Lie after Lie after Lie

People may wonder how these domestic violence cases often get dropped.  I can tell you why.

First, I was forced to make payments for the lawyer and the bail money.  One day, I even dropped a check by the lawyer's office on Water Street and handed a check for $1000 directly to the receptionist.  Nearly half my pay before taxes.  I wonder what that receptionist thought of a domestic violence victim bringing in a check to her batterer's lawyer.  Something tells me I was not the first.

Then came the district attorney.  He needed a letter of explanation.  Of why I was changing my story.  A detailed explanation.  All typed up and fancy.  I wonder if I still have that word document on an old computer file somewhere after I left my old office.

Good thing I am a good writer.  Good thing I took acting all through elementary, junior high, and high school.  Because I sure gave the performance of my life that day in the county building.  Oh yes, I was a very good actress.

I had practice with Good Cop/Bad Cop two years earlier.  But this time the District Attorney was mostly All Bad Cop.

He was all over me that November Day in 2003.

Why was I changing my story?  Am I telling the truth?  How could the head bashing not be domestic violence?  What really happened that night?

I need that word document to remember how clever I was to create a scene where I was the crazy one ~ out of control ~ that the head bashing was an accident  ~ only a mere accident ~ all three blows to my head ~ only an accident, yes, an accident ~ all because I was out of control that night of August 22, 2003.

I rounded up a freaky psychiatrist ~ the one who prescribed Zoloft in my fourth attempt to handle the anxiety of domestic violence ~ told him to write a note saying I could have a bad reaction from missing a dose ~ that I was out of contol ~ yes, just missing one dose caused it ~ yes, missing a dose could make me feel out of control ~ enough to have someone accidentally bash my head into a wall when trying to restrain me.

So there it was.  A psychiatrist agreeing to write such a note ~ all for the price of another $100 visit ~ note written and attached to word document taking it all back ~ it never happened the way I said it happened ~ No, Mr. D.A., it never happened.

"What about the 911 call?" he asked.

Because 911 does not lie.

"I don't know why I called 911.  Must have been the missed dose of my medication making me think something bad was happening to me.  Yes, I forgot to take my Zoloft that day."

Over and over again.  Lie and lie after lie.

"I forgot to take my Zoloft that day.  He was not trying to hurt me.  He was trying to help me.  He thought I was hysterical.  Oh, yes, and that's why he kept throwing water all over me.  I was definitely hysterical."

"Did he make you say this to me?" he demanded.

"No," I looked him straight in the eye, emotionless, as if I were the one who should have been on trial.

Over and over again.  Lie after lie after lie.

"No, nothing happened.  Nothing happened.  Nothing happened.  It was all my fault.  I was hysterical."

He looked me in the eye and knew I was lying.  Now just as emotionless as me.

He bowed down and dropped the case.

Wiped the blood off his hands.

And said goodbye.

August 22, 2003

Thursday started out with warm Felton sunshine peeking through the redwood trees.  

But soon a dark cloud of fear took a hold me of me, and I knew something bad was going to happen that beautiful summer day.  

Before I left for work, we got word that she was loose.  That she "escaped" ~ walked right out of the Sunflower House in downtown Santa Cruz ~ in violation of her probation to finish an alcohol and drug treatment program.

I knew it was just a matter of time ~ minutes ~ hours ~ before our lives crossed again ~ as she always came back ~ to the place where all her troubles began again after a few failed attempts at sobriety.

She was his housemate when I met him.  A single mother and young baby from the midwest.  Out to California to begin a new life ~ after drugs and alcohol had destroyed her life back in Arkansas.

Naturally, I befriended her as I did all of the newcomers from his A.A. and N.A. programs.  Even though I had never touched drugs and alcohol in my 36 1/2 years, these newcomers and old-timers alike were practically the only consistent connection to the outside world I had during my time spent in the Santa Cruz Mountains.

I went to work and came back by 6 p.m.  Still no word from her.  Where is she? I wondered.  Would she come here to hide?  Would she turn herself in?  Would the police come looking for her here?  As they had been called so many times before when she lived here in 2001-2002. 

I went to bed and could not sleep, wondering if she had made her way to San Lorenzo Valley yet.  Or maybe she had finally skipped town all together ~ since technically she was a fugitive again ~ there was a warrant out for her arrest ~ all because she gave up trying to get clean and sober as mandated by the courts.  I wondered what drugs she had found before she found us.

I suddenly sprang up in bed, awakened by the sound of pounding on the heavy green door in the master bedroom.

"Stella! Stella! Stella! Let me in! Let me in!" she demanded.

I recognized the sound of her voice.  I knew it was her.  I recognized the sound of drugs and alcohol in her voice as well. 

I screamed back, "No! No! No! I can't let you in ~ the police are looking for you."

"Let me in! Let me in!," she pleaded again, "Stella, let me in!"

"I won't! I can't! I can't do it!" I shouted back through the heavy door that separated us.

He came at me from behind.  Grabbed me on each side of my head.  And with a force beyond anything I had ever felt before ~ slammed my head into the heavy wood.

Slam! Slam! Slam!

Over and over again.  Instead of the door being slammed in her face, my head was being slammed into the knotty pine.  I spun around and felt the abrupt splash of ice cold water on my face.  

Over and over again.  Water being thrown all over me. 

He's finally going to do it, I thought to myself, he's finally going to kill me.  It's finally happening.  The kind of abuse I always feared would happen.  The life-threatening kind.

I wanted my mother in that moment.  To protect me from this man.  Keep me alive, just this once, Mama, I prayed.  Mama, I love you.  I need you here.  Watch over me, Mama.  Mama!

God, are you there?  Are you with me?  God, please help me, God.  Please help me now.  I have to get away.  I have to find my way out of this room, God.  Can you hear me, God?  God, keep me safe.  Dear Lord, please spare me.

I somehow made my way to the kitchen away from him ~ my head was pounding ~ I could not turn my neck ~ fumbled for the phone in the dining room in the dark ~ Where was he? Why had he not followed me in there? I found the phone ~ the same one he used to do all his motorcycle business ~ I thought of all those calls he made to sell those motorcycles as I dialed those numbers I could never dial before ~ 911 ~ I found myself back in the kitchen  ~ looking out the bay windows ~ he was outside on the driveway as the sheriff drove up ~ I watched at what I had done ~ bringing the sheriffs to our doorstep at 3:30 in the morning ~ what had I done?

I thought, "Oh, My God.  I finally did it.  I finally called 911."

And where was she now?  Nowhere in sight.  Where had she gone?

There were two sheriffs.  One to talk with him.  And one to talk with me.  

A sheriff probably just slightly younger than me.  A boyish face.  Kind eyes.  He examined my head.  Could find not any open cuts.  I told him I could not turn my head.  

"Why are you all wet?" he asked delicately.

"He would not stop throwing water all over me," I answered weakly.  I told him I was not hysterical.  That I was only trying to tell the woman with a warrant out her arrest that she could not hide at our place.  

He talked with me about my wound.  He called it a "closed head injury" ~ asked if I wanted an ambulance.  I told him, "No."

"I have to take your picture, " he informed me, "Water can also be used as a weapon."  He explained that heavy water can be used to block vision and keep someone from escaping the episode of abuse.  He took out the polaroid camera.  And snapped away.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

He let me look at the images.  Of me.  Twenty minutes after having my head bashed into a wall and then being showered with water.  I looked at my eyes in that sorrowful picture.  Full of fear and fatigue.  My hair and clothes matted and damp with water.

No visual bruises.

No, they were hidden beneath my long brown hair.  

How convenient.  Bruises hidden so my secret stayed hidden.

Except from the kind officer who took my picture and let me see it.  

Let me see The Face of Abuse.  

A Harrowing Reminder of What Lie Ahead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dedicated to the Santa Cruz County Sheriff's Office, the 911 dispatcher who took my call and stayed on the line until help arrived, and the kind officer who showed such tenderness and compassion during the darkest moment of my life.  Thank you for saving my life.

 

Dominican

I went to the E.R. only once during our relationship. 

I drove myself to Dominican in the middle of the night ~ after being together a little over three months.

I was not bleeding or bruised.  The physical violence began in the second year ~ technically ~ although looking back there were moments of physical restrainment that pushes the transition time up a bit earlier.

Halloween Night 2001 started out okay ~ but with his usual wishy-washy behavior of never knowing if he really wanted to see me that evening or actually take his son trick or treating with his ex-girlfriend and her son.

He finally agreed to bring his son to my cousin's house in Santa Cruz for their annual Open House of Chinese food and hundreds of trick or treaters.  His son has recently turned 13 but still liked the idea of going out in a neighborhood that was full of magic and completely safe compared to navigating Highway 9.

Everything changed upon our return to Felton.  The crazy-making was out of control ~ the mind games ~ the verbal abuse ~ the round and round altercation of him pitting me up against his ex-girlfriend in his defense of finding it perfectly okay to see both of us even though he told me we were exclusive since summer.

I felt as though I was spinning ~ not physically ~ but emotionally ~ I felt like I was losing control of reality at that moment ~ that I needed to get away from him ~ I was numb yet I was full of sadness and anger at this man who was already torturing me in my mind. 

I told him I thought I should go to the hospital.  That I did not feel right.  Something was wrong.  I think I was on the verge of some type of breakdown.

My honesty angered him in ways I still cannot comprehend.  He yelled and screamed, "Go to the hospital!  But I'm not taking you.  You really should just go out and kill yourself!"

I had not mentioned anything about killing myself.  I was not suicidal.  But his chilling words were enough to get me to leave his house in Felton and drive myself down Highway 9 at 1 a.m. to Dominican.

What was I going to tell the doctors when I got there?  That my boyfriend was driving me crazy ~ both literally and figuratively?  Is there such a thing?  Could my body have really started having a physical reaction to his crazy words and vulgar put-downs?  To his demand that I go right out and kill myself?

The doctor was very kind ~ not much older than I am today ~ he took all my vital signs and then got to the bottom of what was really going on ~

First, I made sure I made no reference to the word "suicide" ~ fearing any mention of the conversation would make them think they needed to take me to the Mental Health Unit in the back parking lot and keep me there for observation for three days.  So I was on guard when he asked me what happened that night.

I confessed that I was having problems in my new relationship.  That I had been verbally abused that evening. 

"Did he hit you?" the doctor asked.  I whispered, "No."

"Has he ever hit you?" he asked this time.  I whispered, "No."

But suddenly, I blurted out, "He told me to go out and kill myself."

The doctor expressed compassion and concern for my revelation and then looked me in the eye and said, "If a man tells you to go kill yourself, he will hit you."

I drove myself back up the highway and passed his house on the way back to Ben Lomond.  Lil' Red was waiting for me in the window like he always did.  I held him tight, looking at the knotty pine walls of my tiny studio which felt like home to me even though I was rarely there anymore.

I wondered why my life had changed so drastically in the last three months ~ why this man continued to hurt me one moment and love me profoundly the next ~ I wondered if he was home wondering what happened to me during my visit to Dominican.  There were no voicemails on my answering machine.  No concern for my well-being in any way. 

Haunted by the doctor's words, I told myself that I would go back to Walnut Ave Women's Center.  I would try to pick up where I left off last summer when I tried to break free from him after only 9 days.  I needed answers.  I needed strength.  I needed to tell someone else what was happening to me.

But I did not realize that Halloween night that the biggest foreshadow of my life had just happened at Dominican.

Damaged Goods

I sometimes feel vulnerable now having shared all this garbage with the world.

I have always hated the word "vulnerable".


I spoke about my being worried that people will now think I am damaged in some way, and the subject was brought up again when I watched a video by a woman who had written a book about her experience with domestic violence.


Although I have been encouraged to write by many people, I also feel a distance from some of them now because of the subject matter.  A possible avoidance.  Is it the subject of domestic violence, or do they think I am damaged goods?


I do not think I would even have the guts to ask.


And so I try to just focus on the cause and try not to worry about what other people think of me.  But I still do.  Especially if the person is a man.  What does he really think of a woman who was badly beaten and verbally abused for four years?  Does he pass judgement even if it is unspoken?  I sit and wonder and then wonder why I even care.


These are not people that I am closest to in my life, so why do I even care?  But I do care.  I do not want to be viewed as damaged goods by anyone. 


I wonder why I felt compelled to put myself out there in the first place.  It almost was not even a choice.  I had to put myself out there in order to fully heal so I could never be considered damaged goods.  Damaged goods.  Sounds like some sort of broken commodity.  Does not even sound human to me.


But the stereotype exists.  I have been dealing with jokes when the subject of my blog comes up around casual acquaintances.  People who have not even read the blog but hear me talk about it.  So I took a break of only five days from writing about the sensitive subject of domestic violence and posted animals stories instead.


But the titles still filled my mind this past week, and I finally had to start writing again.  Wondering if I am just giving people more proof that I am damaged goods.  Wondering why I can be so strong and no longer silent and still buy into sick stereotypes. 


But I will buy into the stereotypes as long as the avoidance continues.  And in the end, if people begin reaching back to me, then I can say without question that I was wrong.  That they do not think I am damaged goods. 


I still have this last bit of work to do before I can say I'm done with domestic violence.  That domestic violence has not left a permanent mark on me in a negative way.  That I have fully turned a bad experience around and used it to help other women in need.


I need to work on my insecurity of being viewed as damaged goods. 


My spirit was stifled.  My spirit was damaged.  During each day of the abuse.


But my soul survived.


Unmarked and undamaged.


And lived to share my truth.

~ Uncensored ~

Proximity

So many times I have wondered if my life would have turned out differently if I had never moved to San Lorenzo Valley.

I found a cheap cabin-style apartment in Ben Lomond in the Summer of 2000, the same month I got my first job at the university.

Less than a year later, it was in the dirt parking lot of that same complex that I met him.  He had actually been dating a neighbor of mine.  And little did I know that he was watching me all along. 

My neighbor Penny was closer to his age as he was nearly 17 years older than me.  She did not tell me much about him except that he was hot and cold about seeing her at times, and at other times, he would talk with her about leaving the valley and buying a motorhome together to travel the country.

I soon learned that my neighbor was some version of an alcoholic and also addicted to prescription medication.  She would always talk about this other guy that I should date, my future abuser's sidekick who was closer to my age. 

And so my connection to The Bad Man began with us each dating each other's "friends".

I only went out with the other guy a few times, but he lived in a trailer on The Bad Man's property.  And during the few times I would visit, my date's "landlord" and friend would always come knocking.

By the third time he interrupted our visit, I found myself uncomfortably intrigued by the older guy all dressed up in leather, standing with his hand on his hip right outside the trailer.  I could not explain it, but I was suddenly more enchanted by him than the new guy I was dating.  I did not really think anything about it at the time.  I did not realize that proximity had brought us together in two locations now ~ with two connections in common ~ and it was just a matter of time before my fate would be sealed.

Looking back, I now wonder if I was already being stalked by The Bad Man.  He would show up in places where I ran errands.  I was walking back home from the Ben Lomond Market, and suddenly here he was by the side of the road on Highway 9 in his fancy Black Mustang.  He called me over, and to this day, I just wish I would have waved him on ~

But naive and trusting of men I still was at 36 1/2 that I poked my head in the passenger window to see what he had to say.  He asked me to get in the car.  He needed to talk about the woman he was dating ~ my neighbor Penny ~ about a problem they were having ~ I think she said she did not want to see him anymore ~ what should he do, he asked ~ he needed my advice desperately.

I do not remember what I even said.  But I know I did not get in his car.  I  kept telling him I had to go ~ that my ice cream was melting ~ Oh, yes, he agreed, then I should go, he did not want my ice cream to melt.

But then he asked me for a hug.  He wanted to see if it felt different than the other girls, he pleaded with me.  I could not believe what I was hearing.  I really needed to get away.  Fast.  He scared me with his comments ~ his words which had a visual effect in my lonely mind. 

I think I said that as long as he was going to try to work things out with my neighbor, then I really should not be giving him any hugs.

She ended up moving away that summer.  Very abruptly.  I never heard from her again. 

But I heard from him. 

By this time, the other guy ~ his "tenant" ~ the one who only saw women for less than four dates ~ well, naturally he no longer wanted to see me after the third date ~ I had not even dated him for a couple of months by now.

So I was open and willing to try again.  In those twenty years of being single between my high school boyfriend and meeting my abuser, I never once gave up hope that I would find someone to share my life with at some point.  I was getting older, but the romantic side of me did not care that I was nearing middle age.

Would my life have turned out differently if I had never moved to San Lorenzo Valley?  If I had never befriended the alcoholic, drug-addicted neighbor?  If I had never gone out with the friend of the guy she was dating?

Or would The Bad Man have found me somewhere else?  Maybe at Pergie's in downtown Santa Cruz where he loved to hang out?  Maybe at the Pizza 9 or Coffee 9 right in Ben Lomond?  Would my destiny had been the same if I had never met him through them?

These are the thoughts that have filled my head for the last 10 years since he wove his way into my life in the Summer of 2001 and stayed right there until the Summer of 2005.

I found out later that another neighbor had told Penny that I ended up with him.  And instead of being upset that I now dated the man she had left, she said, "Oh, No!"

She was worried for me.

And it suddenly dawned on me that Penny kept her secret from me.  That she was being abused.  I could barely believe what this guy was saying that my friendly neighbor ~ who had shared her struggle with alcohol and pain medication addiction with me ~ was now worried for me and my safety. 

And I knew.  I just knew.  I finally knew why she moved to New York.

Freedom is Glorious

I've been working alone the past two days, and instead of taking out the scissors and cutting my hair, I took out an old CD of pictures and remembered how far I have come in this journey.

I found pictures of the animals I left behind so very long ago ~ his pets who were like children to me ~ I teared up at their precious faces and remembered how much I love and miss them every day.

Then I found some pictures of me taken in my old rental office on campus the night before my 41st birthday.

And I was amazed at how clear and blue and full of life my eyes were in each picture.  The weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  I stood tall and proud.  The color was back in my face, and my face was fuller because I had finally started to regain the weight I had lost when my food intake was so limited on the weekends.

My eyes sparkled in those pictures.  I could not stop staring at myself.  The pictures were proof that I was free.  That I was me again. 

I looked at the CD and reached for a snack.  And I thought about how I can eat whatever I want now.  There is no watchful eye mentally counting my calories ~ keeping the cupboard bare.  I am no longer charged $20 to eat a home-cooked meal.  I am no longer ridiculed for not cooking that home-cooked meal myself.

I can do what I want, say what I want, feel what I want, wear what I want.  I am not some dress-up doll used to cloak in leather to be propped up on the back of a motorcycle for the whole valley to see ~ no I am middle-aged now, often without make-up, and finally comfortable in my own body not to care if I am not perfect.

Because perfect was never good enough anyway.

I can speak again.  I have a voice.  I can have an opinion on anything I want. 

I see my family again on all holidays.  I do not have to lie about where I am living.  Where I am going.  What I am doing.

There is no shame anymore.  No more secrets.  Even the writing I am doing has eliminated the secrets from the people I care about the most.

I think about all of these changes as I ponder what it is like for him to be sitting in jail right now.  To have his freedom finally taken away from him.  To be told what to do, when to do it.  And to be isolated from family and friends.

It took the news of his jail sentence to wake me up to what I had blocked out for so long.  To bring those horrible memories back up to the surface in dreams, flashbacks, and fleeting moments of sadness.  To finally realize that I had to write down my truth, or they would never go away.  He would still be controlling me in my head through those nightmares, those flashbacks.  He would still be present in my life if I did not get rid of him by writing down all the ugliness of our time together and sharing it with the world.

He never wanted me to be a writer.  He made fun of my dream every day.  And it hit me today that the irony of my life story is that one of the biggest stories of my life will now be about him.  And maybe there will come the book or the screenplay out of all of this ugliness that I have shared with the world.  Because if you can skim off the scum, if you can sand down the rust, beneath the surface of all that pain and sadness is the beauty that was once there ~ that was once my life ~ that was once me.

Beneath the surface lies the freedom that never really left my side.  Freedom was waiting in the distance for me all along.  Freedom was God taking care of me through the whole ordeal and seeing me through to the other side.  Where life is precious and pure and sweet.

Freedom led me to a new life where I can now help others as they had once helped me.

Freedom came with its own price ~ the scars beneath the surface that may have scabbed over ~ in order for me to survive.

But those scars are my battle wounds for my freedom.  I paid the price for a new life.  I earned my freedom.  I survived.

Freedom is Glorious!

Blackbird

The only time I watch my back is when I hear the sound of a certain motorcycle.

They always tease me that I went out with an old Harley guy living in the valley.

But he rode a sport bike, The Blackbird, a massive machine of power and metal.

If I had not been killed by one of his punches, I might have been killed riding on the back of that machine.

He rode even more reckless on a bike than he even did driving a car.

Crossing over the double line, going down the middle on highways in rush hour traffic
~ weaving in and out, and speeding beyond speeding ~ nothing I had ever could have imagined.

I was not one to be impressed by motorcycles.  This was a whole other world to me.  It seemed like everyone in San Lorenzo Valley either had a motorcycle, or they were about to be convinced to buy one from him.

In the earlier years after our separation, I would turn my head 20 times a day when I heard the sound of a motorcycle.  Making sure it was not him.  Because sometimes it really was.

I remember he was waiting outside the Walnut Ave Women's Center after "The Ninth Day" when I cut my hair without his permission.  Yes, he was waiting on Walnut Ave just as I was trying to work up the courage to stop seeing him so early in our relationship.

He would ride The Blackbird up to the university and bring unwanted flowers and balloons to my office after times of abuse.  I would hide in the back office and send the gifts home with my student workers.

I tried so hard back then in our first year together to break up with him.  But The Blackbird was always there.

He even rode The Blackbird with another woman on the back ~ the one always kept on the side ~ the girlfriend before me who suddenly wanted him back once he was with someone else ~ Yes, they were on their way to come by my apartment on the Westside, so he could give me a hand-picked wildflower for Valentine's Day.

I could not believe my eyes as I turned onto Meder Street and saw that big black monster up ahead of me.  I began to edge closely, and he pulled over to explain about the flower.  I do not remember if I cried or screamed.  But I remember he was very hurt that I would not take the little white wildflower.  They sped off quickly, and I followed in hot pursuit ~ in some type of surreal way I can almost describe as an out-of-the-body experience.  So foolish was I to even play into their madness, that the next thing I know they were calling the cops to report I had tried to run them over.

I drove myself down to the police department rather than have them come knocking on my door and got to experience my one and only nightmare of Good Cop/Bad Cop.  Oh, The Bad Cop was all over me ~ grilling me of my intentions behind the wheel of Mom's Old Silver Mustang.  But The Good Cop knew this was some exaggerated love triangle ~ something out of a soap opera or really bad "B" movie ~ he knew this was not what I was all about ~ he knew I had class ~ and in the end, The Good Cop won out and believed me.

But the nightmare was an early wake up call of the power my abuser really had over me in trying to get me thrown into jail.

Crazy-making is what they called it when I told them the story at group the next week.

You think I could laugh about it now.  Well, maybe I can laugh a little about The Good Cop/Bad Cop part, being related to two former cops and wondering if they ever interrogated anyone in this fashion.  It was all out of an episode of "Law and Order" ~ and the interrogation actually lasted as long as one full episode.

Well, he finally went to jail for charges unrelated to domestic violence.  And I recently found out that The Blackbird is gone.  Sold for drugs last summer.  In fact, I heard he has absolutely no transporation at all waiting for him when he gets out of jail.

So maybe I won't get a crick in my neck ~ doing a double take on every sport bike I hear ~ maybe I can finally forget The Blackbird and the role it played in my own story of domestic violence. 

The Blackbird was almost human in its power to hurt me.  A massive machine of black and metal used to weave it's way back into my life each time I tried to dodge its force in my attempt to break free.

Bite Cat #3886 ~ The Story of Lil' Red

With Love in My Eyes for Lil’ Red

Bite Cat #3886

The Story of Lil’ Red

In the late summer of 1991, my grandmother found two teenage kittens, a brother and sister, scampering about her country home in Rio Linda, California.  She named them Red and Rusty and began leaving tuna on the porch for them.  Shortly after, another kitten showed up which she named Honey. 

My mother was excited that her mother was showing an interest in rescuing these abandoned kittens and promptly drove 3 hours to see that the kittens got shots and were spayed and neutered.  Mom made little beds for them in the garage on top of plastic summer chairs while the screen porch was waiting to be fixed.  Mom especially fell in love with Red who reminded her of our own cat named Red back home in Aptos, CA.  Nan had named her new cat after our cat with his classic orange marmalade tabby markings.

Tragedy struck when Nan had the neighbors come fix the screen porch.  She wanted the kittens to have security with the ability to see the backyard and smell the fresh air.  Nan went to pick up Red to get him out of the way of the neighbor's work.  When the neighbor began drilling, poor Red jumped out of Nan’s arms abruptly scratching it so bad that she had to be taken to the doctor.  Nan did not know that Red would get so startled by the loud sound.

Unfortunately, Nan was unaware that the doctors office was required to notify Animal Control when a tetanus shot is given to a patient.  So when Animal Control showed up unannounced a few days later demanding to take Red in for quarantine for 7 days, Nan was frightened, confused, upset, and helpless for a lady in her early 80s.  She did not understand what was happening.  Red had just received his rabies shot earlier that month in November.  But they still demanded to take him away.  And at that point, Nan, all alone with no one to consult with, hastily surrendered her other cats on the spot for no other reason other than the whole frightening experience made her want to simply give up.

We were unaware that any of this ordeal had happened until a few days later.  When Mom heard the news, she was devastated.  Because if we had known, we would have come up right away to rescue the kittens.  I rarely saw my mother cry, and when she cried, it meant that she was very upset.  She kept chanting about Red in particular, saying, “Those eyes! Those eyes!”  She told me she could see his eyes looking up at her as he snuggled up on the little bed she made for him in the garage.

We had a Sacramento phone book at our house having lived there before ourselves, so I went up to my room and found the number for Animal Control.  I explained the story to the person who answered the phone and inquired about the kittens.  I was astonished when the woman said that Rusty and Honey had already been “killed”.  I swear to God that is how she phrased it.  I held back the tears and asked why.  “Because we only hold them for 36 hours.”  She went on to say that my grandmother should have surrendered them to the SPCA instead.

Mom had previously taken comfort in the fact that these kittens might have a chance to be adopted.  I vowed to let her believe that a good outcome was possible and did not want to share my grief that these kittens (who I had never met) had been killed.  Then I asked about Red.  Red was still under quarantine and would be available for release on Thanksgiving.  But Animal Control was closed on Thanksgiving, so I could come the next day, they said.  I feared he would be killed, too, if I did not rush up there.  What if someone disregarded the Thanksgiving extension and just “killed” him?   I could not take a chance.  Somehow, I had to get up there sooner.  And somehow, the cold, unfeeling person who told me the other kittens had been “killed”, told me I could come up the night before Thanksgiving.

I put a note on the door for my soon to be arriving relatives and jumped in the car heading to Sacramento.  I remember having no money on me for the bridge toll and stopped at a Shell Gas Station in Scotts Valley pleading for them to let me write a check for over the amount, so I could have bridge money. No time to stop at a bank.  And somehow, they agreed.  So off I went not knowing where I was going but knowing I had to get there.  I drove straight through and ended up going through Stockton instead of the Bay Area and ended up not even going over that bridge.  I got lost in Sacramento but got to the Animal Control about ten minutes before closing. The told me they would go get “Bite Cat #3886”.   And then they brought Red to me.  I opened up the cardboard carrier and took a peek.  And I admit it was not really love at first site like it was for my mom.  I thought he had a “funny nose” my mom used to say.  Our original Red and his sister T.J. back home had “owl faces”, and the first thing, I thought was that this Red looked so different.  It was a funny first impression.

I did not even tell my grandmother I was in town or go visit. I had to turn around and rush back.  I had brought my own plastic carrier with me in the car.  So I transferred Red to the carrier, and what I remember the most, is that on the way back home, when he cried, I put my finger in the carrier door, so he could feel my touch and he could nibble on my finger.  And so we bonded on the three hour drive home.

My family was a bit mad at me for making my relatives go out and find something else to do since no one was home when they arrived on Thanksgiving Eve.  I could not tell them about the urgency.  That Rusty and Honey had died.  I kept that secret for three years.

Red became “Lil’ Red” on that Thanksgiving Eve of 1991.  He rejuvenated our 10-year-old Red for the next five years as they romped and wrestled together in the garage.  He was a good friend to T.J., especially after Red died in 1996.  When I had to take T.J. to the vet to be euthanized for CRF in 1997, Lil’ Red kissed her goodbye.

Before Mama died in 1994, I told her about Rusty and Honey.  I wanted her to find them in Heaven.  To this day, nearly 18 1/4 years later, I still cry for the kittens I never knew.

On November 27, 1991, I rescued a cat named “Red”.  And for the next 17 1/4 years, he rescued me.

Rest in Peace

Lil’ Red

Spring 1991-January 9, 2009

Forever Loved

~ Written January 6, 2010 for petloss.com

All My Dreams Died Here and A Roof Over My Head

~ All My Dreams Died Here ~


As I wrap up the final hours of my move, I keep thinking over and over, "All My Dreams Died Here."

This was supposed to be my first chance of living downtown.  I am a city girl at heart but have primarily lived in suburbs or mountain communities.  My life long dream is to live in New York City.  Being in the heart of downtown was a wonderful experience, especially since I had given up my car due to inability to buy a new engine or pay for insurance anymore.  I thought I had found these wonderful landlords who were so pet friendly.  Their ad did not even state anything about allowing pets, but they were more than willing to take my brood.  So off we went to get away from the heat of Scotts Valley.  I remember getting very ill during the move and remained sick for about another month with an undiagnosed sinus infection.  Finally, I got better at the end of July and was able to have a good full month with my little fur family before Ceci suddenly took ill.  Oh, why did she have to suddenly wake me up with a full blown seizure the morning of August 25, 2008?  Why did it all have to end?  Those of you who know my story know how it ended 48 hours later.  No sooner was Ceci gone then Lil' Red started showing rapid health decline in November.  Your prayers sustained him tor another 2 1/2 months.

This new move took forever because I was so slow.  I kept breaking down in tears at all of the reminders ~ all of the memories ~ of my precious fur family.  I was scrubbing the toilet and looked over at the covered litter box outside the door and suddenly was transplanted back to the days when they were alive...."Ceci, get out of that litter box! Git! Git!"  Oh, how she loved to jump in and dig for "buried treasure"!  It was like watching a movie--seeing her trotting over to the litter box ~ the click clack of her toenails ~ the sneaky little look in her eye ~ oh, Ceci, where are you, my little friend, why did you have to leave so soon?

And Red, my trusted friend, my faithful companion, where are you during this move?  Why are you not here?  Where did you go?  From Mom and Dad's House to Ben Lomond to Santa Cruz to Felton to Scotts Valley and back to Santa Cruz?  Where is my travelling companion?  Where is my soul mate? Where is my little old man?  Where is Lil' Red waiting for me at the door always wanting to eat? Waking me up in the middle of the night to get some more kibbles?  Jumping up on my lap on the old sixties rocking chair to watch a little T.V....Where are you at night ~ crawling up to sleep on my chest? Where is the Miracle of the Purr that I heard until the day before you died?

So now we leave this place because they do not want us anymore.  They want their family to vacation here in the summer instead.  And so we will not struggle so much financially, but we will struggle with all of the changes forced upon us ~ all of the dreams that died ~ our life together was taken away from us ~ one by one ~ and who now remains ~ Jack ("The Flying Cat") will be my companion now ~ he does remind me of you, Lil' Red, when you were younger ~ but life is not the same and it never will be ~ The Dreams Died along with you, my friends ~ the landlords took away my home ~ my beautiful corner of the world with lovely views of Victorian tops and Maple trees and peeks of downtown lights ~ the seals barking off the shores at night ~ can hear them more than a mile away.  And so we leave tonight after work ~ and the fluffs of cat hair may stay ~ I cannot seem to sweep every bit up ~ I cannot fold up your crate, Ceci ~ it's like admitting that you are never coming back ~ I may just drag it to the new place to have it ready for my next furbaby ~ someday ~ oneday.



***********************************************************************


~ A Roof Over My Head ~


I have been in my tiny little place for 11 days now, and I do thank God for having "A Roof Over My Head."  That is only what I really needed ~ a roof over my head.  I truly felt the threat of possible homelessness with being unable to afford high move in costs ~ but with a small loan, I found I could make it all work if I just downsized to a smaller place.

Yesterday, I was walking the new route after getting off at the new bus stop after working the whole weekend at the Flea Market (my second job), and I thought about all the changes I have experienced in the past 10 months.  The loss of Ceci.  The loss of Lil' Red.  The final loss of my car in December (which had not been working for over a year but was sold to the mechanic instead).  And then the loss of my "dream" housing which I had struggled so hard to find.  And I thought "What's left now?" "What's Still Here?"  And then I thought, "I'm Still Here."  It was like how the Grinch took everything away from those living in Whoville ~ and all they had was each other in the end ~ singing Christmas carols around a vacant tree.

So, yes, I also remembered that I have Jack ("The Flying Cat").  But first, I remembered myself.  And my memories.  And my hopes and dreams.   And how Jack has become a Velcro Cat since Lil' Red has been gone.

I thought about how I do not need fancy views or extra space or even a kitchen because I hate to cook ~ I am o.k. in a one room studio with a cat flying back and forth between the front door and the bathroom window (a bonus room for Jack in my opinion).  And so my view is of an old garage rooftop instead of a Victorian rooftop with a peek of some type of large hedge instead of those glorious Maple trees.  And now I walk through a somewhat gritty part of town that has more character than crime, but it is old and it is weathered, but so am I.  I do not need the glorious quaintness of downtown Victorian Santa Cruz like I thought I did.  I am just fine with the "white noise" of tourist cars backed up on Ocean Street as long as the Santa Cruz Diner is only two blocks away.  I always wanted the gritty reality of New York City, and I have found it in the one of the poorest parts of Santa Cruz.  But I am just fine.  And I will be okay.

Ceci at Sunrise

~ Written May 2009 for petloss.com

Sad Bedtime Stories

 "Say what you have to say, not what you ought.
Any truth is better than make-believe."

~ Henry David Thoreau ~

My blog was recently described as "Sad Bedtime Stories" by someone who has not even read a single word ~ but has either heard about the nature of my stories from either me or through Facebook links read by mutual friends.

"Are you going to write another "Sad Bedtime Story" tonight?" he joked on Saturday night.

Since getting my own computer, I am finally able to write online at a moment's notice and was trying to post one story a day this month of February.  His words made me stop and think about people's reactions to my stories.

Yes, they are sad.  But, to me, they are also filled with hope.  I had to debrief with my friend Delia, my sister, and my father about this comment.  Only Delia and my dear brother have read the blog from the beginning.  My sister has limited time and access to a computer for personal use.  The stories are too painful for my father to read on a regular basis, and I gave him permission from the beginning not to read, especially since most of the earlier stories were about Mom's death from lung cancer.

By my second story ~ "Dreams" ~ the blog had evolved into other stories about domestic violence. "Dreams" was not intended to end with a discussion on how my batterer tried to shatter my dreams.  But as I free wrote the story, it all came back to me ~ how he made fun of the one dream that never died.  And then I found that I had so much more to say on the subject and a whole other audience ~ beyond my family and the few Facebook friends that I have ~ there was a whole other group of women who are either experiencing domestic violence or who are survivors such as myself who could benefit from my words.

Yet the phrase "Sad Bedtime Stories" is still bothering me even after a few days.  I talked to my sister about this comment twice, and she said, "We'll at least you know they're reading them."  I thought about myself and how I am perceived ~ writing these "sad bedtime stories" on a daily basis.  I have checked in with other people who care about me, and they still encourage me to write.  I worry that I could be judged today for what I was judged for then ~ for my history of domestic violence.  I worry that people will think I am still damaged in some way.  

I thought about why I write after having taking a break for so long.  I thought about how I had been silent for so long.  I thought about how what I really want is for my family and true friends to know my story.   Someday I want my father to know my story.  I kept my truth a secret for so long.

I think that is all that really matters.  That eventually the whole truth does come out.  I am tired of keeping secrets ~ even if they were not the type that jeopardized my relationships with my family.  My family is still here for me.  When others were not back then.

I think, for me, it is easier to share the stories on paper instead of face-to-face.  I had a reunion over coffee recently.  Would I have really wanted to spend the precious 90 minutes telling him how my head was once bashed into a wall?  No, I wanted to talk about more exciting topics or a more favorable trip down memory lane.  So the blog is one way of telling him what happened in the sixteen years since I last saw him.  The blog is actually a way for me to live in the present.  Instead of dwelling on the past. 

Because in my day-to-day life, I try to live in the present.  I work hard recruiting students to higher education.  I work hard making $2-$3 an hour at The Flea Market on Sundays ~ now so I can remember where I have been ~ when that $2-$3 an hour meant the difference in eating 2-3 meals a day ~ when I once struggled so much financially for over two years.  I try to enjoy what I love most ~ animals and movies ~ and always find time to treat myself to breakfast around the town on my day off from work.

But I need to remember, so I will not forget.

So much had been blocked out.

I need to remember how far I have come in my journey to get to a better life today.  

And so, I will continue to write my "Sad Bedtime Stories" for as long as it takes to get my story out.  And when I am done, I will write more stories about other adventures in my life.  Maybe they will be happy, maybe they will be sad.  But they will always be honest and full of soul and purpose.  They will always be the stories of who I am and what I have been through during this thing we call life.

In the movie "Little Women", Professor Bhaer tells Jo to "write what you know."  I have never forgotten those words since the moment I heard them on screen when I was only 10 years old.  And I have only written non-fiction because of those profound words.  I have wanted to be a writer even since I heard those words as if they had been spoken directly to me.

I need to remember, so I will not forget.

Life Lessons from A Little Old Senior Gal

Her name was Ceci, and I met her when she was already 12 years old.

My sister thought she was funny looking.  But she was the most beautiful girl in the world to me. 

She had a lovely gray muzzle and two old lady moles on her face.  I would not let the vet take them off when I had her teeth cleaned.  She would not have looked like my Ceci Girl then.

For seventeen months, I worried less and laughed more.

For seventeen months, I stared into space without worrying that something was wrong with me.  I was sitting on the bed with my Ceci Girl while she knawed on a rawhide.  I had no T.V. just a radio.  It was okay to stare into space.   To just be in the moment.  And to listen to the sound of silence.

For seventeen months, I went for walks two--sometimes three--times a day.  Regardless of the weather.  In the dark before dawn and in the dark after dusk.  All for her and in the end for me, too.

For seventeen months, I learned the glory of a doggie snuggled up beside me and the longing when she sometimes moved back to her own bed next to mine.  I always wanted her to come back to my bed for the whole night, but she liked to switch back and forth so she could fluff up the covers on her own bed and snuggle beneath them like doxie doggies like to do.

For seventeen months, I lived in the moment and stopped worrying about the next minute, the next hour, the next day, the next week, the next month, or the next year.

For seventeen months, I learned what the word glorious truly meant.

For seventeen months, I learned what if felt like to have a child--even in the form of a furchild--and felt the awe of holding a doggie as if she were a baby girl.  I always wanted a daughter, and she came to me in the form of a lil' old senior gal.

For seventeen months, I experienced a dog's life as if it were my own, and for seventeen months, it was my own life.

 

She was the light of my life
The heart of my soul

Ceci and Me
"Kissing Ceci's Ears"

A Peek Out Day in Heaven

Grandfather, I wonder what I would have called you
if I had been born before you died ~
Charles William Weber
They called you Buddy ~
I never seem to have a name for you.
Grandpa is a name for someone you know
All I know is what I've heard ~


She told us the story again.
We call her Nanny ~ You called her Irm ~
She said you would have been married 59 years this year
~ had you lived
She loved you so ~


She told us how you built every Coop, every Help House,
The Egg Room, The Ranch House,
the lawn, the swing set ~
She sold The Ranch House, The Egg Ranch
But she took the swing set with her
when she built a new house, a new life
after you left this life ~


So now I swing each time I visit her ~
If I swing west, I can look out and see Nan's home,
and I can swing as high as I want ~
Sometimes I like to swing east to look back and see your ranch
The walnut tree hangs its branches low,
and I cannot swing as high
looking back ~


All I know is what I see ~
I see your picture
in every kitchen
They say you look like my mother
and now my brother
but today you look like me ~
Furrowed brow, aged eyes


Sharon says "There's A Peek Out Day in Heaven"
Were you with me along the way?


The ranch sold again. 
It is no longer a ranch.
No chickens to raise ~
Eggs to buy ~
Weeds ~ a fence ~ between your ranch and Nan's house
Still we can see
the coops you built
now falling down
the lawn you planted
patches of brown
I can no longer walk the fifty yards of river rock
slipping, burrowing into the rubber soles of my canvas shoes
on the way to The Egg Room
to watch the eggs roll down the chute
Magical Glow of a yolk inspection
Weigh, sort
Carton or Flat today?
Tickety tick of an ancient adding machine
Welcome aroma of those not selected
Ironic pleasure
Just slightly rotten ~ now tossed aside


The refrigerator is warm today.
There is no handcart to stand on ~ roll around that wonderful chilly room ~
To simply lean back
Look up ~
Grasp the metal bars
Cold and Thick ~
"Now Push Me! Push Me!"
Let someone design this ride ~


Little girl laughing
 ~ spinning ~
around A Pyramid of Egg Crates


What I know is what I feel ~
You were the one
who designed
those magical rides
in that wonderful chilly room ~


Cuz Sharon says "There's a Peek Out Day in Heaven"

 



by Robin Rebecca Rhodes, Summer of 1992