Before we begin, I want to introduce you to my friend Donald Dempsey. Don is an inspirational individual who is a lemonade maker in my book. Life has thrown more lemons at Don than you and I can even imagine and yet he has taken each one and added some sugar and laughter and turned those bitter lemons into the biggest, sweetest, most refreshing pitcher of lemonade! It has been my honor and privilege to work with Don as he releases his memoir,
Betty's Child. There were chapters that were downright painful to read and I cannot believe that someone lived through such abuse and neglect and has become a funny, caring, and wonderful person. Since today is my birthday and this is my blog - I get to do anything I like, and I have a special treat for YOU (in this order):
Guest Post by Donald Dempsey Titled "Homecoming"
Rafflecopter Giveaway of
Betty's Child (#BCDempsey) by Donald Dempsey -
YOUR CHANCE TO WIN A SIGNED COPY!!!!!!
Photo of Donald and His Biography Information
ENJOY!!!!! (and please comment with your thoughts and ideas)
HOMECOMING
Guest Post by Donald Dempsey
Homecomings really suck when you’re
prone to bouts of melancholy. Some of my
fellow Marines had family waiting for them in Pearl Harbor,
but most of those had been officers, or a few enlisted guys willing to break
the bank just to get their eager paws on wives or girlfriends. Many more had loved ones waiting for them at
the docks in San Diego. I tried to feel good for them as they rushed
to embrace, attempting to ignore the gnawing in my gut. I was ashamed of my jealousy and went back
below decks for a few hours, allowing the crowd time to disperse before
disembarking.
But just about everyone had friends
and family waiting for them when our C-130’s dumped us on the runways back home
at Cherry Point, NC.
There were tears and hugs. Guys
swooped up their wives and spun them around.
Sobs were barely choked back as gruff Jarheads melted and scooped up
toddlers and scampering young children.
A screaming wife jolted a Corporal near me right off his feet. They just kept kissing one another atop his
duffel bag as if they were alone in a hotel room instead of sprawled out on a
crowded runway.
There were more people here than
I’d expected. I noticed a lot of
parents. The larger crowd was probably
due to the unexpected suicide barracks bombing.
We’d just returned from Beirut,
Lebanon. It was 1983.
The deaths of so many of our fellow Marines had affected us
profoundly. Some guy’s mother wrapped
him in a bear hug, sobbing and shaking as she held him. I could see that we hadn’t been the only ones
affected as I stepped around the relieved parents.
By the time I was back in the
barracks my depression was hanging over me like a shroud. I felt so alone. I threw the bags I’d been lugging into my
empty wall locker and contemplated my evening.
Sleep was out of the question.
Retrieving the rest of my gear meant crossing the tarmac and runway
again, negotiating the laughter and smiles and happiness. I decided to go pick up my mail instead,
since my post office box was in the opposite direction of the revelers.
Once outside I wished I’d dug out a
jacket. November wasn’t November in Hawaii or California. I decided I could stand it for such a short
distance and pushed on. There wasn’t as
much mail waiting for me as I’d thought there would be. Seven months was a long time. I’d had any letters forwarded, and paid my
few bills in advance, so most of what I dug through was junk mail. But one bill was repeated five times, and two
of them were stamped final notice before sale.
These caught my immediate attention.
Two hours later I was driving a
borrowed jeep well over the speed limit as I raced toward Columbus, Ohio. I drove on through the night, stopping only
for gas and junk food, my thoughts racing, contemplating what could have gone
wrong. That my mother would be involved
in my undoing was a surety. I just
couldn’t figure out how she’d stuck it to me this time. I’d paid for everything in advance just to
make sure nothing could go wrong. And
still, something had.
Memories bombarded me as I parted
the night. Try as I might I couldn’t
ward them off. My mother was nothing
like the woman I’d just witnessed shedding tears for the safe return of her
child. She had left us with relatives
and strangers so often my brothers and I had actually spent more time not with her than with her, especially
when she was incarcerated. But she’d
managed to do a lot of damage when she did have us, dragging in sordid men,
most of them drunks and substance abusers, some outright pedophiles. My childhood had been tougher than my current
stint overseas. For some reason that
just left me even more depressed.
As the sun broke I roused
myself. I’d been parked near the gate to
the storage facility. I watched an older
man in overalls and a thick jacket roll back the iron bars of the gate as I
stepped out of the jeep, my mouth full of chalk as I yawned. Pulling my field jacket closed, I trotted
across the street and followed him into the office as he unlocked the
door. Inside, he stepped behind a small
counter and tilted his frayed John Deere hat back as he eyed me.
“You in a hurry, young fella?” he
asked frankly.
I smiled slightly and nodded. “Yes, sir, I guess I am.” I held out the most recent bill I had. “I’m hoping you haven’t sold anything out of
this yet. I’d like to settle up and get
my stuff out.”
“You Army or Marine?” he asked as
he took my bill and pulled some reading glasses out of his pocket.
“Marine.”
He nodded and handed me back the
piece of paper. “Sorry, son, I can’t
help you.” He shook his head. “That lot’s been sold. We had an auction week before last.”
I didn’t understand. “What do you mean? I was here in May. I helped my mother store some stuff and paid
eight months in advance. There was a
nice lady here. She had a Shepard with
her and she was surprised he let me pet him.
I think the Dog’s name was Zeus.”
He peered at me over his glasses
and then pulled a thick book out from behind his counter. “My wife,” he mumbled as he rifled through
the pages. “And my dog,” he added. He
finally found what he was looking for.
He jabbed a page accusingly and said, “I remember her. Your mother came in last July. Some fella with her hauled away some
furniture and she wanted a smaller unit for what was left. She also demanded all the extra deposit money. Said she would make the payments instead.”
There was a plastic chair behind
me. I collapsed into it. “She didn’t make any payments, did she?” I
asked needlessly.
“Not a one,” he admitted. “We’re allowed to auction after 90 days. That’s right in the contract. We actually waited over 120 this time.”
I put my head in my hands and
rubbed at my eyes. “I was overseas,” I
mumbled.
After a long pause he finally said,
“I’m sorry, son. Her name was on the
contract. We had to give her the money.”
I looked up at him. “Is there anything left? Maybe we could check and I could pay the
balance?”
He actually looked ashamed. “Son, the people who buy our stuff operate
flea markets all over the Midwest. They’ll buy old underwear and paint over the
skid marks. I remember this lot. There were crates of baseball cards and a
bunch of art work.”
I felt sick. “Someone actually bought my art work?” He just nodded. “You wouldn’t remember who?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, son,” he repeated. “I remember it though. A lot of animal stuff.” He swallowed and removed his glasses. “You’re real good.”
I tried to give him a smile as I
rose, but there wasn’t one inside me.
All the old pain was roiling around, threatening to explode. I had to get out of here. I just nodded and left. He said something as I opened the door but
the deafening roar in my ears drowned out his words. I don’t remember getting behind the wheel of
the jeep. Don’t remember driving. I didn’t plan anything. I couldn’t think rationally.
But somehow I wound up on a
track. I ran cross country in high
school. I liked to go to the track late
at night. I would start in lane one and
run a lap, then switch to lane two. I’d
keep switching lanes all the way to six, run six again and work my way back down
to one. I normally stopped after
completing twelve laps in such a fashion.
I dropped my field jacket and began running without really thinking
about it, just trying to concentrate on the next lap, telling myself to keep
going and I’d be okay.
All I could think of were the hours
I’d spent laboring over my art. I’d won
competitions in high school. My stuff
had been on exhibit at the gallery over in Philly more than once. How many nights had I stayed up working on
that stuff to keep my mind off the darker thoughts? All the pen and inks, the charcoal works, pad
after pad of pencil sketches, gone. It
was as if someone had reached inside me and torn out some organ I had to have
in order to live.
I realized how ragged my breathing
was. The plumes of steam were erratic
and irregular. I felt like I was
staggering more than running. My grunts
sounded like choked back sobs. I didn’t
want to cry. Concentrating on the next
lap, I did my best to control my surging lungs and pushed on. As cold as it was, I wasn’t sweating much,
but my jeans swished and weighed me down a bit.
I tried to quiet my feet and keep moving forward.
I’d collected those baseball cards
all my childhood. Swapped them with
friends in the many various places I’d lived.
I’d had few constants in my life.
But those cards and the players I’d idolized had always been there for
me. How many hours? I’d traded so many good cards to put together
complete sets of 1975 and 1976 Cincinnati Reds.
I’d even gotten many of them signed during YMCA trips to games they
scheduled for us underprivileged kids.
While my idiot friends had ran the bases I’d wrangled signatures out of
Bench, Morgan, and even Rose. Losing the
possessions you prize above all else was proving too much to bear.
I don’t think I finished that
set. I remember sitting in the jeep, my
face shoved into my field jacket as I screamed and growled and cried. Thinking back, I’m not exactly sure what
those tears were shed for. The art
work? The baseball cards? The torment of a childhood I couldn’t seem to
escape? The stress of Beirut and the guys we’d left behind? I’m not sure.
Maybe it was nothing more than my mother had won again. I was hurting and she was off doing what she
did best, taking care of herself.
By the time I was back at Cherry
Point I’d put myself back together, at least as together as I ever was back
then. I would never talk about the art
work or the cards. Marines can be a
might insensitive when it comes to crying, or admitting pain. It wasn’t the first time my mother or some
man she was running with had knocked me to my knees. It also wouldn’t be the last time. And my younger brothers were still with her. I had to do something to help them. I promised myself I would.
Now, so many years later, I’ve come
to terms with most of those old emotions.
I’ve learned what I can dwell on and what I can’t. My mother doesn’t win anymore. I still think about those baseball
cards. I still wish I had all my old art
work. They’re pieces of myself I lost
and can never get back, but they were only things. Learning to cope with pain and loss made me
who I am today. It was necessary.
And you can find me at the track a
few times a week, running one to six, and six back to one.
About the Author:
 |
| Don Dempsey with son, Gavin |
Don Dempsey experienced childhood abuse and neglect first hand, but went on to have a fulfilling family life as an adult and to own his own business. "If you're lucky, you make it to adulthood in one piece," says Don. "But there's no guarantee the rest of your life is going to be any better. Abused kids are often plagued by fear and insecurity. They battle depression and have trouble with relationships. In the worst cases, abused children perpetuate the cycle." But Don is living proof that you can overcome a childhood of abuse and neglect. "You start by letting go of as much of the guilt (yes, abused kids feel guilty) and as many of the bad memories as possible. At the same time, you hold on to the things that helped you survive. For me, it was the belief that you can make life better by working at it and earning it. It helps to have a sense of humor, too."
Find out more about the author by visiting him online:
Betty's Child website: www.BettysChild.com
Donald Dempsey Facebook:www.facebook.com/donald.dempsey.3
About the Memoir:
In the tradition of Frank McCourt and Angela's Ashes, Don Dempsey uses Betty's Child to tell the story of life with a cruel and neglectful mother, his mother's abusive boyfriends, a dangerous local thug who wants twelve-year-old Donny to burglarize homes and deal drugs, and hypocritical church leaders who want to save young Donny's soul but ignore threats to his physical well-being. In a world where it’s "fight or flight" at every turn, Donny uses his street smarts and sense of humor to guide him. He usually makes the right choice, but whenever he makes a wrong move, he pays the price. Some of his experiences will make you recoil in horror, but you'll want to keep reading because Dempsey manages to maintain a sense of humor while sharing the gritty details of his story. In the end, Donny does everything he can to take care of himself and his younger brothers, but with each new development, the present becomes more fraught with peril—and the future more uncertain.
"Heartrending and humorous. In scene after vivid scene, Dempsey presents his inspiring true story with accomplished style. Dempsey's discipline as a writer lends the real-life tale the feel of a fictional page-turner." ~ Kirkus
Paperback: 438 pages
Publisher: Dream of Things (March 26, 2013)
ISBN: 0988439018
ISBN-13: 978-0988439016
Twitter hashtag: #BCDempsey
Betty's Child is available at Amazon.
Crystal's Book Review:
I feel strongly that even someone with a difficult background can change their path. Often times it's difficult and takes the help of someone who cares, but I've just never bought into the victim mentality of "I was abused so I'm going to be an abuser when I grow up". Maybe that's what drew me to Donald Dempsey's memoir Betty's Child. I'm not going to lie; some parts were difficult to read. As a parent I hug my children tighter after reading Dempsey's story of a neglectful childhood with a cruel mother. I became so absorbed in his story that I would have crawled right into the book if I could have; I just wanted to hold that little boy and tell him that I loved him.
Dempsey's sense of humor really pushed me through the tough chapters. I'm sure that same sense of humor is what got him through those tough years. I would recommend this book to others because it really is a testament to where you can go in life if you put your mind to it and put a little laughter into things. Dempsey has a good family life and a successful career. Things could very easily have turned out much differently for him. It's great that he can share his story with others. Betty's Child is very inspirational and a book I will keep on my shelf to read again and share with others.
May your paths be abundantly filled with lemons, sugar, sunshine, and so much laughter that your sides hurt!
~Crystal
