18 Years Past

 

   Eighteen years ago, at about this time, I sat in the departure lounge of Qantas Airlines Brisbane, Australia, holding my youngest daughters hand, before I departed on a plane. It wasn't any plane, it was a plane that would take me to the USA. When my flight was called for boarding, I held back, holding my daughters hand, until last call. I crouched down, hugged her and kissed her.

    "Daddy loves you chickybabe." 

    I stood, turned, and headed down the gantry tears streaming down my face. 

    I had no expectation at that time of the events that would follow, that would result in that being the second last occasion I saw that child.

    That child is now a grown woman, living her own life, making her own decision. One of those decision is not to have any relationship with me.

    I still have her email of four words "Don't contact me again."

    My Father, divorced himself, was the scourge of parental alienation with untruthfulness perpetrated by my mother as to why my He wasn't in my life. Later as a teenager, I came to discovered the truth, and even later, as a divorced father myself, learnt that what goes unchallenged, becomes accepted as "the new normal".

    But for some, that "new normal" is all they know. As was done to me, was done to the mother our children by her own mother. Years ago - maybe before we were married, the girls mother ran into her Father and when she later sought out to verify the stories she had been told by her mother - his ex wife, she was faced with the reality that what she heard was not accurate. Faced with the consequences, she choose to exclude her Father, unable to accept, that her mother had lied to her about why her Dad was not in her life.

    In my forthcoming book, I included this, and other examples of the parental alienation I endured, for two reasons. 

    It's been 18 years past since I departed Australia, but I never departed my role as a Father. Someday, someone will run into my daughters and say "I read what your Dad went through."

    The second reason is its been 18 years past since I left Australia. I write for the next guy. The next guy could be my ex wifes only son - the half brother to my daughters. I thought I was good enough to stop the promulgation of alienation. Here's hoping that my daughters brother does better than those in the family before him. 

    

In Memorium: Mark Lawrence Goodwin

  The day could not pass without reflection.

  This day will always be linked to another, which will haunt my horrors.

  In Memorium, Mark Lawrence Goodwin, Constable of Police.

 

 

 

There, but for the stroke of a pen, go I.

Mark left behind two children, Megan and Alyse, ages 2 years and 8 weeks.

Twenty five year later after that night, I would finally write of him.  I will hold copies of the book for his children, should they ever ask. 

 Thirty one years after that night, I have not forgotten him.  

Happy Birthday Chickybabe

>


  Happy Birthday Chickybabe

  Today, my eldest daughter turns 31.

  When I was 31 her mother and I had separated, and I went on to my best "role" as the divorced father of two daughters.

  Now, I'm just the alienated father of the same two daughters that I haven't seen in years.

  Perhaps when they read the Book, they will realize that their Dad never left them. 

40 Days and 40 Nights

  40 days and 40nights have passed since I personally went into isolation due to the pandemic.

  Accomplishments? Not a lot, other than surviving.

  Did I have to accomplish anything in this time? No.

  Did I need to accomplish anything in this time?  No.

  What happened was during this time, others who were in need turned to me for their safety so that they did not fall to the virus.

  And what did I gain out this?

  Nothing.

  But I wasn't expecting to. I just did my job, as an essential worker to the two people who needed it the most.

  And, I did write a lot more than I expected.

The Abduction of Sarah

 

                It is twelve years today since I last saw my youngest daughter, Sarah. At the time, she was twelve years and thirteen days old. In a few weeks when Christmas arrives, I will have not seen my Daughter for more than half of her life.

                And what atrocity occurred to warrant this segregation of Daughter and Father?

                Her Mother and I divorced.

                Weeks after our divorce, her Mother remarried, and later had a child with the other man. Sarah became the “lost” child, as her Mother began to fabricate a life for her new family. Apparently, unnoticed by her Mother, Sarah slipped into a life of vice and crime, and like all divorced Fathers, I found out about it too late. Upon learning of her situation, when I telephoned Sarah’s school principal, I was informed that Sarah was “a child at risk.”

                I telephoned her Mother and suggested that Sarah reside with me, where Sarah could be monitored and have oversight while she corrected her ways and got on with her schooling. Within seven days of that conversation, her Mother absconded with our child, fled across three State lines, and took up residency in a jurisdiction where I had no reach.

                Had I done those same actions, there would be Amber alerts, wall to wall television coverage until the child was found, and then, I would have been swiftly incarcerated. But, because it was her Mother that broke the same Federal and State laws that I am bound to, there would be no repercussions, no enforcement and no consequences.

                Her Mother would rather destroy the child, than co parent with me.

                And I would have to start over, again. Except this time, I would have to restart the documentation to ensure access to our child with another country, another state, another government and another school.

                The slippage of time would rob me of her 13^th through 21^st birthdays. I would not know of her milestone events, her health, her academic awards, or her graduation. There would be no Christmas or holidays together, and my Father became collateral damage, unable to see his Grandchild. This would be in addition, to whatever lies the child was told about me.

                When the telephone went unanswered at our scheduled calling time, her mail began to be returned. Scrawled in her Mother’s handwriting on the envelopes and packages were the words “no longer at this address”.

                It would be years before I could classify her Mother’s actions as “Parental Alienation.”  I’d always treated her Mothers actions as nothing less than child abduction, albeit the discovery was after the fact.

                A parent knows within minutes, sometimes hours, when their child is abducted. An alienated parent doesn’t find out until much later.

                The parent of an abducted child has multiple law enforcement agencies chasing down leads, investigating sightings and sharing information. An alienated parent has to do their own leg work.

                The parent of an abducted child fears for their child’s life. An alienated parent fears that the child will never recover their life.

                The parent of an abducted child knows that the longer it takes, the less likelihood the child will be found.  An alienated parent usually starts at this point, as they learn of what has already occurred. They are playing from behind the moment they discover that their child has been “abducted”. For me, it was almost nine months before I uncovered that Sarah was “a child at risk”.  A perpetrator given nine months head start knows that the authorities have little chance of catching them.

                It is too late for my youngest daughter, Sarah. If She is still alive, She is now an adult who chooses to have no contact with her Father. It is reasonable to assume that Sarah was told lies by her Mother, which She accepted as truth, as I was not physically present to refute them. My only hope is to wait until my daughter questions one of those lies, and then seeks me out to verify. I pray that Sarah has better critical thinking skills that Her Mother.  Sarah’s Mother is also the daughter of an alienated Father.

                Before we were married, her Mother and I were walking along the beach together when we ran into her Father. In the weeks thereafter, Sarah’s Mother sought clarity over the horror stories that Her Mother had told, and her Father refuted them. When Sarah’s Mother independently verified her Father’s version, She learned that Her Mother had manufactured the stories about her Father, in order to cover up immoral sins. Sarah’s Mother choose not to repair the relationship with her Father, because She could not accept that her Mother’s account of her Father’s absence in her life, were all lies.

                It is twelve years today since I last saw my youngest daughter, Sarah. At the time she was twelve years and thirteen days old. You can diminish the actions of her Mother to “Parental Alienation” as much as you like, but as her Father, this is the story of the abduction of my youngest daughter, Sarah.

Happy Birthday Chickybabe

  Happy birthday Chickybabe.

  Today, my youngest Daughter turns 24. The last time I saw her was almost 12 years ago. Doing the math, I have been out of my Daughters life longer than I was in it.

  I never left my Daughter, this child was an abduction - but the courts will only see it as Parental Alienation.

  Restitution will never be made. Only grief and absence remain tradeable. 

I Write

  I write.

  I write about my children, about Parental Alienation, about the unfairness in the post divorce world towards Fathers. But until this week, I have never written about my ex wife.

  Not so much of my ex wife, but more of her actions. The actions that she learned as a child from her mother, which she replicated to our children. Twenty two years after our divorce, I look at what my ex wife has done to our children, and see the similarities that her mother did to her.

  The cycle has to stop.

  And it does with me.

  I write.

  I write about my children, about Parental Alienation, about the unfairness in the post divorce world towards Fathers. But until this week, I have never written about my ex wife's parental alienation of our children.

All of Them

  Some time ago, probably months, I had a Dear Old Friend write of their current relationship.

  "They won't leave me."

  The commentary hit home, because, they All leave me.

  All, are the important women in my life.

  Mother. Wife. Daughters. Girlfriend.

  In my Dear Old Friend's relationship, their Partner wont be leaving them. Good for them. They deserve second (or third) opportunities.

  For readers, I have been caring for my Mother in Law for several months. Another important woman in my life about to leave me. Once again, powerless to stop it.

  My Dear Old Friends comment was right. Might not apply to me, but for them, it's good enough.

 

Not The Other Way Round

  There is nothing That I am enjoying, about caring for an elderly parent.

  There is little that I am, personally, accomplishing, either writing, or any in other important facet of my life.

  However, in despair, there suddenly appears a signal.

  A discussion that was had several months ago, returned to me laying in bed earlier this week. A possible second major project, broken into three parts, covering three parts of the State of California.

  I hate to propose any matter at this time, the time required for me to care for the elderly parent has to be fitted around the writing, not the other way round.

Happy Birthday Chickybabe

  Happy birthday Chickybabe.

  Today, my eldest daughter, turns 30.

  When I was 30, I was already separated, on the cusp of divorce, with two daughters I cared for more than...well, more than my own relationships and career. I had already won two sailing titles and the third would come the following year, but it was the girls that were my greatest achievement.

  I had also isolated one of my parents from my daughters when they were unable to follow through on the manner in which their mother and I had wanted the girls to be brought up. I would later isolate the other parent, my Father, however, he would see the error of his ways and that would be repaired.

  As expected, my Father was a better man than me. I have been isolated from the girls and it has not been repaired.

  I taught my daughters not to allow evil in to their lives, and to keep it at bay. I never envisaged that I would be the evil they keep at bay. But, unlike where I made my own choice, their choice has been influenced by their mother, and their grandmother.  Two people whom were unable to follow through in the manner in which their mother and I wanted the girls to be brought up. Being a little over 7000 miles away and unable to counter any, and all, evils by these people, I was always playing from behind.

  With no voice to counter them, the girls unknowingly succumbed to their evil.

  It is too late for my girls.

  The days are long and the years go by fast.

  My eldest is 30 today. I have been out of her life more than I have been in it.

  Happy birthday Chickybabe. I never left you.

A Gut Wrenching Week

  It has been, a gut wrenching week for me.

  First, news arrived from home of the jailing of the most influential teacher in my life.  Father Michael Endicott was jailed this week for historical offenses against children while he was teaching at Villanova College, Brisbane, during the late 1970's and the 1980's.

  The only victim to be named alleges that the priest took photographs of him after swimming training. The victim, beat me out of a place on the swimming team when we were competing against each other.

  Elsewhere, I write that the priest had brought thousands of boys from Darkness To Light, myself included. I cannot imagine the mindset for these matters.

  The second, comes from across New Zealand, where a gunman opened fire on a mosque killing 50 people. Terrorism, is not based on skin color or religion, but the acts upon which it is performed. There is no difference between the New Zealand incident, and the shooting of school children. There is no place in the world for terrorism.

  The second incident is disturbing as I was scheduled to complete my Terrorism training last November, when i was involved in a motor vehicle accident the day prior to the training. Had I completed that training, I may not be sitting here waiting out another year to cycle through to complete the studies, which, would have opened up access to a line, or what I call, the W2 employment.

  Between those two events and the demons that live in my sleep, you would be surprised how little writitng has been done.

  However, there has been a revision of a major work, where one of my characters was based upon the most influential teacher of my life.

Go Home To Your Own Country

  It finally happened.

  I was told to go back to my own country.

  As a child I remember my grandfather, in particular, referring to the people from South East Asia as "new Australians". These were the same people that I rode the bus to school, played football, and lived in the military village with.

  I never understood the opposition to them.

  I never heard my father in law, who saw hand to hand combat in Viet Nam, speak harshly of them.

  While making a delivery at a San Diego Hotel I  was approached by the valet - who in hindsight, was policing the public street in front of his hotel. After being told to step away he uttered the phrase "Why don't you go back to your country."

  Inside, immediately, neither of the two staff of the hotel on duty were able to assist, referring me to the Hotel Manager. An email within 90 minutes outlining the incident came back with an "out of office" and I would have to wait till Monday.

  The manager eventually responded, touting the multicultural element of the hotel and their supposed extensive training, but failed to address my complaint. I asked her to review and get back to me.

  A week has passed and not a peep from her. It's as though, the incident never occurred.

  And further on we go.

To Get The Message

  Another Saturday night at home.

  Again.

  My eye is sore. My foot is bleeding from a fall. My glasses are bent.

  Life is (almost) good.

  These are the challenges that age brings to writers.

  Some people learn the first time. Others, need to loose everything two...maybe three times, to get the message. 

Thank You, First Fans

  First Fans will be aware that the month of January has not been...favorable. Aside from the surgery, sleep has been hard to come by with the discomfort. When conjoined with Dad's health, it has not been a glamour start to the year.

  February does not appear to hold much in the way of glamour either, as the follow ups to the vision and surgery proceed.

  Here's hoping that these visionary issues can be resolved in a timely manner so I can get back to the writing and publication.

  For the First Fans, thank you. 

Christmas in Chesterfield Inlet, Again.

  Christmas in Chesterfield Inlet again.

  Away.

  From the troops.

  From the home.

  From all.

  Merry Christmas to the readers and the stalkers.

Demons, On Arrival

  Demons can come in all shapes and forms. For some, it's nightmares creating the sensation in their sleep. For others, it's a fear of depths

  For me, it's returning to a land that is unfamiliar. Unfamiliar as I still call the place my homeland.

  People I no longer recognize, places I no longer identify with, roads that did not exist. Feelings long swept away come rushing back with the only familiar demon I recognize.

  The water. The surf. The river. And the bay.

  168 hours is not enough.I shall need to return for less glorious reasons, but for this nightmare, 168 hours was more than enough time for the Demon On Arrival.

Demons, Awaiting the Arrival

  All writers abhor going home.

  For some, it's a case of not having achieved enough. For others, it's a case of facing the music on what they have achieved.

  For I, it's facing the demons.

  I have looked at photographs and not recognized my hometown. I have examined a map and not know locations. I have emailed others, to be greeted by non response.

  The demons are awaiting my arrival.