dad. I love that little baby. He reminds me that there is still hope and so much possibility in the world. So, I’m gonna love him the best I can. I want him to grow up feeling swaddled in love. And from that secure place he can see the possibilities and hope as well. I want him to see all he has to offer this world. I’m going to lead with love in all my interactions. I’m going to model love for him, the best I can.

Let’s love generously. Let’s be extravagant in our love…giving much and often…without conditions. Let loving actions take the place of empty words. Because in the end all that matters is how we love people. Love is a verb. That’s a verb I can get behind.