Not Your Toy, Not Your Victim.

Before I go any further in my story, it’s probably time for me to introduce my primary abuser, my Father.

Dad loved telling stories about himself, he rarely lied about what he went through, for the most part, and he was honestly just great at talking around the worst of his crimes.

I have decent idea about the major life events he endured, but it’s only in the last year that my mom has opened up about the abuse that she suffered, and the full story of how they met.

Now, the only hangup I have about telling his story, is that my mother is still alive. My relationship with her is complicated at best, but the last thing I want to do is doxx her, or expose private details that were not my business to share.

I will be exposing my father’s name, that will happen, but only once I understand the potential ramifications for my mother. So until I know this landscape more, I will be changing all of the names in my retelling except that of my fathers.

One of my major hopes with working towards healing as I learn about the horrific abuses in my life, is the ability to analyse my father’s crimes as coldly and clinically as I would any of the serial killers I’ve studied.

In pursuit of this, allow me to introduce Mark, son, father, brother, husband, and predator.

Mark was born around Christmas in 1962 to his parents, Janet and Joe, he was the youngest of 6 children. (Midwestern Mormon and Catholic parents, I swear)

Whatever was known of his early life and the dynamic between Mark’s parents is rarely spoken of in the family, largely because of how tragically short lived it was. I know they were involved in the mormon church, but that is about it.

At only 4, Joe died of a stroke, in a singular act of irony, it was likely the same thing that would eventually cause Mark’s death. A genetic chromosomal mutation that, when present, causes clotting at extremely heightened rate. For example, at my father’s death, the aorta above his heart had almost entirely clogged, which was significant.

It’s quite a fascinating thing, the phisicians who tried to help save my Dad said that they had never seen that before. All that to say, I’m not a doctor, please take me with many grains of salt.

Ahem.

Newly widowed with 6 children, Janet had little choice to get remarried, partially due to how restricted women in the time and community could be. It was also due to the financial challenges associated with having six children.

Am I harping on this? Yes! but Jesus Christ, that’s so many kids! and you know she had them young… No thank you.

Back to the story, this is when I introduce a gem of a man, Michael Michael.

From the beginning, I knew how horrid this man was, even though his appearance in Dad’s life was relatively short, it was devastating.

Mark was between four and nine while Michael Michael was married to Janet, and this is where you begin to see the cyclical nature of trauma begin to dig it’s claws into Mark.

Michael began to sexually abuse Janet’s three daughters.

My Aunts don’t tend to talk openly about their experiences, but it is still common knowledge in the family that they were all abused; physically, sexually, and emotionally.

Both my father and my Uncle have denied that they were sexually abused by their stepfather, so I will not speculate. It is still entirely possible that they witnessed the abuse many times over the years, and most certainly felt the impact of living in such a phisically and emotionally abusive home.

Now, this is the only point where I will mention that Michael Michael was Arabic. After several years, Michael allegedly began making preparations to bring Janet and all the children to the Middle East with him.

I don’t know the full story here, however, this entire relationship was the beginning of deep hatred of Arabic people that my parents strongly pushed on us as a children.

I will not deny the trauma of that situation, especially since we know that Michael was already an abusive man. No one should have to live through that, and seeing an abusive person begin to escalate their abuse has to be horrific.

That being said, there was no reason for anyone to hate Arabic or Middle Eastern people as a whole, especially not my parents. It is an excellent example of the black and white thinking that my father saw as the only truth and forced on the family.

As my current favorite podcast, Psychopedia, says frequently, we can feel sympathy for the small that is Mark, experiencing these horrible circumstances, without condoning their future actions.

Whatever the truth is with Michael Michael, it all stopped mattering when Mark was nine. Because if it wasn’t enough to have lost a parent and then have lived with an abusive man, Janet, his mother, died in a car accident.

I was recently told that Janet was driving while drunk when she crashed, but that is not verified, so suffice it to say that she died in this crash.

Michael exited stage right, in an unknown situation, and he will not come back, so that’s the little good that might have come of it.

The six children were broken up and placed into foster care.

From here, there’s quite a blurry timeline.

I know from my Father’s stories that he was a trouble maker throughout school.

This was during the time when it was allowed to hit kids in school, so I have a vivid memory of Dad describing the paddle he was hit with. It was a long, thick board with holes cut into it.

For completely unrelated reasons that we are not getting into right now, I know that a paddle with holes in it is made to cause more pain. The holes allow air to escape while approaching the target. This makes the impact to feel far more intense and painful for longer.

Mark was passed from foster home to foster home as he grew up, definitely removing any stability that might have allowed him to form secure bonds.

During this time, it’s highly suspected that Mark was molested by one of the people in a foster home, but little else is known.

We cannot deny that he went from trauma to trauma and faced things that would alter any child who experienced it.

However, he made a choice during this time that isn’t uncommon for children who have seen such violence. He perpetrated that same violence onto another. His victims were the young teenage daughters of his current foster parents.

When he was a young teen, he came home from school one day to find all his possesions on the front lawn of the foster family, and the door was blocked.

For the rest of his life, Dad maintained that he had no idea why he was kicked out. My Mother actually pointed to this as a reason why he couldn’t have abused us (Yeah, she did that. It was a tough start) because if he had done something, he would have admitted it while preparing to become the Bishop for our congregation.

Because, why would any man that God had chosen, lie?

Since his death, one of Mark’s sisters has confirmed that he was kicked out of that foster home because he sexually abused the teenage girls there.

My Aunt mentioned how concerned she was to take him in after hearing about that. She was worried about the issues he might cause while under her roof.

But, thankfully, things were calm… Or as calm as they could be with Mark.

I have a vivid memory of Dad taking us into the backhills when I was young. We opened some kind of time capsule that held a wad of dad’s tickets from when he was a teen/ young adult.

This wad was folded in half, but it was also at least two inches thick. Most of the tickets were for speeding, evading police, and DUI’s.

At the time, he really only joked about this, saying that was ‘what you did in Livingston; when you were bored back then.

Mark went to school with Mom’s sister, Lynn, and apparently, somehow, that is how he met my mother.

Mom was 16 when she met Dad, who was 19 at the time.

From the very beginning, he showed terrifying red flags, starting at grooming, and eventually leading to stalking when mom showed any interest in other men.

Dad had to be her everything, and by the time she was 17, he had proposed. They were married at 18, much to her parent’s dismay.

Unfortunately, Mom was raised by a narcissistic mother, so her idea of healthy relationships was already skewed from the beginning. Not to mention, she was only 16 when she met Mark, and her brain wasn’t prepared to cope with the love bombing and gaslighting that he was already an expert in dealing with.

At this point in Mark’s journey, he was anti-mormon, having felt that he was abandoned by the Mormon community as he was passed around after his parent’s death.

This was even more reason for my mother’s parents, who were devote Christian Reformists, to dislike this man, who was essentailly the devil to them.

Let’s all look at this with any form of rationality, do you see the toxic patterns happening?

If that doesn’t give you enough crimson to add to your picture of my father, here’s a few other facts I know from him. These are straight from my proud father’s mouuth, who told all of this with a throw away disclaimer, “The statute of Limitations has passed.”

Because that’s what you want to hear from a pillar of the community.

• Grand Theft Auto of a red sports car from a dealership… I think it was a Mustang? Either way, he then proceed to go on a police chase and crash the car into a pond.
  • What, does this immature idiot think he’s filming for the Duke’s of Hazard?
• Related to the above, he apparently got into frequent police chases that he was able to escape, even though the police knew him?
• Stealing a fire hydrant.
  • They don’t always have water pressure, so apparently he and a friend were able to loosen the bolts pretty easily? WTF even was the 70’s and 80’s?
• Trafficking drugs across country when he drove some kind of semi?
  • I don’t remember his exact job, but I think he was Truck Driver who was hired for a random load. He told a story where his coworker told him to just ignore it, but who knows what the truth of it is.
• Breaking into vacant buildings.
  • This seems weird, but there’s a lot of random Ghost Towns and vacant buildings in Montana, so from the stories I heard from my parents, trespassing was more of a normal teenage pastime than a red flad?

I can guarantee there are more, so I’ll update this if I find any more interesting ones!

Mark moved our family down to Arizona after he graduated from college with a degree in engineering. Completely separating Mom from her entire support network right as she was dealin with the challenges of mother for the first time.

Those times sounded deeply lonely and terrifying for my mother, though she always told the stories with a light laugh. As though she was simply remembering the good old times.

There were stories of her bringing my oldest brother to a playground at 7am, because that was the only time it was cool enough to be outside. Even then, the poor boy got a severe burn from a metal slide that required going to the hospital.

Mom was then pulled away from any friends or stability she had begun to find once more. I would have to verify the exact places that they lived during this time, but still, their small family was adrift for years, desperate for stability.

They landed in California for quite some time, where Mark worked for a Laser show company, and whatever other work he could find.

What my mother hasn’t told me has painted a much sadder picture than anything she has told me.

One situration stands out through all the moves,

My Mother ran through alleyways with all her children in tow late at night.

Her moves were urgent, adrenaline surging through every glance to the empty streets surrounding her. She was doing her best to not show the terror she was feeling as they ducked from shadows.

Of course she couldn’t show her true fear, after all, her kids were already scared, and one wrong move could tip them into panic. That would cause a scene…

And then she would be found.

My sister eventually remembered this situation with shock. At the time, Mom told her that they were hiding from a scary stranger.

It was only within the last year that our Mom told us that she has been running from our father. She was certain that if he found them, he would kill her.

But how can you explain that to your children? She wanted them to have the same amazing relationship she had with her father.

Mark could be controlling and terrifying, but he loved his kids. And… She hoped he loved her.

Eventually the family was moved once more to Idaho, where they would stay.

It was here that my Mother met Sister Missionaries from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

It was a lifeline. A place for peace, community, and the possibility of a forever family, all things that Mom was desperate to have.

The Church offered stability and forgiveness for her sins. Sins were something that my father had convinced my Mother she was absolutely riddled with.

So hadmy Grandmother. Mom had never been good enough in her family. My Grandmother, who is also still alive, but is also a dying narcissist, a flagerent racist, homophobic, and just… completely deluded.

Essentially, Mom had been taught her whole life that she was bad, a slut (words Dad frequently used), and just not enough in all the ways that they wanted.

So the LDS church’s principles of forgiveness resonated with her soul in a way that has altered her entire life. She is a devote member and still finds peace, hope, and community in it.

It was especially hard because the moment my mother made her final decision to join the church, her parents essentially disowned her. My father also fought her at every opportunity.

When she finally was able to go through the Temple, an essential steps for members of the LDS church to complete all rights required for salvation, my father would burn the sacred clothes she was given.

Stellar guy, right?

Well, remember, he had been ‘mistreated’ by his childhood congregation. And yes, it’s likely he was even abused consistently by multiple parties. However, at this point, he has long since begun to move from being just a victim, to a perpetrator.

Here, Dad cementes his control over the family. He has a well paying, long term career now, so he purchases land and builds a house.

When I say he builds that house, I’m not joking. If he were allowed to, he probably would have set it up all on his own. but he designed a majority of the house, with assistance from contractors and other engineers.

He was so proud that he designed the HVAC, most of the electrical, and the water system. Blah, blah, blah.

Yes, it is genuinely impressive, and it was his kingdom that he could rule.

This is as far as I will go today, because it establishes some of the red flags that we have found, and the childhood that helped formed my father and my family.

He was never diagnosed as such, however, through his actions, both remembered and repressed, we can be almost positive he was a narcissist. Among other things.

We can see the generational repercussions that can come from moments of extreme trauma, and now, what it can take to heal from it.

I have so much empathy for the children who had to survive becoming orphans and experience the worst parental trauma.

Trauma, mental health struggles, and other disabilities and never our fault, but they are our responsibility. Once we harm another, we are at fault.

Yes the world is nuanced, and every human deserves basic human respect. My father was failed, and he failed others in turn, as is the cycle, but we’re here to break these bonds.