WRITER’S CAVEAT: This letter has not been edited since it was written, and more than likely, as it deals with a very painful twelve year period of my life after which my mother betrayed me and tossed me aside in favor of her daughter and ‘family’ lawyer, granddaughter, named after her. No apologies are made for misplaced or missing commas, excessive use of the words have, had, that, or overused exclamation marks.

Dear Friend,
since your comment the other day during our conversation at McDonald’s, I’ve been thinking. This letter would not have been written, were it not for the comment my mother, Christina, made to you that I had taken twenty-five thousand dollars out of her bank account. At first, it was the $25,000.00 question I felt I needed to defend myself against, but then, so many memories came up and I realized, I’ve never written about how the death of my father changed my life. This is the untold story of how I met Section 8, if you will be so kind as to read, I think you will have a better understanding of the situation at hand as I approach the third eviction since his death, all three under the eye of Section 8, who hold their positions only to hold their positions. Like so many government “free” or “low cost” services, they serve their own needs first.

Upon arrival in the United States, my mother told me we were going to be poor, and I had no reason not to doubt her. She was, after all, my mother. To my surprise, my mother, who cut off my allowance when I began working three jobs by age eleven, expected me to pay my own college fees. Because of previous poor credit, when he retired in 1966, and we moved to Aurora, Colorado, my father had our telephone installed under Mother’s name, Christina Hedwig Mayer. This established the credit a woman who had never seriously worked a day in her life, upon which she later built her empire.

Everything else followed, and once she became the secondary bread winner, and was sure to outlive my father, (who was twenty-three years older than she), all insurance policies and investments were made in her name. He left everything to her, except for a his favorite yellow sweater, which I inherited — and a clothes brush with which to keep it tidy. She’s forgotten, it was my father, George James Mayer, the decorated U.S. WWI Veteran who extended his hand to lift her out of the rubble of bombed out war torn Berlin. My father was her Savior, and for this reason, she did not need a Father, nor did she feel a need for God. He was her god.

In 1989, I was renting a 400 square foot house above a two car garage in Silverlake, with just enough room for me to slide my car in between the landlord’s hoarding nest. The house was a dump. Over the year, I renovated the house beautifully at my expense. With the landlord’s approval, I laid a professional brick patio and a six-foot tall, fifteen foot long wooden fence and gate. The landlord, who lived in the main house at the top of the hill, responded by raising my rent by $250.00 a month, and taking away my garage privilege. During a phone conversation, I was telling my mother how I had two choices; pay the exuberant rent, or move. She responded by saying, “I am tired of you moving all the time. It’s time you get into a place of your own.” Well, that is more easily said than done on a teacher’s salary.

Mother had planted the seed. I told her, getting a place of my own would take money. I explained that I had an $8,000 tax return, and $3,000 in savings. Until my father’s death in 1998, I had always been kept completely in the dark as to my parents’ finances. Once a month my father paid bills, but he never invited me in to explain what he was doing. All finances were kept very secret. Then, she offered me $10,000 toward the down payment of a home of my own. Never had she or my father ever spent any money on me for anything but early ski and swim lessons and as I later figured out, ski tickets were much cheaper than a babysitter.

After doing research we spoke again, and I tried to explain, L.A. real estate prices cannot be compared to those in Aurora, Colorado. She added another $5,000.00 to her offer, to which I said something like, “that won’t make any difference.” My partner at the time, Wing, then convinced me, if I was going to get into a home, I had to talk her into coming up with more cash. When it finally came down to brass tacks, she (and my father, I assume) had upped their offer to 10, then 15, 20, then $25,000.00. I was stunned that my parents even had that much money. Had I known anything about their true financial status, I would have insisted that she double that amount. Not one to waste time listening, this $25,000 figure undoubtedly stuck in Mother’s head. Over the years, she’s conveniently mixed it in with another memory to suit her beliefs. I can only say, my father never lied to me, nor did Mother’s friend Britta. Mother is a different pack of lies.

With all funds together, I was still $9,000.00 short of a down payment for a simple $170.000 dollar house in Highland Park. After thinking that I had forced my mother to extend herself financially beyond her comfort zone, I dared not ask, and put the dream of homeownership out of mind. Then my friend Wing stepped up and offered to invest. We wrote out a contract, and had it notarized, (which later in court proved unworthy of the paper it was printed on.) At closing in 1991, Alan Goetschkes (that was my legal name then), Christina and George Mayer, and Wing Kwan Leung took possession of 5917 Hayes Avenue, Highland Park, as tenants in common.

At the time, I had NO IDEA that my parents (in the effort to save money, and probably convinced by sister Sonja to do so), had instilled sister Sonja as Executor to my parents’ Last Will and Testament. In spite of telling my mother this was unethical, she may as well castrate me, she has consistently told me to stay out of her (it isn’t my family) business. And now, she has turned the septor over to her granddaughter, Lauren. Lauren, since birth, has been indoctrinated to hate me by her atheist mother, sister Sonja.

Wing, later, after the death of my father and the drama he was consequently put through, took advantage of my vulnerability, and sold the house (I had invested four years full time after teaching refurbishing) from under my feet while I was tending to my Aunt Ulli in Germany. I returned to California to be evicted. Before I knew it, Wing had quite literally thrown all of my possessions into the closest, most expensive storage unit he could find. Later this storage unit was broken into from inside, and nearly all of my possessions were stolen, my childhood photo albums, $8,000.00 worth of CD’s and electronics, and most of my expensive clothes.

On Halloween night he evicted me from the triplex I had spent four years building (after my professional teaching day had come to an end.) At a total loss at what to do, and broke, I slept on a board in the crawl space under my unit for three weeks. Each night, his henchmen climbed the stairs over my head to be sure I was not in my apartment. Boy, were they stupid! After they left, I’d do upstairs and take a bath in my special order tub I had installed twelve years earlier. This, after five weeks of court proceedings, which ran up my debts; debts I could not afford to repay without my teaching income. Five days a week, every day I drove to court in what became an endless case in which perjuring witnesses put me out of my house.

When my mother refused to fly in, her friend Britta called her and told her, “the difference between you and me is when my kids need me, I am there for them. Your son needs you now. Turn on the water, throw your cats in the tub, and get your ass to California right now!” Christina chose not to inconvenience herself, saying she could not leave her cat alone. She had been through; fascism, bombing, war, then fifty-six years later, the loss of her husband. Britta flew in as my witness, in spite of the fact she hadn’t witnessed anything but his lies. I charged her flight and hotel room to my credit cards. Generously, she paid the rest, as she always has.

In court, I stumbled twice on my way up to the stand. Wing’s attorney used this against me, instead of recognizing my dis-ability as PTSD, insinuating I was under the influence of numerous substances, when in truth, I was not even smoking canabis. I was however, under the influence of Christina, George, Sonja, and Lauren, and had been for a lifetime, as I had been since our first (and last) family therapy session in 1967 at North Junior High School when, after one session, Mother Christina refused to continue.

In less than three years, I had lost fourteen loved ones by August 11, 2001, culminating with the loss of my dog exactly one month before 9/11/01. My lawyer did nothing but stroke his ego, take my money, and lose both of my houses; the one on Hayes (which we had rented out to a teacher friend of ours for over a decade, and the house in Silverlake, which I spent four years building while living on the construction site, and later cared for an additional ten years. My mistake was to sign my house over to Wing when I stopped having an income. I thought we were both pulling on the same rope. We were — in his direction.

Meanwhile, my financial troubles continued. I called and asked Mother if she would help me pay a monthly $80 insurance payment. She reminded me I had chosen to move to California; and she was not going to help. I needed to make it on my own. I did not make the insurance payment, and three days later, I was struck by a first grade teacher in a car running a red light. She threw me into a third car, scraping my brand new black Honda Accord EX front to back, left and right. For two years, I continued to drive a brand new beautiful wreck. It took me two years waiting for, and in court and cost me $26,000 to prove the fault lay in the woman driver. Eventually I ‘won’ the case, and received an insurance payoff of $5,000, but there was a catch. I had to split it with the third vehicle owner. That case continued from 1985 through 1987, leaving me a broken man, once again.

In 1998, sister Sonja talked our parents into moving to Pittsburgh, where they purchased a first floor apartment five minutes from her private swimming pool. Within three weeks, real estate broker Sonja had painted the house I was partially raised in. She had a new roof installed, and listed the property with her firm. Along with family friends, she packed and moved Mother Christina’s Meissen and royal Hutschenreuther museum pieces, across country to Pittsburgh. Not one family friend, not even Britta called me, to tell me what was going on. Had I not been excluded in the decision making process, I would have suggested my parents add another bedroom and bathroom to the ground floor of their home to accommodate my father’s needs, or perhaps get another place in Aurora, without stairs.

Out of the clear blue, I then received Christina’s lovely yearly Christmas card, telling me,”Dad and I have moved to Pittsburgh and we’d love to see you in our new home.” Something told me this might be my father’s last Christmas, so I bit my tongue, and flew to Pittsburgh to spend what was my father’s last Christmas with him. In the move, my sister had tossed away my father’s office, his desk and chair, books, typewriter, address book, papers, pens, envelopes, stamps and pencils. Everything that kept him alive, she tossed in the trash. Britta says, she watched them pull my 103 year old father out of his home of thirty-two years, “kicking and screaming.” God only knows, at that point, he may even have been calling for Alan. I have the last letter he ever wrote me, “I am in a prison here,” he scratched in pen.

As a real estate broker, Sonja earned 3% of the $198,000 listing in Colorado, and another 3% on the $240,000.00 purchase of the apartment in Pittsburgh. When I visited that Christmas my mother told me, “Sonja drops by for five minutes on her way with one friend or another, but she never spends time with me, and Lauren never stops in at all.” That’s evidently why I had been invited; to fill the void Sonja, five minutes away, had created. “What did you expect?” I asked Mother Dearest. She was expecting them to spend their free time with her, like a friend. Sonja and Lauren didn’t didn’t want a friend. Sonja wanted to impress her friends, make them think she comes from money, and presenting her mother as Countess did just that.

For years, Sonja had introduced her mother to friends as the Countess, and being coal miners, her Pittsburgh friends bought into the lie. My mother is not one to put on heirs. Sonja is. Christina laughed it off, and made jokes about it, even denied it to Sonja’s friends, but that made Sonja’s friends buy into the lie even more, thinking my mother was merely being modest, (as they spoke German behind everyone’s back.) Sonja is a master at manipulating people’s minds through the use of language and poison.

Within eight months of that last Christmas, I received a late night collect phone call from an operator in Sewickley, Pennsylvania. “Sonja is calling collect for Alan Goetschkes,” (that was my name) said the operator. Having never spoken to my sister ever on the telephone, (except for when she visits Mother and answers the phone for her), I asked the operator, “Sonja who?” Meekly, Sonja spoke up, “Sonja Bayly.” “I’m sorry?” I asked.” The operator repeated herself, “Sonja Bayly is calling collect,” she said. “Why would Sonja Bayly be calling me collect?” I asked the operator. “I’m in the hospital,” said Sonja. My immediate thought was that she had been in a skiing accident and needed my help. I knew she was a volunteer on the ski patrol, thus providing her and her family with free skiing, all season. I accepted the call. “Dad is in the hospital,” she said.

Wing dropped me off at the airport in Burbank. When I arrived in the Pitts the following morning around 6 a.m., I immediately knew my father was already dead. Last I had seen him, he was healthy and still ambulatory, though with a walker. When I found out he had been in the hospital for twenty four hours, I asked why I had not been notified earlier. Sonja said, “we didn’t want to worry you.” It was obvious Sonja had deliberately kept me out of the picture as long as possible. In the middle of the night, my father had choked on his own vomit.

He simply could no longer swallow Christina, Sonja, and Lauren and slipped out quietly via the “till death do us part” clause. Mr. George Bayly drove us directly to the morgue, where no one wanted to see Dad’s body on the gurney, except I. I told the mortician I wanted to see him. My father looked so peaceful, I cried, caressed his soft, fine white hair, and through my tears, asked over and again, “why? why? why?” Five minutes later, I came out. “He’s at peace,” I said. Suddenly, Christina, Sonja, and Lauren wanted to see him, and they did, one at a time.

Then George Bayly drove us all in his big white company Chevrolet to a very un-comfortable breakfast in a restaurant overlooking the muddy waters of the beautiful smoggy Pittsburgh smogline. As always, my Mother picked up the tab and tipped generously. When Sonja and George dropped my mother and me off at mother’s car, she gave us both a piercing look that could have killed. “Did you see that look?” I asked my mother, holding her hand. “Yes,” she said. I quote Mother: “I don’t believe it. Get me out of here, back to Colorado as soon as you can!” she said. We went inside, and then Christina proceeded to fall apart like a wet noodle, sobbing endlessly for days at her loss.

Mother and I spent the next few days alone, walking to the stationers to have cards made, calling moving companies, preparing the unit for vacancy, getting estimates over the phone, speaking with in home estimators, realtors, car transport companies, etc. Three days after the breakfast incident, Sonja had settled down, and came over in her black SUV with the tinted windows, and stayed five minutes. For the first time, it seemed to me, Sonja had seen me in a position of power within the family, and this she saw as a threat, not that she hadn’t already seem me as a threat. The following day, nineteen-year old daughter Lauren came over, and I proceeded to tell her the story of her grandparents’ childhoods, how they were brought together from two separate worlds.

Lauren accused me of lying, when eventually the discussion turned to the (numerous abusive) foster homes I was sent into. For the first time ever, I heard my mother say, “any good mother doesn’t give up her children to foster homes.” Indoctrinated against me since birth, only child Lauren got more angry, stood up, yelled at me, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” three times, and ran out the door, slamming it behind her, at which time my mother fell apart again, and returned to her endless sobbing.

I have never seen or heard from my niece again until she called the police to have me removed from my parental home this past (day before) Thanksgiving. Only once before had I seen my niece Lauren, for an afternoon in my parents’ garden, when she was six. I didn’t even receive a birth announcement when she entered the world. When my mother’s tongue slipped to reveal that I had a year old niece, I sent Lauren a beautiful Raggedy Ann doll. Years later, when I told Mother that I never even received a thank you note for the doll (or even the thought), she explained to me that sister Sonja had said, ‘if he has to be thanked for giving something, he shouldn’t give it.”

After day three, Sonja, and her husband George Bayly came over, and everyone lingered. The only decisions anyone was making was what we were going to eat and drink, fois de gras, paté, brie, wine. For years, my father had shown me where he kept his red folio entitled, “When Death Comes.” For three days the folio lay there until I decided it was I, as sole male Mayer heir, (newly renamed legally as Alan Mayer) just two years earlier, who had to take the bull by the horns and move forward. I was STUNNED when, for the first time in my life, I was able to take a look at my parents’ finances. My father had listed everything meticulously. George and Christina (by right of marriage) had been receiving Social Security to the amount of $3,600 a month — cleared.

When my father died, Christina’s payment went down to $2,400. If she had remarried, it would have gone down to $1,200.00. My parents had over $250,000,00 in CD accounts, I forget how much Mercantile stock (part of my mother’s benefits as buyer of the company for 25 years), a fully paid house (with zero down payment and mortgage installments of $132 a month on the G.I. Bill paid off in 1996), zero debt, and not a penny insurance on a couple hundred thousand dollars worth of museum piece antiques and jewelry, not even a list of the numerous possessions she had bought in 1945 on the black market in Berlin for a couple cartons of Dad’s un-smoked Lucky Strikes. Christina never had a car payment in her life, showing up at dealerships, negotiating cash purchases of all her cars over the years.

After the movers lost several items in the move to Pittsburgh, I insisted my mother needed to list and value her possessions, something she had never done before (after moving her furnishings from Alaska to Newfoundland to Morocco to Germany to Aurora, in fourteen moves around three continents. That night, she showed me and explained to me the history behind every piece she owned, as I documented everything on my computer. Listing her jewelry alone filled four pages; 12 font, single spaced. Her collection of 44 vases took another two pages.

I began placing the calls that were necessary to fulfill my mother’s wish; to move her back to Colorado. With every call, there were decisions to be made, questions to be answered, credit card numbers to be looked up, this or that, black or white, insured or not insured? Christina found it very hard to make any decisions at all, and kept telling me, “do whatever you think best”.

I reminded her if I was to do what I thought best, she would have to accept the decisions I made, and release me from any responsibility. Upon suggestion by her (new) neighbor friend, we examined a power of attorney, told her it would alleviate her from having to make these decisions, if she would trust me. We went to her bank, and arranged a power of attorney in the interest of returning her to Colorado. Letting go of control for the first time in her life was the price it would cost her.

Then, upon giving her credit card number, a representative, thinking I was Christian H. Mayer, made a comment about my $100,000,00 credit limit. I was flabbergasted! That afternoon, I arranged for us to meet with the realtor, and with my (expired) Colorado real estate license, I suggested putting the apartment on the market for $160,000 more than the $240,000 she had paid for it. My mother said no one would pay that. I disagreed, told her buyers like to bargain down, and what did she have to lose? I talked her into it, and to our amazement, the first elderly couple to look at the unit made an immediate offer at the asking price of $400,000.00.

I felt like I had finally done something to redeem myself, to pay back all those diapers Christina had to buy and have my Fatima change, and that $25,000.00 contribution to The Administrator’s Education Fund (after I put Wing through his Administrative Credentialing Program) we were about to make in Wing’s name. I had helped to make a substantial profit for my “poor” mother, $160,000 profit – in eight months – tax free! But why remember that — it’s in her palace.

I handled the real estate transactions for Christina, as I passed her another glass of wine. I handled the movers and oversaw the packing of her pieces (minus the few Sonja had gleaned since downsizing in the move to Pittsburgh). Without losing or breaking any items, as had occurred on the move to Pittsburgh, I reversed the spell cast eight months previous, and I did it for $500 less than Sonja. I had Mother’s Toyota Camry returned to Colorado for a little more than half what her daughter had her pay, and I was able to have her discarded hand-carved Moroccan table delivered to my door in Silverlake at no additional expense.

Then I booked flights, and arranged for us to move in temporarily with her friend Ruthie in her 1908 Craftsman home in Denver. We recuperated, and I began the research online to find a realtor. He turned out to be a handsome guy my age who may have been gay and thought I was some crazed person when I told him what had brought me (and my mother) into his office. I felt like a miserable failure in his presence, doomed like my German cousin to be forever under my mother’s thumb. Having never been included in any financial affairs, I felt rather uncomfortable handling so much money, knowing there was nothing in it for me to benefit from. In all the years my father paid the bills, in his study, which had once been my bedroom, never once had he ever show me what he was doing.

When I was twelve, I started earning a regular income from my morning paper route. 365 days a year, for over three years, I delivered the Rocky Mountain News on my bike, in dark and snow and blizzards. In addition, I took care of three neighbor’s yards all summer long for three summers. For two, I shoveled snow from the walks after my paper route or school. I loved getting out of Mother’s love-ly house. This regular employment, and pocket money, stopped when Sonja needed more privacy, and I was sent away into a foster home.

By fourteen, I had accrued a balance in my savings account of $1,750, paid for my own ski transportation and tickets, and had a fabulous wardrobe and a cool watch. My father thought that getting me a checking account would teach me how to be responsible. He failed to recognize though, after transferring to numerous schools over the years, I had never learned my times tables, nor had I learned how to divide properly. Already, I was treading water just to get by and try to fit in. In Europe I spent a thousand dollars traveling to major capitals. When I returned to the States, I spent the balance on a 1968 Ford Mustang convertible which I bought form a handsome young lawyer named John Licht — who helped me change my name to Goetschkes — for twenty-nine years.

No counselor ever took me aside and tested me when I entered a new school – a major flaw in our system I wish to correct. No one ever questioned anything. In spite of my parents’ age differences, our ‘family’ looked so normal. I truly was The One Child Left Behind; a title for “The Voice Within”? One school after another, I entered and exited, without anyone ever testing my abilities until my story “Thomasina Smith’s Algebra Class,” (check my post on this blog from last year). I attended the finest schools the world had to offer, the U.S. Department of Defense schools in Europe. It wasn’t until I took the NTE and the C-Best, that I learned my times tables, then forgot them again once I had passed the tests.

When I was almost thirteen, my father took me to his bank to open a savings (and a checking account with my first photo ID). For two years, he had been putting me behind the wheel of his big Pontiac Star Chief, teaching me how to drive, park, stop, turn, anticipate the actions of the driver ahead. He made it very difficult for me to function on roads where I seem to be the only one who received such lessons. It began when Sonja was sixteen, and he started preparing her for her license. I was nine. When her lessons were over, I cried out from the back seat (my spot in life within the Mayer family) “My turn! My turn!” My father lovingly propped me up on two phone books, turned the motor off, and showed me how to start the ignition. How many people can say they have such wonderful memories of their father, or any man in their childhood? He really was, a true grandfather. I never had a father. There, I’ve said it! “I had a loving grandfather who was 61 years my senior who, after four girls, had no idea what to do with a boy.”

I’ve spoken of the conversation in the garden between Mother, Britta, and myself when I was twelve, in which I was told my mother wanted to abort me. And I’ve spoken of the memory standing at my father’s garage door and asking him why I was born. He replied with alacrity, “you were born to take care of your mother, in case anything should ever happen to your sister.” I took his remarks at face value. In a different blog, I will comment on how this has affected my life, and how The Fall of The Berlin Wall and the Iron Curtain gave me hope for my family, though it was completely unwarranted.

My father never drank. He never smoked. He never swore okay, well dadgumit and Pschau! He never beat me. He never spanked me. He never abused me in any way, and he loved me unconditionally. As I look back, his mission for his only son was to make me as independent as possible of my mother so that I could lead a functional life as a productive, democratic member of his country. And he might have succeeded, but he never could dispel the fear a person carries for a lifetime, after the experience of war. He trusted in the good stewardship of his wife. She had self-sacrificed for years to serve his every need to the very end, but he did not anticipate the love of power that would keep Christina from experiencing the power of love. Unless someone hits her several times over the head with a ton of bricks, she never will see how her choices to keep her two children at distance have created her plaguing lifetime experience of insomnia. Since 1966, I believe my mother has slept well a total of a dozen times. This is where the fourth step enters into the picture. I have allowed this behavior. And now, like the pollywog who must jump into the pool, I must correct it, if only in my own mind.

Fast forward thirty-two years. Dad is gone. I booked a flight for Mother and I, to visit her pseudo-daughter Britta in Reno, who had been inviting my mother for twenty years to tour Napa. We stayed with Britta a week, mother inside, I outside in the camper. We rented a car, toured Napa, spent a day on Lake Tahoe, then spent the night in a motel in Tahoe. The next day, we drove to San Francisco, where we spent two days touring the whole city, eating well, all of course, at my parents’ expense. I was penniless. We drove down the coast, toured the Monterrey Aquarium, Hearst Castle, and spent the night at a beautiful spot overlooking the Pacific at Ragged Point, where over a fabulous dinner my mother shared with me her life experiences from the day she met my father through her career. That night, she slept like a baby, while I spent half the night watching the boats and ships cross the horizon, asking why.

In the car, I was in control of the music, the air conditioning, the environment. By Monterrey, my mother felt she wanted to drive. I thought it was good to let her feel capable again, so I handed her the wheel. She gave gas and the car lunged forward, throwing the cooler in the back seat onto the floor, with all of the water, and few pieces of ice that hadn’t melted. I laughed, and she did too, realizing how unimportant it was. I don’t remember the conversation, but it was a most loving exchange, as we soaked up the mess, restored the cooler to it’s upright position, and I got behind the wheel again to drive the rest of the way to L.A.. My father was in the cab with us, lovingly reminding me to keep my eye on the car ahead of the car ahead of me, and to turn on my blinker 200 feet before making my move. I felt him. Mummy didn’t.

In L.A., I put Mummy up in our triplex. I had been cast as the lead in “Outrageous,” a show which was to be filmed that week, with Kate Chilton as my co-star. In the last of my 56 credits I was ever to film, I actually got my mother to attend the set. The director sought Christina out, even gave her a small part, her first appearance on television. Dad had been on television in the 1950’s, discussing his work with The Marshall Plan, while Mummy was healing in her front yard, the Mediterranean Ocean, with me, her daughter, and my Fatima.

It took a Power of Attorney to do it, but I did it. Thinking I had done my job and my mother didn’t need me any more, I put her on a plane back to Denver, and arranged for her friends Ruthie and Charlie to pick her up from the airport. She stayed with them while she waited for escrow to her new palace to close. Meanwhile, she took the ticket I had booked for her, and Ruthie and Charlie took her to DIA, where she boarded a plane for Brazil to visit Britta at her hotel in Itaparica, where again, she had been invited for the past twenty-five years, but never appeared.

It wasn’t until years later it occurred to me, I should have accompanied her there too, taken care of my needs to get away also, but I felt that would have been taking advantage of my mother. I had spoiled her to the extent that she expected Britta to fly up from Sao Paolo to Miami to escort her back to Brazil! Britta told her she was crazy, (not the first time). Had I not made those decisions for her, Christina would never have gone to Reno, Tahoe, nor would she have flown to relax on the beach in her bikini for a month in Brazil. She never would have had Britta’s support in person. I thought, the best place for my mother to be was with Britta, who, like my mother, lost her mother at a very young age and has similar issues (besides both sharing the Berlin bombed out experience and a twenty-five year age difference). After she knew she had been hoodwinked and told me she would never again speak with her daughter, I took two months off work and out of my life to care for my mother when she needed it. Only now do I understand the power of estrogen to unite.

I agreed not to make any unauthorized charges on my mother’s accounts, and I honored that agreement. After I had a clearer picture of my “poor” mother, and felt I had done all in my power to care for her needs, I decided, I needed to take care of my own, and repair the slashed vehicle I had been driving around for over two years. I told my mother I intended to fix the car, but as is so often the case, she didn’t have time to listen, and therefore, believes it was never spoken. Of course, when the bill came to three thousand dollars, Christina, who never has a balance on any credit card and always pays cash, was shocked, as was I, but the car was restored to showroom condition and if it hadn’t been for her outrage, I could have been happy. As soon as Mother got the bill, she cancelled her credit card, and rescinded the Power of Attorney that I had already forgotten. Being out of control was more frightening to Christina than had been death itself.

Only my training in Religious Science (and my father’s constant reminders) prepared me to be strong enough to get through this death that had hung over the family for decades. As the male head of the family then, I thought it up to me, regardless, to be the strong one, and pre-diagnosis of PTSD, I performed the way I would have wanted anyone to treat me if I were in such a position. I wish I had a son like me. All I could think all the time, was how Mother Dearest had lost her partner of 56 years. It didn’t even occur to me until years later, I lost a (grand)father of 44 years! Was my relationship any less valid? In Christina’s eyes, yes. I deserve to live the same quality of life as my father’s daughter, granddaughter, and wife. I AM his only (living) son but that means nothing to a facist.

To this day, Christina continues to remind me, “you have cost me thousands of dollars,” “every dollar I send you is being deducted from your inheritance,” never remembering that she has cost me millions, or that in the middle of her darkest hour, she forgot that I earned her $160,000.00 overnight, by making a wise decision on her behalf via a real estate license I paid from my own funding. Only child Lauren BAYLY, with two wealthy parents of her own, is the Executor to Christina MAYER’s Last Will and Testament, and, against Britta Putnam’s better judgment, has been cut in, with her mother, for two thirds of my (father’s) estate, including the $160,000.00 I created, which went directly into the purchase of mother’s new palace, the very home which I have been denied access to. Meanwhile, two strange men sleep with her harpies under the very roof I unknowingly helped to establish. Sonja often says to Mother, “it’s my favorite hotel. The food and the service is excellent.” Christina thinks she’s kidding. Sonja’s plan B was to file for divorce and move back to Colorado. The divorce issue began shortly after the honeymoon. The move back west took longer.

As I have edited this several times (not enough) it’s amazing I’ve been able to accomplish anything in my life! So when Christina tells the police her son,”is lazy, a selfish son who has never been there for me,” or tells people I took money out of her bank account, please consider the source, a mind and spirit sabotaged and trapped by poison. If Christina tells you something, please verify it with me before making a judgment. This is the son of Christina Mayer, Alan Mayer, that Sergeant Braunlich (who was called to throw me in jail) of the Aurora Police Department does not know. The Mayer family experience has turned me into a pathetic, sickly old man. The events that unfolded after my father’s death left me penniless, evicted from my home, homeless for more than three years. When I drove to Colorado three years later, mother left me stranded before a locked, empty home, while she had her boyfriend drive her to her daughter’s.

The events that unfold after Mummy Dearest’s death are likely to leave me evicted from my mind, with a home of my own, at “The Institute for the Very, Very, Very Nervous.” As it stands, she is leaving me a ten foot sofa and two of three massive chairs, without a roof under which to put it! It has taken me fifteen years to heal from (the aftermath of) my father’s death. It’s only recently that I see how, all of my life, I have allowed my mother to take advantage of me, then toss me aside from her family, when she no longer needs me, leaving me Alone to deal with the ensuing homelessness, poverty, and a life resigned to dealing with Section 8 and APLA, a man without balls, just like Christina’s German nephew – castrated by Christina’s older sister Gisela. It might have been decent, had she secured my rent and auto insurance for just five years to help me heal as I helped her heal. Am I not a member of this family? I am not.

I am now drained, just from remembering what I’ve been through to get to this latest eviction. I think it would be nice for Mother Dearest to establish a small trust to ensure I don’t fall through the cracks again next year – or this year – or when she takes all her jewelry with her to the grave (those pieces which her daughter has not already confiscated for herself.) Never would I have adopted three animals, unless, after five years in my home, I felt safe and thought I could handle them. Now I am faced with the same set of problems as before, only this time, I have three animals I am responsible for. First Christina wanted my male cat, then she changed her mind. Thank you, Mother.

And thank you for reading!


About AmericanValuesRestored

"Glad to have you, Alan," said the A.D. The purpose of this blog,, is to provide thoughtful writing, and direct the reader to spiritually inspired videos on how to teach your cat to use the toilet, how to train your dog to make you heel, and references to the state of Abundance, as introduced in book I of my seven book series, 'A Boy Alone,' 'Obsessed.' Take a step into Consciousness. Check it out on Amazon Kindle, Kobo, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble. For a good laugh, go to YouTube, and check out Meck&Miao, and Pokey. Some cute short videos under a minute include: 'Tonight's Entertainment.' 'Meck takes the stairs,' 'Meck and Miao examine the new puppy,' 'Happy together,' 'Afternoon Delight,' 'Pokey and Miao fight it out,' 'Meck and Miao attack,' and 'National Boxing Day." Meck&Miao and Pokey.
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