Highway 9

People may wonder why I keep writing about my past.

I started the blog as a way to process my lingering grief for my mother who died on Christmas Day 1994.

By my second story, I had already hinted about my experience with domestic violence and expressed my desire to share my story.  So much has already been written in the past 15 months.  So much has already been shared.  I have even made nearly a dozen of online friends from women who have read my stories, women who were helped by my words.

Mom is still a big theme on my blog, but I have found my true calling by writing about domestic violence now.  I am challenging myself to dig deeper into the layers of memories that may have been blocked out simply to deal with my difficult daily life back then.

I found my sister's van driving me all the way to the Santa Cruz Mountains the day after Valentine's Day.  I was only planning to drive as far as the Heavenly Cafe just past the outskirts of Scotts Valley.  But the van drove me past the cafe and down Mount Hermon Road.  I had tried to make the trip the week before, but I could not bear the memories that would surface just by driving along Highway 9.

I drove to Felton to see if it looked the same.  I do not think I have set foot in the Santa Cruz Mountains with the exception of visiting my sister at Family Camp in Mount Hermon in the past six years.  So I have pretty much avoided Highway 9.

I wanted to see the old house where it all happened.  I wanted to see if it was still painted green.  I drove past Lazy Woods and remembered Dear Bob taking me in for 3 1/2 months after my head was bashed into the wall on the night of August 22, 2003.  A few doors down was the little house.  A large, wooden front yard fence and gate (which had been built my last year there) still blocked any view of the actual grounds.  The fence looked larger and taller than I remember.  Like an actual fortress.  Blocking out any view from the public of what was really going on behind closed doors.  I could not see the color of the little house, so I continued driving on.

The van drove me to Ben Lomond.  I decided to get out and actually go into Spanky's Cafe.  I told myself I did not care if I saw anyone I knew.  Because I doubt they would remember me.

Nothing had changed.  The Our Gang kids still hung on the wall.  The same colorful characters still dotted every table.  Even the menu looked the same.  I felt like a tourist in these mountains which held so many memories for me.

Turning around, I was amazed at how I remembered every curve of Highway 9.  I remembered where everything would be around every curve. 

Here is the turnout where he first waved me over to talk with me about his girlfriend, seeking my advice.

Here is the street by the market where he dumped me out of his car a year later and made me find my own way home.

Here is the spot across from the market where I called the hotline the day after my birthday ~ the old phone booth no longer there.

Here is the old fellowship where I sat by his side at so many of his meetings, embracing the members of his program, bringing them cookies for their coffee and even pillows to add life to the drab couches we sat on each day.

And here is the house which held me prisoner for three years ~ now freshly painted white.

And in the house so many years ago was a woman being dragged down the hall by her ponytail, having lotion being poured all over her hair and clothes.

Here in the house she had her life threatened, her belongings broken, her spirit diminished, her hope vanished.

Here in the house, she sat isolated from family and friends, many who did not even know she lived there.

Here in the house, she looked out the window, making sure he did see her eat before she was "scheduled" to eat.

Here in the house, she looked out the window, making sure he did not see her calling the hotline.

Here in the house, she prayed for God to see her through to another day.

Here in the house, she prayed again with each slamming of her head into the wall.

Here in the house, she finally called 911 to keep herself from being killed.

Here in the house, her secrets stayed hidden for three long years.

Here in the house ~ the little green house ~ where her world reeked of shame.

Driving slowly past, I looked into the little house ~ my only view being white paint below the rooftop ~ and saw my life as if it had been lived by someone else.

But it was my life.

And it was me in that house.

Along the edge of Highway 9.

Uncensored