Tales from a Boiling Pot: Learning to Thrive in a Dysfunctional World

By Cindy Bruckel

This story begins much like those we have heard many times before – a young girl growing up poor in a small rural town in central Mississippi – all Cindy ever wanted was to be safe and to fit in. But having been born in Mississippi during one of the most controversial periods in Mississippi history – the ‘60s was anything but safe and nurturing. “Do as I say, not as I do,” and “Children should be seen and not heard,” had become the mantras of the previous generation. She stumbled through life wearing a blindfold; a silent witness to and victim of discrimination, prejudice and poverty until she grew to believe she was the problem!
Delivered with honesty and humor, her first book, TALES FROM A BOILING POT, is a memoir about the joys as well as the drama of growing up in family straight from the pages of Southern Living where life lessons were served with a spoon of sugar and love came in all sizes, shapes and colors. Retracing the events of her life was the essence of going home. The book serves as a reminder of the power of compassion and love; and for all things, there is a time to heal.
“Our lives can change just in the telling, and our memories can become our salvation rather than our regret.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cindy Bruckel
• Release date: Mar 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781627471404

Book preview

Introduction: The Tale of a Boiled Frog

If you put a frog in a pot of hot boiling water, the frog will immediately jump out. But, if you put a frog in cool water, then slowly turn up the heat, he will slowly be relaxed by the increasing heat and will stay in the pot until he is cooked to death.

We go through life much like that unfortunate, clueless frog. We become so conditioned to our surroundings that we begin to think that any dysfunction is normal. And we slowly boil.

There is an ever-increasing amount of support to the fact that holding in our emotions causes illnesses, like cancer and autoimmune diseases. But even when the damage started at an early age, it’s never too late to turn back the clock on our emotional and physical health and well-being. Early in my life, I too was like the clueless frog, living life in a pressure cooker. I internalized the dysfunction around me and developed fibromyalgia and morphea.

It was when I met and married my husband Bill in the summer of 1990 that I, through his inspiration and guidance, saw the link and knew I could change. It has been a twenty-four year journey, and although the road was sometimes bumpy, I wouldn’t change one minute of the pain for the experience, happiness and contentment I have gained as a result. And I have seen tremendous improvement in my physical condition, which I credit entirely to my personal development efforts.

Many of you who think you know me will be surprised to find you don’t know me as well as you think you do. While I have revealed myself to my closest family members, who have been totally supportive, until now I haven’t shared my struggle with the world.

In this book about my life journey beginning in Mississippi, I will unfold the story of how, despite the dysfunction, I came to be the person I am today: strong, confident and unbending in my commitment to live a life that is authentic and fulfilled.

Come join me on the journey!

Namasté

Living in the ‘50s

Hiding in Plain Sight

Not all Southern women are born to be Belles.

The South is full of Southern Belles. They epitomize Southern Hospitality – delicate in demeanor, graceful and gracious at all times, somewhat flirtatious, and dedicated to making everyone feel welcome with their Ya’ll come back now. This is not an invitation to return, but more of an appreciation that you have been a delightful guest, and an assurance that we are not as likely to talk badly about you after you’ve gone.

Always immaculately dressed, a Southern Belle wouldn’t be caught dead without her pearls, her makeup, her big hair or her man with guns. Hunting in the South is not a hobby: it is an institution. From an era long past when men used hunting as a means of supporting their families, it has become a method of bonding with their fellow hunters and a way of showcasing the spoils of their manly prowess. In present-day society, a Belle will often, in an attempt to show her support, accompany her knight into the wilds to sit quietly squatted beside a tree, in freezing weather, to participate in the ritual of demise of an innocent creature of the wild. Sorry guys! I call it like I see it.

I always wanted to be a Southern Belle, but I was not born one and will never be one. My mother wanted a boy so badly, and was so convinced I would be a boy, that she had not chosen a name for a girl. I was supposed to be Luke. I was a disappointment from the beginning. But I did my best to become a close second as a tomboy. With a hatred for dresses and curls, despite the fact my mother often dressed me that way, my favorite uniform was a pair of denim jeans and white sneakers. I could fight with the best of them, and I was quick to defend my family’s honor. I’m not proud to say, as a child, that I was a biter. It was the only weapon I had to defend myself. And that I did, often.

Growing up as the younger of two girls to a divorced mother in a town of judgment and condescension, I learned my place rather quickly. I wanted to be invisible. I thought being invisible would keep me safe. If I could be invisible, nothing bad would happen to me. But it was not in my nature to be invisible. I was a rebellious child. My calling card – it seemed to go with the introduction, This is Cindy. She’s the difficult one. I was going to do things my way, or not at all. My sister, Sarah, was as good as I was difficult. I once bought a T-shirt that said, I can’t remember, am I the good sister or the evil one? She got the t-shirt.

I have always felt something must be wrong with me. I didn’t fit into the family I was born into and loved so much.

As a result of my desire to be and do what was expected, but forced by some internal struggle to be my own person, it was rare to get a glimpse of the real me. But it was in the grips of this very personal struggle that I became the person I am today. And for that, despite the tragedy and dysfunction of my youth, and for all the people who have helped me along the way, I am eternally grateful.

Juanita

I am very much my mother’s daughter. After years of denying that fact and trying to be the exact opposite, I now understand and own it. It took me years to accept that being like my mother is not altogether a bad thing. She was beautiful, intelligent, witty and incredibly determined. I got my determination from her.

We are that which we deny.

Esther Juanita Shumaker was born on January 31, 1936, the second child of what was to be six children, two girls and four boys, in the small rural community of McCool, Mississippi. We always referred to it as Lobutcha Creek, the name of a creek located a few miles from my grandparents’ house, or the Hinze Community, named for the Baptist Church located a mile from their house.

We use references for directions in the South, like go about a mile down the road, then turn left at the big white house with the old yellow dog. You know, the house that used to belong to the Rays, until old man Ray died and his sons sold it to some rich Yankee from Pennsylvania. I was quick to remind my grandfather I didn’t know old man Ray or where he lived, but he said, Sure you do! You went to school with his son. He often confused me with my mother.

My grandparents owned a farm where they raised cattle, pigs, chickens and occasionally a horse or two. They grew cotton, corn, soybeans, and the best watermelons and cantaloupes in the county. They also owned and operated the only country store for miles. When they weren’t in school, the boys were in the fields tending the crops and taking care of the livestock, and the girls were in the house, the garden or the store.

Life was hard, and the world my mother grew up in became too small for her inquisitive and rebellious nature. She finally decided it was time to leave, but little did she know that she was jumping from the frying pan into the fire.

She married soon after graduating from Lobutcha Creek High School and started a family. My sister Sarah Jane was born on July 8, 1954, and I was born on March 20, two years later, or as my sister likes to remind me, one year and eight months later. For her benefit, I’ll make that distinction.

I never had a father. I call the biological sperm donor pretending to be my father Henry. This was my way of putting emotional distance between him and me. I remember Henry as a jealous man with a nasty temper. Although she had married young and was not mature to the ways of the world outside the close-knit rural community that had sheltered her, it didn’t take my mother long to realize she had made a terrible mistake. And this was one mistake she didn’t know how to fix. She once told me that the reason she married Henry was because she felt sorry for him; he had such a horrible home life. I think she hated to be alone and didn’t think she deserved better. She thought he could help her escape, and in turn, she could fix him. I don’t know why she chose to stay with him as long as she did. It was to become a pattern that would repeat itself later in life.

You can’t fix a problem with the same thinking that created it.

Albert Einstein

Shortly after my birth, Henry moved my mother, my sister and me to Peoria,