Living Your  Resilient Life

Dr. Kristina Diener

"Yesterday's losers can become Tomorrow's Winners"

The summers weighed heavily in Los Angeles, the June skies blanketed by a grayish mist of molten lava smog. This was the usual testament to the first few weeks of June gloom, when the sterling skies refused to succumb to swelter, when the atmosphere clung to the final bit of spring. Today was no exception. Too bad we didn't have a sound proof home. The sounds of yelling, screaming, taunting, breaking plates, dishes, objects permeated the atmosphere. In my seven year old mind I wondered what was going to happen next. If my father wasn't tormenting my mother, he was harassing my sister, or me, or any other unfortunate soul he happened to encounter. "You're stupid and worthless! You'll never amount to anything! You never listened to a syllable I said!" he'd scream at me repeatedly.  He was on one of his raging warpaths again. I was worthless and stupid and he wished I'd drop dead. I was a loser, hopeless, worthless. We all were, but most especially me.

My sister was ten years older and ready to move out or run away as a result of the unabated physical and emotional abuse he inflicted upon her. I vowed to escape the moment it was legally possible. Ironically, in many families involving abuse alcohol or drugs are generally prevalent. This wasn't the case in my family where my parents didn't even drink coffee. I couldn't explain them. They were just who they were.

My mother's brother had just moved in with us the previous year. Doesn't that sound comforting? Not when you find out who he was. He'd made his previous residences as a guest of the state of New York, in such luxurious venues such as Sing Sing and Attica and Auburn. Have you ever heard of these joints? When he was released after 23 years due to a technicality, he had to go somewhere, right? So who else would have him? My parents decided out of filial loyalty to accommodate him, so they converted the rats den of a garage and housed him there, along with his menagerie of guns and ammunition and weapons and women. He absolutely thrived and made it his business to conduct himself in as much the same manner as he did behind bars; that is, he didn't change a bit. One of his new tricks was to kidnap drug dealers and hold them for ransom. No kidding. And of course, scamming welfare and food stamps. Anyway, while this was happening, my chronically mentally ill mother was neglecting us so terribly that the social workers and health department were making surprise appearances to our home in the affluent suburb of Hancock Park in Los Angeles, where monthly tuition to private schools cost more than the mortgage, so when you send your children to such exclusive academic institutions dressed in clothes with broken zippers, dilapidated shoes, filthy hair with cradle cap and no lunch, with a nine year old child weighing only 40 pounds, you're bound to be bombarded at some point by such individuals such as sympathetic social workers who may be concerned for not only the welfare of the child but the credibility of the family. It was 1969 and the Child Abuse Reporting Laws had recently been implemented. On numerous occasions the school would call and demand to talk to my mother, who actually denied who she was, claiming she was the maid or a secretary, if she answered the phone at all. Nevertheless, after a few forays into our repulsive home, with dirty laundry piled to the ceiling and our never bringing lunch to school the threat of removing us was apparent and voila: lunch was presented in colorful Barbie boxes and a new housekeeper named Mrs. Hill appeared like the snap of a hypnotists fingers. The social workers and the health department made a few more appearances and then evaporated, apparently satisfied with the progress. To this day I believe my mother only capitulated to these demands because if my father returned home and discovered us missing he would have hit the ceiling. After all, who would be his captive slaves? If it were only her she would have been relieved the burden of us.

Then one day in the summer of 1968 I met the man who would change my life and destiny forever, although this dramatic change would take years to perpetuate. I can only attribute this to the power of the mind and will. Reluctantly deciding that we needed to meet the East coast family, my father actually drove all of us to New York. My uncle, Milton Gurvitz, was a practicing clinical psychologist and became the source of my inspiration. Although I had only met him on that isolated occasion, his inspiration remained with me throughout the rest of my life, regardless of what happened in the ensuing years. It was in that moment that I'd decided to become a psychologist and I know I would do it regardless of what it took. His daughter, who was several years older then I, was also planning to become a psychologist. I found her to be quite understanding and kind and I wrote to her after we returned home. How very valuable her mentoring would have been to me if only she'd responded to my letters. Only years later did I learn that my father had thrown all my letters to her away.

In the summer of 1970, we moved to the San Fernando Valley in order to escape from the prohibitive tuition of private schools and enforced bussing, a proven system failure to this day. My grades were excellent in the private school system due to monitoring and more focused attention but the public "education" system was a disaster. Of course, this was because I was "worthless, stupid, a loser and would never amount to anything." In the 4^th grade I earned straight A's as a result of the attention from the teachers, and my father couldn't believe this was possible. "You're a worthless idiot! They must be giving these grades on a silver platter! You're too stupid to get these grades! And you never listen to a syllable I say!" As a result, he placed me in the local public school in spite of my pleas to remain in the private academic institution where I'd receive the attention and consideration I required. Absolutely not. As mentioned, "I was too stupid and worthless for a good school and I'd never amount to a hill of beans anyway."  At that point I simply stopped trying. Life was horrifying and hopeless. During the summer of 1972 my cousins got involved, insisting my parents help me because at the age of 12 I was already taking excessive amounts of drugs, smoking heavily and cutting classes. I was also quite malleable and involved with the wrong crowd because they seemed to accept me, especially since I helped supply them with drugs. I was also becoming extremely promiscuous, prompting the concerned teachers to complain to my mother, who would hear nothing about it. Nothing was wrong, of course. Shrinks were for "crazy people," and certainly we weren't crazy, not with a chronically mentally ill mother and a rageaholic father, no, absolutely nothing was wrong. The school was "full of communists," roared my father, predictably. Everybody was a communist if they didn't share his opinion of the world.  In any case, it was obvious I had no support or validation, and endured the same daily abuse in the form of the mantra: "Useless, stupid, worthless, a loser, never amount to anything and why don't you drop dead." Maybe it was all true. I was too unsophisticated at that time to realize how much of a loser my father really was. He was forced to give up his dream of music and toil as an engineer, married to someone he didn't love who dumped four daughters on him and not a single son. It didn't necessitate a PhD to realize he was a profoundly miserable individual and therefore, everyone else around him needed to be punished and miserable as well.

By the time I was 15 it was undeniable that I had already fallen through the proverbial cracks during the beginning of the semester of my first year of high school; in 1975 I overdosed on speed in one of my classes. I spent a week in intensive care on suicide watch. Naturally, nothing was wrong and if it was, all would soon rectify itself, right? Upon reflection, I realized I was taking speed because it helped me concentrate and learn better. With speed, I could focus and even sleep. My mother floated in and out during visiting hours but my father never materialized. He was angry and ashamed. I had embarrassed him and the family, my mother explained. Oh, I see. I'll try not to do it again. When the hospital released me, my father immediately reminded me of how stupid and worthless and what a loser I was and that it was surprise that I didn't drop dead. After this fiasco I quit school altogether without my parent's knowledge. I "went to school" but never to class, spending my time at friend's homes or hitchhiking around the city with two of my best friends. There seemed to be no reason to engage in productive behaviors and besides, I didn't want to give up the only people I had in my life. Without them, I was completely alone.

 During this time I completely succumbed to the wild nightlife and all things wanton and insouciant. I had no prospects, premises or principles. Worst of all, I had no future. I was18, a high school dropout and running around the country waiting tables and doing the best I could to hold it together. There seemed to be no end to the problems and trials and tribulations. Throughout this time the realization began dawning on me as I labored through an endless succession of ridiculous, menial, trivial, idiotic jobs to another: I was working for people younger and wealthier who were driving Beamers and Mercedes-Benzes and buying beautiful homes..... And they had families.... What was I doing besides a whole lot of nothing? But at the age of seven  I had burned it into my bran that I'd be a psychologist someday but I had no idea how to go about it and without a high school diploma or a GED it seemed impossible. "You never listened to a syllable I said!" roared my father, who demanded that I go to college but in the same breath insisting I was too stupid and worthless to do anything constructive because "I never listened to a syllable he said."

After spending several more years drifting I discovered a mentor who believed in me when nobody else did and introduced me to junior college. It was another of the best decisions I ever made. I spent several years working all day and attending night and weekend classes in order to earn all my credits. About six years into these laborious years I got married and my extremely supportive husband encouraged me when I wanted to give up. We have a beautiful daughter together. It was a protracted effort, but within 10 years I thought I was hallucinating when the dean of my graduating college announced, "Congratulations, Dr. Diener," upon awarding me my doctorate in clinical psychology. My uncle Milton congratulated me. "You're the only person in this horrible, dysfunctional family who escaped." My father responded, "Did you get that degree from a Cracker Jack box?" It was at that point that I walked into a courtroom and legally changed my name. Now I laugh at the people who warned me I'd be 40 when I finished my studies. I wasn't 40 -- I was 42 and finally a practicing clinical psychologist. When I look at the walls of my office that are plastered with three college degrees, numerous board certifications, including Spanish/English proficiency and accolades from various organizations I can laugh at the memory of my father and his insistence of "how worthless and useless and stupid he said I was and how I never listened to a syllable he said," and I can agree with him: you were absolutely right, dad, I never listened to a syllable you said.

 Kristina Diener is a clinical psychologist in Los Angeles and believes in the power of the mind and will in spite of tremendous obstacles. Contact her at kdienerpsyd@pacbell.net 
 

Andrea Bower Willard

The year 2001 changed many people's lives when the Twin Towers came crashing down and is still changing them today in the form of war zone Post-traumatic Stress Disorder or as some professionals call it Combat Stress as well as traumatic brain injuries.  The Kindred Hearts Foundation is made up of people who are spouses of active duty military members as well as prior service.  A couple of us understand firsthand how PTSD can affect not only the individual suffering with it but the family as well.  What most people do not realize is that the family suffers greatly too and more often than not have to be silent about their suffering because there is not much support for them.  We with The Kindred Hearts Foundation want to raise awareness and funds to help each military installation, regardless of branch, set up support groups for the families of the military member with PTSD so that the whole unit (family) can be treated and work together toward the same goal of helping their loved one recover.  PTSD, and TBI's can tear a family apart and we need the world to see that we can help them as well and keep the families together through properly supporting them while their loved one moves through all stages of their recovery.

 For more information and to receive updates on the upcoming event in June please email us at kindredheartsproject@live.com and we will be happy to answer questions and update you on our progress toward making our foundation a legit non-profit organization and help these wonderfully brave families to survive the rough patches they find themselves in.

From our families to yours, God bless and Thank You for your sacrifices as well!

Love The Kindred Hearts Foundation Team!
Marie Treloar
Glen Morris 
Nicole Fry

Melissa (Missy) Bradley, MS, NCC, BCETS, FAAETS 

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