With summer just around the corner, I’ve got plans to staying busy:
Hiking and gym time
Reading and writing
Spending time with grandkids
Swimming and relaxing in mid to late afternoons…
I DO hope to be back posting in the fall, for it will be a new school year of early rises and late nights, but ALL with a fresh start once again! ❤
One of my projects this summer is continuing my writing~
I’m in the early stages of writing a young adult realistic novel about a teenage girl who decides to finally let go of her fears and trust the path that has been open for her by one of her closest childhood friends, Angela Olsen.
There’s fragments of the heroine’s life that connect to my own real-life struggles and I feel that without these personal moments and events intertwined, my purpose for writing the book would be insignificant and mute.
“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.” ― Jim Morrison (The Doors)
The novel begins with a quick introduction to The Fords and fractions of their constant words of criticism towards their daughter, Celebrity. Growing up in a household where you’re conditioned to be anything but who you want to become, gives her a significant sense of worthlessness. Ridiculed by her family and sexually abused by an older brother, who in the eyes of his parents can do no wrong, sets the protagonist up for years of distorted views of society, and seeking the desperate affection and attention from anyone who will notice her…unfortunately winding up in the dangerous claws of a predator who (along with her parents and brother) had been grooming her for an unimaginable path of destruction.
Get ready to discover how Celebrity escapes the control of her unrelenting, dysfunctional, highly-conditional, negative world she was living in…
Quick Introduction to The Bio-Unit
“Everything that glitters is not gold.” ~Dan Seals
Looking from the outside in, life as a Ford might look lit, but in reality, it was anything from amazing. Yeah, sure we had the best of everything, but it didn’t come without a price-tag, and I’m not talking about the ones in retail.
Hi, my name’s Celebrity — “Celebrity Tudor Ford.” I’d like to share some pertinent background information about my biological parents; unfortunately they were my ONLY family unit. However, I’d like to add that I think I came out okay considering what I went through to get to this point. Although it’s been one heck of a nightmare, it’s all been beneficial to who I am. Like the great German philosopher, Nietzsche said, “That which does not kill us makes us stronger.”
My dad was a huge hot rod fanatic so my older brother, Kemp Carson, or “KC” for short (when being adored)—and I were subsequently equipped with nostalgic sentiments of his yesteryears; and btw, my name is about the only enduring thing that came from my father. If you turn to the glossary at the back of the book, you can reference the meanings behind the names. Also, notice in the first sentence, I referred to my dad in past tense as we no longer speak to one another.
Mom wasn’t as bad as dad about imprinting her favorite interests on our “certificate of birth,” however she tried her darndest when it came to choosing what was best for our own interests, even though I insisted in needing no help. I’ve given you a few quick examples, which I’ve underlined for the importance of their branded marks on my early childhood achievements, ones that started out to be fun and meaningful moments, but then (like all things), were also reminders that I just wasn’t good enough:
She put me in Daisies, then Brownies, and then onto Juniors. It’s true I enjoyed the camping trips and girl time with friends, but when I entered Middle School I wanted to give it up – I was into boys and that sort of organization was “girls only.” However, my mother pressed me about going into Cadets; this was the grown-up version of what GSOA–Girl Scouts of America labeled girls in their teens. She’d go on and on about how it’s been soooo good for me:
Mom: “Celebrity, I don’t know why you don’t go into Cadets, you’ve grown up in Girl Scouts and learned life skills that you wouldn’t have otherwise, and furthermore your achievements nearly fill your entire sash. I should know, I’ve spent the time sewing on all your badges and being scrupulous attaching your ceremony pins just right. Plus, I guess we could say you’ve made wonderful friendships. How can you just let all that go?”
Me: “Mom, I’ve grown out of Girl Scouts, it’s not for me anymore. Don’t worry, I’ll build onto my life skills, and achieve success in other things. Plus, I can still hold onto my wonderful friendships.”
Mom: “I wish I had been able to be a part of such an extraordinary club back in my day. You know, I never got the opportunity to join any organizations? You’ll be sorry later that you didn’t take advantage of this.”
Me: “I promise you that I will not be sorry about not going further into Girl Scouts. I’ll totally be okay without it, Mom.”
Mom: “Why can’t you be more like KC and see things through? After getting him signed up for Cubbies, he couldn’t wait to go onto enjoy Boy Scouts, where he earned his Eagle Scout–highest rank in which he beat out all the other scouts in his division. We’re very proud of his commitment to stick it out and finish through. Don’t you want to earn the recognition and respect of all your friends and family members?”
Okay, so there’s one brief instance that I was made to feel incomplete as if I wasn’t finishing something I had started. I beg to differ. I HAD tried the organization. In fact, I was in it for six years; that was half of my life at that point already! I’d say I did my time and I felt I was ready to now enjoy the freedom of “scouting out the boys” and looking forward to high school parties with my besties.
Another example would be dance. Mom put me into dance classes at the local studio when I was around three years old until I told her I was uninterested at the age of twelve and wanted to move on to other things of enthusiasm. It was only when I wanted to quit that she would tell me stories of how good I was, but added that if it wasn’t for the corrective braces that she and dad had purchased to put on my legs, I would have never gotten the chance to use my feet so creatively, let alone walk normal.
Mom: “Did you know that without dad’s help and mine, you’d still be walking pigeon-toed? Yup, you had to wear leg braces to keep from trippin’ up.”
Me: “Nope, I had no idea.” I had no recollection of having had braces on my legs, but I do recall seeing a faded Polaroid of a child wearing metal contraptions on her legs in a frilly dress once in mom’s forbidden ‘photo’ box in our downstairs laundry room.
Mom: “Yeah, before we got braces put on your legs you were tripping-up from sunrise to sunset. It was funny at first, but then your dad and I knew if you were going to be our little princess riding around in daddy’s prized Coupe and going to national roadster shows we needed to have you fixed!”
Mom: “Oh, how I wish you were still dancing, Brit. To see you prance around the house in your tutu and leotards was adorable. You going to let the cost of those braces go to waste? Dad and I work too hard to see you kids not enjoy the years of childhood. And you know–come to think of it, since quitting, you seem to be more klutzy these days. You won’t be able to have a career in modeling if you don’t stick to something that will keep you coordinated and fit.”
Me: “Really. I haven’t noticed.” I wanted to tell her that maybe it’s because dad was continually grabbing my waistline and harping on me to “suck it in.” And “better watch your curves or you’ll be sorry.” OR because Kemp thought it was cute to smack me on the butt and raise his eyebrows at me while he whistles like one a those buffoons working security at the mall. And as for having a career in modeling or being dad’s “pin-up poster dame,” not interested in the slightest.
I was never allowed to feel pretty in my body…I began to feel dirty as though I was contributing some way to the onslaught of negative remarks and harsh words from my family members and those on the outside. I didn’t realize the damage they were having until I was way deep in negative self-image.
Last brief example how evolving as a Ford was never really within my own grasps–Mom signed me up for softball. Not sure why she signed me up for sports, they never had the time to come and watch me let alone express their interest in me doing so.
Me: “Why don’t you and dad ever want to come and watch me play some ball?”
Mom: “You know we can’t come and watch you, Brit. We work every day of the week so that you and Kemp can enjoy the things your dad and I never had.”
Me: “But I’m not really that interested in playing softball. I’d rather play volleyball or basketball.”
Mom: “Oh, Brit – don’t be crazy. If you were about 5 inches or so taller, we’d sign you up in a heartbeat, but with your height, just be thankful that you had those braces and Uncle Tony’s athletic capabilities or you wouldn’t even be on a sports team.”
If it’s not already rough hearing the one who birthed me–my own flesh and blood telling me how personally defective I am, it’s being compared to others in the family who are perfect just the way they are. As long as I can remember, I have been compared to my older brother and many other family relatives, some of whom I’ve never even met. I was never allowed to feel as though I contributed to my own worth or talents without someone shattering them with how someone else’s good genes made their way into mine.
“Why can’t you get straight A’s like your brother?”
“Why don’t you want to play the piano like your Aunt Nancy, she was brilliant when it came to playing; she could teach you a thing or two.”
“Why do you have to wear so much makeup, Brit? Your cousin Trish only wears mascara and her skin is so amazingly flawless!”
Being compared to other people makes me feel totally inadequate. To tell you the truth, it pisses me off to high heaven. I think subconsciously I purposely try harder to be somebody that I’m not just to get back at them. If I felt closer to either one I could be honest and tell them how much it hurts. But that’s something else forbidden in the Ford household. The first time I can remember trying to tell my father how much it hurts to hear him tell me why I can’t be more like cousin Trisha, I ended up in my room for the day.
Me: “Dad, why do you and mom constantly compare me to Annie? It really hurts my feelings.”
Dad: “Oh, knock it off, Brit. Why would you say something stupid like that?”
Me: “I’m being serious. Mom tells me I shouldn’t wear makeup, because if I didn’t I’d have a beautiful complexion like Trisha. You tell me to lay off the junk food or I’ll look like cousin Chad and then Trish is going to be the only good looking relative to campaign for your roadster poster.”
Dad: “That’s absurd! I don’t want to hear anymore of your bullshit and complaining.”
Me: “I’m not complaining, I’m telling you how I feel.”
Dad: “Don’t talk back to me, young lady.”
Me: “Dad, I’m not talking back to you. I’m sharing my thoughts.”
Dad: “Go to your room, we’re through with this conversation. I don’t want to hear any more of your nonsense, Celebrity.”
My parents lived by (3) mottos:
- If I can hear you, you’re too loud.
- If I can see you, you better be accomplishing something worth doing.
- Don’t ask questions; just do as you’re told.
So, there you have it – a very small dose of living as a Ford on the inside, however there’s plenty more ceaseless moments between the following pages just waiting for your, “Oh my god,” and “They’re brutal,” and “I thought I had it bad.” But what I’m really after is the, “No way, I thought I was the only one,” and “I know exactly what she’s talking about,” and “I can’t be silent anymore!”
Remember when you began reading this chapter and I mentioned there was a price tag for everything, I’m not joking. If what you were doing wasn’t getting “dad and mom” Ford ahead in their lives, then your worth wasn’t much. But, the point of this story is not to make you feel sorry for me, or make ungodly connections; it’s to inform you that if you can relate to some of the hidden agenda documented here between these pages, then please consider talking with someone. If something doesn’t feel right, or it tugs at your intuition and leaves you prolonging your thinking–it’s worth writing down in a diary and telling someone you trust.
I’m dead serious, I was almost too late in telling someone, nearly cost me my life. Thank GOD, and I mean this in the Heavenly sense. If my closest friend, Angie, hadn’t invited me to go with her and her family to the Summer Festival that weekend, I might have stuck that butcher knife right between the “two cute moles” on each side of my belly button, the one’s my mother told me I must have gotten from Aunt Sheila–The Great.
I’m not sure how I made it out of the Ford’s grip, but I’m thankful nevertheless. I do wish our relationships could heal one day, but I think at this point it would take a miracle. After all, they didn’t raise me on an ounce of faith, but I suppose that’s a lot of why I’m here telling my story.
So find a quiet corner wherever you can, and get ready to discover how I escaped the control of my unrelenting, dysfunctional, highly-conditional, negative world I was living in…