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
.
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!
Uncensored
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
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.
Uncensored
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
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!
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 ~
Uncensored
