Fear of Our Father

by Stacey Kananen

  Franda, the same woman who years earlier said that she was uncomfortable with my presence, and to whom I promised my story would be the truth, came up to me. She said, “My God, you said the same things in those hours of testimony that you said when you moved here. Nobody’s that good, to not change their story at all if it’s a lie. If the truth is the truth and you said it all along, I should have believed you seven years ago.”

  I told her, “Franda, the truth is the truth. The only thing that’s ever going to be constant is the truth. You can’t make up the stories because you can’t remember them. And I didn’t have to make up a story. I didn’t do this.”

  When the trial aired later that summer on CNN’s In Session, their commentators talked about “jury nullification,” which means that the jury might have felt sorry for me because of the abuse. But Diana told me after the trial that Judge Lubet said the jury thought the police did a shitty, horrible job. They left holes all over the place, and the jury held the State to the standard of “beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  It was weird when the trial aired, months after the actual verdict. I didn’t watch it—not only did I have to work, but I didn’t want to relive it. But Susan checked the In Session blogs and Facebook page and saw the cruel things people were writing about me, like I cried crocodile tears while looking at my poor mother’s autopsy photos, and that Mom was a horrible person for allowing the abuse.

  It was awful. They obviously didn’t consider that they were talking about real people. I didn’t volunteer to be on a reality show, to invite the cameras into my personal business. This nightmare was foisted upon me against my will, and now my life was destroyed. I had lost my family, my promising career at Disney, my reputation, and now I couldn’t even get a job outside of Gulf Coast Resort because every employer does background checks these days and, even with a not guilty verdict, it looks really bad to have a murder charge on your record.

  Susan’s father had died after marrying “the Bitch,” and she was determined to get the resort and kick all of us out, so we both needed jobs. You try applying for work after having been on trial for murder on national TV! And those losses don’t even touch what this whole thing cost, financially. Just the ankle bracelet and bonds alone drained us of almost $30,000.

  The irony is that this whole thing started partially because of Mom’s money, and now I needed money to rebuild my life. So I hired a probate attorney to retrieve any inheritance I might have coming. Sadly, Cheryl gave an interview saying, “Not two months after the trial ended, Stacey has hired an attorney to claim her part in my mother’s estate. So much for really wanting to walk away from this. In an instant, it became so very crystal clear that, sickeningly, my mom was killed for the money.” As it turned out, though, I got nothing because, as the executor of Mom’s estate at the time, she spent it—I assume because she thought I’d be found guilty and not be entitled to any inheritance. I am now the executor, but unfortunately only Mom’s house is left.

  I did finally reconnect with Daniel almost a year after the trial. Susan found him on Facebook and sent him a private message. He cautiously responded, unsure whether he should communicate with us or not. We were his beloved aunts, and he missed us, but he had been told all these years that I was a murderer and he wasn’t allowed to contact me. But now he was of legal age, and he was free to make his own decisions. It was slow going, but we did eventually manage to rebuild some semblance of a relationship.

  He had an extremely hard row to hoe all those years and was having a really hard time with what happened in our family. His parents had divorced and he told me that Cheryl and Detective Hussey were now dating. He said that “Mark” offered to tell his little sisters all about their murderous Aunt Stacey.

  The one thing, aside from Susan, that got me through the difficult time after the trial was therapy with a wonderful counselor, Jessica Deeb. Jessica has been a lifesaver, on numerous occasions. Working through and healing all of these horrible things has been both harder and more valuable than I ever would have dreamed, but I’m so much better off because of it. I had quit drinking before the trial. After it ended, I started drinking socially, but it was beginning to get a little heavier right before I started seeing Jessica. Susan told me, “If you’re going to drink, you’re going to have to find another counselor.” I haven’t had a drink since April 2010.

  I sat in therapy one day after sending an e-mail to Jessica saying, “I’m bringing three pages. I need to read these to you, otherwise I’m a failure.” I was only able to read two sentences out loud. I felt like such a wretch because that meant my father still controlled my life even though he was dead. It wasn’t that the memories I was writing about were too painful to talk about; it was that I was never allowed to tell anyone and he still had that power over me.

  So she read it, and I listened. I was proud of myself; I shook, but I didn’t cry. I came close. Pain, anger, memories, emotions, never crying when I got raped, I wasn’t allowed. I’d be killed. I’d just bite my tongue, bite my lip, stare at the ceiling. If you just lie there, they do their thing and then leave. It’s over a lot faster. If I didn’t cry when I got raped, I sure wasn’t going to cry listening to Jessica read about it.

  Even so, I left there telling myself I did not win. He was still winning, still able to control what came out of my mouth. But now, here I am writing about it, and telling the whole world that he no longer has that power.

  I wrote this letter to him:

  When I was very young, I had hoped for a dad. Someone to talk to, play games with, and teach me things. Instead, I got you. All three of your children have been damaged by the father that you were. You treated each and every one of us horribly. You owned us and we were just trying to stay alive.

  Well, your son is in prison for the rest of his life. Your oldest daughter leads a life of personal destruction. I, on the other hand, am struggling daily to survive.

  I have been struggling to find my way out of the life that you gave us. I am going to beat you in this head game you are playing still on me. I am going to find out how to live and feel emotions without you messing in my head. I have a right to be happy and to have a future and I intend to do just that.

  I have a long road to go, to undo the things that I was taught. I will one day learn to cry for the loss of my mom and mourn the loss of my childhood. You took those emotions away from me at a young age and I will get them back.

  I am in therapy and am learning to be my own person. I refuse to let you win inside my head. My thoughts of suicide are because of my thoughts of uselessness, thoughts you taught me. My drinking was to forget you and what you did to me. I am going to conquer those issues. I will beat you at your games.

  I have the right to have a future. A good future—one without anger for my childhood—without needing to drink or wanting to die. I have a right to find happiness.

  It is going to take time and a lot of work to change my mind processes. I have a great therapist who will teach me and help me until I beat this battle. You think that is weak—I tell you that it’s strength.

  The day will come that I will tell you to leave me forever. I will become that strong—I will win this battle. You will one day have no control in my mind or over my life. I will show you someday that I am not your weakest child. When that day comes, I will begin a new, free life full of happiness. I will have a right to feel all of my emotions. I will win this battle with the help of Jessica, my therapist and for now my strength.

  Your daughter,

  Stacey

  I’m finally able to see that none of the abuse was my fault and that I am a person of worth. I do have something to say, and I do intend to make these tragedies not be in vain. I realize that I lived this life and learned these lessons for a reason. I have let go of so much hatred for my past and believe that my purpose is to help others in my future.

  I feel that if you live your life in a fog of depression and despair you will never actually survive and prosper—you will ju
st exist. I didn’t come this far and survive what I did to remain in misery. My goal is to continue to heal and become stronger, to show others that abuse doesn’t have to run your life, but it can show you compassion and a willingness to help others.

  My brother, I feel, was the most emotionally damaged of all of us. He was the one who was never able to move past the pain of the abuse. He was the one who never found true happiness. He killed our parents, because he never stopped suffering. The memories, the pain, and the anger took over and he fell apart. One thing that I want everyone to realize is that I love my brother and I will always be sad that I didn’t see his need for help. I wrote this letter to him:

  Richard,

  You are my brother and will always be my brother no matter what. We all had a childhood of horrors and each one of us has our own pain and confusion.

  You are the oldest of all three of us; and I know during my trial neither one of us believed all of your abuse stories. I now know after a year in therapy that I have no right to judge what you say. You had so many more years of abuse before I was even born.

  I do want to tell you that I believe in my heart we all wouldn’t have lived to move to Florida if you had left the family after you turned 18. I think that you staying home, even though your abuse intensified, gave us a chance to grow up. You stood in between so many fights, so many times for us and even Mom.

  I was happy but sad when you left: happy that you could try to find a life of joy, sad that my big brother, our protector, was gone. You had a lot of good years after that. Our father’s death, although illegal, gave us all the opportunity to have many happy years together as a family. I am so sorry that during these years none of us realized the pain from the past that you were suffering. I wish that I could have helped you cope or find help. Maybe, then things would not have ended with Mom dying.

  At this point in my life I do not hate you for all of the events after Mom died. I am learning to understand why those events happened, including my trial, and to accept that those events in time will make me stronger.

  I hope for some day that you will be at peace with yourself. I know that I will never have the big brother that I once had; but I will always have a big brother. I miss you and grieve for the relationship we could have had.

  Stacey

  Cheryl was the one sibling that I was sure was going to make it. Her life seemed perfect at face value, but she sometimes struggled with her relationships with her children. With our childhood, none of us knew how to nurture; to have that soft, cry on a shoulder, kiss a skinned knee, give a good night kiss and hug relationship with children. I have great respect and admiration for my sister. I love her and always will. I hope someday that she and I can reunite and be a family again. A long time ago Cheryl gave me a pillow that says, “Chance made us sisters, but hearts made us friends.” I hope someday to feel that connection with a sister that I miss more than I can even put into words.

  It seems like it would be such a waste to let Mom’s death be in vain, so I have dedicated my life to advocacy. It is my firm belief that if my family had been able to have access to the right kind of help, Mom would be alive today and Rickie wouldn’t be in jail. It is my dream to found an organization designed to extend a nonjudgmental olive branch for those who want to quit the cycle of abuse. After all, the majority of abusers were once abused themselves: abuse is usually learned behavior—victims victimizing victims. Part of that learned behavior is shame. Both the abused and the abuser feel shame for the role they are playing. When one feels ashamed, one is not likely to ask for help to get out of the abusive situation. I would like to create an advocacy program that recognizes the courage that it takes to ask for help.

  I want to find a way to do this compassionately and without judgment. No parent, like my mom, is going to ever admit that anything is wrong in the house because a) she’s terrified that she’s going to pay the price, and b) she’ll be arrested for neglect.

  Children are reluctant to ask for help because they fear that they will face even more abuse for telling family secrets, that their parents will end up in jail, and that they will end up in a foster home. And finally, abusive parents are reluctant to ask for help because asking for help is the same as admitting they are wrong, weak, or bad; they feel too far gone, that too much irreparable damage has been done, and that everyone else is to blame.

  I want to help people who wish to escape the cycle of abuse—in a nonjudgmental way that keeps them out of the legal system before heinous crimes, like the ones my father committed, occur.

  I wrote this letter to my mom, explaining what I want to do with my life:

  Mom,

  I am writing this letter to you even though I know you will never be able to physically read it. Our childhood is something that none of us ever talked about. We as a family unit never took the opportunity to heal from those horrors. That brought the horrifying end—your murder.

  I have guilt about not protecting you from your son, my brother. I feel that after all that we as a family had been through I should have been there for you. I guess that I need to accept that not everyone can be saved from abuse.

  I am now on a new journey in my life. A journey to heal myself and to try to find the strength and ability to help other abused children. I only wish that you could be on this journey beside me. No matter what we went through in the past, we together could have conquered so much now. I hope that from afar you are looking at me and going to find a way to help me heal from the pain of the past. I hope that you are smiling at me and giving me the strength to continue on my journey.

  I miss you every day and not a day goes by that I don’t try to figure out just where it all went wrong. Just how and if life for all of us should have been different. I know that there is a reason that our family has travelled this path. Maybe it is the journey that I want to begin. Maybe there is another reason.

  Mom, I want to somehow find a peace inside me—to know that you are okay with my journey. I wish that you were with me. I wish that we as a family unit had found the strength and compassion to talk to each other about our past, to heal our wounds, to grow to be a family.

  Please look out for Cheryl and her family. Keep them strong and try to show them to the truth someday, somehow.

  I love you,

  Stacey

  Six months after the trial, on the seventh anniversary of Mom’s death, Susan and I left the resort for the day, to get away for a while and honor her memory. She and I had been working all summer on our relationship, trying to rebuild it into the close friendship we had before tragedy tore us all apart. We still had a long way to go—a lot of damage had been done—but we were determined to not let outside forces break us up. Whether we stayed together or broke up, it would be our decision, not because the actions or words of others drove us apart. We decided to focus on what kept us together, and to try to nurture our strengths, instead of focusing on weaknesses. Part of that process was getting away from the resort once in a while, just to have some alone time. And this day held a specific meaning, so we drove past Clearwater Beach, just enjoying the drive.

  We came to the end of the road, so we parked. As soon as we got out of the car, I realized, “We’ve been here with my mother.” This was where we went on our last vacation with her. Susan and I sat there for a little bit, reminiscing, and then decided to get something to eat.

  We got lost and turned around a few times, but we found our way back up to Clearwater just in time to eat something before we starved. We stopped at an Italian restaurant, and as we parked the car, we said to each other, “This is the restaurant we ate at with Mom!”

  I got out of the car, pointed to the hotel across the street, and said, “That’s the hotel we stayed in.” In the restaurant, the hostess seated us at the same table where we sat with Mom. I’m a bit of a skeptic, but even I could not deny that these were some amazing coincidences. I felt like Mom was there with us that day, and a sense of peace and purpose came over me.

&nb
sp; After an excellent meal, Susan and I were finally ready to go home. Out in the parking lot, which was directly across the street from the beach, we sat and watched the sun set over the Gulf of Mexico. I saw a couple of little girls, about the ages that Cheryl and I were that day at Lake Hebron, laughing and playing in the surf with their dad, and the memories—superimposed over the joy these girls were feeling, with their doting father—brought bittersweet tears to my eyes.

  If only …

  A NOTE

  from Stacey Lannert

  God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

  —FROM “THE SERENITY PRAYER” BY REINHOLD NIEBUHR

  As I grow older, I become more appreciative of the Serenity Prayer. It is a reminder that we cannot change everything—we cannot change most things—and we must come to accept this fact. For those of us who have lived through violent and difficult childhoods, it is easy to want to remember that we grew up differently than we did. It’s easy for us to keep wishing we had something different. But we must not. We must come to terms with the permanence of what has happened. We must accept our lives for what they were. The future, however, is an entirely different story. The future is the wide-open sky. We can change it, and we have the ability to make it better for others.

  America teems with child abuse that is violent, sexual, and verbal. The problem is pandemic, but we can help to eradicate it. For so long, abuse against children has been hidden in the shadows. It’s what happens behind closed doors. Too often, keeping up the family image is tantamount. No one wants to be the person who tarnishes a reputation. So adults who suffered horrific childhoods sometimes remain silent. They feel alone and isolated. I was one of those adults once. I coped in whatever way I could. I didn’t realize that there were more people just like me.