Dysfunctional Families (Wisdom of the 12-Steps)

Bottom line: Don’t give up. We’re all capable of healing and recovery, but we have to reach out for the support that awaits.

We’ve heard the term, but what does dysfunctional mean, anyway? Merriam-Webster dictionary defines dysfunctional as “not functioning properly: marked by impaired or abnormal functioning.” It may be difficult to pinpoint, or put into words, what’s dysfunctional in a family or individual, but generally we know something’s amiss on a gut level.

Growing up with a father who frequently binged alcohol after cashing his Friday paychecks, then arguing and physically abusing my mother when she confronted him, I knew things were out of kilter. Their fighting scared and saddened me. I felt torn during those years between wanting to escape and avoid my confusion, hurt, sadness and my helplessness over their turmoil. I worked to steer clear of the intensity of Dad’s rages. At the same time, I wanted to prevent harm to Mom, as I was terrified of losing her altogether by Dad’s hand. In spite of, or because of, my feelings—doesn’t matter which—I searched for clues as to how I could intervene and stop the periodic madness.

As a young boy, I couldn’t explain normal . . . not to myself, and not to anyone else. Nor did I know how other fathers acted towards their children, except from glimpses I could get here and there. But my feelings told me that my nuclear family situation was wrong, wasn’t healthy, and desperately so. Like when I burned a finger after touching a hot stove, or scrapped a knee from a fall, I knew if something caused pain, then that something wasn’t good. And I knew to avoid repeating behavior which caused pain. I didn’t know what I could do to change my dad’s drinking, my parents’ arguments over it, or Dad’s abuse of Mom. I didn’t have the tools to communicate my feelings with others. Some invisible wall of silence had been erected, which trapped my mom, my brother and me, and prevented us from seeking effective assistance to change the equation. I couldn’t intervene physically. The best I could do? I hunkered down, observed, and empathized with Mom when I could. I calculated how, and moreover when, I might intervene . . . while at the same time pursuing my boyhood interests at school and during visits to my grandparents.

Visits to my grandparents, particularly my maternal grandparents’ farm, became my saving grace. The unconditional love I received there from extended family members uplifted me. Dad didn’t drink around my grandparents, that I knew of anyway. Moreover, my parents didn’t argue or fight while there. And so, those visits provided me a safe harbor, a place to anchor myself, lower my vigil, absorb healthier life lessons, and experience the closer-to-nature lifestyle of subsistence farming.

It’s been said that all families are dysfunctional in their own way. And at best, it’s probably a rare few who would claim they didn’t grow up dealing with chaos or experiencing trauma. Who among us can claim they grew up unscathed? Beyond that, none of us can claim we’ve never suffered a loss. Loss is an inevitable part of life.

Some individuals and families, without doubt, are more toxic and dysfunctional than others. And some individuals are harmed more than others. Children in particular are more likely to suffer to a greater degree as they have fewer resources to cope and escape. But we all have opportunity to reach out for support, even in small ways, to avoid further damage and begin our healing journey.

If you don’t have friends or family to whom you can reach out, Twelve-Step meetings are a safe place to start, particularly if counseling/therapy isn’t an option.

Years ago, my healing journey involved reaching out while in undergraduate school when suicidal thoughts threatened to consume me. So, reach out and connect with others. If nothing else, start with a phone call or a remote meeting. There are others out there who can relate and are willing to listen. Unburden yourself of your secrets. You’re only as sick as they are. Drop the public mask you hide behind and let down your walls. Learn to trust others. Learn to love, and accept yourself in spite of your warts and imperfections.

You can read more about my journey by visiting my other blog posts, my About Page, and reading my memoir, Once Upon a Kentucky Farm: Hope and Healing from Family Abuse, Alcoholism and Dysfunction (released early 2022).

I leave you with this quote from an unknown source: “You don’t have to save me, you only need to hold my hand while I save myself.”

Walk in beauty.

(Photo Credit: reshareworthy.com)

A Few “Lesser Known and Obscure Facts” I Learned about the Mississippi River, and its Inhabitants.

Bottom line: In spite of COVID risks, we took measures to protect ourselves and enjoyed our trip.

During our “Christmas on the Miss” cruise, Janet and I traveled on the American Duchess down the Mississippi River from Memphis, TN to New Orleans, LA, known by locals as NOLA.

1) The Duchess is a stern-wheeler, with two wheels side by side located at the stern, as opposed to one paddle wheel on each side of the boat, aka a side-wheeler.

Janet poses with the American

Duchess docked in Greenville, MS.

2) Headwaters of the Mississippi River flow from a spring that feeds Lake Itasca, Minnesota, elevation 1,475 feet. With a length of 2,341 miles, the Mississippi drops 7.560871422 inches per mile until it merges with the Gulf of Mexico beyond New Orleans.

3) The “Duck March” at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis is quite popular among people . . . as well as the ducks. I would recommend it!

4) The Blues City Cafe in Memphis doesn’t believe in customers going away hungry. When I inquired about possible menu misprints, the waitress said, “We don’t have (ounce) steaks.” I thought better of ordering their largest sirloin. Then, the waitress mentioned something about a family meal. Indeed!

Beale and Main Streets near

the Blues City Cafe in Memphis.

5) Janet and I "toured" the World's First Billy Bass Adoption Center at the Flying Fish Restaurant in Memphis.

The main Billy Bass display wall

in the Flying Fish Restaurant.

Wouldn't cha' know?

Another Elvis Impersonator!

6) Janet had to visit Elvis' Graceland. She just had to, no ifs, ands, or buts.

Elvis' Graceland home is much

like many pre-Civil War plantation

homes across the deep south,

after a fashion.

7) Elvis' taste in home decorating, 1970s era, was nothing to envy.

Elvis' 1970s Media Room

(pre-internet social media).

8) Elvis owned and traveled via two planes.

The Lisa Marie, largest

of Elvis' two jets.

9) Elvis owned horses, and purchased numerous cars and motorcycles during his short career. I can't comment about the color of his horses, as I saw none, but his choice of Cadillac color suggests he believed if you got it, flaunt it.

Elvis' Pink Cadillac.

10) The Delta, aka Yazoo-Mississippi Delta, of some 70,000 sq miles of alluvial floodplain in Arkansas, Louisiana, and primarily Mississippi, should not be confused with the Mississippi River Delta, which terminates some miles beyond New Orleans.

11) The Delta suffered major flooding in 1927, the most destructive in US history, when the levee first failed near Mounds Landing, some 17 miles from Greenville, Mississippi. Some areas were covered by as much as thirty feet of water and at least two months elapsed before the floodwater completely subsided.

The Mississippi Delta, not to

be confused with the Mississippi

River Delta southeast of NOLA.

12) Greenville, Mississippi, boasts of “more published writers per capita” than any other town in the US, such notables include Shelby Foote.

13) Many consider The Delta as the birthplace of Blues music, and highly influential in the development of Rock and Roll, if not its birthplace as well.

14) The Mississippi River temporarily ran backwards after a series of New Madrid fault earthquakes between December 16, 1811 and February 7, 1812. Additionally, those tremors created 18-mile-long Reelfoot Lake in TN.

Reelfoot Lake near Tiptonville,

TN. (Note: Photo taken during

a separate trip.)

15) The NMSZ, New Madrid Seismic Zone, is not benign nor dormant. Ruptures have occurred numerous times and have been felt and recorded in personal journals as far away as Louisville, Kentucky and Cincinnati, Ohio.

16) Though many consider cotton the primary crop of the pre-Civil War South, corn and sugarcane figured prominently. Corn fed farm animals and sugarcane helped fuel the opulent plantation culture built upon slave labor. Touring a few notable houses on our trip, I was reminded of European royal palaces.

Nottoway Plantation Mansion.

(Note: Gentlemen, please

ascend on the right as to not

glimpse bare feminine ankle.)

17) Gators love marshmallows. Wait . . . why are they called “marsh” mallows?

Several swamp gators compete

for a marshmallow. (Note: the

brown & green is vegetation reflecting

off the water, not muck in the water.

18) Cafe Du Monde’s beignets, French doughnuts, aka fritters, are popular in the French Quarter of NOLA. Janet and I opted to stand in the take-away line for almost an hour to purchase an order, as the sit-down line appeared longer. I’m sure both lines had formed hours before our arrival, with customers placing and consuming their orders all the while. And when Janet and I left, the lines had grown longer still.

Queue for Cafe Du Monde

beignets when Janet and I

arrived on the scene.

19) Janet and I found the World War Two Museum in NOLA interesting, as we spent nearly a whole day there. I liked the museum's display of US WWII planes.

An Avenger. (Surely, not

dropping a live bomb.

(Probably not. Well, maybe

not. I hoped not, anyway.)

20) I'd expect to be hanged and quartered, if I didn’t mention Southern and Cajun cuisine, other than that above. Both Janet and I enjoy Cajun food, though only lightly spiced. However, Janet shies away from deep-fried breaded items, particularly catfish. Her catfish aversion has something to do with owning a pet catfish years ago, but that didn't deter me, at least on one occasion.

Prepared to chow down on fried

alligator, crab cake and raw oysters,

Connard photo bombs Janet's foodie

picture at the Coterie Restaurant &

Oyster Bar, NOLA.(Note: Gator tastes

like a cross between chicken

and ground beef to me.)

We thoroughly enjoyed our river cruise, felt quite satisfied and returned home fulfilled. (I'd recommend it.)

Walk in beauty.

Mr. New Boots (PCT)

Bottom line: Blisters are a tenderfoot hiker’s reward.

Prim8's new Hoka hiking

boots. (Blister preventers?)

11/10/21 - Mr. New Boots, that is Prim8 equipped with new hiking boots, and I had arrived at our rendezvous point at the terminus of state road 173 in advance of "Wrong-way" Mark. There, we discovered 173, now blocked off, had been a through road leading from the relative flat terrain nearer Hesperia into the mountains to Lake Arrowhead.

Wide open terrain. We’ve made progress, Prim8.

Out of the mountains? Prim8 replied.

Not entirely.

I’d grown tired of the elevation gains and losses over the miles we’d hiked around Big Bear, but I knew full well, implied by the name, the Pacific Crest Trail had many more hills and mountains to ascend and descend before our journey’s goal will be reached.

Since our last jaunt, Prim8 and I purchased a pair of Hoka Stinson One hiking boots in hopes of warding off pesky foot blisters, the bane of many hikers. Prim8 had had enough of dealing with blisters and I wasn’t too happy about them, either. We hoped we’d solved the blister conundrum and our feet would hike in bliss, having achieved footwear nirvana.

"Add another mile or so to our hiking distance tomorrow," Mark said.

What? "Another mile?"I pictured our 24.5-mile hike down hill towards the Whitewater Preserve some months ago.

We left my car at road end, turned parking lot, in anticipation of our arrival on foot the next day. Then, Mark drove us into Big Bear where Prim8 and I stuffed ourselves with Mexican barbacoa, aka slow cooked meat, washed down with beer, before retiring to our motel room.

11/11/21 (Crab Flats to PCT/173 Junction) - Up at 4:45AM, we brewed coffee in our rooms, snacked on dried fruit, and consumed bacon prepared by Mark, both pork and turkey, before we set off for our trailhead destination at Crab Flats.

The chilled air and starry sky portended a good weather day.

I sucked down additional coffee as best I could as we bounced around over the rutted gravel/dirt road, generally unfit for most vehicles and designed OHV, aka off-highway vehicle. In the meantime, both Mark and I drank water from disposable plastic bottles, in order to maximize our levels of hydration. I discovered long ago that water is not weightless, so I’ve developed the practice of drinking my fill before the day’s hike, though I carry a prudent supply, as well. Nothing good comes from dehydration.

Last minute gear checks completed and packs donned, we walked away from Mark’s vehicle.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"7AM," Mark replied.

A tad later than we’d hoped.

"And what’s the temperature?"

"I’ve got 43 degrees," Mark said.

"Good temperature," I said. "It’s easier to get warmer, than cooler." I knew we’d warm up within a few minutes from hiking exertion.

All the while, I consoled Prim8 with the delusion that we’d lose elevation, 2301 feet, over the course of our day’s hike. But, you have to know, that the PCT meanders up, around and down mountainsides! So, the accumulated elevation gain would be 240 feet and the elevation loss would be 2414 feet, which amounts to a 2654-foot differential. Doesn’t sound like much, but everything adds up.

And the trail led us up, around and down.

Rest a minute.

After a brief pause, I continued onward.

Grab a snack.

My leg muscles and feet aching with fatigue, I'd found another excuse to rest a minute.

I hiked some more. The trail wound along, overlooking Deep Creek drainage.

Nice view of fall colors. Pause for a scenic photo.

Though the area remains in

drought, fall colors show

in Deep Creek Canyon.

The ache of my leg muscles had deepened.

What’s with this?

With clear sky above, temperatures climbed into the low-mid 70s. An occasional light breeze lifted my spirit.

And we’ve got shade now and then.

The trail continued up, down, and around. Up, down, and around.

How are you doing, feet?

Aside from the ache and fatigue, I detected no blisters.

"Wrong-way" Mark pauses

for a rest on the opposite side

of the rainbow painted arch bridge

which crosses Deep Creek.

When I caught up with Mark, who's been leading the way, on the opposite side of the arch bridge which crosses Deep Creek, he said, “You’re eight minutes behind me. Not bad.”

"Could’ve fooled me," I said. "We must be getting close." I meant to my car.

"Another 4 miles from here," Mark said.

Ugh, Prim8 said.

Slog it out, fella.

Having crossed Deep Creek and with the trail direction shifted westward, we came into full sun. The sun, on its late afternoon downward leg and lower in the sky, however, didn’t scorch us.

Though seemingly forever to come into sight, the trail winding this way, then that, we approached the Mojave River Dam.

Nearly there. Then, another mile to go.

My legs and feet continued their ache.

What’s the damage done this time?

We followed a gravel road about half a mile on gentle rising terrain to the tunnel where Deep Creek flows. Here, we faced foot-deep water about twenty-feet across. After removing my boots and socks in preparing to fjord the Deep Creek, my iPhone took a bath.

Plop! A short, tiny little dink. What could that be?

I spotted my iPhone resting in a few inches of water. "Crap, I dropped my phone in the water," I said, as I retrieved it. I gave it a good shaking and hoped for the best.

"You probably shouldn’t carry it on your belt," Mark said.

"Yeah, I know," I said. "I wanted it handy to take photos, but I guess the belt holder wasn’t designed for hiking." Should’ve learned that lesson when your phone fell off earlier in the day, twice.

I trudged the remaining distance to my car, dreading learning of my phone’s fate.

Seated in my car, "Where’s our motel?" I asked Mark. By that I meant, what was our drive route to get there.

"Let me check," Mark said as he searched on his phone.

"I guess I’ll bite the bullet and check mine," I said. Come on, baby.

Seconds passed.

"It came on! I can’t believe it," I said. Next time, carry it in your pocket, fool.

In Crestline we enjoyed another Mexican meal, washed down with beer.

"I’m knackered," I told Mark. "My muscles and feet ache."

"I’d like to start a little later tomorrow morning," he said. "Maybe, we can shorten our hike a little."

"That’s okay by me. I’m gonna be soar and stiff the next couple of days."

"I may just schedule a massage for when I get home," Mark said. "And I’d like to beat the rush hour traffic on the way home."

"Wrong-way" got no quarrel from me.

Our cars with us at the motel, we decided on a later start and shorter hike of 9.3 miles.

Done deal.

We’d hiked 21.5 miles and my body knew it.

Settled into the motel room, I wondered whether a shower, followed by a decent night’s rest, would prepare me for the achy breaky pains of body stiffness I'd face in a few hours.

Feet checked, I discovered a small blister on one foot. Crap, can’t seem to avoid them. At least, it had appeared solo.

Mile marker achieved: 314.3

11/12/21 (PCT/173 Junction to Silverwood Lake) - My alarm sounded at 6:30AM, as I’d set it.

Yep, stiff as cardboard. I hobbled around the room as I collected my wits and gear, and made ready to leave.

Mark and I consumed a hardy breakfast in Crestline before we set off to leave my car at Pilot Rock Staging Area parking lot, which overlooks Silverwood Lake dam.

Then, in Mark’s SUV, we headed to the PCT junction with 173.

Been here, Prim8 said.

Yep, déjà vu, all over again.

At 9AM, day pack readied, I tanked up on water. "Got any ibuprofen, Mark?"

"Yeah," he said and offered me two tabs.

I should carry my own.

I took tentative down the trail, wondering, Why do I do this to myself?

Just gut it out.

Within a few minutes, however, with help from Mark’s hiker’s medical cabinet, I’d achieved a steady pace.

A cloudless sky and scarcity of trees left us exposed to full sun, though temperatures remained civil, hovering in the mid-70s in the brief spots of shade. Periodic slight breezes helped.

I reminded myself that today's hike would be shorter. We hiked on flatter terrain, with considerably less elevation gain and loss than the previous day, and we enjoyed open views of the small valley to our north, bounded by an escarpment beyond.

Looking westward from PCT

between Mojave River Forks

Reservoir and Silverwood Lake.

As the hours progressed, we speculated about our time of completion.

"We may be done by one," Mark said.

We continued our steady pace.

When we arrived at the trail junction, my car parked another a hundred yards up the paved road, "It’s 1:30PM," Mark said. "We’ve come 9.3 miles. That’s 2.2 miles an hour."

“Pretty good, considering,” I said. Considering my stiffness from yesterday.

"Wrong-way" got no quarrel from me.

For me, three mph, sustained only over short distances, is the best I can expect. One mph would be a snail's pace, and two mph I deem reasonable. "Anything over two mph is icing on the cake," I added.

After retrieving Mark’s vehicle, I changed into my tennies for my drive home. Not only had my foot-condition not worsened, though my feet were sore, I felt relieved that no additional blisters appeared, in spite of the one that I’d cultivated yesterday, which had burst.

Could’ve been worse!

I made it home, lickety-split, ahead of the most of stop-and-go traffic.

(Prim8’s accumulated PCT progress: mile marker 323.2.)

Walk in beauty.