You Be the Judge: Evil? Insane? Mildly Masochistic? Or, Just Plain *Itch?

By Pam J. Flanagan

YOU BE THE JUDGE is not well-written, but hopefully it makes you reflect on your own life experiences. It is not written in boring, chronological order, and it is fraught with interesting characters. I have yanked every bone of all the skeletons hidden in my closets. From heart surgery to the drunk farm and my stay at a hospice, I am alive, well and safe. And, I hope you join my journey by reading this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462888214

Pam J. Flanagan

I am a Mississippi gal and YOU BE THE JUDGE is part of my life’s adventures and some of the interesting and not-so interesting folks I’ve met. I have earned the title of Life Master playing bridge, which is my passion.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Pam Flanagan.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2011909861

ISBN:         Hardcover                             978-1-4628-8819-1

                   Softcover                              978-1-4628-8820-7

                   Ebook                                   978-1-4628-8821-4

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Contents

Prologue

Who I Am

(Or Think I Am)

Adages, Excuses And Conundrums

The Day That

Was Different

Previous Medical

History

On The Way To

The Hospice

Life At The Hospice

Situations Between The Ages 5 Through 17 - Part 1

A Kept Secret For 46 Years

Condoms And Drugs

Cigarettes, Snuff

And 1St Shrink

More On Amanda And Tim

Uncle Raymond

Choir Story

Prom

Situations Between The Ages 12 Through 17 - Part 2

Larry

Mike

Move Back To Jackson

Jerry

Mikey

Billy Bob

Mikey - Part 2

Tidbits

Career

Back To Life After

Drunk Farm

Continuing Mikey

Candy—Before Hospice

Life After The Hospice

Sam

Daddy And Mother

Latter Years

The Emails

Penultimate Chapter

Epilogue

DEDICATION

To my crazier-than-I-am mutt, Milky Way, who makes me smile. She adds new meaning to the phrase adopted by most metropolitan police departments: Their goal is to PROTECT AND SERVE. In her innocence and presence, she has fulfilled that motto in our few years together.

Unconditional is a word I don’t take for granted, but Milky Way’s wagging long tail in response to my syrupy baby-talk voice, is perhaps the only validation my footprint on life means: Akin to something to one of God’s living creatures. (For you non-dog lovers, a wagging tail signifies as happy as they are created to be).

And, to my son, the only one I truly apologize for the accumulation and culmination of my commissions and omissions, and I can only hope that his (metaphorical) tail continues to wag exhibiting what life has dealt him through me.

And to my cousin, Barbara Collins, who without her I would not have started nor finished this pontification.

PROLOGUE

I, Pamela June Flanagan, (one of my many married surnames), am still searching for validation, psychiatric diagnosis and redemption. Having only achieved one of these, I have gone to very dark places in my mind, exploring and exploiting past and present. My dates are fuzzy (you’ll discover I’m an alcoholic), but the majority of the actual events are clear.

While I prepared for my death (my ducks were all in order—files properly labeled, last wishes documented, acknowledged and cash hidden for my cremation), my daily dirty underwear was placed in the washing machine nightly so as not to create a mess for my heir, I was not in a hurry for that event.

Thanks to my cousin, Barbara. Without her, I would not have been motivated, nor committed, to facing my demons, trapped in my head, who visit me far too often. She listened to my rambling tape recordings of the nasty incidents, and provided me with a draft of this syllabus.

Can you imagine having to re-visit the worst moments and feelings of your life? Did I do it for revenge, (See, Isaiah 34:8, "For it is the day of the Lord’s vengeance, and the year of recompense . . .) validation, redemption, cleansing, posterity or potential profit?

Revenge motivated the start of the book, spelled G-A-R-Y. See, Romans 12:9, Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath; for it is written. Vengeance is mine; I will repay, said the Lord.

Eventually, I wanted to write a book on my miraculous, prayer-induced recovery from cirrhosis that four doctors still cannot medically explain. Perhaps their opinions were wrong, but they all stood by blood test results.

Perhaps at the end, you, as the reader, can diagnose, relate or compare your suffering with mine. Perhaps your story is more repugnant than mine. It is my hope, that it is far more positive and I hope to dispel the adage that the grass is always greener. Taken me almost 60 years to digest, or should I say regurgitate, choking on those green weeds that make up that green grass appearance on the other side of the fence.

Speaking of being almost 60, I believe God buffers one’s entry into old age by taking away one’s acuity to prevent the trauma when examining the wrinkles and lines of your face in the early morning bathroom window when you splash the night dirt off of your face.

My life has been full of situations, and I use that word often in this rendition of my biased memoir. Looking back, facing it all seems like a psychedelic strobe-light-type, blinding reality.

I’ve always wanted a shrink to brand me with a title to my mental or hormone-starved illness, inadequacies, my quirks, my lunacy, my alcoholism, why I am so judgmental, why I am so spiritual and believing, my idiosyncrasies, my pet peeves—haven’t you wondered some of those things about yourself?

This is not a read chronicling what could be called a Dear Diary account of my life:

Enter, if you dare, into my warped world.

WHO I AM

 (

OR THINK I AM)

I find the most boring place on earth is stuck in traffic without a cigarette or something to sip on, standing, waiting in a long check-out line, be it grocery store, dollar store, department store or ticket line. To ease my boredom, I talk. If you ever see me in a line (even though it might be the shortest) move to another, unless you want to hear me talk and usually there is a price check item in the cart in front of me. And, talk about boring—waiting in a doctor’s office (half-naked), freezing (nose numb from the frigidness of the room—dripping), with a sheet, no windows—I call it solitary confinement and I have been in that situation more times than I want to remember at this point and too many hours (last time was 2 hrs. 45 min.—and that was recently). Pulling a sheet up over my head to keep my nose warm was never a good option for me in a hospital-type setting. My thought was. Might get me a quick, premature trip to the morgue.

As I age, I am scared of what might come out of my mouth. I have hurt too many people with spontaneous, reactive words. I have never been verbally impotent (could have been alcohol-induced) but now I like to write down my thoughts before I say them, except for a very close circle of friends, who know me, accept me, and semi-love me and will accept my apology, if I disappoint or say the wrong thing. I surround myself with friends, not family. As you will discover as you read this memoir, words have shaped me, slapped me and hurt me, and it is not my desire to hurt anyone else with words.

When I was raising my only child, Mikey, I called him (not in a hateful, derogatory manner) words like urchin, imp, oaf, and nerd in an attempt to buffer him from others’ words affecting him as they did me when I was a child. In my mind, I was trying to strengthen his resistance. I constantly reminded him of the adage, Sticks and stones…

I’ve never been pretty, but before I reached forty, I thought of myself as cute or mildly attractive. I had discovered pouting didn’t work to my advantage—if it took pouting to get my way, I didn’t want it anymore. I contributed my looks (okay figure and good hair days) to a lot of job opportunities that came my way.

I am highly judgmental and that aspect of my personality prompted many Januarys of New Year’s resolutions—not to be so judgmental—as many of you reading this know, a resolution only lasts a few days or weeks before forgotten or replaced or self-justified by another way of thinking. I try to surround myself with non-judgmental folks.

I like to run away from home so often; I rarely buy toilet paper in bulk (too cumbersome to move).

Never had a job I truly loved (had one I really liked)—I can’t take criticism and I abhor being fussed at, scars from my childhood. I regret having run away from distasteful situations, but I was the proverbial deer in the headlights—stupid, stunned and out-of-control.

I don’t have a girl-bestfriend. True Story: Last one I had, told me this on one of her daily calls, My husband farted in bed last night, jerked the covers over my head and held it down. When I held my breath as long as I could, he pulled the covers down and fanned them. It was bad! That story was the last time I spoke with her. I’m just not bestfriend material.

Loitering reactions to situations and the tangled emotions that I can’t explain or rationalize often crush me.

Scripture versus from The Holy Bible have helped me cope (in the dark times when I turned to it) and given me solace; while other scriptures accuse, condemn and persecute me on who I am (or think I am).

When my team loses, I don’t cry, moan or groan, I cuss and forget about it.—Routing for the Braves, I have to be flexible with wins and losses.)

Although I’m quick to say, Adios, Mother Fucker in some situations, one of my mantra is I’ve stayed too long at the fair.

While I’m not a zealot about any particular subject, idea or political party, I have always used dichotomy in my judgment of others; reserving grey areas when it comes to judging myself in self-evaluation and conclude that I am very vulnerable (before and after I knew what that word meant).

Before I started drinking clear whiskey, I loved the Tilt-A-Whirl, Scrambler and Ferris Wheel at our local fairs. Gave up the first two, but still enjoy a Ferris Wheel ride. Takes my breath away when it stops at its highest level and I get to look down on pretty lights, pretty people and escape the rat-race below.

Was it Einstein who said doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is a crazy way of expecting or thinking? (My paraphrase). How do you change your psyche to resolve problems with a different thought process? I over-react to most things.

I have joked, I can’t stand prosperity when something bad happens and things seem to otherwise be going so well. Again, don’t know what causes my thought processes to sabotage a feeling of temporary omnipotence.

I dream of getting my life paid-for, monetarily speaking. Is my life close to being paid in full? Or, am I still getting past due notices? I don’t expect anything (not even love) for free, but I do expect to get the best deal out there.

I have seen four professional mind-benders (shrinks) in my life, none long enough to give me a title. I am self-diagnosed as a drama/trauma queen before there was a term for it. Everything seems to affect me as jubilation or trauma; although I do enjoy a vast majority of regular days. That sounds contradictory, doesn’t it? I’m also self-diagnosed claustrophobic for obvious reasons (closed spaces with no windows make me anxious). I’ve never heard imaginary voices in my head, other than my own irritating Southern drawl (some call it a twang).

I never had a desire to spit on anyone, but I have often said, He makes me so mad, I could spit!

Was it Sigmund Freud who said women had penis envy? As far as I’m concerned, they can keep ’em just as long as I can have liquid make-up to cover up some of my ugly and blemishes. I never regretted being born a female.

One of Dr. Phil’s quotes rings true in my persona, I let my alligator mouth overload my hummingbird ass.

I don’t hate anyone. I love very few. Although there have been times when in my life I have hated and loved ephemerally.

I’m scared of your dog, but I love mine. My dog likes chocolate. Yes, I give my dog chocolate. A one-half of a fingernail size a day—it increases her appetite. She hates dog food, but will eat cat crap out of my flowerbeds. She will only eat people food every-other-day or so. She has more mental problems than I; she’s scared of everything—you, the vet, the neighbors, the car, the leash and loud noises. Only thing she’s not scared of is SAM and me.

I have a lot of sympathy and empathy for sick folks. While I don’t enjoy being around children—you’ll discover why later, I have a lot of compassion for their plight of poverty, sickness, hunger or rejection.

I cry at weddings from tears of joy, happiness, future, light, even jealousy in the moment.

I cry at funerals—not for the deceased, but from self-pity at my own loss. On the one hand I think it is very selfish to cry at funerals, but on the other, I think it represents sympathy for the family and other friends.

I am very selfish. My way or the highway. However, you can talk me into anything legal, sway my opinion if you are tenacious; otherwise, I’m always right.

I was the wife from hell. I expected so much and was given so little.

I reached the point where I didn’t want a husband of my very own, but someone else’s wasn’t out of the picture. I always wanted wily ways, but I do not possess nor covet a seductive, manipulative manner and I have never broken up anyone’s marriage.

I chose love, independence and flight, over greed or security.

I heard once that winning the $100 million lottery would enhance your personality—if I won that money, I would be wealthy and alone. If I didn’t have to suck up for some financial or social reason that getting-along in life dictates, I would rant, using every word offered in the vocabulary of my unabridged dictionary to let you know how I really feel.

My theme song was sung by Lee Marvin in the movie, Paint Your Wagon, and that is I Was Born Under a Wanderin’ Star.

I wish I had shown my tits at Mardi Gras.

I never said I had a headache (as an excuse for anything) when I didn’t.

Early in my marriages or relationships, I always used the explanation of I don’t want to which should suffice, or in my self-defined entitlement of one of the perks of attaining the status of grownup. Take me seriously. I’m always right.

I believe I am a better person than my Mother, but I question why I think so. I blame no one in my life for how I am, perhaps God, if upon my death my autopsy shows a brain abnormality. But I am convinced my emotional environment shaped the personality that lives in my head and my daily thoughts. Thoughts that fight each other; and, I like to think the good, the just and the intellectual ones win.

I’ve always wanted a shrink to give a title to my mental or hormone-starved illness, inadequacies, my quirks, my lunacy, my alcoholism, why I’m so judgmental, why I am so spiritual and believing, my idiosyncrasies, my pet peeves—haven’t you wondered those things about yourself?

Most of the time, I could trod through and find my way with only a bruise to the ego, a smirk from the company I was keeping, or from a family member. From all of those I have learned the ability and meaning of independence.

Who said, You learn from your mistakes?.

ADAGES, EXCUSES AND CONUNDRUMS

My guilt, inadequacies and mistakes are cloaked behind blind excuses found in adages and scriptures.

Even heroes are fallible most days. Even (and I’m quoting what I heard on TV) F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, Show me a hero and I’ll show you a tragedy. Think about it.

Who is responsible for the phrase, looks good on paper? My ideas have always looked good on paper until it came to the actual work, cost and commitment.

It has taken me umpteen years to get bit in the ass by most of these. Regardless, here are a few of the recitations circling my brain; and I adjust the one I find most appropriate, and more importantly, fits my self-validation in an overabundance of situations.

The grass is always greener… .. In my lifetime experiences, the erroneous, aspiring promise has turned out to be the green color of the weeds.

He who hesitates is lost; yet, good things come to those who wait.

Often wondered, exactly how cold is a witch’s tit

You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar; yet, the squeaky wheel gets the grease.

The pen (words) are mightier than the sword; but, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. That’s only true if you talk about me behind-my-back. I’ve always been a fan of folks talking behind-my-back, because:

I can dish it out, but I can’t take it (especially if you say it to my face).

Is that brass ring I keep dreaming of in the mouth of the pretty, painted wooden horse in front of me on the carousel?

How did we celebrate before someone invented high 5’s?

Before expiration dates were part of our regular lifestyles, why did we smell buttermilk to see if it had soured?

What happened to the twenty-five