After All These Years

After all these years ~

Eighteen years without her.  This was the first Christmas that actually felt like Christmas.  A holiday that actually felt normal.

I looked around and saw my father, my sister, and my brother carrying on traditions set before her death on Christmas Day.

We had a 48-hour holiday this year.

Christmas Eve breakfast of Dad's famous French toast and sausage then off to an early movie.  Then an unexpected invite to come over for Mom's famous egg and green chile dish lovingly recreated by my beloved sister on Christmas Day.  For the first time in eighteen years, I had somewhere to go on Christmas morning.  My morning was spent laughing with my sister, my brother, two nephews, my niece, and their new rescue dog Katey.

Looking at Christmas lights, seeing more movies, and making the rounds to the cousins in between.

Seemed like old times just with a new twist.  Mom long gone but there in so much spirit ~ so much courage ~ to carry on without her.

Today, I mist up in her memory on the last day of the year and thank the woman who gave birth to me.  For making me who I am today.  I thank her and Dad for creating such wonderful Christmas traditions than manage to remain even with new ones added.

"Mom would have liked this," we always say.

Mom would have liked us having fun on Christmas.

Cameron posted a picture of us on Facebook with the caption "Christmastime is the best time."  Yes, Cameron, Christmastime is the best time.

Christmastime is the best time



Christmas Mourning

Tears flow freely ~

At inopportune times ~

The sadness of the season can suck the wind right out of me ~

I huddle under the eaves of a storefront ~ and cry ~

Memories of Mama ~

Sweet Mama who loved Christmas so ~

He gently reminds me that this must be the reason for my tears today ~

"It's probably just the season," he whispers softly, my younger brother who kept vigil with me by her bedside so many Christmases ago.

The Season of Sadness ~

Of Christmas Mourning ~

 

~ Memories of Mama ~



The Ficus is Dying

The Ficus is Dying.

It's been with me since before she died.

She had it near the marbled window in the dining room.

The little tree never grew too big.

I liked it that way.

Slowly through the years every one of her plants died.

First the violets which bloomed again right after her death.

Then a teeny, tiny plant she kept in the windowsill.

When Dad moved away, he gave us the rest of her plants.  Beautiful, full hanging ones.  My sister took the hanging plants, and I took the little Ficus tree.

My sister left them outside for a few hours in her front yard, and a big storm hit.  The plants were tossed around to shreds.

But the Ficus survived and followed me from apartment to apartment for the past seven years.  Many leaves were lost along the way, but somehow the Ficus kept going.  I kept telling myself that I really needed to replant it or give it some plant food, but I never did. 

I looked at the Ficus several weeks ago and noticed most of the leaves were dead.  I cried and wondered if any of those leaves could have been some of the original leaves from the time Mom was alive.  I did not even want to pick off the dead leaves because I would only see empty branches.

I had remembered to water the Ficus, but maybe it was not getting enough sun.  Or was it simply done living after over two decades?  I stared at its barren branches and cried again.

I talked to the Ficus.  Please don't die, I pleaded.  Please grow again, Little Ficus.  Please don't leave me.

Weeks went by, and I saw some tiny new growth on the tips of the branches.  I celebrated a victory which turned out to be short-lived.  The little leaves soon curled up and died.

I cried again and begged once more.  I watered and watered and prayed for new growth.

Suddenly, it all made sense to me.  The new growth had finally come.

New branches were sprouting at the base of The Ficus.

Rebirth, Little Ficus, Rebirth.

Grow again, Little Ficus ~ this time stronger than before ~

Distribution

I feel that as long as I live in the same county where all the abuse happened that I will forever be connected to my past with him every time I run into one of his friends.

I am fortunate that he no longer lives here, but it never seems to stop ~ all this bumping into people from my distant past ~ people who are no longer my acquaintenances even ~ but who continue to bring up the past as if it happened yesterday.

I really do not want to talk about him or hear about him each time I see someone we both knew.

It is amazing how the whole afternoon can become a long trail of flashbacks just after hashing out some memory with one of his friends.

This time she asked about his son and if I had heard from him.

I gave her the update that I had from two years ago about the time I tried to find closure with his son after years of my own wondering what ever happened to him.

We met at a pizza parlour downtown, and I told him how sorry I was for him having to live with all that chaos.

And he told me, "If you had not been there, the abuse on me would have been even worse."

Was my purpose all those four years to distribute the abuse equally between us?  My memories of our time together in that little green house still haunt me.

I remembered the night I called 911 on my abuser, and the cops wanted to take his teenage son to CPS.  His son pleaded with the officers to let him stay.  They asked him how his father treated him, and he lied about the abuse.  They asked if his father took care of him and fed him, and he said yes.

So he got to stay as long as I was in the house while his dad was in jail.  I did not want to stay in that house.  I wanted to leave right then and there.  But there I was staying in the house so his son did not have to go to foster care.  By the time his dad was released from jail later that morning, I had secured a motel.

I can still see myself sitting at the kitchen table next to his son's room, making phone call after phone call to see which motels were pet friendly.

I could never turn to my family during this crisis.  I was so alone.  Except for my abuser's son who lay sleeping in the next room after being awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of my screams ~ the sound of my head being bashed against the wall ~ the sound of sirens coming to the gate ~ and the sight of the police taking his father away.

 

Uncensored

 

 

 



The Price I Paid

I am going through a phase in my healing where I am reliving all that I lost by being in a domestic violence relationship for four years.

More than anything, I really feel like I lost four years of my life.

Four years of limited contact with my family.

Four years of good health.

Four years of progress.

Four years of peace.

Four years of beauty.

Four years of joy.

Four years of truth.

Four years of love.

Four years of hope.

Four years of spirit.

Four years of soul.

Four years.  Four years.  Four years.  Those endless four years.

The Lost Years of My Life ~



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Losing Dickens

It comes back to haunt me ~ all that I've lost ~ every time I think of him.

Lil' Dickens, my precious boy.

One last bit of power and control the ex had over me.

Keeping Lil' Dickens and then letting him migrate to the next door neighbor's house a year later.

I kept that dream alive of visiting him again one day.  But with lack of transportation or anyone willing to take me up there ~ and most of all, my fear of my abuser seeing me in town ~ kept me away.

And now he will move 3000 miles away.

He always said that Lil' Dickens went next door because I stopped visiting.  And now ~ after seven years ~ I do believe him.

He went looking for his mommy ~ the woman who loved him ever since he was just a 3" ball of fur ~ he wondered where I went ~ why I did not come to see him ~ to have him curl up on my chest and take a nap ~ to have him record his purr.

I was gone.

Lil' Dickens, I am sorry.

I am sorry to have left.

But I had to ~ in order to save my own life.

I could not fight for you because it was too dangerous to stay in touch.

I had to accept his one last ditch effort at complete power and control over me.

I speak to you in my thoughts ~ I see you in my dreams ~ I hold you tight to my heart ~

Lil' Dickens, my precious boy ~

Lil' Dickens and Me

In Seven Years

In Seven Years, I will be the same age she was went she left me.

The same age when cancer struck quite suddenly ~ the earliest signs showing up mere weeks after I returned from my dream trip to New York ~ the trip she and Dad so generously made happen for me.

I think about her and how young she died.  How much living she had left to do.  I wonder what else she had planned for her life.  What remaining dreams she had yet to fill.

I think about the possibility that I could die young, too.

I think about my dreams unfilled.

And realize how tired I am of my dreams being on hold.

Where will I be in seven years?

Will my life be completely the same?

Will I still keep reaching for the same dreams?

I am fairly content with my life, but a spark flickered within me once I started the writing blog.

My second story "Dreams" revealed my childhood dream of being a writer living in New York City.

Is it possible to finally live my dream?

Mama believed in my dreams.  

Dad believed in my dreams.

They sent me to New York in the Summer of 1993.

It's time to go back.

 

Summer of 1993



.

Underground

I have been thinking of going underground.

Not in the same way I used to when I was in my abusive relationship.

But now as a domestic violence advocate who writes an online blog, who is working toward getting more involved with national conferences, and now hopes to eventually get published ~ well, I think I may use a pseudonym.

I do have a very big fear that he will eventually find out about my writing.

The blog is featured in my local newspaper, and I share the blog links on public Facebook pages.

I worry about Google searches.

I do not really want to give up my name, my identity, and the direct acknowledgement that I am the one who really wrote those words. 

But I need to feel safe.

I think back to those long years where I investigated going underground.

I always envisioned New York.

I would visit the website for Safe Horizon and take the virtual tour through their shelter. Over and over, I would visit the rooms in the shelter and imagine myself feeling safe there.

I did not know if I would have to change my name or cut my hair, but I knew I could start over in New York City.  The thought of going underground was scary yet full of all the dreams and adventure I had envisioned as a child of being in New York ~ the city ~ one day.

Recently, I submitted two poems to a poetry writing contest for domestic violence survivors, and they asked if I wanted to use my real name, another name, or remain anonymous.  I struggled with giving up my real name but ~ with the help of my father ~ decided on a pseudonym:  Stella Rhea.

I think about Stella Rhea and all that she has been through these past eleven years.

She is empowered now.

She wants to help others more than ever.

She wants her words, her experience, to truly make a difference.

She is willing to go out in the world by going underground.

I embrace her, love her, and rally behind her.

My name is Stella Rhea, and I am a survivor!

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Dodging My Past

For six years, I have dodged them.

Walked the other way, pretended I did not see them, even not responding to a shout out, "Is that you?"

But today, I turned around, when she shouted, "Aren't you the one who used to date __________ (insert name of abusive ex)?

She did not even remember my name.

But she knew it was me.

And in a split second, I was confronted by my past.

The people of the Santa Cruz Mountains seem to find me in my circus of a second job ~ where I deal with the public in the hot sun ~ and hide behind the hoards of faces ~ when they walk by me.  It's easy to get lost in a crowd.

So, yes, it is me.

And nothing about "How are you?" ~ only about how bad he is doing these days ~ how he has lost everything ~ all because he returned to the drugs after nearly 20 years sobriety.

"Yes, I heard," I nodded, emotionless.

Then looked her straight in the eye and told her I have no contact with him anymore.

"That's good," she said with a smile.

That's good, I thought to myself.  Because I, too, lost everything, just by being abused by him for those four long years.  

I lost my money, my belongings, my housing, two cars, my pride, my dignity, my confidence, my spirit, and nearly my soul ~ just by being abused by him for those four long years. 

I nearly lost my life.

Although he tried very hard to take that away from me ~ just by being abused by him for those four long years.

Those four long years flashing by my eyes, flowing through my veins, making me nearly gasp out loud ~ because I acknowledged my past in a split second.

Today, I have decided to keep dodging them.

If someone asks, "It that you?", I will keep walking.  Walking forward.  Away from my past. 

No, it is not me you see. 

Uncensored



Independence Day

I think about him this time of year.

The end came so closely after Independence Day that I still associate this holiday with my new freedom.

Four years of isolation ~ four years of abuse ~ four years of fear ~ four years of pain.

Seven years of freedom ~ seven years of happiness ~ seven years of hope.

I did spend one last Independence Day with him.

Drove a few hours up north to his second home.

I knew the end was near.

I remember mostly wanting to see the dogs and his cats and not really him that Independence Day.  His pets had become mine for many years, and the separation from them was already starting to get to me.

He barbecued bacon on the grill to make BLT sandwiches that day.

The bacon caught on fire and got burnt to a crisp.

But we still ate it.

It reminded me of my life.

Going up in flames.

A somber Independence Day leading up to the end.

Fourteen days later, it was over.

My belated Independence Day had come.

I never, ever thought that day would come.

A Day of Freedom.

Freedom from abuse and everything that came along with those four years of domestic violence.

Those four years of secrets.

Those four years of fearing for my life.

A new day had dawned.

My life had just begun.

I celebrate Independence Day in a whole new way now.

Freedom has a special meaning for survivors like myself.

I thank God everyday for this freedom.

I thank God I am alive.

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The Little Dog That Heals Me

I knew I had been healed when I forgot to kiss her picture.

Mama's engagement portrait ~ perched high a shelf ~ a classic picture to remember the mother I lost so long ago.  I framed the picture shortly after her death.  Ten months later when I finally moved out of my parent's house, I proudly displayed her beautiful smile, her soft gaze on my antique dresser in the furnished room I now rented on the Westside. 

I had visited my grandmother that Summer of 1995 and saw her kiss Mom's high school graduation picture.  Nanny had a black and white, wallet-sized picture tucked into the corner of her bedroom mirror above her dresser.  The simple act of her kissing her daughter's picture touched me so deeply that I soon copied the gesture when I got back home.

There was only one time in my life when I tucked the picture away in a drawer ~ during my abusive relationship ~ for fear he would break the glass or tear up her picture.  But I remember taking the picture out of the drawer to kiss her on my 40th birthday, the day he completed ignored me. 

The picture has travelled with me from Aptos to Ben Lomond to Santa Cruz to Felton to Scotts Valley and now back to Santa Cruz.

But now I keep forgetting to kiss her picture. 

Because of him.  He greets me so excitedly when I come home from work that I whisk by the picture to give him a hug.  My little rescue dog.  Paddington with the Big Brown Eyes.

My life is busier now, fuller, a routine revolving around him.

I find myself too busy walking him at dawn, gathering up dog treats, and then rushing off to work to stop and kiss her picture.

I have my fur family back after over three and half years of loss ~ the back-to-back losses of my precious dog Ceci and my longtime companion, Mama's beloved cat Lil' Red.  I have two boys now, my Paddington and my wild cat Jack ("The Flying Cat"). 

My tiny home is full of life ~ not death. 

Mama's picture remains high on the shelf ~ a sepia-toned memory ~

As I return to the present

and

The Little Dog that heals me.



My Precious Paddington

Anatomy of A Layoff

Seems strange that one year ago today, my whole world changed.

I have thought about this anniversary for days and have been scripting a blog post in my head ~ an hour by hour account of what happened on May 26, 2011.  I got excited and wrote the introduction last night and suddenly stopped before I even really got started.

It just does not even matter anymore.

The "sheer terror" I felt ~ when being told at 9 a.m. that fateful morning that I would have to meet four hours with a panel of four people ~ passed months ago.

My memory of that eventful day is mostly how little anyone seemed to care that they were letting me go after five years in the same department and nearly eleven years at the same university. 

I carry that feeling with me today ~ that no one really cared ~ that I was met by uncaring eyes, expressionless faces ~ all in the name of a "business decision" to let me go due to "a lack of funds."

I meant nothing to them.  I was not a human being to them.  To them I was a measly $34,000 and pocket change salary along with a $9,000 and pocket change benefits package that they could no longer support.

Cold, unfeeling robots telling a human being that their job has been eliminated.  Actors in a "B" movie following a script laid out by Staff Human Resources.  Stay on topic, do not let the staff member being laid off diverge from the topic, keep the meeting brief.

One year ago today, my whole world changed.

Sheer terror last year ~ sheer joy today ~

The "B" Movie is over ~ The Blockbuster has begun!

The Face of Abuse

You cannot tell by looking at me.

That I once was abused.

That I once endured four years of domestic violence.

You could not tell by looking at me back then.

That I wore The Face of Abuse.

That the bruises were hidden beneath my hair.

You could not tell that I put make-up on my neck to cover up the first incident when pressed his knuckles so viciously into my neck and rib cage just hours before I had to leave for my niece's 1st birthday party.

You could not tell by looking at me that I listened to vulgar words being shouted at me daily.

That I feared for my life.

That I did not know if I could make it through another day.

Perhaps my eyes revealed some truth.

Weary ~

Worried ~

Distracted ~ 

Hopeless ~

Full of fear ~

I looked at my driver's license yesterday and saw The Face of Abuse.

A look only I could see.

A picture taken mere months before we broke up.

Then reposted five years later on my new driver's license.  Expiring in three more years.

Maybe I will take a new picture then.

In 2015.

To showcase my 10 years of freedom.

A New Picture of The Face of Freedom.

For all to see ~

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Mama, I Miss You

Mama, it's been 17 Mother's Days without you.  I have been thinking about you even more this Mother's Day.

The passing of time makes my loss of you seem even more permanent.  The passage of time makes me realize how close in age Rhonda and I are now to the age you were when you died.  The passage of time makes me realize that "the boys" are now fully grown men ~ those precious grandsons who still remember "Their Ma" in all her glory ~ so much that your memory has been tattooed on their forearms.

Dear Mama, I cry about you when I ride the bus.  I mist up at the sights of Santa Cruz and how all our dreams came true when Dad moved us to our annual vacation destination 30 years ago this year.  I am so sorry you were only here for 12 of those years.  The Summer of '82 was so magical for all of us as we explored every nook and cranny of Santa Cruz County.  How we celebrated the drifting fog in glorious Rio Del Mar.  How we became a hotel for that summer as everyone wanted to visit us.

So much time has passed without you.  I thought about how we do go on with our lives and are not sad as much yet tears are streaming down my face as I write this letter to you.  Oh, how I wish the cancer had not taken you away from us so soon.  I still question it all and wonder why I had to lose my dear mother so young.

I thank you for all that you have given me just by being my mother.  Mostly I thank you for the strength you instilled in me ~ to give me the courage to go on despite life's obstacles.  So many more obstacles that I faced in the years since you have been gone.

I feel your presence around me on a daily basis, and I treasure the spiritual relationship I have with you now.  I blow kisses to the ocean each time I see a peek.  I know you feel my love.

Thank you, Mama, for being my mother, for loving me, and for being my best friend.

Mama, I miss you ~

All my love,

Your Grateful Daughter

Mama and Her Infamous Castle Cake

Randy's 4th Birthday ~ May 10, 1970



Buried Beneath The Scars

I thought about my blog ~ my survival story ~ and wondered if I actually had anything left to say.  So many stories ~ so many flashbacks ~ has the subject of domestic violence run its course?

Have I said all that I need to say?  All that I need to share with the world?

And then I realized that the rest is really too painful ~ too humiliating ~ to even begin to describe.

The horrific memories ~ even worse than my most graphic stories here ~ that no one but my abuser and I know.  No one else knows.  Can I ever tell them?

My family rarely reads my blog.  The stories of Mom's cancer year were too painful for Dad to read.  I really wanted him to read the stories of domestic violence because he was the main person I tried so hard to hide my terrible truth from for four years.  I know he knew somewhat was going on during that time, but I also know he would be shocked and sickened about how bad my life really was during the time I remained so isolated from my family.

I think about those painful memories and cringe.

It took me several years to share my first story "Death Row" ~ a graphic list of abuses I had endured ~ which was written mere days after my relationship ended.  It took me even more years to write "August 22, 2003" which chronicled the one night I finally called 911 on him.

The hidden memories ~ left unshared ~ are not necessarily the worst cases of domestic violence I once endured.  But they reflect a deeper pain ~ and even more shame ~ that what I have been able to write so far.

Maybe I will share them one day.

But not today.

Today, they remain secrets.

Painful, sad secrets.

Buried beneath the scars.

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Amends

I question whether amends can be sincere from a man who abused me so viciously so long ago.

I put his email in the "XYZ" folder I created to stuff any email I have received since our days together ended.  I told my brother about the email, and he suggested that maybe my batterer was finally trying to make amends since he has re-entered a 12 step program.

The email did not really mention the physical abuse ~ only hinting at cheating and being too hard on me at times.

I always thought I would like him to make amends but thought that would mean meeting face-to-face.  Mostly I wanted him to give me back the $5000 he made me pay him back for the lawyer and the bail money ~ after I finally called 911 on him.  A sort of financial amends to me for extorting money from me for two long years filled with even more abuse.

No amount of "I'm so sorry" will ever erase the flashbacks that still come at me in dreams, in drifting thoughts, or sudden winces of painful memories.  The flashbacks have lessened through the years, but they do pop up quite unexpectedly at times.

Mostly, my time with him seems like a blur in general ~ on a day-to-day basis ~ and then I remember I am stuffing the pain away so tightly that I may forget all that I went through just to get through my life.

The blog helped me process the flashbacks one by one, and I felt an emotional healing begin almost immediately.  Then I felt the incredible victory in being able to help current victims and survivors with what I consider stories of hope.  

I wonder if he can actually remember our time together in the same way I do.

I wonder if he remembers bashing my head into the wall three times nearly 9 years ago.

I wonder if he remembers asking me, "What am I going to do with you—put you in a hole?"

I wonder if he remembers asking me to choose what I wanted to have written on my headstone.

He feels sorry and wishes he could talk with me now.

Wants to meet up for Chinese food.

But there will be no more conversations, no more Chinese food, despite any type of amends.

I only put a check in the box next the new email in my In Box and move it to the folder titled "XYZ."

And then thank God that I have survived.

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Domestic Violence ~ Not A Popular Media Topic

I had dreams that my blog would generate more hits by being featured in our local newspaper.

I had hopes for being featured as the "Post of the day."

But I have found that domestic violence does not make good press copy.

Maybe I need to be writing daily to be noticed for what I need to say ~ the truth I need to share ~ but with life's struggles of having dealt with a layoff and return to work this past nine months, I can not seem to write as regularly as I would like.

Some of my best posts are in my archives from the early days of my blog when I wrote down each flashback in a frenzy.

But archives are old ~ not current ~ not fresh.  The topic is uncomfortable, ugly, frightening, and perhaps forbidden.

I have found my best following for my blog to be on Facebook where I share my blog links ~ both current and archived ~ with Domestic Violence groups and pages.  Women who have shared my experience are not afraid to read my words.  They have lived my words with their own harrowing experience of being abused.

So I will focus on these women instead and not the general public who read online newspapers.  I will continue to share my truth with those women who need it the most. 

The elusive "Post of the day" will remain just that ~ out of reach ~ and I am okay with that now.

I will stop checking each day to see if my blog is featured as if I am trying to win some odd type of popularity contest.

Domestic Violence is not a popularity contest.

Domestic Violence is gruesome.

Domestic Violence is evil.

Domestic Violence is horrific.

Domestic Violence is brutal.

Domestic Violence is life-threatening.

Domestic Violence is silenced.

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I Am The New Charlie

I am The New Charlie.

I have been introducing myself as The New Charlie for the past three weeks.

The universe has brought me new adventure.  New hope.  New dreams.

I feel my mother's presence on the west side of campus.  I blow kisses to her out to the sea on my breaks. 

Life is peaceful here.  Even tranquil despite the hectic work day.  Yes, I know my mother played a hand in finally being offered a preferential rehire job.

The whole process finally became seamless this last time.  The fit was perfect.  My past three jobs here at the university gave me everything I would need to succeed in this new endeavor.  I even made them laugh.

They took me under their wing and gave me new hope for my future.  A future not being spent in limbo wondering if I would ever find a job during these difficult economic times.  The job came shortly after I finally made complete peace with the layoff from last spring.  Finally forgot about the old office.  Finally gave up that they would never call me back to my old job.

The universe shifted that day.  

All along Charlie was planning to retire.

But I wonder if he knew that in the end of his career, his final gift would be helping me.

I have big shoes to fill.  Charlie's shoes spent 18 years behind my new desk.  Dozens of staff and hundreds of students who know his name.  They stop by the counter to chat like they used to with Charlie.  

The counter is like a corner store with the jovial maintenance crew who pop their heads in from the rain for a joke or two.  I will work hard to keep up the friendly banter he had with everyone here.  He made everyone feel welcome, and I have perfected the same talent in the last eleven years.  

I look forward to being The New Charlie.  I may even put out a candy bowl to encourage others to step up to the counter to say hello even if they do not have a question for me.  

I thank Charlie each day I arrive for work.  He embarked on his retirement adventure after so many years of service leaving the pathway for me to embark on mine.

The sun shines bright this winter as I start my new life.

Because I am The New Charlie!