Just Like You: Remarkably Similar in How We Love, Fear, Grieve and Self-Defeat, Our Capacity to Help One Another Is Vast.

By Louise Haller

If you are inspired by a story that combines determination, courage, vulnerability and emotional resilience; while overcoming lifes greatest challenges; then this is a must read!

Vividly told from the authors own experience; youll travel with her through the heart wrenching lows and conquering highs. In this intimate, surprisingly honest and often stirring look at one womans journey beyond damaging relationships and a life mired with shame, grief and guilt; she ultimately discovers the healing power of self acceptance and genuine forgiveness. Overcoming her fears, she opens her heart to connect with others again; and is finally free to live the life she has always imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477266847

Louise Haller

Louise Haller now lives in the beautiful Desert Southwest, near her daughter, son-in-law and grand-children. She is eager to pursue her “checklist” of adventures and has begun work on her next book.

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© 2012 by Louise Haller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 09/05/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6686-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6685-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-6684-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012916317

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

The Cornerstone

The Man And The Waitress

One Way Ticket For One

Be Careful What You Ask For

Not So Blissfully Wed

The Great Escape

Just Like You

. . . It Aint Over Till It’s Over

Truth, Justice And The American (Family Courts) Way

The Precipice Of Change

Passage-Alone (With Myself) At Last

When The Timing Is Right

Prologue-The Sum Of Whole

Acknowledgements

To Mom: Your unconditional love is a beautiful gift I no longer take for granted. I’m so lucky that of all the moms, I got YOU.

For my children: You are my purpose. I don’t know what or who I am; if not first and last, your Madre. I love you.

To my friend Valerie: You’re a great listener! Thanks for the marathon pep talk and not letting me give up on May 22nd.

To the beautiful and intelligent Ladies in Orange: You are the embodiment of hope, courage and tenacity. You have all touched my heart.

Preface

I haven’t rocketed to the moon, or soared in an airplane above rolling wheat fields. I haven’t found the cure for any of the diseases or conditions which ail the masses. I haven’t discovered a far off star or comet beyond the known universe. I haven’t written a book to inspire or entertain millions or conducted a symphony orchestra. I haven’t discovered a new species of animal at the bottom of the sea, nor in a remote jungle. I haven’t held a political office. I was never an air-line stewardess. I haven’t broken the land-speed record on the great salt flats of Utah. I haven’t decoded the hidden language of great apes or translated the subsonic calls of endangered Asian elephants. I haven’t explored the Egyptian pyramids. I haven’t been the driving force behind a great movement of conservation to save the earth’s diminishing resources. I haven’t given myself unselfishly to my God, nor spent thousands of hours tirelessly performing charitable work in foreign countries.

These are all things I aspired to do; at one point or another in my life. There was a time when I believed I could Do or Be anything. I have often wondered why I haven’t accomplished more. Retrospection is something we all have in common and taking a tally of our past is healthy and stimulates growth. I have found a place of acceptance now, when I look back. That was not always the case, however. I acknowledge my mistakes and surely hope not to repeat them; but I also know that I cannot undo them.

When and how do we develop our sense of self? Nature or Nurture may be the longest running debate among child psychologists and therapists world-wide. In my case however, it seems that early nurture had the strong upper hand. For me, the secret was my mother’s undeniable and unconditional love. I knew, because of her, that no matter how bad anything would get, and it would definitely get bad; that better things were possible. For this I am incredibly fortunate; even if it did take me most of my adult life to figure this out.

At some point, regardless of our childhood experiences, we have to say; that this is MY LIFE and I’ll make of it what I choose. We are all living the lives that we create, after all. We have to take back our freedom and power of choice. As a child there was no choice, but as an adult the freedom is ours. As I write this, I am reaffirming my belief that my childhood wasn’t that bad, but it made me who I am. It’s a bit cliché, but I believe, without the bad times I would have no measurement of the good.

Who are you? As you turn through the pages ahead maybe you’ll see a glimpse of yourself in my story. I suspect, that although beautifully unique individuals, we are remarkably similar in how we Learn, Fear, Love, Grieve, Self-Defeat, Hate, Heal and Rejoice. Therefore, our capacity to help one another is vast.

The Cornerstone

There are just a few, very select pieces of time; from my early childhood through about age thirteen, which I have carried forward in memory over the years. The larger majority of days and years are gone. Of the images which remain, the gaps between treasured and heartbreaking are enormous. I thought of myself as an ordinary kid, if I thought of it at all. I didn’t know that what I was experiencing was different than any other child. That is the nature of being a child, right? What we live is what we know to be normal.

My earliest memories, before age six, although now flickering and from a scattering of circumstances, are all wonderfully warm, serene and comforting. I can no longer place these earlier memories in chronological order, but they are among my most cherished so I work to preserve them. I am told that they are from a time just after my natural parents’ divorce, when my Mom returned to her parents’ home in Kentucky, with my brother, sister and me.

I recall my grandmother working in the kitchen cooking, while I sat at the table or stood on a chair pulled up to the counter, watching. She put so much hard work and love for her family into each meal she prepared and I was always anxious for an advance sample taste. I sometimes followed her out to the garden to pick fresh tomatoes, green beans or other vegetables to include with the meal. She cooked from scratch, preparing dumplings with shredded chicken. She hand kneaded and rolled dough to cut into round biscuits for baking and served them hot from the oven with warmed molasses and soft butter. Grandma, whom I remember always wearing an apron, was ever patient and welcomed me in the kitchen as her helper. There was a way about how she spoke to me, guided me, made time for me; that made me feel special. If I close my eyes I can see it so vividly that even the buttery smell of biscuits returns with grandma’s image as she places the plate on the table. These foods she prepared are among my favorites still today.

More faint is an image of my Great-Grandmother; sitting in a rocking chair, just inside the door off the back porch. As I ran in and out… and in again, the screen door slamming each time; I would tell her about all that I had seen while playing in the yard. She was my Grandpa Edward Cook’s mother; so we called her simply Gramma Cook. I can still hear myself calling out to her, Gammy Cock, Gammy Cock; the mispronunciation not disturbing her nearly as much as the squeaking spring pulling on the door as it slammed against the wood frame again and again. Gramma Cook’s house was small, constructed of wood which was gray with age, and did not have indoor plumbing. The entire house had an earthy scent, like warm dirt on a summer day after a light rain. There was an oversized back porch with several steep steps, which led down to the large unfenced grassy yard and at the far end of the yard was a wooden out-house. Centered at the bottom of the sloping yard, was a well surrounded by rock, which had a large blackened metal churn with a rope and wooden bucket attached. During hot summer-time play, Mom would bring up a bucket of water for us kids to get a drink. Dodging the dragonflies which buzzed around us, attracted to the water; I used the brightly colored aluminum cup, which Mom brought out from the house, to scoop the water from the bucket. I recall gulping it down as fast as I could. It was simply water, but oh so delicious. Regardless of the water source or the cup I drink it from, never since has water been as sweet or perfectly tempered.

My memories of my Grandpa are few, but impactful. He was a hard working, patient and somber man. He and Grandma kept a large garden and he hunted and trapped for meat. He sometimes allowed me to follow him around as he worked. Although a bloody and grotesque task, he made no effort to shield me from watching as he skinned and filleted the meat of fish, rabbit or squirrel and on one occasion, the extraction of eggs from a turtle. He explained that he did these things to provide food. I believe because he approached it in a very matter of fact way, that I was not scared or upset by it. I felt safe, loved, important to him, and in some manner which I can’t quite explain, I felt special when I was with him.

In the evenings, after supper, Grandpa sat in his chair and read aloud from the bible as the entire family sat quietly listening. He made a point of allowing time for questions after he read. I recall him reading from Genesis, my head filling with pictures of creation. I was in awe, thinking how amazing the story was. Even at that young age, it gave me the feeling that I was also a part of something important, grand and powerful.

When Grandpa passed away, despite being so young, I attended the services with the rest of the family; including the viewing which preceded his burial. Mom said that the services were for family to say good-bye. The room we entered was small and full of people crying and upset. I was a little scared as we walked toward the front of the room. Because in the days before the service Mom and Grandma had told me repeatedly that Grandpa was gone, and I had never seen a casket, I didn’t understand what we were walking toward. Mom told me it was my turn to say good-bye to grandpa. I stepped up and saw grandpa lying in his church suit, surrounded by soft white pillowing cushions and reached out to touch his hand. I was startled by how cold he felt at first, and quickly pulled my hand back. Then a sense that he wasn’t there anymore came over me. My fear became sadness. I reached back out and rubbed the top of his hand. As we stepped back, Grandma said that his spirit had gone to Heaven and left his body behind for the people who loved him to remember him and to say good-bye. I have looked back on that experience a great many times over the years and I am grateful that I was given the chance to say good-bye, and to understand where he had gone. Perhaps my Mom and Grandma knew how much I loved Grandpa and understood that I would need to say good bye. I felt included, a part of the loss shared by the entire family. I believe this is why I have never developed a fear of death and instead see it as a passage and return to the earth.

Moving forward, my memories of events around age five are all from time spent with my Mom. We had moved away from Grandma’s house and lived in an apartment in the city. The images of this time are vivid, and as if viewed through a zoom lens, they interestingly include only my Mom and me. I remember watching her as she tucked her pretty dark hair back with large bobby-pins. In my eyes, she was the prettiest mom on earth. I remember her voice always gentle and calming, with a bit of a southern drawl. I remember her pulling me close to lie down across her lap as she patiently stroked my hair to settle me when I was sick. I recall her sitting next to my bed for hours on end when I had pneumonia. I remember her kissing me all over my face each night before bed. I love you bushels and bushels, she would say. I felt safe and felt her love in everything she said and did. No matter whoever else was there with us, Mom had a way of making me feel as though it was just her and me. Through her eyes I was very special.

The cornerstone, by definition is the most basic part of something, upon which everything that follows depends. The foundation. I understand now that it was Mom’s presence that sweetened the well water and it was the love grandma baked into the biscuits that filled the air with such sweet aroma. It was Grandpa’s time and patience that made me feel that I was important to him. Because of the way in which they gave of themselves, I knew that I was loved. Over the coming years, I would clearly lose sight of my beginnings; but the strength of the cornerstone which was laid by my mother’s hands would eventually bring me home.

The Man and the Waitress

One evening while home alone at our city apartment with my brother and sister; who were several years older than me, a man came and took us away. I saw my sister open the front door and a tall man walked in. I didn’t know who he was, but I heard her and my brother call him Dad. He hurried us to gather some things, wrap in blankets and go out the front door. Both my brother and sister seemed hesitant. Their nervousness made me feel scared as I followed them out to the man’s car, and then we sat together in the back seat. The man told us that he was taking us to a friend’s house. He explained that his friend was a waitress, and she would make a cup of hot-chocolate for us. The drive seemed very long and I eventually fell asleep. I woke when we arrived and he was explaining that this was the waitress’ house. When we entered I sat down with my brother and sister at a small table in the kitchen, and we waited for our hot-chocolate. A few minutes later the man came back into the kitchen and told us that, because it had gotten so late, we were going to spend the night and that he had set up beds for us. It all seemed very strange, but I was young enough to believe and tended to simply follow my brother’s lead. A woman with her blonde hair twisted fancily on top of her head, dressed in her bathrobe, made and served us some hot-chocolate. When we finished our hot chocolate, the man walked the three of us down the hall and showed us into different bedrooms. There were already kids in each of the rooms sleeping in other beds, so we were put to bed quickly and quietly.

The next morning I woke when I heard my brother’s voice in the other room. It was already light out and I was immediately excited by the prospect of going home to Mom. I got up and went down the hall toward the voices I heard. I found my brother, sister and the man all in the kitchen with the waitress who had made the hot-chocolate. My brother was talking on the telephone and my sister was standing behind him as if waiting her turn. After they talked on the phone for just a short time; the man told me to talk to my Mom on the phone, and say good-bye. I held the handset to my ear and heard my Mom’s voice. I was so excited that I started telling her about the hot-chocolate that the waitress lady made and that we had to sleep over night, but that we were coming home now. She stopped me and explained that we were not going to come home right away. She told me to say good-bye to her as she made kissing sounds and told me that she loved me bushels. I was upset by not knowing when I would see her again. I could feel heaviness in the room and thought that it was going to be a very long time before I saw my Mom, if ever. I was an extension of her… or her of me; and being separated from Mom felt like I was being torn apart-straight through my stomach. It was the first time I had felt sorrowful pain and the sick stomach that it causes.

The waitress lady began making breakfast and then three other kids came into the kitchen and they were calling the man Dad. I didn’t understand, but doing as I was told, I sat at the table with all the other kids, including my brother and sister, and ate breakfast, or at least pretended to eat. When we were done we were excused from the table and all told to go into the living room with the waitress lady. Dad said, We’re all going to stay here and live together now. Then, pointing to the waitress lady, he continued, She is going to be taking care of you. She is very nice and I want you to mind your manners with her. Then he sent us back into the bedrooms to get dressed and make our beds. We were surprised to find that he had clothes for us to wear. We spent the rest of the day, back in the bedrooms with the