That phrase has eased my soul and angered my spirit…sometimes on the same day. This year, 2020, is the year I really want to FEEL this statement regarding intangible objects…my feelings…in the deepest place of my soul. I want to live this state of being.

Jack Canfield said in the audio version of the book, “The Secret” by Rhonda Byrne “..well that’s just…so what. The real what is what are you gonna do about it?”. He was referencing the abuse he had lived as a child and how his childhood experience was not benefiting him in the here, today and now. This is the perfect reference for how I feel about the horrors that I lived and my siblings lived in our younger lives.

DISCLAIMER…If someone had said that to me 20 years ago, I would’ve immediately copped a resentment (and kept it) and maybe even have attempted a throat punch…because that person “didn’t know what I’ve been through”. I lived in the victim mentality. But I realized none of the bad stuff was happening today. And we had been victims. I was stuck. I was unable to move forward. I found when I finally made the decision to let go and heal, that I was now responsible for every decision that was made that day forward. No more whipping out then “Blame-Thrower” and wallowing in self-pity. Today, my navigation through my life is different, thank God.

Today is good. And most days are great, if I choose to look at things differently and use my tools. I don’t discount what happened to me. I’ve just changed my view from my perception of what happened with each experience to a different perspective. How can I get a lesson from the mess? What did I learn from it? What skill do I now have as a direct result of making it through that mess? More importantly, how can I use that lesson to improve myself and my life? And the best part has always been, sharing my experience with other women in their journey through a recovery process.

The key to all my lessons on this journey has been acceptance. My friends, Joan and Helen, have always told me that acceptance does not mean approval. It is what it is, nothing more or less. Acceptance means that I have put down the boxing gloves, stepped away from the director’s chair, accepted that there is a power greater than me in charge, and pivot toward the lesson. And the lesson is where I have found peace. And I hope you can too.

”Everything created is a solution to something” as told by ”Miss Hattie” while
“on the front porch” as told by Eric Thomas, The Hip Hop Preacher

Once again, I feel as though with the temperature of the world currently, I have to present to you a preface. I am in no way making light of anyone’s pain. If you have read this far, you know that I’ve had my own painful journey and certainly am empathetic and understanding to everyone’s journey, painful or not. The following addition to my blog is just my experience and mine alone. I have found throughout my life that the pain of the trials that I have been through have moved me forward and allowed me to add “skills” to my life résumé. My hope is that you will too.

“Conflict Resolution”. I went from surviving an attack and escaping with my son, and our lives, by the man who went on to stalk me for 4 1/2 years and turned that into life-skills. I think that night was the scariest of my life. As a matter of fact, I KNOW it was. I knew I had to keep a level head in order to grab my son and get us out of there alive. I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice. I could feel in my soul. Calming myself in the moment of extreme fear and having enough insight to realize I had to play this situation well…or else…wasn’t completely foreign to me. In the face of uncertainty, I slowed my speech and lowered my voice while speaking to him. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean that up tomorrow it’s no big deal. Let’s just get some rest tonight. Everything will be ok in the morning.” The almost loving inflection in my tone shocked even me at that moment. Negotiating my exit in a matter-of-fact and reassuring way came from the hip. What did I have to lose? “Read the room” is a great skill I learned as a child and needed to bring forth that day. I learned to “know my audience” in order to get what I needed…which was out of that house alive. ”Placating the situation” that day and throughout my career has helped me tremendously over the years in dealing with disgruntled employees and patients. “Act as if” my dad always said…own it. I had to act as if all was well and that I was just going to go to mom’s for the night so things could calm down and we would talk about it tomorrow”. And most important of all, ”Don’t look back”. Don’t dwell on the mistakes. Focus on the lesson and skills you learned. And ”soldier on” ladies.

Write that shit down on your resume girl. God doesn’t bring you through stuff that big to use it only once! Then, put it back in your tool bag. Cuz you’re gonna need it again some day.

I , and only I, decide how I will respond today. The ”Mind Architects” (ie: Peter Crone, The Mind Architect, etc) of my emotional and life recovery showed me how to think different and build a new life. But I am responsible for the up-keep; the maintenance if you will. Every time I hear myself respond in an old tone, I have to bring it into my self-examination-shop, my own awareness, and tune it up. I am responsible. I am my Emotional Mechanic.

“Many of our fears are tissue-paper-thin, and a single courageous step would carry us clear through them.” Brendan Francis

“I’m never gonna make it.” “What was I thinking?” “What’s wrong with me?” “Why don’t they want me around?” “God, please hang on to me because I can’t hold on any longer.”

If I had five dollars for every time I was on the edge of darkness, full of doubt and ready to cash it in…well…then I’d be sittin’ pretty financially right now. The demon of doubt haunted me over and over for years throughout my pursuit of happiness and self improvement. A recent drive through memory lane reminded of my value…as painful as a day could be, the Universe showed me who I was…really.

Just when I am the saddest without my pack…without my genetic pool…on the days I am the loneliest…the warrior within presents herself to me…

A recent day trip for work took me back through the college town that my child and I spent numerous years in – hiding – and growing. The heart break…and gratitude…were deafening…but I remembered who I was and who I have become… Just when I feel the most unworthy…when I go to the maddening “Land of Why”…Driving by place after place, the memories flooded in. It was a tearful ride home.

I am the woman who sold my plasma to put food on the table for my child.

I am the Woman who pawned family jewelry to keep the lights on.

I am the woman who went without meals so that my child would have enough to eat.

I am the woman who was without personal items to have enough gas in the car.

I am the woman who worked for days without sleep to buy the Gameboy for my child.

I am the woman who washed the uniforms in the sink every night for the ballgames.

I am the woman who made one egg last for three breakfasts for my child.

I am the woman who only shopped for herself in “GW’s“ and “Sallie’s”for 9 years.

I am the woman who worked 3 part time jobs with full time classes as a single mom.

I am the woman who spent 5 days a week at the baseball field & stayed up late to study.

I am the woman who cleaned toilets to pay the gas bill.

I am the woman who fed your friends and went without.

I am the woman slept with a gun under her pillow for years to protect us both.

I am the woman who spoke praise into your life so you would have no doubts.

I am the woman who put my life on hold when you made those mistakes.

I am the woman who did everything possible so you could live your dreams.

I am the woman who never gave up…no matter what.

And THAT’s the woman I am…

Sitting down today to write was motivated by the recent leaking of my blog to a few. I didn’t pick them. If they showed interest and asked, I shared the link. I just kept saying to myself that the people who need to know this will receive it. Letting this happen as I did reminded me that I am allowing the powers that be in the universe to guide my journey.

I have been taken aback with questions that have come up repeatedly over the last week. “Why didn’t you tell me? How come I didn’t know about this? You would think that I would’ve known about this before? You never looked like you were struggling?” The last one made me laugh out loud…literally. Not laughing at the people who voiced these questions, but that these questions never occurred to me before this week!

Excuse me for my bluntness, but who the fuck would tell anyone any of this shit?!?!?!?! LOL and LMFAO…no, really! It never occurred to me to go around and tell people my story. And, I was taught early on not to tell. No one would believe me. And I would be punished if I told. A great example of I am only as sick as my secrets. And boy, was I sick…and suffering.

Once again, I will make the statement that I am not diminishing anyone’s pain and suffering. I am not saying that anyone should get over “it”… whatever their “it” is. What I am expressing in sharing my story is that you are not alone AND you can come out of “it” and come out of “it” bigger, better, badder and more beautiful…and beyond your wildest dreams!!!! This is MY story, MY experience and what I did with a shitty start and sharing the lessons and gratitude I gained from it all.

One of the best lessons in my life was learning very, very early that I was, in many senses, on my own. I think all five of us kids were somewhere along the line. “If it is to be it is up to me”… one of my favorite mantras. If I hadn’t realized this lesson early I don’t think I would’ve kept pushing and moving forward. At times, it was messy and disastrous, but none the less, it was forward motion. I wouldn’t have achieved my goals…any of them. I wouldn’t have pushed myself or my son to, “No matter what”, keep going! I wouldn’t feel as great as I do right this minute! For that lesson, I am eternally grateful…

Some have posed responses of doubt. My guess is that they doubt my story is true. I don’t know though because I won’t ask them…And that’s ok. That person is NOT the person that I am supposed to help with my story. Besides, you really, really can’t make this shit up. And yes, I am LMAO!

My journey…? My journey is tri-fold. Let me start here…

I was fairly young, maybe 8 or 9 I would guess, and we were still living in Norwalk, CT when I realized deep within me that I needed to take care of myself. I wandered around the neighborhood a lot (much to my detriment), and with little and no supervision or accountability. I think all of us five kids did the same. My mom lived mostly in her room, in her bed, with the door closed. It was probably 1968 or 1969. And this is where she would stay for decades to come and it never changed much until her death from breast cancer in 2009. After the 5th child, I remember seeing little medicine bottles on her dresser… A LOT … Years later I found out it was “valium” per my mother. My dad traveled Monday through Friday and, come to find out later, cheated on my mom all the time accompanied with his alcohol abuse and violence. My guess is that she was depressed…and why wouldn’t she be?

I had wandered a little too far one time. It was neighborhoods away…miles I’m sure…and a very long walk for a little girl. I had followed some kids that I wanted to hang with and they had left me…WAY freekin out Ponus Avenue. They probably wanted to get rid of a punk kid that was unwanted in their preteen world. As I’ve said, I was always looking for a place to belong and a pack to be accepted into. But I had had several experiences before this day that showed me that going to my mom for help was not well received and always felt like I (and I’m sure WE) was more of a nuisance than her child…ultimately, throughout my whole life it was not a healthy option. Not much love was expressed by her and I’m sure it’s because of her own experience…but that’s her story.

I remember setting out to get back home after sitting on a curb for a little while feeling pretty scared and realized how far I was from home and literally lost. I started crying but quickly realized that crying wasn’t gonna get me home. I knew that if I wanted to get home…and I did desperately…that I had to figure it out. I knew the general direction from which we came, so I set out to get home. I walked for a long time on a road that was stretched out before me. Undeveloped and lot’s of woods on either side of the road. Back then, it wasn’t traveled well and I can remember the sun just warming my face and the quiet as I trudged along. Soon enough I started to recognize “Ponus Avenue” and it’s land marks. Then I recognized neighborhoods. I knew I was close to the roads close to my home and the homes of the girls I ran frequently with (S.R. and J.B…my childhood girlfriends). So I went down Harvann Road and went through the yards, down the “cliff” (I’m sure it was just a hill, but it felt like a cliff that day…LOL) to Tower Dr. down through the yards again, slipping on rocks on the cliff…(at one point wanted to turn around but knew I had gone too far to turn back) past my friend’s back yard to my back yard. Looking back, I’m not sure why the hell I just didn’t continue down Ponus Avenue to Bartlett Manor instead of going through the yards and down the rocky “cliff”, but I guess I just wanted to get home. I can still feel the relief when I climbed over the back yard fence and into our yard. I was home…”safe”.

I walked in the house, dinner was over, my mom was in her room with the door closed, the usual chaos buzzing…and…nothing. I realized life had gone on as usual without any concern as to where the hell I’d been….for…freekin…HOURS! Not poor me, but just a realization and actually I was glad I didn’t get in trouble. Looking back, I realize that this is where my level of survival began…and for that lesson, I am truly grateful. It taught me not to sit in my shit for too long and to get to going to “find my way” … what ever way that took me. It taught me that I should consider the safer way vs the shorter way. Easy is not always better. And mostly I know today that I am not all that important in the big scheme of things, but that I do have a path.

It has never been what has happened to me, but what I have done with it that matters.

“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.”

Ernest Hemingway

This will be the most difficult recollection that I pen. It was a period of my life that I had mentally felt the lowest and the time in my life that thoughts of hopelessness sang in my head daily. Times where I felt with every fiber of my being that I couldn’t go on …not one more day…but I did, over and over and over again. My perception of gratitude morphed into something I never saw coming and I am changed for the better because of this journey…and so are many others.

My son was probably about 2 or 3 years old and I had recently taken a job as an Administrative Assistant in a specialty hospital. I had enrolled in Respiratory Therapy School and my life on my own was blossoming into what I had imagined I wanted it to be – not what other people thought it should be…after my recent divorce. I was excited about where I was going in life. Seemed the world was my oyster, so to speak, and there were no limits for me or for our future.

I met him in the cafeteria of the hospital one morning while getting a snack, He seemed nice, clean cut with a sly smile. Polite, quiet and well groomed. Seemed ok. No red flags…initially.

Chatting at work often is how it went for a while. Working and going to school as a single mom did not allow for a lot of spare time for anything else. So the dating thing was slow, but moved forward. We began to run into each other in the break room and he became more inquisitive about me and my back story. Looking back, the first weird question that I blew off was “does your ex see your kid” and “do you get child support?” I guess in and of themselves, they aren’t really weird questions, but stand alone inquiries – they are weird. Why would any guy wanna know that? That answer would come later.

We began dating – not too often – as work and school and single mom stuff prohibited a larger social life. He was very respectful and seemed (overly) attentive. He must really like me, huh? After being verbally, mentally and physically battered for seven years, it was nice to have what appeared to be sweet attention from a man. .. My second gut flag that I ignored…attentive vs possessive. “I must be over reading it; Just because you’ve had a bad experience, doesn’t mean every guy is screwed up; I think it’s my past that is over reacting to someone who is just thoughtful and kind; He really must care about me.” Right…?

I had doubted my gut flags and intuition since I was a little girl when the sexual abuse had begun in and around my family. I learned to not listen to my own common sense fears and concerns early in life…much to my detriment.

He began, every so slightly, to question me about who I was with and where I was going. Nothing overt…always subtle…and when I asked “are you ok with it?”, the response was a slightly over reactive “of course, of course!! why do you ask? Do you not want me to know where you are?!” And, in usual fashion with a narcissist, I would respond with embarrassment and fear of having invoked doubt into my loyalty to our relationship…”No, no, no, of course not, you can always ask where I am – I’m not worried about that!!!!” And so the Gas Lighting began…

He was charming and ever so mannerly. My mom liked him (cuz he schmoozed her too) and my girl friends seemed to like him – or they never let on if they had any concerns. And so the obvious progression over time developed…he eventually asked me to marry him. He had a good job and he had a modest home. He seemed stable. He had family locally. He seemed like a great guy and I thought he would be faithful and I had no indication at all that he would ever raise a hand to me or my son. I had already had 7 years of that and knew, at least, that I didn’t want anymore of the physical abuse or lies and I thought it would be better for my son to have a stable, hard working man in his life. Eventually, my son and I moved into his home…but 24 hours later…it all changed.

My son was visiting his father, we had moved my things into his home, and I had a wedding shower/fashion show planned with some girlfriends at a local bar and restaurant. Nothing over the top. Didn’t drink alcohol because I had to drive and pick my son up afterwards before I returned to our new address with my fiance’. It all seemed so damn normal at the time…

I arrived at my new return address that night after the event to find it empty. Didn’t think anything of it really. Just placed my son, who had fallen asleep on the way there, into his bed. He never woke. I came out into the living room and into the kitchen to look for a note maybe left by him. Nothing. Went back into the bathroom and came back out and he silently stepped out from around the corner and pushed his face within 1 inch of mine and asked “did you have a good time?” with a sneer. It took me completely off guard and scared the hell out of me and I responded with a yelp. I asked him what the hell was wrong with him and why did he do that? I walked back into the bedroom to change into bed clothes. I figured he was a little jealous of me having fun without him and that it’d be ok tomorrow. So I kept quiet and went about my routine.

He sat down very close to me on the end of the bed and started growling questions into me ear about who I was with and did I flirt with anyone and if I had danced with anyone? I answered no to it all because I hadn’t and became more than annoyed at his accusational tone of questioning. What the hell is this shit?!? When he grabbed me by the arm and twisted it as I was trying to walk back into the bathroom, fear shot through me. His eyes were dark and jaw clinched. My heart started to pound. It was at that single moment I knew I was in grave danger – I could feel it – and I had to get out with my son and our lives.

I don’t know how I knew to do it, but I knew I had to get out from the back end of the house where I would be trapped with no exit. I slowed my speech and began to say things like “maybe we need just to cool off for the night” “I’m just gonna stay at mom’s tonight and we can talk about this in the morning” as I moved toward the kitchen where the phone was in case I had to call 911. As I reached into the refrigerator and pulled the juice pitcher out to get my son a sippy cup of juice for the ride, he swung and smashed the pitcher out of my hand and it hit my chest and spilled all over me and the kitchen. His level of rage had elevated and his eyes were black and his face beet red. I was in the corner of the kitchen, my son was a hallway away, I reached for the phone to dial 911 in one swift move and he ripped the phone off the wall. Some how I remained calm. Somehow I knew I had to keep my head straight in order to get out of this house alive.

I kept my eyes down and my voice quiet. I could feel my pulse pounding in my head and ears at this point. I saw that the front door was open out of the corner of my eye. I told him that I was just gonna sleep in the room with my son and let things cool off for the night. He briefly went to the back of the house, I scooped my son up, ran to the front door, ran to the car and slung the driver’s door open with him in my arms while he was still in the back in the house in the back room. I slid my son into the passenger side seat, jumped into the driver’s seat, jammed the key into the ignition and started the car. I thought he was still in the back of the house. As I began to quickly back out, I turned to see a microwave hurled toward my car. I jammed on the gas and the microwave smashed the front windshield and rolled off the hood of my brown Datsun Station Wagon and into the driveway. I jammed the car into drive and squealed away as fast as I could. Through tears, I cried out loud…”If you do it once, you’ll do it again. It’s over”.

Or so I thought…

From that day forward, I endured a hell that I would wish on no one. The word “Stalking” had not quite been utilized as yet, but it is the word I used when speaking to the innumerable police and deputy sheriff’s that I, or my family, called over the next four years.

Water pipes cut on my home; places of employment vandalized; and my name slandered with vile phrases across sidewalks; tires flattened; sugar in my gas tank; liquid styrofoam in my tail pipe; objects moved around in my home while I was away; my mother’s home was flooded when a rag was jammed down into the sink and the water was turned on; head lights smashed; well pump set on fire; calls all hours of the day and night telling me in detail where I had been and who I had been with; calls telling me that if he couldn’t have me, no one else would; broken windows; and the list could go on…ad nauseam.

As if the nightmare wasn’t bad enough, my girlfriend’s husbands would no longer allow me to ride with them for class or clinicals for fear of either they themselves, or their cars, being effected by this lunatic. In addition, friends outside, except my friend E, had backed away also. My life had become a prison. I certainly don’t blame any of them.

On the day I left, it was in fear that something would happen to my son. It had come to the point where I would start the car with my son on the porch because I feared he would rig my car to blow up. I remember the day I looked at my son as I sat in my car and hesitated to start it. I looked at that little fella up on the porch with his backpack on. I loved him so much…he was my world…my reason for breathing…but I was so tired. I really didn’t think I had anymore fight in me. As I grabbed the key, I had hoped that the car would blow because I couldn’t do this any longer. I was tired. I was hopeless. No one could help us. Nothing had worked. I knew this was never going to end. Then the car started… and nothing. I knew then with that thought that we had to leave. Life would never be the same here and never again be safe. That next night his brother called and said that he had been arrested and that if I was smart, I’d get out of town before he was released the next day from jail with bail money from his mother. I hid my son at a friend’s house that night and hid myself somewhere else. The next morning, Mother’s Day, I gathered my son and some belongings and we left. I stopped at the Winn Dixie at US1 and SR207 to get some snacks for the road. As I was coming out of the store, I saw his car leaving the parking lot. Fear shot through me. I looked over at my car and saw a fluid leaking out under it. I quietly had the service desk call the police and two female officers arrived. One city police officer and other a deputy sheriff. They knew who I was and who had been arrested the night before. All they said was “we’re aware of the situation”. I kept it as quiet as possible with my now 4 year old son. The city officer went to the auto parts store and got the manager to come out and fix my break lines and check the rest of the hoses and the engine. When the work was completed, the deputy sheriff said she would escort me and my son to the county line, but that we were on our own from there. She told me not to stop for several hours and only to pee and get gas and to just keep going til dark. I stopped in North Carolina somewhere just off I95. I couldn’t go anymore. I had bargained with the front desk clerk at the hotel and I think she felt sorry for me and she gave me a room for the night for less than 40 bucks. As I lay my head down on the pillow, I wondered how things got to this place? How could this all happen? What am I going to do? Where are we going and where will we live? It took a while with my hungry belly gnawing at me, but I fell asleep. I woke in the morning with a startle. I thought for a split second that it had all been a terrible dream, but the doom of reality soon crept in when surveying a hotel room and my little sleeping buddy next to me. Funny I thought, you never really think that that line in the movies is real, but I do get it for sure.

We stayed away for nearly 10 months then were summoned home for the trial for his arrest just before our escape for criminal mischief, trespassing, and damage to a dwelling. We were headed home. I thought it would be over with the trial. I thought he would go away forever and we could have out life back. Justice always prevails…right?! Not so much.

The police had no recourse because, you see, there was no such thing as a Stalking Law at that time in the State of Florida. They never caught him physically in any act. The best we had were shoe prints outside my home with one of the vandalism events. Circumstantial evidence had been gathered and we went to trial.

It was a judicial circus and, as usual, the victim was portrayed as “a hysterical woman upset over the break up of a relationship”. Yup, his Public Surrender said that out loud. When my lawyer even insinuated that the defendant had a checkered past, the judge slammed his gavel down in protest. When I actually objected from the stand and asked “what about my rights?”…Judge turned to me and said “I’m not concerned with your rights. I’m here to protect the rights of Mr. (Blank)”. WTF!?!?!

The trial was almost over. During the brief recess, I had gone to the bathroom down the hall. As I was returning to the courtroom, his two brothers came from a side hall and closed in behind me…one stating to the other in a near whisper…”there she is…we could shoot her now and no one would even be the wiser”. When I ran to the courtroom and told the bailiff, he blew me off with a flip of his his hand and turn of his head. And just like that…it was over. He walks and I return to my prison.

I remember running into his Public Surrender at Publix one day. I asked him if he slept well at night? With an arrogant flippant tone in his voice he said “I sure do”. I said to him, looking directly into his eyes and leaning in, “that’s great, because I don’t”. I left him standing there in front of the bakery with his mouth open.

Events were quiet for a short period, then they kicked back in again. The two detectives on the case had come to me one day to chat. First, they instructed me that if I was to every decide to date again, that I should come to them for an unofficial background check. OK, noted, but not really funny. Second, they described to me that if they had pulled my “rap sheet”, it would likely be about an 8 1/2 by 4 inches or so small sheet of paper. The one detective stepped back, held his hand straight up in the air with the rap sheet of endless folds of my stalker in his right hand. He held it over his head and let it go to unfold to the ground…and it never completely unfolded. More folds remained detailing his criminal history. So it had to be at least 7 feet in length. I felt my knees go weak and the nausea rose in my throat. I leaned back against my car. They unofficially told me that he may have killed someone “in prison” at one time also. (WTF, PRISON?!) They told me there was nothing more they could do for me or my son and that I needed to leave the county…quietly…and anonymously…as soon as possible. My life…our lives…as we knew it…would forever be changed. And come to find out, many other lives would be changed…for the better.

During those couple of years, we had pleaded with the law enforcement agencies, victims advocates, lawyers, judges, the state capital and even the Govenor for help. Other states had a “Stalking Law” in effect that would protect people like me, but no such law existed in Florida at the time…yet. We made calls after calls. We sent letter after letter. We contacted local and national news agencies for help. I did interviews and went on a nationally syndicated talk show. Anything to break the silence. Anything to bring awareness to this crime. A crime that placed the victim in prison and not the perpetrator. The late Govenor Lawton Chiles would eventually, after much a do and several years of begging and pleading, sign into law the first Stalking Law in the State of Florida in 1992. And for that, I am truly grateful.

Along this path, however, were many women who were killed by their stalker and some would commit suicide as a choice vs having to face living the rest of their lives in that “prison”. At times, they were my motivation to never, ever give up.

For the women who did not make it out of those prisons alive, one day I hope to dedicate my book to them. I will never forget their faces.

I have been blessed on occasion to have women approach me and thank me for my fight and for my part in the efforts to pass the Stalking Law in Florida for they have benefited from it’s existence. And if that is why I went through all that hell, my guess is that it was worth it.

With each hurdle and with each horrific event that I have been through…at each one of my broken places…I have healed with gratitude. Gratitude made me stay focused on the prize. Gratitude kept me humble. Gratitude gave me hope again for things better…down the road. I am stronger at my broken places.

“Acceptance is the magic that makes change possible. It is not forever. It is for the present moment.” Melody Beatty

I left my son’s dad when my boy was two. A moment of clarity showed me my son would need a better example of how a man was a to treat a woman. Somehow I knew that if I stayed, he would grow up thinking that “this” is how a man should treat his life partner. I felt a responsibility – how that notion came to me was simple. I was sitting on the couch my toddler son was standing next to the slate top coffee table drinking a class of milk. He spilled the milk. I began to get upset with him. His lower lip quivered. I stopped. Sat down next to him on the floor with his face held gently in my hands. Stared at this precious little boy…little baby that I cherished…and asked myself “Why in God’s name would you yell at a baby for spilling milk?!” I scooped him up, hugged and kissed him…rocking him…and myself to a state of comfort. Searching my soul for the answer I realized that I had taken so much abuse at this point and bottled it up for so long that it was coming out sideways onto an innocent little person. He had become collateral damage to the trauma I was living…everyday. That was it. No matter the cost, I’m out. The unknown scared that shit out of me, but I knew I HAD TO leave.

We struggled financially… a lot… I think, however, that all my son’s needs were met. The fridge was pretty bare most of the time. The milk and juice were always watered down. I would use one egg scrambled with water and cinnamon for three days straight to make him French Toast on weeks that things were (really) tight. If he needed something…and at times…even when he wanted some things…I would just tell him…”Let’s see what I can do…Let’s put that on the list…Let me see if I can get an extra shift for that…Payday is coming up”…whatever. Rarely a “no” would come out and he was a reasonable kid and was a great son and student. He deserved all that he ever asked for as a child.

After we were on our own, I spent the next couple of decades working two or three jobs. When my son was small, I went to school full time and worked two to three part time jobs – never less than two..always working around his schedule and never working too much. Tried hard to be there as much as possible with minimal work hours to get it done. I always tried to keep him in sports. Always wanted him to have the comradery of other kids since he was an only child. WE were working toward a goal together for not only me, but him, was worth every second. I’d bring him to the bus stop in the morning, then head to school til just before lunch. Then I’d go see my tribe of women and then on to home health visits. On the weekends he was with his dad, I’d work overnight 12 hour shifts. Eventually I would work respiratory rehab shifts a town away one or two times a week also. We always had just enough…and that was good enough.

I would always look for free things to do. I think I built them up so much with him that he thought these little adventures were amazing. He was easy to please. I always had in mind that each and every decision that I made was a life lesson for him. In fact, every time I thought I just can’t go on any more, I knew if I quit I was teaching him to quit. And so for just one day at a time, I kept going…for both of us.

When my son and I had to leave his home town, I made a conscious decision to move to a place where we could still drive to see his father and extended paternal family and a place where I could pursue my dream professionally. I chose a college town with a multi cultural base. I wanted him to experience as many new things and people as possible. Turning a negative situation into a positive one and for both of us to benefit. Free stuff is easy to find in a college/cultural town so we did A LOT of free things. We also loved to have “Pig Nights” on Friday nights. These epic evenings consisted of folding out the big yellow floral couch, throwing a sheet over the mattress and spreading out the thermos of home made juice or if we could afford it too, we have “Capri Sun” pouches for him and freshly popped popcorn. Usually I would be able to purchase one sweet snack for him which was a big treat for him. We’d watch movie after movie (Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and Pollyanna ad nauseum) for as long as we were awake (he ALWAYS outlasted me). We’d sleep in our clothes and didn’t have to get up at any specific time in the morning. Great memories.

I used to tell him frequently, “Life is about making memories…make good ones”.

I always shopped at second hand stores for both our needs. EXCEPT I would always buy him new underwear and socks… don’t worry! For me, I would wait til Christmas when my mother would give me socks and underwear as a gift – as requested. For 12 or more years, we lived pretty humbly…to say the least. I kept an attitude of gratitude outwardly with my son and left the worries to HP. Whenever my son would ask “what are we gonna do now mom?” (wish I had a dollar for every time I heard that one), I’d tell him “that’s not your job”. I would tell him that his only job was to be a good person and do well at school, the rest was mine…and it was, always.

The days before I passed the boards and waited on my license to come through, there were MANY scary moments as I look back now. There were many occasions when we didn’t have either A/C or heat or both. Some nights I would let him spend the night at his friend’s house til I could figure out the air conditioning – many a used window unit came through that mobile home. Many mornings I would get up early to turn on the oven, then the fan, move the floor heater to face his breakfast chair and hang his blanket over the chair…then wake him for his day at high school…ninth grade. I never mentioned how scared I was or my doubts of us making it … we were so close now … “I can’t give up now”… I remember it all like it was yesterday.

“Perspective will come in retrospect” Melody Beatty

I am grateful beyond words for all those years of challenges. As the saying goes, if I didn’t have the tough times I wouldn’t know how good I have it today. It was NEVER easy, but when you know you’re the doing the next right thing…you have a goal…there is a prize at the end…you are teaching your child a valuable lesson…and you know like you know like you know that it’ll all be ok with God on your side, you just keep “soldiering on” (thanks Aunt Jean). I would remind myself OFTEN “if I can live with the worst case scenario – the worst possible outcome – and my son wouldn’t get hurt and he would be the better for it…?…then it was worth the risk and work”…always.

My son and I were sitting at the traffic light near Wendy’s and Taco Bell. He was 14 or 15 years old now. I had finished school and studying for the boards. I was working in the office were I had interned as support staff for six months and cleaning condos to help make ends meet. Things were tight…really tight, but light was at the end of the tunnel…and at this point, I KNEW it wasn’t the train! He very casually looked over to me and asked “Mom, can I have five bucks?” Looking forward I said “Son, I don’t have five bucks.” “Well, can we go to the bank and get five bucks?” indicating with his thumb, pointing north toward the location of the Credit Union where we banked. I looked at him casually and said “I don’t have five dollars in the bank right now son.” He looked to me with concern and asked “What do you mean you don’t have five dollars in the bank?!? Looking toward him with a reassuring glance I said “Don’t worry. We have gas in the van enough for several days, food in the fridge, the electric bill is paid and payday is this week. We’ll be fine.” “What are we gonna do mom?!” I said, “Son, If I had five dollars for every time we’ve been in this situation, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” Not thinking anything else of it and actually calming myself saying all of that out loud, I waited for the light to change. Suddenly I saw him raise up on both arm rests, turn toward me with a look of fear and desperation bewailed at me in a raised tone “YOU MEAN WE WERE POOR?!?!?!?!” I was shocked at the question. I stared at him. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Yes, son, of course we were poor.” “Well why didn’t you tell me MOM?!” But I got it at that very moment. “Because it wasn’t your job to know that son.” He never knew how bad things were. He never knew how close we were to collapse over, and over, and over again. At that very moment, once again, a pause for clarity…I knew I had done my job as a mom. High five to me.

Ahead of Hurricane Dorian and after my recent birthday and in light of my struggles financially with my project, I thought it fitting to write about the back story of how I began my mantra of “Nobody’s Bleeding” back in 1995 or so.

PREFACE: NONE of my writing is to make light of horrors, trauma, injustices and/or struggles. I feel compelled in these hyper-sensitive times to be just a tad politically correct and clarify that I am in no way shape or form trying to discount anyone else’s life experiences – good or bad – I am merely telling MY STORY of survival and how I took some really bad things and turned them in to great lessons…for me. Without this internal process, I would’ve stayed a victim and continued to allow others to victimize me. And in my opinion, I would have never been able to blossom and become (becoming) the woman that the Universe intended for me to be. I don’t think I would have developed the understanding, empathy and compassion for others without the tough love, hard work, struggles and despair. I HAD to come from those places in order to go where I was headed. I had to feel the loss of all hope in order to ignite, over and over again, the sliver of a desire to try one more time, over and over again. I needed every moment of desperation to make THAT decision in THAT moment to go on as I was, or to rise above and “Kick the shit out of Plan B” (Sheryl Sandberg).

I had been raised in defeat and knew I didn’t want any part of that shit. I had already lived too many mistakes and had chosen another path. Don’t get me wrong, some days I really, really REALLY enjoyed rolling around in “the shit”. Even better, I liked you to smell my shit, ask why I smelt like shit and then for me to commence to bloviate, again, about all of my injustices and stay in the problem and remain a victim of (whatever real or imagined injustice it was) the problem. It’s not that these bad things didn’t happen. It’s just that I stayed in those problems way to long most of the time in years past. Today, I still hold my rule…If nobody’s bleeding, just soldier on (thanks Aunt Jean). I’ve also added, for my own discipline, I will talk about the problem one time, maybe two. But then, I MUST move into the solution, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I have to try to Live In Solution Always (that’s another story). If I remain in the problem, I will never move forward. NEVER. If nothing changes, nothing changes 😉

I think it was in 1995 or so. My son and I were living in what everyone told me was “the hood”. It was a little 2 bedroom, one bath (no tub) mobile home set back in a dark corner of a grungy trailer park in Central Florida. It was our safe haven. Albeit not EVERYONE’S version of a safe haven, it was a place where I could somewhat relax, a little. A place where I could start over. The place that the Universe brought us to so we could live our lives again (but that’s another story).

When I walked into the little tin can for the first time, the stench was horrible. Filth everywhere. I walked into the only bathroom…feces spread all over the walls. Urine and mold still in the toilet. The kitchen had all that you would expect. Old food in cabinets. Curdled milk in the frig and apparently the last year or so of menu items baked into the pans under the electric coils of the stove. The only source of heat and air was the rusted A/C unit hanging precariously from the only kitchen window. It reminded me of the character in one of my son’s favorite cartoons … the cantankerous old A/C unit that clanked and growled throughout the whole movie.

It was perfect. In the rough, but all that my son and I needed at the exact price that we could afford. I’ll take it! I little bleach and elbow grease (ok, a lot) and we’d be cooking with gas…when I could afford to get the gas anyway…

After leaving my home and family late at night with the truck packed tight, we left for our new home…new life. I had secured one part time job a month earlier as a respiratory therapist and had another one on deck. I had registered for school at the local community college. I decided that if I had to leave my home, I was gonna do something positive with it. My son’s ed docs were privately transferred to his new school by two detectives. I sought out my spiritual tribe soon after we landed and had begun the process of creating a new life for us both with a goal of becoming a physician assistant. I knew this town would expose my son to a phenomenal amount of new educational adventures. Museums, parks, multi cultural events, new languages, an abundance of sports activities. Every color of the rainbow lived there! I was grateful for both of us and the things we could learn there. Several months prior, I had planned the move and began scrimping and saving. Buying TP, bar soap, detergent, shampoo and other minor essentials that I thought would last for several months…come to find out, not the case…but that’s another story. To the penny, I thought we’d be ok (relative term) for about three months or so.

Things were never perfect, but I made sure that all my son’s basic needs were met…especially the love I had for him…he was my inspiration to keep going more times than I could have every calculated. We had each other. They were MOST CERTAINLY the best AND worst of times. “Never, ever give up.”…right son?

I lived in a relatively low grade anxious state most of the time. Looking over my shoulder. Lying awake at night with every bump I heard. Nailing windows shut. Always looking outside before stepping out. Starting the car without my son in it. Scanning the parking lot as I exited the grocery store. Looking under the car as I approached before looking in the back seat as I unlocked the car door. Maintaining a constant vigil over my son and myself. It never stopped…ever…

You never know how stressed you are until your shoelace breaks. I mean, you’re trucking along at a high RPM… steady…so you don’t really notice til something (relatively) small happens. You hit a pothole or something. I came home on one of our typical evenings from picking my son up from the Boys and Girls club, after a long day at school and my two (later to be three) part time jobs to make dinner. I turned the cranky A/C unit on in the kitchen which always barked at me a bit as I woke it up each evening. It screamed and growled back at me with a feverish pitch that threw me back against the counter. It began to rattle in the window. Literally, shake and rattle while it screamed in it’s perch. I leaned toward it with fear to try and turn it off… With one last high pitched scream…it lurched inward and fell to the floor…silent. At the same moment, my son had come from the bathroom to see what the racket was about just as it was falling out of the window. I thought it was going to hit him. I screamed at him to jump back simultaneously as I dove toward him to push him out of the way. I scooped him up and set him down in the hall quickly looking for the wounds and blood I thought I would surely see. No blood. No bruises, scratches or scrapes. He was ok. I dropped my head in prayer and gratitude.

“What are we gonna do momma?” If I had a dollar for every time I heard my son say that every time the shit hit the fan, we would’ve been set.

It all came crashing in on me. The stress had been overwhelming. Keeping it together for all this time with a game face for my son and myself… My shoelace snapped. I sat on the floor in silence. My son sat next to me…in silence. Again…the question…”what are we gonna do momma?” I remember him justing looking at me…waiting…

It was then that I realized it could’ve been so much worse. Everything could ALWAYS be worse. I had to stay focused on the positive. Always get up and brush myself off and soldier on. That little guy watched me all the time…everyday as a manometer of life. His gauge. Every time shit hit the fan, he was watching me to see how I handled it. How were we gonna make it through that event. He’s was eight years old and I realized I was on his mini radar all the time. These were life lessons. This shit would shape him for -freekin – ever…dammit! HOLY SHIT! I was responsible (for the most part I know today) for how this little guy would deal with life down the road. And hence, my focus shifted again.

No one had gotten hurt and that meant everything else was gonna be ok. I looked at my son and said “I don’t know son, but nobody’s bleeding, so everything’s gonna be ok. Let’s eat and we’ll figure it out later.” And so we did, over, and over, and over again…

Somehow, I knew deep within me as a young mom to have “those” conversations with my son early… “Never be afraid to tell me anything”, “I will always believe you”, “If someone hurts you or touches you in a not nice way, tell me”, “If someone hurts you and they threaten to hurt you or me if you tell, don’t believe them”, “Scream as loud as you can and drop and run if someone tries to hurt you…run to me son”… Seems the simple, old “never talk to strangers” conversation was too trivial…never on my radar because those that had betrayed me had always been well known to the family, or, …family… How did I know to teach my child well…?

At 16, I was completely independent…not grown up, just on my own. My friend Diana and I were hanging at her mom’s in Ocala. We ran by her mom’s, then her work, Wendy’s, then onto to “party at the campground”…which I remember seeming to be a regular event. Everyone seemed familiar with the occurrence…a regularly scheduled program…a local thing… No one asked the time or the address…just a bunch of nods and smiles. Hell ya…let’s go…

Seemed like one of the usual parties. Bonfire…keg…Boston, Foreigner, AC/DC…all the usual suspects. Then that gut alarm started to go off when these three (back-wood assholes) started standing a little to close to Diana and me. Yes, we were underage and drinking alcohol. We were both buzzed and certainly acting like dumb ass drunk teenage girls. Then the three rednecks started to circle us and quickly maneuvered us away from the 20 or so crowd we were drinking with that evening. Pushing. Shoving. Then… we were down on the ground. What the fuck is happening? I looked at her in terror…Diana was next to me. There were palmetto bushes all around us. Dirt and rocks under my knees. I could here the music and laughter at the fireside we had just drifted from…seemed just feet away…I was mentally frozen. I had no voice. One took Diana then the other took me. The smaller of the three just watched. On my knees…raped…in silence…he pushed off my back as he stood up, no words uttered…buckled his pants and he was done. Not a fucking word from anyone. It happened so fast…and…in slow motion…looking back, it wasn’t their first rodeo…orchestrated…a well rehearsed dance. I was stunned in silence for moments…staggered to my feet…sheepishly grappled with my shorts…embarrassed as if it were my fault…my heart was pounding…what next? Diana stood up and started to laugh. I’m sure out of fear. My guess is so that we could walk away…so that we COULD walk away. We walked away… Diana and I grabbed the keg hose and filled our cups up and shot back the beers as fast as we could…exhale…ok…that’s better…nothing happened…right? Neither one of us spoke for the rest of the night… It was never mentioned again…

Today I realize that I had no voice because it had been silenced long ago. When I spoke up, I was told to shut up. Never taught that I had anywhere to go to with my fears, hurts, sad’s or mad’s. I had no say…no value.. no worth. Just learned to shut up and survive or be destroyed. And so I did…that night in the Ocala National Forest…I kept silent, never told and survived.

Fast forward…My son was 9 or ten. Family had come to visit..a male family member and his “wife”. I had worked evening shift the night before while my son stayed with my mom. Came home after shift and slept at my mom’s to wake up with my son and the “visitors” who had brought their camper and was staying in it just outside in the yard. I kissed my son on his “fork head” (his childhood phrase) and fell fast asleep.

I woke up suddenly…frantic…I don’t know why. The sun was up… I looked in the bed next to me and realized my son wasn’t there. I listened for a split second as I bolted upright in the bed and heard voices outside…it was my son and…him… I ran out into the living room and screeched at my mother “where the hell is (my son)?!?!?! In usual fashion, she looked at me with disgust and said flippantly…”he’s outside with (him), what’s your problem?” I scramble outside, jumped down four steps, ran to the camper, snatched open the door of the camper with the ferocity of a she-devil that I didn’t even know existed within me…then the wave of panic hit me as I saw my son… absolutely fine…standing there chatting with (him)…nothing wrong…nothing happened. Why did he bring my son into the camper? Why was I so panicked? Why was I so scared that my son was with (him)? It would take me years to put it all together…

As a young girl, I went to my mother and woke her in the middle of the night to tell her what (he), that same male, had done to me…protect me mom…make it stop mom…help me mom…save me? Her response? “Oh stop it Kristine. You’re dreaming. Just go back to bed.” I spent the next 20 years sleeping on my stomach, up against a wall, protecting myself…because no one else would..

You taught me well mom. You taught me I had better keep my mouth shut, or I’ll have no place to sleep. You taught me I had only me to rely on. You taught me my value by placing your comfort over my safety. You taught me that if I became too much of a bother, that I would be next. You taught me that it was all in my head. You taught me I had no voice…no right…no say…

How did I know to teach my son value? How did I know to show him his worth? How did I know to teach him to come to me for protection…from anything or anyone? How did I know I needed to protect him…from (him) and anyone else? Who taught me to show him that his well being was, above all else, most important? How did I know to teach him to protect himself…that I believed him…that I would protect him…? …That he was loved, worthy, and that he had a voice…and could use it…?

My guess is a Higher Power, of some sort…I don’t really know. I do know that I am grateful for whatever divine intervention helped me to teach my son well…no matter what…

Teach your children well…

During the traumatic move to Florida as a teenager, I was tasked by my mother to take care of my youngest brother (8 at the time) during the 24 hour bus trip alone. My sister was already absent from the family. My eldest brother vanished from the home soon after my sister and he began working and living on his own soon after dropping out of high school. Neither of the two older siblings would make the journey to Florida for more than 20 years.

My middle brother traveled with our mother in the U-haul rented to move to Florida carrying the fraction of our belongings to the small, rudimentary dwelling in Florida. After a brief stay with my maternal grandparents, I found myself, my two little brothers and my mother living in a small mobile home in a strange, crude place – no friends – no plan – no air conditioning – lost and with no hope of anything changing soon.

Soon my mother began with her grumblings of her signature undercurrent of being over-burdened and a victim in life. As she had for many years – as far back as the sixties – she spent most of her in-home time in bed. Never engaging as a parent – which was not unusual for the last ten plus years. Soon I began to hear the phone calls with her complaints to my father and his new wife. My little brother was just a kid that needed parenting. Like any child, we needed a parent.

We never heard from our father. No calls. No letters. No visits. Nothing. Why now?

Soon after, my baby brother was next. The next sibling to vanish from my life – for whatever excuse she had – for whatever reason – with whatever justification she had- my closest one was now gone. Just gone. In the following years, my baby brother, once again, was subjected to abuse that is unspeakable – as we all had since young in ages. This, in my opinion, this was the ultimate cause of his early death at the age of 48 years young. I miss him deeply…

But that’s another story.

Somehow my middle brother met and hung with kids from the island – surfer kids. Dropped out of middle school and absent for most of the time before he “left”. It must’ve been a great outlet for him as a pre-teen. Having a pack to be with instead of the emptiness of the place where we slept with a parent who didn’t seem to give a damn if we were there or not. Soon he had been introduced to the adults of that genre – some surfers – some fishermen – some both. All potheads for sure. The man who was allowed to take my next sibling (because she “just can’t handle him”) owned a fishing boat. Leaving his name out would be wise. My mother gave my middle sibling to this person, to go off with this single, old man, on a boat, offshore, by himself, to be a deck hand (yes, the picture you have is correct) at 12 years old. In what world does that sound ok?

Her world.

So, I haven’t heard from or seen my two older siblings for years. My baby brother was gone. My middle sibling – literally – shipped off.

Yup…alone. Now, desperately seeking a pack.

Here’s where I tried to perfect my people pleasing skills which, at this point, I had been working on since I was about five years old. I had already learned to keep my mouth shut or I’d have no place to sleep. If I acted up a bit like my two little brothers, I’d for sure be next. I had certainly better “act as if” so I would belong…somewhere…anywhere. So, I tried to be as little trouble as possible (or not get caught anyway). I stayed at other people’s homes as much as I could before I overstayed my welcome – which was common for this emotional escape artist. I helped her at times mop the floors at night at the convenience store where she worked. Tried my teenager best to keep the house up. Got jobs here and there so I wouldn’t ask for any money. Still, somehow I knew I was next.

Desperately trying to create a family – or cling to one – that never existed…always…

I remember clearly the day I knew – truly knew to the core of my being – that I was “next”. May seem insignificant to others, but I knew. My carousing with people who were doing the wrong things had progressed. She knew it. Never a word or punishment. Just the turn of her back. No investment made, ever, into my tiny, broken little soul.

I was leaving with a young man, much older than me, and I literally told her what I was going to do that evening…(and it wasn’t shuffle board). I remember telling her so she would stop me. That would mean I matter. That would mean she cared. So she would tell me “No f__king way are you going out! Get your ass back in this house right now young lady! You’re grounded!” That’s how I thought it would go down. Right? Wouldn’t any parent…?! Wouldn’t they…?!

Nope.

When she looked at me with her all-too-familiar look of disgust – as she had frequently gave to all five of us at one time or another, more often than I care to recall – she clicked her tongue against her teeth, rolled her eyes, turned her head away, showed her back to me and flipped her flat palm upwards dismissing me into the night. I did not matter. She did not care. I left…

Immediately…I left…emotionally. Soon after, I left physically. Gone.

It was my turn.

Soon I met up with a school mate girlfriend and she was in a similar state. We, at 16 years young, had our own apartment – both with full time service-industry jobs and the freedom to party – all – the – time. And we did. The two of us were our own pack.

For the next few decades, I spent an astounding amount of energy trying to create a family that never existed. People Pleasing myself into dangerous and, at minimum, unhealthy situations and relationships that would only compound the scars I already lived with daily. Sacrificing myself, as I had learned, to be accepted into what ever pack would have me. ALWAYS at my expense. ALWAYS to my detriment. Humiliating myself over and over…just so I could have someone near me…just someone…anyone.

I craved for a family that never existed – a pack – my pack…

It wasn’t until I hit my bottom(s) – numerous – multi level – sometimes repetitive – that I began to crawl my way out of that self inflicted (albeit learned) emotional prison. I had to be rejected enough, hurt enough, lose enough, and truly feel the desperation of hopelessness enough, for me to become willing to work on the inner demons of my past.

Ya can’t live a life like I had and come out normal, ya know?!

It’s been a very slow journey. One with ups and downs. Triumphs and failures. Feelings ranging from elation to thoughts of suicide, over and over again, back and forth.

I am grateful for the before’s, the lessons of the past. Otherwise I wouldn’t know how great the after’s are and continue to be for me. I wouldn’t have a light to look toward if I didn’t acknowledge the truth in the darkness of my past.

Today, I know my value is great. I know my worth is innumerable. I know that the world will treat me exactly the way I tell it to treat me.

Next? My next is of my own making. I can be, do and have whatever “next” I desire.

Cuz I said so.