I Will Not Break: A Memoir

By Judith Mattison

"I'm recommending a great book about bravery, pain & overcoming childhood... abuse. Judie Mattison's horrifying reality was hidden—even from her own mind—for decades. Her memoir shares her healing journey & is beyond empowering for all!"
—GRETCHEN CARLSON, journalist and best-selling author

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Sun Press
• Release date: Sep 19, 2018
• ISBN: 9780692176610

Judith Mattison

Judith Mattison is the author of fourteen previous books, including "I'm Worried About Your Drinking" and "Divorce: The Pain and the Healing," and the first woman to be pastor of the largest Lutheran church in the United States. She is a popular speaker and has served on several nonprofit boards. Judith currently volunteers in a preschool for children at risk of abuse and neglect.

Book preview

1

TRAIN TRIP

I didn’t start to remember until I was thirty-six.

That was the year I took the train from Minneapolis to Milwaukee in the spring to visit my sister-in-law Sandy. Since I had two young sons, I joked that I was running away from home. My husband, Eric, encouraged me to visit his sister. We were good companions.

The route was familiar. I had taken it with Mother and my sister, Sherri, several times before I was six. The sound of the conductor calling, NEW Lisbon! Co-LUM-bus! LA Crosse! rang in my mind. For years I had taken any opportunity to return to my Wisconsin childhood neighborhoods. I wanted to keep track of my memories, confirm the images that had stayed with me all those years. I could still find the building shaped like a giant cream pitcher where I used to beg to stop for ice cream. I knew where the Elks Lodge had a huge bronze statue of an elk looking out over the waters of Lake Michigan; it scared me, and I went there with caution. I wanted to verify my memories and make them concrete in my mind.

I always felt protected on the train—a long tube of cozy double seats facing each other and a wide window looking out on the passing countryside. In the old days we brought our lunches—sandwiches and an apple in a shoebox—and ate them as we traveled coach round-trip from Wisconsin to visit family in Minneapolis. Now, as an adult traveling alone, I savored my privacy in an individual compartment as the train skimmed over level countryside and gained speed, rocking back and forth, with clattering wheels and the heavy squeak of shock absorbers. Ahead, the train whistle blew, carried on the wind back to my car, a mysterious, comforting sound, day or night.

At a distance I saw a lone country tavern, red and yellow neon signs in the windows. As we drew closer, I saw a half dozen cars and pickups parked randomly in the gravel lot out front. Gradually I heard the old songs my father used to play in such places, Margie and Waltzin’ Matilda. And Chloe. I didn’t really understand it, but it was a song about searching in a swampland, trying to find a woman. It was a strange blues song that carried my emotions into darkness and sadness. I still had Dad’s ragged 1927 copy of the sheet music. His mother, Grandma Libby, had given it to me. Suddenly the train passed into a tunnel with a whoosh; for a moment, everything was dark and quiet. I held my breath. Then, clear and bright again. But the sudden darkness had struck me with terror. Or was it the songs?

Always there were songs. Music shook the house in Shorewood as Dad played piano with his entire tall body, strong hands and nearly two hundred pounds, singing at the top of his voice. In our ten years in and around Milwaukee, the black Wurlitzer upright always went with us. Friends smiled as their highballs clinked in their hands or perched on top of the piano. The sound of the parties drew me in. Confident at three, I sang Good Night, Ladies for the grown-ups before I went to bed.

She has her daddy’s long legs, a woman said.

Isn’t she a pretty, talented little girl? asked another. All that nice long dark hair.

I basked in the attention. As a toddler, I sat beside Daddy, playing music with him. I looked up at him, and we both smiled as I pounded the keys aimlessly but sang notes impeccably. Ah-ha-ha. You and me. Little brown jug, don’t I love thee! Me and Daddy, smiling and laughing. And my favorite color was royal blue.

The notes I didn’t hear were the obbligato accompanying my chorus of memories—the descant that wove itself among events and rested deep inside my mind. It rose close to the surface from time to time, disturbing my daily life, but remained unidentified: events I had forgotten in order to survive.

Sandy’s home was handsomely traditional: Colonial furniture from South Carolina, fine linens, well-crafted porcelain and artwork. She kept a tidy house and was skilled at entertaining friends and her husband’s colleagues. I felt at ease there, even though I lived a more random and creative life in which clutter was familiar. We were drawn together by our relationship with Eric and easily confessed to each other the realities of our lives, different as they were. She was short and blonde in contrast to my tall, brunette countenance, and her practical candor was unlike my cautious and often quiet attitude, steeped with fearful perfectionism.

That first morning in Milwaukee, I asked Sandy, "Would you go with me to see my old houses where I grew up?

Sure.

Look. I have graph layouts of them. I spread them on the table with pride.

You’re kidding, she said.

I’m just so curious to see if I’m right about how things looked. I have a good idea of where the houses were. Maybe the owners will let us in to look around.

We drove across town and knocked on the door of one of my former homes, a stuccoed story and a half on a corner in the northern suburb called Shorewood. A forty-something man with a round face and body welcomed us.

I grew up in this house, I told him. That was during World War II. I was wondering if maybe we could see what it’s like now.

You bet you can! he replied with a smile. You just come right in. We love this house.

As I expected, I remembered it well: where the rooms were, the black and white hexagonal floor tiles of the bathroom, and the small stained-glass windows high in one of the living room walls. Even my memories of the room sizes were accurate.

We passed by a bedroom. Look, Sandy. This was my room. I used to have a picture on the wall of a little lamb on its knees, praying. I didn’t recall going to church in those early years, but I always said my prayers at night with my parents listening.

For years I had mentally seen the kitchen in Shorewood, a warm and welcoming melody of a fall evening. After I was married, I bought Fiesta­ware plates and bowls at an antique store, basking in the nostalgia of their colorful enchantment. The house held the memories of childhood.

Judie Marie, will you help me set the table? Mother asks, reaching for the Fiestaware.

Can I have the big orange plate, for me? I ask.

You can choose whatever you like. You’re a good helper!

Sandy and I passed by my bedroom door, and the hall seemed suddenly dark. A glimpse of a memory stalked me. Another melody lingered deep inside, unknown.

I am three years old. I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of arguing in Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom.

Walt! Mother protests. Then there is a loud bump. It sounds like Mother fell to the floor.

Walt! I squeeze my eyes tight until I see black and gold. My body tightens up, and I lie very still.

Mother is hurt. I think she’s crying. Maybe if I’m very good I can fix things.

Then everything is quiet, and I fall asleep.

Look, Sandy, I said. The only thing I’d forgotten was the pantry off the kitchen. My steps slowed as we walked down to the basement. What would I find? It smelled clean and felt cool. Suddenly I recalled my first trike, red with pedal covers. I had ridden it in the basement while Mother hung up clothes. I smiled and breathed in a happy, familiar remembrance.

Do you ladies want to see the garage? the owner offered.

Startled, I said, Oh yes, of course, but I was hesitant.

As Sandy and I walked behind him to the garage side door, I felt a strange chill. I walked cautiously, expecting to enter a dark wood garage. My hands trembled. I put them behind me so no one would notice.

There was a photo I had seen once. A picture of a dark garage with unpainted brown wood. Me, three or four years old, in a snowsuit jacket and a square-topped hat tied beneath my chin, standing near the front of the garage. It’s nighttime. I’ve been crying. Mother is behind me, looking cold in her apron and sweater. I’m reaching my arms up, holding my mother’s hands. Why was I crying?

And a second picture. The big shadowy deer hanging by its antlers at the back of the garage. The single lightbulb casts strange shadows on its face.

The owner said, We fixed it up a little. Sheetrock. And we have a garage door opener now.

The garage walls were white. No dark shadows or dark brown wood. I forced a stiff smile and said, You’ve kept up the house very well. Then quickly, But I suppose we’d better get going.

With a questioning frown, Sandy nodded, and we headed back to the kitchen. I can’t thank you enough, I said. This was such a treat to see the house again.

You ladies come anytime, our host enthused. It’s been a real pleasure.

Back in the car, I gazed out the window at the houses passing by. Trees arched over the street of the aging neighborhood. Only the sound of the motor filled the silence.

I was surprised you wanted to leave so soon. Are you glad you went, Judie?

I set aside my pensiveness. I sure am. My memory of how it looked when I was small was really good, wasn’t it? I had verified my memories and drawings.

Sandy smiled. You’re remarkable. But I think it’s time to plan a nice evening at a good restaurant.

It would be a helpful diversion. I needed to shake my unease.

Night had settled in, and the air was damp and chilly. The gold pressed-glass door to the restaurant radiated warmth from the lights inside and drew us in. Sandy and I stepped into the comfort of the narrow foyer. The smell of pork enveloped us. I was hungry for spaetzle.

Suddenly dread came over me, and I stopped. What’s in here? I asked her.

What do you mean? She slipped out of her raincoat.

I have a bad feeling about this place. What does it look like? My diaphragm trembled, and I was scarcely breathing. I stood still with my coat and gloves on.

I don’t get what you mean, Sandy said.

I think there are hunting trophies in there.

Sure—it’s kind of a German hunting lodge atmosphere. This is Milwaukee.

I peeked around the corner and saw the outer edge of a spread of pointed elk antlers.

My legs buckled, and I froze. I don’t know if I can go in, I stammered. The host tapped his pen, waiting for us to enter the main room. I’m so afraid of them. I squeezed my eyes shut and began to wring my hands. A cold breeze blew over me. I may have to leave.

Sandy’s eyes opened wide. She had just remembered my phobia of deer trophies. I’d had it since I was a toddler. I was shaken with fear whenever I saw one. Countless times I’d had to turn away or be led from a room. Struck by my paralyzing reluctance, Sandy said, Do you want me to go in and look around?

I closed my teal raincoat tighter around me. Would you? I asked.

Sandy confidently approached the host. Do you mind if I go in and look around? He frowned but graciously gestured for her to move in. I turned away, embarrassed, and tried to look through the opaque windows, unable to see anything clearly.

Sandy returned to say, There are three deer, and I think the other two are elk. And a couple of antlers. What do you think you want to do? We can leave.

Well, just tell me where they are. Maybe I can avoid seeing them.

After identifying the locations of the trophies, she led the way into the restaurant with all its dark wood beams and peasant paintings. The lights were low, which increased my growing sense of terror. I knew those heads were looking at me from someplace. I kept my eyes down and took a seat that faced out the window into the darkness. The sounds of china and tableware became muffled by my intent focus. The animals lurked behind me like death, watching, but I hoped to forget about them.

I’m sorry, Sandy. I’m so embarrassed. I hate this part of me. I’ve had this fear my whole life, and I can’t get over it. It’s like a shock wave that goes through me when I see one of those heads. I twisted my hands in my lap. I’ve even tried to just sit in a room and gradually stare at a deer head for a long time, but it doesn’t do a thing to help. The next time I see one, I’m terrified all over again. I hate it.

We all have our fears. I would’ve warned you before we got here, but I forgot about it. Thank goodness it’s just an occasional problem.

No. That’s the point. There are heads in restaurants and gas stations and hardware stores and grocery stores and on and on. This is the Midwest. They’re everywhere. I’m on guard all the time. I was close to tears.

Well, we’re going to make this a nice evening in spite of it, she said. Let’s order some Mosel wine. She smiled and touched my hand.

Practical Sandy, who sometimes had a short temper, was loyal. She made no judgments of what I considered a flaw. I loved how she accepted me.

When I was four years old, our family had moved away from Shorewood and rented a suburban half bungalow in Wauwatosa. It happened to be close to Sandy’s present-day house, so two days later, as she drove me to the train station to go home, we passed by the white-frame double bungalow. Sandy stopped the car so I could gaze at the house and reminisce.

I could almost hear the whisper sound of Bromo-Seltzer pellets falling into a glass from their cobalt-blue bottle. In those young days, I would look up at Daddy as he poured the fizzing water back and forth between glasses and then drank it down. When he let me try it, I didn’t like the way it fizzed in my face. It tasted salty stale. Daddy drank it in the morning after parties.

I turned to Sandy and said, "This is where I started kindergarten. I remember one day I walked to school with a neighbor girl, Sheila. She came up with a new way for us to get to school. We took a detour through the train depot area. I was all for it. But when we got to class we were late.

"Our teacher, Miss Grady, asked us where we’d been. Sheila immediately pulled out a story about our being chased by ‘big boys.’ I went along with it, but Miss Grady looked skeptical. She said we needed to learn to be on time. And then: ‘Let’s get back to our story about the steam shovel.’

When I got home, Mother confronted me. Miss Grady had called her. Mother gave me a good talking-to about always telling the truth. And I had to stay in the yard for a week and not play with Sheila anymore. I was ashamed. I disappointed Mother, and in our family we were not supposed to tell lies. I felt terrible.

Sandy smiled with compassion. I pointed to the left side of the house. Sherri and I slept upstairs in the large back bedroom. There was a porch just off it. It had French doors. I thought that was magical. And I had a place where I could hide. A slight shiver went through me.

Hide? said Sandy.

Oh you know. That’s what kids do.

Sandy drove to the station as I mused. Different homes, different memories.

A mystery of Shorewood lingered in my psyche. It had been dislodged when I walked into the garage and erupted again at the restaurant. But I had long ago learned how to tamp down those vague, unconscious memories. Even the most disturbing events were strangely wrapped up in songs, and I found the songs comforting—they were my past, my life. The songs drew me back, and I never gave up hope that things would get better.

On the train ride home, the track wound along the Mississippi in Minnesota. The cars moved slowly beside the overflowing river, trees up to their midsections in standing water. Clouds hung low overhead. Still unsettled by my visit, I had no energy to concentrate. I just sat, unmoving, staring at the gray and muddy water coming nearly to the bed of the tracks. It was twilight, and the few small homes on the river’s edge were near drowning. Small lights of evening began to blink on in the houses as darkness increased.

The blues song Chloe returned. Swamplands, searching, darkness. I heard my own heavy sigh as I longed for night to come and hide it all. It would be good to be home with Eric and the boys.

2

PIANO DEBT

Both of our sons were at the breakfast table, dressed and ready for school. I smiled. Who’d like a cup of hot chocolate with your cereal?

Both called out, Me!

How come we get special breakfast today? ten-year-old Danny asked. Seven-year-old Andy was already eating his cereal.

Just because I’m happy to be home and I thought you’d like a treat, I said.

My husband, Eric—a pastor—had an early meeting, so he was helping get milk out. Pretty special, boys. Aren’t you glad Mom’s home?

The room was warm with sunlight and reunion as we all ate.

Don’t forget to brush your teeth, Eric reminded the boys as they headed for the bathroom. I could hear them jostling in competition for the sink, and soon after they got their jackets.

Bye, Mom! Dad! and they were out the door.

Don’t slam the screen door, Eric called.

Have a good day, I said and walked to the refrigerator to get butter for my English muffin.

Eric lingered after breakfast, which he seldom did. While you were gone, you got a phone call that I need to tell you about. It was from a piano store.

I buttered my muffin and sat down with some juice and marmalade. We already have a piano.

Well, it seems your dad bought a new one for himself and used you as his backup person.

What do you mean, ‘backup’?

A reference. He hasn’t made the payments, and they’re calling you about them.

A shock went through me as I grabbed the tabletop. "I can’t believe that. I never, ever talked to him about that. What did he think he was doing?"

It was as if I were cast back into the house in Shorewood. There was a lingering presence of mystery and a faint smell of bourbon. Dad was undependable and crossed my boundaries without a moment’s consideration.

I called the store and explained that I knew nothing about the situation and gave them Dad’s phone number. I turned to Eric, who was preparing to leave. How could Dad do that to me? He’s an alcoholic, plain and simple. And he takes advantage of me.

You’re pretty hard on him, Judie.

How do you stay so calm? He was dishonest! I’ve got to do something about him and his drinking. I had read about alcoholism for years. I’ve lived with this for my whole life. Now he takes advantage of my good credit without even asking me.

He gave me a half hug as he rose. I’m sorry. Give yourself some time to think about this. We’ll figure it out. He gathered up his briefcase and papers and prepared to leave. I really have to get to the office. I’ll call you later.

I was stunned by Dad’s audacity. Washing dishes, I dropped a cereal bowl and broke it. Damn!

I did my morning chores, snapping the sheets on the bed and smoothing the bedspread while stewing about Dad’s latest stunt. I’d never had the courage to confront him face-to-face, but I argued with him in my thoughts.

I had years of saved memories: the smell of Dad coming home after a few beers or a night of highballs. Just the hint of alcohol on someone’s breath or clothes brought back those times when I leaned away from his unsteady walk or quaked as I wondered what he might do next. I once found him passed out beside the couch. And I never knew when he might be super sweet or in a sudden rage after drinking. Such sights and sounds formed a heavy cloud over me as a child, settling like smoke, stealing breath, and leaving an unending feeling of insecurity. My life is scary. What will happen next? It never went away.

I eventually settled down that day, but I felt a sinking sense of abandonment that I seldom let in. My dad doesn’t love me. He uses me. I can’t count on him for anything. If only he didn’t drink. I saw in my mind the image of me sitting beside him on the piano bench and heard my toddler voice singing. Ah-ha-ha. You and me. Little brown jug, don’t I love thee?

The next night I had a dream. A dining room. It was dark brown wood. A huge moose head hung above the built-in buffet. It grew larger and larger, filling the room, terrifying me. Then the dream switched to a bedroom. I was young, perhaps four, and about to go into the room in my bare feet and long mint-green nightgown. I held back. There might be a deer head in there. I wouldn’t dare sleep in a room with one of those on the wall. I was resisting going in, but some grown-up was pressing me to go in and go to bed.

Oh! I woke up, shaken. I searched for the beam of the night-light to steady myself. I hated how those animal trophy dreams disturbed me. Such vivid dreams. Am I crazy or what? Maybe the restaurant in Milwaukee caused it.

In the morning, lying in bed, I told Eric, I dreamed about a big moose head last night. It was awful. I can’t go on like this. It’s worse since I went to Milwaukee. Maybe I should talk with someone about it.

He paused. Who could you talk with?

I don’t want to go to a pastor. I wonder if I could find a counselor someplace?

Silence again. Maybe if you just talk it over with your friends.

That was so like Eric. He knew professional counseling was worthwhile but avoided admitting when we might need it ourselves. I suspected he hated to spend the money. Maybe that wasn’t fair, I thought—but it was typical. Money first.

My intent became stronger. I think I’ll talk to Karen about it. She’s smart about this stuff. Maybe that’ll be enough.

Karen had been in college with me. Back then we had good talks about boys and classes. She had a keen sensibility about people. She noticed how they expressed themselves and what they didn’t say. She went on to get a master’s degree in social work, and we stayed in touch. She was tall and willowy, a brunette with a carefully coiffed French twist, and had never married. She carried herself with poise and watched others with her piercing green eyes. I decided to call her that day. It would feel less scary to talk with someone who knew me.

Hi, I said into the phone. "Got some time to talk?

What’s going on? she asked.

Oh, it’s the same old stuff. You know—Dad. He’s drinking all the time. And I get those deer nightmares for no reason. I told her about the piano debt. Really I don’t know what to do.

For years Karen had heard me talk about my father’s alcoholic incidents, like the night when I was in college and he came home so drunk he passed out in the living room rocker. Sherri had to break her piggy bank to pay the driver. Dad had his favorite bars, and I could smell when he’d been to one of them even before I saw his glazed eyes.

Some time ago Karen had advised me to see my father less because it was so upsetting to me. Have you seen him lately? she asked.

I noticed a crooked curtain and went to straighten it. I went to their apartment about a month ago. He’s friendly and glad to see me. But I always take the kids and Eric with me, because—I guess I’m afraid of him. But the truth is, I really don’t want my children to be around him and all his drinking. Lately, I don’t want to see him at all.

Is there anything I can do? Karen’s voice was matter of fact, but I could hear compassion woven in between the words.

No. That’s okay. I just wanted to talk to somebody. Maybe I can be more intentional about seeing him less. I feel guilty when I pull away, though.

Trust your instincts, Judie. When you don’t feel like spending time with him, you can pull away gracefully.

I was silent, then took a deep breath. Do you have any ideas about a counselor I could see? You know, about Dad and the deer heads? We don’t have a lot of money.

Insurance may help with that. I know a good guy for family therapy issues. Do you think you could work with a man?

I think so. Why not?

Well, some people prefer their own gender.

I don’t think it would make any difference, I said.

His name is Dr. Chris Hayes. Why don’t you call and tell him I referred you? Then go for your first appointment and see how you feel about him. If it doesn’t feel right, call me back, and I’ll give you another suggestion.

Thanks, Karen. I can always count on you.

I sank back in my chair, relieved to have an option for managing my growing unease.

How do you do, Mrs. Strom? Dr. Hayes was a gentle-spoken man, shorter than Eric, and about fifty years old. He had a well-trimmed, sandy beard and blue eyes, and he looked like a runner. I immediately liked him.

Tell me a little about yourself, he said.

He seemed approachable, nonjudgmental. I freely shared my basic story: my husband and children, my parents and two siblings, a glimpse of the chaos of moving every couple of years as a girl, and, of course, the drinking. He gave me his full and compassionate attention and did not take notes.

Your parents are alive?

Oh, no. My mom died when I was a freshman in college. I sighed, and he waited.

I could feel my whole body tense up. Life got worse after that. I got married to Eric a year after I graduated. My dad quit drinking for about six years before Mom died, but now he’s back to heavy drinking, despite getting diabetes. And things seem to be all mixed up. I’ve been quite depressed lately—I just can’t get myself to be positive. I’m sort of tired of living.

Is life worth living?

"Oh, sure. Not that depressed. But I have these dreams all the time. His brow wrinkled slightly. They’re nightmares, really. And then I can’t go back to sleep."

Is that the main concern that brought you here?

I’d love not to have those dreams. It’s what they’re about that’s the problem. Dr. Hayes kept his eyes on me. I have this odd phobia.

Phobia? He tilted his head with concerned curiosity.

Yes. It’s embarrassing, really. I looked away from his gaze, noticing how tidy his office was. I can’t stand to be around deer heads and animal trophies, or antlers, either. I get scared to death. I’ve had so many times when I had to leave a barn dance or sit in a different place in a restaurant just to get away.

I felt relieved when he didn’t laugh. All my life, children and even adults made fun of me when I told them about my fear of deer heads. More than one child intentionally dragged out some antlers to find out if it was true that I was scared. I hated those kids when they did that.

"It’s awful to admit. People must think I’m crazy. Eric is good about it. Well, he sometimes forgets to warn me that there’s a head in a