Live the Life You've Yet to Dream

By John C. Neyland

To many, a childhood full of abuse and a struggle with severe Obsessive Compulsive Disorder would be a burden. But John Neyland believes he has been truly blessed. With a unique perspective on marriage, parenting, and business, John has turned the struggles he's faced and the skills he's learned into a book of unflinchin

• Language: English
• Publisher: Great Writers Media, LLC
• Release date: Feb 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960605078

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Copyright 2023 by John C. Neyland

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotation in a book review.

Inquiries and Book Orders should be addressed to:

Great Writers Media

Email: [e-mail]

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ISBN: 978-1-960605-06-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-960605-07-8 (ebk)

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1 Beatings

Chapter 2 Monte Sano Street

Chapter 3 The Painter

Chapter 4 First Grade

Chapter 5 Broadmoor 8

Chapter 6 Chris

Chapter 7 Broadmoor, Bill, and a .22 Bullet

Chapter 8 The Best Part of Christmas

Chapter 9 Tenth Grade

Chapter 10 Goodwood Animal

Chapter 11 Best Decision

Chapter 12 Hammer

Chapter 13 Saving Tom

Chapter 14 La Magnetite

Chapter 15 Hattiesburg

Chapter 16 10:50 A.M.

Chapter 17 Electricity

Chapter 18 Poochie

Chapter 19 My Queen

Chapter 20 Dome

Chapter 21 My Pivot Points

Chapter 22 How to Live the Life You’ve Yet to Dream

Chapter 23 Final Chapter

About the Author

Introduction

I want to be abundantly clear; I don’t feel sorry for myself. Please know that despite what you will read in this book, I had a great childhood, and I have an even better adult life. I don’t want to disparage my father, but he often said, " I don’t know what love is ." So, I grew up not truly understanding love.

The truth is that he backed up his belief with his actions. I don’t think he ever fully understood love. But this is neither a beat-up-dad book nor a make-dad-look-bad book. This is an honest book. Because I wanted to be honest, I have been blunt in my descriptions, so you have the potential to learn more.

Sugarcoating my experiences will not help anyone, and I want this to benefit you as much as possible. Feeling sorry for oneself is an egregious waste of resources. Learning from our past leads to a profitable future. I have learned one thing that has served me well throughout my life. Initially, it was a gut reaction, but upon reflection and introspection, I have learned far more. I have discovered the power of collective momentum—of pushing forward to make things better.

I believe it is crucial to learn every day and to continue to grow. Learning is an investment for tomorrow; it provides more control and leads to a better future. Growing is necessary so that we don’t become stagnant or bitter. "Not right and control" were conscious drivers for me; they were the rules that were part of my being as early as five years old. Throughout the balance of this book, you will read these words and know what I mean.

***

The purpose of this book is not to tell my story; it is to help people and be there for them. I know what it feels like to need help and not to get it. I need to be here for you. I want you to understand that if you need help and it seems just out of reach, I have been where you are. If you read this book and come to understand my drivers and the concept of collective momentum, you will learn how you can find help and how you can help yourself. This is my story, but it could be yours, as well.

Although my dad and other adults reveled in the notion of having well-behaved and well- disciplined kids, as a child, I thought they were simply wrong. For me, this issue was wrought with complexity. Think about it; if a good child is well-behaved, doesn’t it stand to reason that a well-behaved child would be more loved or more worthy of love?

Imagine, then, getting viciously beaten by my tobacco-stained, gritted-tooth father who wanted me to be well-disciplined and well-behaved? It’s no wonder I never felt loved. It took me years to see the connection, but today I understand that the experiences of my childhood and the beatings I endured at the hand of a man who claimed not to know what love was, affected my ability to feel worthy of love.

I have told my dear wife, the love of my life, from the day we met that I don’t feel loved. It has nothing to do with her; it goes back 47 years. With this new, deeper insight, I know I will be able to make changes. I will continue to dispose of the feeling of not feeling loved and instead work towards the collective momentum of being worthy of love.

Because I now understand why I felt this way, I have the power to do away with it. I think about it this way: if I go through the rest of my life feeling that I am not loved, there is more than one thing wrong with that. First, I am loved; that is a fact. For so many years, I allowed my father to take that from me. Did my dad hurt my siblings, my mom, and me? Yes, he did.

So, how horrible would it be to give life today, to all the wrong he did, by magnifying that hurt and denying myself love? It would be like stealing from my loved ones and me. I simply won’t do it. Reaching this point has not been easy for me. I’ve come to this resolution after a long road of reflection and introspection. Without self-examination, I would not have been able to come to this conclusion.

***

Throughout my childhood, my dad beat my mom, my siblings, and me, and called us names. As much as I respected my dad and wanted to be a good child, I felt he was wrong. However, I was not stupid enough to tell my mom how I felt. Good gosh! If my dad had caught wind of that, I could hear what he’d say; "Goddamn candy-ass, mealy-mouth, clabber-head, straighten up. Get off the couch, you, goddamn, lap dog. Quit worrying about love and get to work." And that was the best-case scenario of an encounter with my dad.

Even though I feared him, I still didn’t think what he was doing was right. I knew that when I became an adult when I became in charge, I would behave differently. I also knew, even at five years old, that I wasn’t going to take what my dad took from me from anyone else. What I didn’t realize, until recently is that man, oh man, is control important to me!

I now know why. Until I was 16, I had no control in that house. Although I didn’t know how important control was to me, I still fought for it every chance I got. As you will read later, I developed a tremendously bad case of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) at the age of 16 and had two brain surgeries for it at twenty-five. How I wish I had better understood how "control and my childhood" played a vital role in the man I would become.

All of it was building and creating momentum, pushing me toward a certain place. If I had better understood it, I might have had a greater chance of controlling it. I understand my need for control now, and I want to use it for something good. I didn’t write this book to share the terrible parts of my childhood; I wrote it because I want to help people. I have learned a lot from all I’ve been through, and I have been in some bad places.

My story is far from over. Although a Im a work in progress, I still think I can help and that I still have something to offer. And for those of you who need that help or who need someone in your corner, I’m here for you. Remember that I’ve been where you are, and together, we can harness your collective momentum to push you towards a better place.

I’ve got your back.

Chapter 1

Beatings

The farthest memory of my childhood goes back to when I was between three or four years old. I was born on September 19, 1963, and grew up in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The first house I recall living in was on Riley Street. I have just one memory of that house, a permanent reminder on my belly.

I was outside playing, and for some reason, one of the other kids in the yard threw a broken Coke bottle at me and hit my left side. I remember blood oozing down my side. My parents took me to the emergency room where I was stitched up. It didn’t seem that big of a deal at the time, but it later became infected. So, today I still have a three-and-a-half-inch scar which I’ve always thought was cool, like my version of a natural tattoo.

It seems odd that this is one of my first memories. I guess a lot of people would characterize this as a negative first memory, but the remarkable thing is that I have never seen it that way. I’ve always thought it was interesting. How many three-or-four-year-old kids have broken Coke bottles thrown at them and have their abdomens pierced?

I always see it positively that I was able to get it sewn up, and although I developed an infection, in the end it was nothing more than an afterthought. There was no permanent damage. So, for me, this was a positive experience. I was able to get through a tight spot virtually unscathed. The scar? It reminds me of what I’ve been through.

That’s how I try to view all my experiences, good or bad. Everything we go through in life teaches us something. If we don’t learn from experiences, they can take over and color everything that comes afterward. But if we accept what happened, examine it, learn, and grow from it, we are in control. And as I’ve said, control is what it’s all about.

As I wrote this book, I’ve earned insights that I did not have before. In some cases, those insights helped me understand more of something I already knew, but what was beneficial to me were the new insights I had. Some of these are so powerful that they are still changing and improving my life up to this day. At the time of the Coke bottle incident, I didn’t consciously turn anything negative into positives, but I realize now that this ability to go through difficult things and not allow them to define me has been essential.

As far back as I can recall, I have always loved the outdoors. I love nature and animals of any sort. The one constant in my life—the one place where I’ve always felt love—is my pets. I am a very thoughtful, reflective person; I reflect and am introspective daily.

The first day I recall practicing introspection was when we lived on Monte Sano Street. At the time, it was my mom, dad, my two older siblings, and me. I must have been between four or five years old. It was a summer day. The sky was light blue and white clouds of various shapes floated by. I lay in the backyard staring up at the sky. I could hear the bees on the clover buzzing around me. I remember thinking, "These are friendly bees. They won’t sting me as long as I don’t hurt them." I must have been right because I didn’t hurt them and they didn’t sting me! I also remember the pretty blue flowers we had in the flower bed. I believe they were chrysanthemums. And to this day, when I see a blue chrysanthemum, a warm and happy feeling comes over me.

As I was lying there and looking up at various cloud formations, I couldn’t remember what shape they looked like, but I do remember something far more important at that time. While I was looking, I thought of how immense the sky was and, man, how huge the world is and that I can do anything! It was a thought that still strikes me as something remarkable and impressive for someone so young.

I had a girlfriend named Toney Margaret. I don’t recall much about her looks, but I remember she had brown hair. And she was fast! Toney and I would race often, and even though she was fast, I was faster. I don’t recall much of what else we did. Mainly, we just explored the plants, animals, and nature in the neighborhood; it’s what you do when you’re five years old.

The Christmas we had while we were on Monte Sano Street was the year, I got the coolest bicycle ever made. It was blue, had a sissy bar (the bar that extends from the seat to support your back), and an emergency brake. Now get that! An emergency brake! I would discover what that meant soon enough. Imagine being five years old with the coolest bike in the world. This bike also had no handlebars; it had a steering wheel like that of a car. It couldn’t get any better for a five-year-old kid.

The first time I rode my super cool bike with a steering wheel; I was pedaling and flying down the street. I remember thinking how it was the coolest thing ever. Then I came to a fork in the road and realized I needed to slow down, so I decided to use the emergency brake. I reached down and pulled the emergency brake as hard as I could.

The brake engaged the front wheel, and in an instant, I flew over the beautiful steering wheel and hit the road, with small rocks scattering on the pavement beneath me. In a word, ouch! I can tell you one thing; I seldom used that emergency brake again. I would only pull it gently if I used it at all, and I would warn any friends who wanted to ride my bike that, "If you use the emergency brake, you’ll have an emergency!"

My dad believed in discipline. From time to time, he would speak about it. He sees it as a virtue, and as a small kid, I saw it as his right to be mean to my brother, Bill, and me. He was an entrepreneur with four restaurants, an income tax firm, and an accounting business, and he was forever talking about making his way. I thought he beat us because he was simply angry and didn’t like us that much.

I hated beatings, not only was it because of the pain, but every time he beat us, it seemed like an expression of hate. My dad always gritted his teeth when he was angry, and he was angry when he beat us. I can clearly recall the scowl on his face. It was as if he was trying to kill a roach that had gotten onto his plate for the third time; it just looked like hate.

I didn’t think my father loved me to begin with, and when he beat me, I thought he hated me. We didn’t get spankings; instead, he would beat the holy hell out of Bill and me. I felt less loved each time. It was so humiliating; it broke me down and left me feeling exposed. There was also no help coming into our house – the house was the whole world.

My poor mother had to hate this, but there was no way she could tell him to stop. Trying to stop my father would put her in great danger. I understood the pain she must have felt in watching those beatings.

I got only one spanking from my dad my whole childhood; every other time I got a beating. That one spanking is still odd to me today. I had never received anything like it. I had done something wrong, and my dad was going to give me a whipping for it. He led me back to his bedroom, but I didn’t understand what was happening.

He wasn’t angry or cursing, and his brow wasn’t furrowed. He didn’t have that look of hate in his eyes as he usually had before a beating. I had a distinct feeling that he didn’t want to go through with the beating this time. We reached his bathroom, and he said, Bend over and take your pants down.

What happened next was remarkable. He didn’t swing as hard as he could; in fact, he was hardly swinging at all.

On the sixth or seventh swing, I exclaimed, Ouch!

It wasn’t bad, but it stung a bit, and I wanted him to know. He stopped shortly after. I don’t know why, but it felt as if his heart wasn’t in it that day.

From time to time, I think about that spanking. I still don’t understand it to this day. The oddest thing about it was that I felt as though my dad liked me when he hit me that way. I don’t want to read too much into it, but I wondered if he loved me. I didn’t want to push the issue, but I always wondered.

For as long as I can remember, my dad said he didn’t know what love is.

He’d say, You can love a woman; you can love chocolate; you can love a car. What’s love? I was in my room once when he said this.

I turned and pointed to my poster of Farrah Fawcett in the red one-piece bathing suit and said, That’s love, Dad.

I admired my father, but along with everyone in the house, I was terrified of him. He was very smart and an absolutist. Brother, was he ever angry! I am not sure what happened to my dad growing up, but it must have been bad. My father was very racist, something I always failed to understand.

Nancy, the black woman who ran our household while I was growing up, was a wonderful person. She showed me love and made it impossible for me to conceive of racism, much less support it.

As I reflect on some of the beatings I received, it occurred to me that there’s a reason why I recall a particular one first. This one meant something to me. It was Nancy, our maid, who consoled me, rubbed medicine on me, and made me feel loved after I’d been beaten.

It was early afternoon, and my big brother, who would’ve been nine or ten years old at the time, and I were arguing. I was four or five years old. It wasn’t a particularly big fight, but my father came home and asked Bill what was going on. He said that I had done something which I couldn’t recall. I remember the look on my father’s face; he gritted his teeth, and his face twisted into an angry scowl. It looked like more than hate; it looked as if he wanted to kill me.Forty-seven years later, I still remember this. He took off his belt and cursed me as he whipped me. I didn’t know if it would end. No one in the world could help me at that moment. It burned like fire, and he kept going.

Once it was over, Nancy took me back to my room and rubbed medicine on each of the black, red, and purple marks. All of my life, I have had difficulty believing that others loved me, but as Nancy put medicine on my marks and consoled me, I knew that she loved me. It was almost worth going through the beating to feel the kind love Nancy shared with me. I still love her and appreciate what she did for me.

I can still recall her words as she smeared the medicine.

My poor baby, she said, my poor baby, you are going to be okay.

She cradled me and rocked me the whole time. Nancy made me feel safer if not completely safe.

As I think about this, it occurs to me that what could so easily be lost was the love I got from Nancy. Yes, this experience was terrible, but that love is still special to me, and I cherish it.

The gentle, loving, and kind nature Nancy showed me gave me another perspective at a very young age.

My father was quite prejudiced; he spoke poorly of black people. I never heard him refer to them as black people; he always called them "niggers". Still, he hired one to take care of his children. At five years old, I didn’t get it. This woman, this "nigger, loved me, cared for me, fed me, and played with me. She was my world. I saw no problem with her being a nigger. I saw no problem with niggers" in general.

At the time, I remember thinking about how dad beat up momma, knocked her teeth out, bloodied her nose and mouth, and left her with a black eye, and wondered how he could point a finger at anyone else.

If these "niggers" were as bad and stupid as he said, wouldn’t that be more reason to be nice to them and help them? I think this experience gives me a different perspective on racism. From my earliest years, Nancy made me feel that I was loved. How in the world could anyone castigate people with such groundless merit? It was simple to me even at five years old. I love, miss, and thank Nancy.

To this day, I am impacted by my love for Nancy every time I meet a black person. That love Nancy shared with me shows itself on their faces. I don’t use derogatory words to identify anyone, but I must be honest with myself and with others.

So, I won’t lie and sugarcoat what my dad said. If I look the other way, I think it gives strength to what he did and makes it more horrible. I was not the one using that word; it was my father. I was told not to include it in this book because it’s such a lightning rod for controversy, but I don’t know if anyone can clearly understand what I was processing without seeing it in print.

At a young age, I knew it wasn’t right. I didn’t condone it, but I wasn’t given a choice. I did not appreciate my dad talking about Nancy—who loved me and whom I loved in return— like that. Tears come to my eyes often as I recall some of these stories. It’s important to know that I do not shed the first tear for me. I have a great life. I have the life I dreamed of having.

I met my wife when I was 15 years old, in eleventh grade. Together, we have three wonderful children. I have the life and the family I always wanted to have at five years old. These tears I shed are for my poor mother, my siblings, and Nancy. I will always feel pain for them.

I don’t want to dismiss it or swallow it; I want to remember it. I want to remember it so that I will always be mindful to help others and to be there for them when no one else is. I want to help others have a life they haven’t yet dreamed of. I do that in honor of Nancy – I must support her.

I felt when I was younger that I had let her down and had failed to support her. Everyone needs to know what a wonderful person she is. But they also need to know how she was treated; I need to take up for her. Nancy had never let me down.

As a five-year-old kid, it made me angry, and it tremendously hurt my feelings that Dad called Nancy or anyone else that name. It just wasn’t right. This was before everyone strove to be politically correct; it made me angry and hurt because dad was butt wrong (that’s how a five-year-old says incredibly wrong). Dad picked on and bullied Nancy every time he talked like that.

When atrocities are committed against people, we don’t say, Bad things happened to them. We say precisely what happened to them. It’s important to see things in the raw light. We need to know who the enemy is. My dad was inexcusably ugly to the lady who was the only person who loved me at that time in my life.

He was the enemy. I hate to speak harshly about my father, but the feeling in my chest when I think of how he talked about Nancy is, "You bastard! That’s not right, and you are not right to say it!" Today, as I write these words, I hope I am taking up for Nancy. It’s the least I can do.

Thank you, Nancy. I love you.

Chapter 2

Monte Sano Street

I was five years old and was starting school soon, but I wasn’t looking forward to it. I’d had such a great time exploring our yard, discovering insects, riding my bike, and playing with my dog and Nancy; she was just the best. She would chase me and play hide and seek. I wasn’t anxious to stop all that to begin school.

Nancy was plump with large arms. I always thought Nancy looked a lot like the lady on the Aunt Jemima syrup bottle. One day, she was chasing me, which was great fun. I have always felt that I was a fast runner, and I ran every chance I got. On this day, I turned left out of the kitchen and ran down the hallway. Nancy stood in an exaggerated wide stance and walked like a monster.

Booga, booga, she’d say.

As I was speeding down the hall, I ran right into the armoire. Bam! I was faster than I was coordinated. I started wailing and crying.

Nancy picked me up and said, My poor baby, my poor baby. I’m not going to chase you no more!

This only increased my crying! I remember it as if were yesterday.

No, Nancy, please, please don’t quit! I begged her.

I didn’t want to lose this.

Nancy, I’ll quit crying. I’ll quit, please don’t stop chasing me! I cried.

I tried hard to stop crying, but I wasn’t able to quit right away. I don’t remember if we played chase anymore. I think we did, but I don’t think she pursued me as hard.

Gosh! Here I am, 52 years old, and as these words hit the page, I realize that it wasn’t only the fun of being chased that I loved, it was much more than that. Nancy loved me when she did this; it was how she showed me she loved me. I don’t lament not feeling loved by mom and dad. Of course, it hurts, but that’s not my focus; I can’t control that. Nancy was my everything. I felt so much love from her.

Once at the house on Monte Sano Street, my father was in a rage. My older brother, Bill, who was eleven, my older sister, Carrie, who was six, and I at five, were huddled together in the broom closet. We were a unit, a team, leaning on each other. All of us were crying and terrified. We were scared to death for mom, but there was nothing we