On The Write Path To Me & Free: A Journey Of A Small Town Girl

By Cindy Van Loo

"On The Write Path To Me & Free" is my story. It starts with me as a young girl, and as part of a large family, growing up in a chaotic, abusive home, in a small Oregon coastal town. When I was 15 years-old I realized my only escape from the oppressed environment was for me to figure out. After years of saving money I'd earned as a waitress, I moved to Portland. There, I went to school, married my childhood sweetheart, started my own family, and never looked back. And yet, we always look back. It's only when we learn to truly see does a real Self-discovery begin...
This book reveals my unstoppable, tireless optimism and courage. I now see a woman who navigated road blocks, overcame disappointments over and over in my life. These setbacks included ending a 43-year marriage to an alcoholic abusive husband, and navigating many dark months during my son's incarceration. Selected entries are included in my story and derive from years of journal-keeping. Reflections illuminate how I faced fears and challenges by staying true to my Self and ultimately following my North Star purpose: writing a book that took decades to birth. The creation of this book allowed me to see my Self in my own story. The path, the one that kept me writing, helped build my confidence over time, and paved the way to see my Self as a writer--a confident writer, in fact, with Self discoveries to be shared along the way.
This book was written to fulfill a dream I'd held for years. Through this unique expressive communication I'd developed, I learned to see my Self in the process. My hope is that by sharing my stories of loss and grief, doubts and struggles, disappointments and small victories, I will empower others who feel stuck. If you're unable to see yourself in your own story, I encourage you to never give up on searching or reaching for your own North Star.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667888187

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Copyright © 2023 Cindy Van Loo

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

ISBN: 978-1-66788-817-0

eBook ISBN 978-1-66788-818-7

Book cover design: Janna Lopez

Photos: courtesy of Cindy Van Loo, Don Henshaw, Donna Grover

Printed by Bookbaby in the United States of America

First print edition 2023

Cindy Van Loo

P.O. Box 80352

Portland, Oregon, 97280

www.cindyvanloo.com

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book to my Mom–

the embodiment of unconditional love

Table of Contents

Introduction

Small Town Girl

Dinnertime Dysfunction

Near Miss

Planning My Escape

The Day The World Changed

Strawberry Fields Forever

Neighborhood Shenanigans

F*** Puberty!

Skeletons Hiding In The Closet

Saint Donna

First Love But Not My Last

Phone Hostage

The One Who Captured My Heart

Ticket Out Of Chaos

Cindy-rella Marries Her Prince

My Family Is Complete

Dysfunctional Family – Part II

This Is No Farm Even Though There Are Animals

Decade Of Darkness

Tragedy Strikes In The Night

Boy Behind The Plexiglass

Mommy-Mode Mobilized

It Takes A Village

Reality Hits Hard

The Funeral

Coping While Waiting

Courtroom D-Day

Passing Time While Doing Time

Prison Visiting 101

Prisoner No. 14728916

Rules And More Rules

What’s A Mom To Do?

Stayin’ Alive

Hanging On By A Thread

Karma In The Courtroom

Released!

Life Begins And So Does The Writing

Leaving My Stamp On The World

C.A.S.A.

A Light In The Darkness

Recession Wreckage

Dementia Finds Dad

The Fight Continues

The Birth Of A Business And A Grandson

Van Loo Fiduciary Services, LLC

Graduation From The School Of Hard Knocks

Soul Searching

My Awakening

Anam Cara Journey

Democratic Values

Where Is The Joy?

Dance Team Dropout

‘Til Drink Do Us Part ‘

Walking On Eggshells

The Giver And Receiver

The Fire Goes Out

I See The Finish Line

The Sheets Are Clean

If Grandma Can Do It So Can I

On My Own But Not Helpless

The Things My Mother Never Taught Me

From My First Love To My Last

Lessons To Learn And Fear To Overcome

Covid Takes Control

Honeymoon Over

Where Did The Old Cindy Go?

Unveiling Of My Self

I’m Not An Imposter

I Am

Acknowledgments

INTRODUCTION

This book started about 20 years ago at a time in my life when I began to question my relationships, surroundings, and myself, as I began to search for more joy and satisfaction. I craved deeper understanding like a chocoholic craves deep buttery chocolate. To make room for unfolding understanding, I came to discover that ultimately, the search would require big changes in order to figure out who I really was, and my life’s true purpose and meaning. After years of doubting myself and my abilities, the desire to change was much deeper than my fears. I slowly stepped forward, one tiny step at a time, to face my deepest fears and delve into initiating the drastic changes necessary to begin.

I describe the perseverance and hard work to overcome the challenges and obstacles that stood in my path throughout my life. By reflecting on the many moments when I showed up for myself, and all the ways I’d been forced to face my fears, it was then that the healing of my mind, body and spirit began. I was asking myself to identify and stop believing the stories I told myself that were not true.

While I worked on my book, I wrote consistently in my journals each day and filled binders of hand-written pages. As I thought about long-ago memories, I remembered so much more than I thought I would, especially those stories that had laid buried for a long time: What I was wearing, where I was, how I felt, how someone else made me feel, as well as those times I felt terrified with cold-white fear coursing through my veins, or sadness, when tears flowed from my eyes as I struggled through difficult times.

As I re-read parts of these stories, it was evident something was missing from the story. I was happy and surprised to discover while on a three-day writing retreat with writing coach Janna Lopez, at Land of Enchantment Writing, in Santa Fe, the part of the story that was missing and discovered, was Me. I found myself writing stories about everything happening around me, but I was unable to fully tell the stories, because I wasn’t in them. I’d kept myself distant from my truth about things that have happened. The doubts and fears kept me at arm’s length from my Self. It took a lot of courage to take such a giant leap to go to Santa Fe, allow myself the chance to explore my writing, and discover I was at the heart of my own stories all along.

I am now looking through the eyes of 67-year-old Cindy, and I’m able to tell 9-year-old or 45-year-old Cindy, it’s okay to remember those times I got stuck. I am stronger now, which allows me the freedom to move on from the memories that caused so much pain, trauma and heartache leaving more room in my heart for joy.

Each memory and each moment created and built me into the woman I am today. This isn’t just a story about my life. It’s who I am based on who I was, and how I became a person that is still, at times, fearful, but can be funny too, because now I’ve collected tools in my emotional tool-chest to slay those negative dragons that occasionally still rear their ugly heads.

And then there was the Imposter Syndrome I was constantly trying to overcome with my pen and paper. Who did I think I was to say I was a writer even though I had written all my life? My writing life began with little one-line notes to my mom as soon as I learned how to form letters into words, and then into sentences, in my child-like cryptic penmanship. Mom saved them all.

This book took me years to finish because my intuition told me there were still pieces to be written that hadn’t happened and my intuition was right. And now that those events have happened, and as you’ll soon read as described in my book, I am able to look back and process the challenges through eyes that have become clear, and a body that is stronger, braver and more courageous.

This book is written for Me as a gift to myself.

Chapter 1

Small Town Girl

I don’t consider myself anyone special. I am just a girl who grew up in Small Town America a.k.a Tillamook, Oregon, a town with a population of 4,000, and where things have not changed over the last 50 years. Nor have the stoplights. Tillamook is still close to a two-stop-light town–one on Highway 101 northbound, and one stoplight southbound on Main Street. Main Street is lined with long-forgotten rundown store fronts, all-night diners, thrift stores, the local movie theater and a few struggling boutique retailers. The locals prefer it that way because it kept flat-landers out of their town. Flat-landers is what Tillamook locals call people from Portland.

Someone long ago created the motto for Tillamook as the, Land of cheese, trees and ocean breeze, but locals more accurately called it, The land of cheese, trees, and cow shit up to your knees. They liked that too. Cow shit. Yup. That’s what you smell when your nose catches the first whiff of air driving through pastureland on both sides of Highway 6 headed into the main part of town. Looking closer, you might observe someone sitting on a tractor spewing a liquid green concoction from a large tank. The source of the smell.

We, from my alma mater, Tillamook High School, were known as the Cheesemakers. Tillamook cheese is known as the best world-wide. Could it be because my long-gone grandfather, Harold Fogg, was one of the original cheesemakers? Memories visiting my grandparents include tasting aged salty yellow cheddar cheese so pungent it made my eyes water, or the always-popular fresh cheese curds. Cheese. My go-to snack to this day. The best snack ever.

I was then, and always will be, a small town girl raised on cheese, trees and ocean breeze. Cheese was a fond childhood memory of mine because my grandfather was a longtime cheesemaker. When I was about 10 years-old, shortly after he retired from the Tillamook County Creamery Association, he died from a short illness brought on by years of alcohol abuse which finally claimed his life after developing pneumonia.

Before grandpa died, family visits with my grandparents left memories of each of them unsteadily stumbling around their home, in various degrees of intoxication, as each balanced a plate of cheese and crackers to serve to us. Even though I felt confused about why they were not able to walk steadily, it didn’t seem out of the ordinary because wobbling feet accompanied by cheese platters was how they always greeted us. I thought all grandparents served up cheese and crackers on pretty plates while greeting family with glassy eyes and slurred speech.

But what I didn’t understand was why, after grandpa died, my parents took me and my siblings to get one last look at him. I didn’t know what to expect or why we were all paraded into the one and only funeral home in Tillamook to look at a dead body. It was the first time I ever saw a dead person. Death felt creepy and strange as we walked through the door of the funeral home. Even the quietness that surrounded me felt dead.

Time stood still as I held my breath before moving towards what became the focus of the small funeral room – a metal casket with the lid open. From the back of the room I could vaguely see what was inside, but I knew what was there. A cold dead body. Laying there silent and no longer breathing. Even though his heart had stopped beating days earlier, my heart was beating out of my chest as I looked down at his still body lying there in the casket. That is when I noticed his lips were orange.

How do lips become orange?, I wondered. As I looked closer, to my horror, his orange lips also appeared to be glued together. Nothing about grandpa’s face looked natural. Why on earth would any adult think it was necessary for young impressionable children to observe this situation? Glued-together orange lips. Was viewing death meant to teach us a lesson about life? Make us supposed to feel better about our grandpa? I was confused, afraid, and unsure what to do with such ghastly lasting images. All I thought in my 10-year-old heart was, I will never go near a casket again as long as I live. Never.

As I bravely took one last glimpse, I turned around, somewhat shaken, and walked out towards the door. My last memory of grandpa was seeing those unnaturally looking glued-together orange lips. It wasn’t pretty. That image and memory still haunt me.

Even though the memory of the orange lips endures to this day, the other thing I remember about the visit to the funeral home was the dress I wore. It was a bright multi-colored dress which I had just received as a Christmas gift. I thought the vibrancy of the dress would be perfect to pay my final tributes to grandpa. It made me feel pretty and I wanted to look nice.

My mom, Donna Miles, had other ideas about what I wore. She patiently explained to me that it wasn’t proper to wear bright colors to a funeral. I needed to wear something dismal like black. What kids wear black? What girl even owns a black dress? Not me. I defiantly and proudly wore my bright multi-colored dress to his funeral. To this day, whenever I pay my final respects to a loved one who’s passed, I always do so in bright multi-colored attire.

Chapter 2

Dinnertime Dysfunction

Each night our family of seven gathered around a small kitchen table for dinner. Five kids quietly sat around a long ancient rectangular wooden dinner table, draped with the popular oilcloth tablecloth, and finished by mismatched chairs. I sat there holding my breath as I did every night, as did my two brothers and two sisters, hoping no one would provoke my always grumpy dad who smelled like oil and grease. His volatility came from working all day operating heavy equipment for the County Road Department.

Bob Miles, my dad, took his place at the head of the table, still wearing his smelly greasy clothes, including his equally smelly black work boots. He was always ravenously hungry, which caused him to be even more grumpy and demanding. Even though he always reeked of oil and grease, daily bathing in those days was sporadic, especially when there was one very small bathroom for seven family members. To take a bath was a luxury because the only bathing facility in our bathroom was a small metal shower, the kitchen sink, or a galvanized bathtub that would be placed on the kitchen table

My place at dinner was squeezed in on the end of the table beside my younger sister, Barbara. My mom was seated directly across from my dad, right next to the stove so during mealtime she could hop up and down like a bunny rabbit, to quickly fetch missed items my dad demanded. It could be sliced white Wonder Bread which he used to sop up the final meat juices swimming on his plate, or the lumpy gravy mom poured out of the pan and set on the table. Salt and pepper. Check. Pickles. Check. Margarine. Check. If any item was missed, dad yelled insulting remarks to her. And still, even after being berated in front of kids, she dutifully fetched things for him and placed them in front of him. There would be no acknowledgment of a ‘thank you’ from my dad. Just an angry glare for her oversight.

My dad wasn’t the only one regularly giving angry glares as my siblings looked across the table at me. When I was 13 years-old, mom loaded my siblings and I into the family car, after I drank some sugary concoction in a pop bottle and headed to a free diabetic clinic that was being offered. We stood in line waiting for my necessary blood to be withdrawn. It would be another few days before we’d get the results from our family doctor that would change my life forever. Test results came back positive for diabetes. Shortly after the dreaded results, my mom and I were sent to Portland, about 90 minutes away from Tillamook, to a larger hospital where I was admitted. In addition to getting medical treatment, I was invited to participate in a week-long study to learn more about juvenile diabetes and various treatments.

I was not a happy camper. By the time I was discharged and sent home, I was prescribed a strict diet; one which carefully balanced carbohydrates, proteins and fat intake. I felt bad because it meant that my already busy mother who had to cook for five quarreling children and one angry husband had to make special accommodations for me. For every meal she had to calculate and weigh out everything I consumed to eliminate any and all sugar intake.

Not only did I feel cheated out of being able to eat candy and consume soda pop as my sisters and neighborhood kids did, I was resentful of the weird concoctions of food, including extra-large portions I had to eat which sometimes meant a whole can of tuna on one sandwich. While my siblings ate their thinly spread tuna sandwiches, they glared at me eating mine. Their angry stares made me feel as uncomfortable as it did to watch my frazzled mom try to feed her family of seven on two cans of tuna, as I required almost an entire can for myself.

I didn’t realize at the time that their mean-spirited remarks, especially from my older brother Bob–over the special attention and extra food I received and required to keep me healthy–would continue for years into adulthood. Until one day not too long ago, well into my 60’s, I had heard one angry tuna fish story too many from all of my siblings, and for the first time I said something. I stood up for myself against a lifetime of snarky reprimands. I told them to stop. I haven’t heard anything tuna-sandwich-mentioned since.

Dinnertime was complicated enough for my mom without the burden of having to keep peace as we all sat together in agitated silence. As Barb, mom, and I sat closest to dad, Susan, my other sister, and my older brothers, Bob and Bill, were fortunate to have places at the small table as far as possible from dad’s angry glares and out of reach.

Each night as we sat there, a constant friction and a tense underlying cold fear ran through each of us as we slowly ate in silence, hopeful nothing would set off our dad in a raging tantrum. Explosions could ignite over someone chewing a raw carrot too loudly, or maybe my brother Bob asking for a second glass of milk. Relief filled us when dad finished his dinner and got up from his chair to leave the table, dirty dishes left behind for my mom to retrieve, and went to the nearby small living room to watch his evening news.

Through all the stress and strife she endured on a daily basis, my mother showed us through her care and compassionate acts what the role of a mother was. I wanted to ‘mother’ my dad and each of my siblings in the same way my mom mothered me. I felt responsible to protect and keep peace in the house. When I got sick, I felt like I was ‘queen for a day’. A special serving tray just for use during the time one of us was sick was brought out from some hidden place. A paper napkin would be placed on the tray, and on top of that would go the sick food. You know the kind of food I’m talking about.

To this day, I eat the same sick food that I did as a child: Campbell’s canned chicken noodle soup with a piece of buttered toast and applesauce. The saltiness of the soup broth as it touched the sensory modes of my tongue would hit the spot and make me instantly feel better. As I slowly consumed the simple yet tasty food on my sick tray, I knew once I finished, my mom would magically appear asking me if I wanted anything else and/or take the tray away so I could resume my resting.

I was eager to show to each of my family that I could take care of them like mom did. Their needs would unselfishly come before my own even though I knew that would mean countless hours cooking and cleaning. Helping my mom would always be done with a joy-filled heart which had no boundaries or expectations.

In a family of seven, life was never dull. There was endless teasing from my older brothers, while my sisters and I tried to ignore them as we went about entertaining ourselves with Kool-Aid stands, neighborhood parades, climbing trees, and running rampant and free during the day as kids did in the 1950-60’s.

It is impossible to describe my four siblings, so I am not even going to attempt it except to say we are all unique, different, strong-willed individuals who don’t always agree on issues. It has taken some of us years, while some are still learning, to keep our thoughts to ourselves when discussing topics that are triggers and/or to step back from one another when feelings are hurt, or misunderstandings occur. Eventually, the love we hold for one another is rekindled and we move on.

We didn’t want to repeat the pattern that was modeled to us by a father whose history included not talking to his sister for 12 years. Their enduring rift prevented us from knowing many cousins. I thought not speaking to family members was normal behavior even though I didn’t understand it, but I didn’t question it either. How could a family member not talk to another family member for that long of time? But it was dad’s pattern his whole life to hold grudges for days, months, or years, while he silently punished family and friends, including my mom.

To describe my parents’ marriage as ‘unhappy’ would be an understatement with my dad’s orneriness, controlling and dominant personality. Mom married dad in 1946 when she was barely 18 years old after a three-month courtship. Mom never dated anyone else and was captured by my dad’s charisma. Once the brief simple honeymoon was over, little did