Lorene was my other main advocate who I developed a very close relationship during my work to get free.
While Karen's focus was to help me with my safety plan and long term escape plan, Lorene served more as a therapist in which to sort out the pain I experienced each day.
Our visits were different. We would talk about the feelings of the moment and process the craziness of my life. Lorene got to me start journaling which I had long stopped in high school.
One day, she presented me with a pretty journal with a red, flower-patterned fabric cover. During our hour together, she would have me devote at least 20 minutes of free writing. Because this journaling was usually done at the end of the session, I would not talk about what I had wrote. Sometimes, it simply was a relection of what we had just discussed. Other times, it was a series of untold events that had yet to be revealed to her.
So kind was Lorene that she even bought me seven stocking-stuffer type Christmas presents one year. She treated me like a regular human being ~ which I was ~ but did not feel like at the time. I felt abnormal, carrying around this big secret to most of my friends and family and even colleagues at work.
Being hit in the head is an easy way to keep the evidence hidden from the outside world.
I grew to depend on Lorene. She was amazingly beautiful with long black hair and olive skin ~ so young and petite ~ and yet so mature for someone of all of her 24 years.
We kept writing and writing in silence at the end of each session. I never knew what she wrote about ~ maybe she wrote about her own life ~ or maybe she wrote about her concerns for me and all the other participants at the Walnut Ave Women's Center.
Like Karen, the day had come for Lorene to move on in her life. I received a message on my secret voicemail that she was going to have a baby and would not be coming back to the center after she left a couple of months before the baby's birth. So my time was now limited with Lorene. I watched her belly grow for awhile knowing she would no longer be in my life fairly soon. I made the most of the remaining time I had with her and kept on journaling right up until the end.
On our last day together, I skimmed over what I had written in the past couple of years. And I was shocked at what I had blocked out. I finally shared something I had not told Lorene in person. The chilling reality of how my abuse had escalated beyond my abuser one time.
His son was now taller than me and nearly of age to drive. And what I wrote nearly sank me to my knees right in front of Lorene:
We got out of the car, and his son started pounding his fist into my back. And all his dad said was, "Go get your own girlfriend to abuse."
I still think about Lorene all these years later and imagine her baby growing up into a beautiful young child. What I will remember most about this dear lady is her many kindnesses, boundless compassion, and her ability to teach me ~ through journaling ~ that I need to remember, so I will not forget.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Karen
There were two advocates who were most influential in my ability to cope with my situation and continue to plan for some type of escape even as I endured the abuse on a daily basis.
Karen was the main facilitator at our noon group on Tuesday and Friday. She would also meet with me one-on-one either by appointment or even a last minute drop-in visit.
She had the tiniest, quietest, little voice. Almost like a little girl's voice. But inside the grown woman was vast knowledge of domestic violence and a compassion beyond any of my own expectations.
People may have judged me back then and wondered why I never really left until he finally broke up with me. But they were unaware that I worked daily on a safety plan and ultimate escape.
I would even try to get someone from San Lorenzo Valley ~ usually his A.A. acquaintance ~ a guy named Rod ~ to take him away for an afternoon so I could pack up Lil' Red and leave. Rod initially agreed to such a plan ~ but in the end, he sided with the abuser and not the woman being abused ~ and refused to follow through on our arrangement.
Karen never gave up on me. She knew how hard it was for me to get away. She knew I could not stay at a regular shelter in Santa Cruz because they did not allow pets. We would research cat boarding facilities locally ~ and even expanded our search to Santa Clara County ~ where they are doing amazing things to help women ~ with animal shelters taking on the kitties while the women are at the domestic violence shelters. Lil' Red had become diabetic by 2003, and his special needs complicated my ability to utilized these somewhat nearby services. I also think I had to already live in Santa Clara County in order to use the service.
Finally, Karen found a shelter in Fresno that actually allowed pets. It even was a long term shelter that would help me get back on my feet since I would have to give up my university job in order to move there. I had a cousin already living there, so in my heart, I could envision relocating to get away from him. The shelter was full, so I was put on a 3+ month waitlist. But even the waitlist gave me hope.
Looking back, I wonder if I ever told anyone in my family about these plans I was making. They barely knew the severity of the abuse, and my contact with them was limited. I know I did not tell my father or my brother, but I wonder if I told my sister at the time. I cannot even remember.
All I know is that waitlist kept me hanging on for a better day. I would not leave Lil' Red behind. I would not give him up to a stranger. He was my mother's cat, and I had gone to great lengths to rescue him from the pound after an unfortunate incident that had occurred with my grandmother being scratched by him. Mom had been gone for 9 years by now, and Lil' Red had seen me through so many struggles that we were bonded like mother and son. Wherever I went, Lil' Red would go. There would be no exception. Especially since I had to give him shots twice a day for his diabetes. I began to imagine a life in Fresno for myself, and I would "maintain my existence" ~ I would hang on ~ until that better day.
I cannot remember if the news came to me over the phone or face-to-face. That the shelter had closed down. Long before my space on the waitlist had come up to the top. Lack of funding. The shelter that allowed pets was no more. And so was my escape plan. Gone. Like the money used to run the place that gave me hope for many months.
"We would keep looking," Karen would say. I would now envision leaving the state ~ going underground ~ changing my name ~ my identity ~ my appearance. Just like I had read about or maybe even had seen in the movies. This was a potential reality for me.
I pictured New York, of course. But I also looked at other states. Envisioning a life away from him. I found it hard to envision this scenario of going underground ~ because I would not be able to see my family very much. And even though I was severely isolated, I did manage to spend some holidays with them ~ basketball games ~ movies and breakfast with Dad on some Saturdays. Leaving them during this crisis almost seemed unimaginable ~ even though they barely knew how horrible my life really was.
I wanted my mother back. To help me. Get out of this situation. I wanted her to help me take care of Lil' Red, so I could go to the shelter in Santa Cruz like the other women in group. But Mom was dead, and no amount of wishing and wanting was going to bring her back. Still I felt her presence unlike any other time in my life. I felt her calming spirit during all these difficulties ~ all these preparations that led to nowhere.
Karen took on the role of my mother even though she was only 23 and fresh out of college. She watched over me during the last few years of my abusive relationship and remained strong throughout the whole ordeal ~ even as she had to sit by and watch me describe how the abuse had escalated each year.
In the Summer of 2005, Karen announced she was going off to grad school to become a social worker. Her announcement came the same month I finally broke free. And I told her I felt like I had graduated, too, from the Walnut Ave Women's Center. That she got see the fruits of her labor. Ripen like a piece of sweet summertime fruit. Blossom like spring flowers. She saw me through, and now we were both leaving. The sanctuary of the Walnut Ave Women's Center. Off to start a new life ~ separately.
Five years later, I saw her as I got off the bus at the Santa Cruz Metro. There were no more rules about not acknowledging each other in public.
"Karen!" I shouted, "It's me!"
I told her how I had been free five years. That I did not go back. That my life was finally better. And in that moment, I flashed back to the frightened women who had entered the doors of the Walnut Ave Women's Center ~ who reached out for help ~ and found it in the most gentlest of spirits ~ the kindest of souls ~ Sweet Karen with the tiniest, quietest, little voice ~ but the strongest example of what freedom looked like to me during the most difficult days of my life.
Misting up at this unexpected reunion, I gave her a tight hug, and whispered, "Thank you."
Karen was the main facilitator at our noon group on Tuesday and Friday. She would also meet with me one-on-one either by appointment or even a last minute drop-in visit.
She had the tiniest, quietest, little voice. Almost like a little girl's voice. But inside the grown woman was vast knowledge of domestic violence and a compassion beyond any of my own expectations.
People may have judged me back then and wondered why I never really left until he finally broke up with me. But they were unaware that I worked daily on a safety plan and ultimate escape.
I would even try to get someone from San Lorenzo Valley ~ usually his A.A. acquaintance ~ a guy named Rod ~ to take him away for an afternoon so I could pack up Lil' Red and leave. Rod initially agreed to such a plan ~ but in the end, he sided with the abuser and not the woman being abused ~ and refused to follow through on our arrangement.
Karen never gave up on me. She knew how hard it was for me to get away. She knew I could not stay at a regular shelter in Santa Cruz because they did not allow pets. We would research cat boarding facilities locally ~ and even expanded our search to Santa Clara County ~ where they are doing amazing things to help women ~ with animal shelters taking on the kitties while the women are at the domestic violence shelters. Lil' Red had become diabetic by 2003, and his special needs complicated my ability to utilized these somewhat nearby services. I also think I had to already live in Santa Clara County in order to use the service.
Finally, Karen found a shelter in Fresno that actually allowed pets. It even was a long term shelter that would help me get back on my feet since I would have to give up my university job in order to move there. I had a cousin already living there, so in my heart, I could envision relocating to get away from him. The shelter was full, so I was put on a 3+ month waitlist. But even the waitlist gave me hope.
Looking back, I wonder if I ever told anyone in my family about these plans I was making. They barely knew the severity of the abuse, and my contact with them was limited. I know I did not tell my father or my brother, but I wonder if I told my sister at the time. I cannot even remember.
All I know is that waitlist kept me hanging on for a better day. I would not leave Lil' Red behind. I would not give him up to a stranger. He was my mother's cat, and I had gone to great lengths to rescue him from the pound after an unfortunate incident that had occurred with my grandmother being scratched by him. Mom had been gone for 9 years by now, and Lil' Red had seen me through so many struggles that we were bonded like mother and son. Wherever I went, Lil' Red would go. There would be no exception. Especially since I had to give him shots twice a day for his diabetes. I began to imagine a life in Fresno for myself, and I would "maintain my existence" ~ I would hang on ~ until that better day.
I cannot remember if the news came to me over the phone or face-to-face. That the shelter had closed down. Long before my space on the waitlist had come up to the top. Lack of funding. The shelter that allowed pets was no more. And so was my escape plan. Gone. Like the money used to run the place that gave me hope for many months.
"We would keep looking," Karen would say. I would now envision leaving the state ~ going underground ~ changing my name ~ my identity ~ my appearance. Just like I had read about or maybe even had seen in the movies. This was a potential reality for me.
I pictured New York, of course. But I also looked at other states. Envisioning a life away from him. I found it hard to envision this scenario of going underground ~ because I would not be able to see my family very much. And even though I was severely isolated, I did manage to spend some holidays with them ~ basketball games ~ movies and breakfast with Dad on some Saturdays. Leaving them during this crisis almost seemed unimaginable ~ even though they barely knew how horrible my life really was.
I wanted my mother back. To help me. Get out of this situation. I wanted her to help me take care of Lil' Red, so I could go to the shelter in Santa Cruz like the other women in group. But Mom was dead, and no amount of wishing and wanting was going to bring her back. Still I felt her presence unlike any other time in my life. I felt her calming spirit during all these difficulties ~ all these preparations that led to nowhere.
Karen took on the role of my mother even though she was only 23 and fresh out of college. She watched over me during the last few years of my abusive relationship and remained strong throughout the whole ordeal ~ even as she had to sit by and watch me describe how the abuse had escalated each year.
In the Summer of 2005, Karen announced she was going off to grad school to become a social worker. Her announcement came the same month I finally broke free. And I told her I felt like I had graduated, too, from the Walnut Ave Women's Center. That she got see the fruits of her labor. Ripen like a piece of sweet summertime fruit. Blossom like spring flowers. She saw me through, and now we were both leaving. The sanctuary of the Walnut Ave Women's Center. Off to start a new life ~ separately.
Five years later, I saw her as I got off the bus at the Santa Cruz Metro. There were no more rules about not acknowledging each other in public.
"Karen!" I shouted, "It's me!"
I told her how I had been free five years. That I did not go back. That my life was finally better. And in that moment, I flashed back to the frightened women who had entered the doors of the Walnut Ave Women's Center ~ who reached out for help ~ and found it in the most gentlest of spirits ~ the kindest of souls ~ Sweet Karen with the tiniest, quietest, little voice ~ but the strongest example of what freedom looked like to me during the most difficult days of my life.
Misting up at this unexpected reunion, I gave her a tight hug, and whispered, "Thank you."
Friday, February 4, 2011
Yes, Sir
After the ninth day, he began to attempt new ways to exercise his power and control over me.
I was startled by the third week when he told me I needed to say "Yes, Sir" to any of his suggestions or actual commands whether they be something as simple as "Let's go to dinner at Don Quixote" or "Shut the f*** up" as this phrase of swearing was my first introduction to all the vulgarity that lay before me.
I had not had a relationship in twenty years, having never had a real boyfriend in college or even in my early thirties. Up until I met him, I was my own woman. Fiercely independent and much of a loner. For the longest time, I protested on his idea that saying "Yes, Sir" was perfectly okay in his warped world.
He would coach me on just how he wanted me to say "Yes, Sir" ~ the exact vocal tone ~ the precise vocal inflection ~ a combination of sugary sweet and ultimate surrender.
"This is how you should say it," he would mimic as a demonstration, 'Yes, Sir' with that sweet smile on your face ~ 'Yes, Sir' ~ that's how I want you to do it. Just like that."
He was a dry drunk, having been in A.A. and N.A. for ten years, and he loved to quote the program as if it applied to me. He would tell me that "my life had become unmanageable" and that I needed to surrender to his guidance ~ let him take the lead ~ in order for my life to turn out better than it had ever been before I met him.
Yes, that's all he really wanted ~ for me to follow this lead ~ and to prove my action by saying, "Yes, Sir."
And so, he would hammer his expectations into me on nearly a daily basis. But I held out for quite a long time ~ maybe even years ~ I do not really know exactly. I just know that I could let him swear at me every day, but somewhere inside I still had the strength not to say, "Yes, Sir."
He would remind me that all of his other women had said "Yes, Sir" ~ all without resistance. In fact, they actually liked saying it to him. They liked to follow his lead. I was different, he would remind me.
I can still see his face ~ and his sweet sugary smile ~ as he coached me in his living room ~ on how to act like I had begun to follow his lead.
"Yes, Sir ~ Yes, Sir ~ Yes, Sir," he would drum his intentions into me.
I held on as long as I could. Until one day ~ in an act of desperation ~ I finally said it. Probably to get him to stop pounding his giant fist into my head.
"Yes, Sir," I finally said after three years of resistance. I did not recognize my own voice as I spoke those words that day. What kind of woman had I really become?
I had begun to hate myself just as much as he hated me. I had begun to hate my body ~ and had come to believe every bit of ridicule he had spoken to me.
"Yes, Sir, Yes, Sir, whatever you say, Sir," as I pleaded with him to stop.
And I went to bed feeling like I had just sold my soul to the devil.
In order to stay alive.
In some strange twist of fate.
"Yes, Sir."
I was startled by the third week when he told me I needed to say "Yes, Sir" to any of his suggestions or actual commands whether they be something as simple as "Let's go to dinner at Don Quixote" or "Shut the f*** up" as this phrase of swearing was my first introduction to all the vulgarity that lay before me.
I had not had a relationship in twenty years, having never had a real boyfriend in college or even in my early thirties. Up until I met him, I was my own woman. Fiercely independent and much of a loner. For the longest time, I protested on his idea that saying "Yes, Sir" was perfectly okay in his warped world.
He would coach me on just how he wanted me to say "Yes, Sir" ~ the exact vocal tone ~ the precise vocal inflection ~ a combination of sugary sweet and ultimate surrender.
"This is how you should say it," he would mimic as a demonstration, 'Yes, Sir' with that sweet smile on your face ~ 'Yes, Sir' ~ that's how I want you to do it. Just like that."
He was a dry drunk, having been in A.A. and N.A. for ten years, and he loved to quote the program as if it applied to me. He would tell me that "my life had become unmanageable" and that I needed to surrender to his guidance ~ let him take the lead ~ in order for my life to turn out better than it had ever been before I met him.
Yes, that's all he really wanted ~ for me to follow this lead ~ and to prove my action by saying, "Yes, Sir."
And so, he would hammer his expectations into me on nearly a daily basis. But I held out for quite a long time ~ maybe even years ~ I do not really know exactly. I just know that I could let him swear at me every day, but somewhere inside I still had the strength not to say, "Yes, Sir."
He would remind me that all of his other women had said "Yes, Sir" ~ all without resistance. In fact, they actually liked saying it to him. They liked to follow his lead. I was different, he would remind me.
I can still see his face ~ and his sweet sugary smile ~ as he coached me in his living room ~ on how to act like I had begun to follow his lead.
"Yes, Sir ~ Yes, Sir ~ Yes, Sir," he would drum his intentions into me.
I held on as long as I could. Until one day ~ in an act of desperation ~ I finally said it. Probably to get him to stop pounding his giant fist into my head.
"Yes, Sir," I finally said after three years of resistance. I did not recognize my own voice as I spoke those words that day. What kind of woman had I really become?
I had begun to hate myself just as much as he hated me. I had begun to hate my body ~ and had come to believe every bit of ridicule he had spoken to me.
"Yes, Sir, Yes, Sir, whatever you say, Sir," as I pleaded with him to stop.
And I went to bed feeling like I had just sold my soul to the devil.
In order to stay alive.
In some strange twist of fate.
"Yes, Sir."
Thursday, February 3, 2011
1 (866) 2 My Ally
The anonymity of my connection to the advocates at the Walnut Ave Women's Center was sometimes a challenge due to the small-town feel of Santa Cruz.
Most of the advocates were graduates of the university I worked at nearby, or they were seniors there on internship at the center.
The policy was that we were never to ackowledge each other in public outside the walls of the center. Strictly for the participant's safety in case the abuser was with them or nearby like on another aisle over at Safeway.
My connection consisted of one-on-one appointments, bi-weekly support group sessions, and the hotline.
These women were practically young enough to be my nieces, and yet they had so much knowledge, so much wisdom, so much compassion that was boundless to all of us ~ and always without judgement. They were psychology and sociology majors and many were on a pathway to leave the center and continue on at graduate school to become social workers.
They would be on-call for the 24-7 hotline, and so I might even end up talking with them in the middle of the night at times.
They had the most angelic of voices on the other end of the phone line. Always calming. Always so reasurring. Always willing to work out a safety plan all over again even if I knew in my heart that this would be just one more futile attempt to leave him.
The voices and the names became so familiar after four years. Even the answering service ~ which first took the call for the hotline and then tracked down the advocate on-call by cell phone ~ had one kind soul in particular who would answer the phone. A young man ~ probably in his 20s ~ and probably another student where I worked ~ would always take my call first with his gentle manner and respectful nature for a woman on the other end who clearly had been crying ~ and even at times may have sounded hysterical.
Gentle souls all of them ~ all willing to help a stranger on the other end of what was a lifeline to me.
I remember interviewing a young lady for a job at the rental office where I worked at the university. I remember her telling me she was joining the 60-hour advocate training at the Walnut Ave Women's Center, and I remember my boss not hiring her because she thought she would not be available enough for our shifts.
I remembered her name and her voice when I called the hotline two month's later from my abuser's second home up north. It was the same woman on the other line that my boss did not hire. She had completed her 60 hours of training. And if she knew it was me, she did not say. But I remember calling secretly from the greenhouse in my abuser's backyard, hiding from him as I always did whenever I made that call. To my lifeline. From my own private hell. Duplicated three hours away from the hell I experienced back in Felton. And talking to a woman that she did not hire. But who had been hired to take care of me that day.
1 (866) 2 My Ally. I will never forget that number for as long as I live.
I will remember the one lifeline I did have to the outside world ~ and the women and the one man who made such a difference ~ during the most frightening moments of my life.
Most of the advocates were graduates of the university I worked at nearby, or they were seniors there on internship at the center.
The policy was that we were never to ackowledge each other in public outside the walls of the center. Strictly for the participant's safety in case the abuser was with them or nearby like on another aisle over at Safeway.
My connection consisted of one-on-one appointments, bi-weekly support group sessions, and the hotline.
These women were practically young enough to be my nieces, and yet they had so much knowledge, so much wisdom, so much compassion that was boundless to all of us ~ and always without judgement. They were psychology and sociology majors and many were on a pathway to leave the center and continue on at graduate school to become social workers.
They would be on-call for the 24-7 hotline, and so I might even end up talking with them in the middle of the night at times.
They had the most angelic of voices on the other end of the phone line. Always calming. Always so reasurring. Always willing to work out a safety plan all over again even if I knew in my heart that this would be just one more futile attempt to leave him.
The voices and the names became so familiar after four years. Even the answering service ~ which first took the call for the hotline and then tracked down the advocate on-call by cell phone ~ had one kind soul in particular who would answer the phone. A young man ~ probably in his 20s ~ and probably another student where I worked ~ would always take my call first with his gentle manner and respectful nature for a woman on the other end who clearly had been crying ~ and even at times may have sounded hysterical.
Gentle souls all of them ~ all willing to help a stranger on the other end of what was a lifeline to me.
I remember interviewing a young lady for a job at the rental office where I worked at the university. I remember her telling me she was joining the 60-hour advocate training at the Walnut Ave Women's Center, and I remember my boss not hiring her because she thought she would not be available enough for our shifts.
I remembered her name and her voice when I called the hotline two month's later from my abuser's second home up north. It was the same woman on the other line that my boss did not hire. She had completed her 60 hours of training. And if she knew it was me, she did not say. But I remember calling secretly from the greenhouse in my abuser's backyard, hiding from him as I always did whenever I made that call. To my lifeline. From my own private hell. Duplicated three hours away from the hell I experienced back in Felton. And talking to a woman that she did not hire. But who had been hired to take care of me that day.
1 (866) 2 My Ally. I will never forget that number for as long as I live.
I will remember the one lifeline I did have to the outside world ~ and the women and the one man who made such a difference ~ during the most frightening moments of my life.
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep
~ John Milton, Paradise Lost
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Ninth Day
I remember I had to work that day.
The ninth day of our relationship.
It was a Saturday, and my boss had me open the office so the students could find rentals before the quarter started. The office was so busy then.
There was a lull at some point, and I got bored. I took out my mirror and looked at my hair ~ and suddenly felt an overpowering urge to cut my hair. So I took out the office scissors and chopped off the back. When I realized what I had done and how crooked the edges were, I kept cutting until all I had left was a little tail in the back that had been so popular in the 90s. I ended up having to go down to Thrifty Cuts downtown afterward to have that guy with the long hair finish the job.
And so I had my favorite pixie cut back.
Everything changed on the ninth day.
When I saw my new boyfriend later that evening, he was visually and verbally upset about what I had done. He questioned why I had not checked with him first before cutting my hair. He felt he should have a say in how I wore my hair because he preferred long hair on women. He almost insinuated that I should have asked permission to do such a thing ~ as cutting my hair.
I remember being taken out to pizza shortly after his heated reaction. His 12-year-old son joined us, and his dad kept asking him what he thought of my hair. I think the kid liked it, but the conversation was still weird.
The next day, he told me he wanted to take to me Ideal Hair to try on a wig. He wanted to buy me a long blond wig. He did not like my hair short. He seemed to expect me to wear a wig for him until my hair grew back out.
The next weekend we went to Ideal Hair. I felt like I was in a trance. Being led to a beauty parlor to try on a wig. Something tells me his young son may have even come with us. I cannot really remember because this bizarre memory had been blocked out for so long that it seems like a bit of a blur now. But I remember the high shelf of mannequins and long-haired wigs. And trying them on for him ~ one by one.
Luckily, my head is so big (Thanks, Mom!) that none of the wigs fit. They were all too tight. And I felt strange looking at myself in the mirror with long fake hair. Real hair was not used as much back then.
But the act in itself of allowing myself to be so humiliated by him was the turning point in our relationship. I did not realize at the time, but I had surrendered to him. To his power and control. To his view of the world. And to his view of me. From August 11, 2001 on ~ and through the next four years~ I was no longer myself. I was whoever he tried to make me. And I always disappointed him. I was never good enough. Never thin enough. Never enough of a woman to cook for him.
I was the person who had cut my hair without his permission. And he never let me forget it for the next four years.
I have never cut my hair since then ~ except for trimming the ends. Even today ~ after 5 1/2 years of separation ~ my hair is still long.
I do not know why. But in writing this memory right now, I now wonder if the pain of the day is still so raw that I do not want to relive it if I took the scissors to my hair again. Chopped it off all crooked. And then made my way down to the long-haired guy at Thrifty Cuts to fix the damage.
One day ~ and probably soon ~ I will get back to the Original Me ~ and I will have short hair again ~ just as beautiful as my mother's wavy hair ~ who always inspired me to still feel beautiful and feminine with short hair.
One day, I will have the cute pixie haircut again.
And then I will know I have come full circle ~ back to the person I once was ~ before power and control took a hold of my life ~ and sent me down a downward spiral to a place of non-existence.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
My Ceci Girl
Every dog that I see reminds me of her.
Large or small, I see Ceci in their eyes.
I find myself misting up on the bus more than any other place.
Saw someone walking briskly with their dog along Bay Street this morning. Doggie wanting to stop and sniff. I remembered Ceci tugging on the leash. Oh, how she loved our walks together.
The shelter lady told me her file said that she was not walked very much. I made it my mission to walk her at least two times a day ~ sometimes three on the weekends.
She was so funny. So sassy. So spunky. Our morning walks in the dark before dawn were always shorter than our evening walks. Ceci would really start tugging then. I would try to turn into the driveway to the duplex complex, and she would tug me in the opposite direction ~ insisting on nearly another block of walking.
"Ceci, I got to go to work. Ceci! Okay, just a bit more!" I would laugh each morning at 6:15 a.m., creeping down Scotts Valley Drive hoping we would not get mugged. Thank Goodness, Scotts Valley was nothing like where I live now or that may have actually happened.
Sometimes it all seems like a dream ~ that short time I got to spend with her ~ those glorious seventeen months ~ Our Sweet Seventeen!
She loved me right from the beginning ~ from the moment I laid eyes on her over the railing at the shelter ~ where I was visiting my nephew's puppies ~ all fourteen of them ~ that had to be placed up for adoption. She looked at me with big round eyes ~ side-glancing at me so I mostly saw the white of her eyes ~ thumping her tail so excitedly in her cage ~ and I knew she would be mine.
I did not know then that she was 12 years old. But when I found out, I did not care. I really thought these little dogs could live to be 18 at least. So I lived in the moment as if we had at least 6 years together ~ and that seemed like a long time to me then. I am glad I did not think about tomorrow.
She was full of vim and vigor right up until the end. I did not want to let her go. But the brain tumor took a hold of her one morning without any real warning and within 48 hours she was gone.
I remember on the second day of treatment, my sister stopped by with food to get me through the vigil of trying to help My Ceci Girl with the medication they gave me. I told my sister I felt like dying right then and there. The end was so difficult. Nearly as difficult as losing my mother. I was losing my daughter. Ceci was my baby girl ~ the daughter I never had. I was experiencing the loss of a child.
I did not think I would be able to get through those 48 hours. I almost wish I had not tried to treat a brain tumor. But in my fog, the first emergency vet just laid down the treatment plan and never once mentioned euthanization without giving the treatment plan a chance.
And so we endured those 48 hours together ~ full of seizures and shaking ~ and then deep vocalizations that scared me with each cry ~ I knew my baby girl was telling me to let her go.
I could not go back to the first emergency vet. They had scammed me and swindled me out of hundreds of dollars. I barely had any money left to euthanize. I found another emergency vet in Capitola who were very kind and told me to come in and apply for Care Credit. They would help me.
We drove in the hours before dawn to Capitola ~ Ceci sleeping peacefully by now in the crate in the back seat of my borrowed sister's van. I sat in the parking lot, listening to her breathe. And for a moment, all was quiet except for the sound of her precious breath. Oh, God, maybe she is going to be okay. She's not making those scary sounds anymore. For a few fleeting seconds, I had one last ounce of hope. That maybe I could turn around. And take my baby girl back home.
She started moaning ~ wailing in her sleep ~ and I knew I had made the right decision to bring her in to release her from her pain.
My Ceci Girl and I took our last walk together that morning. In the dark before dawn. Her in my arms. Holding her tightly to my heart. My Precious Girl and I.
She was the light of my life
The heart of my soul
The heart of my soul
Ceci and Me
"Kissing Ceci's Ears"
"Kissing Ceci's Ears"
Monday, January 31, 2011
God As My Savior
During the four years of isolation, I can honestly say that I felt God's presence just as much as when I watched my mother slowly die for two months in the hospital.
I barely had anyone to turn to then ~ hiding the abuse from most of my immediate family ~ and finding every woman friend ~ except one who I am still friends with today ~ my friend Delia ~ slowly or quickly drift away when my situation grew worse.
There were times when I wish I could have called a relative to let me come over to stay the night, but the one time I felt I could pack up Lil' Red safely and get away, the relative turned me down for reasons I cannot remember. Maybe he did not understand the gravity of the situation. I do not really know.
My prison consisted of a home that was once very welcoming to me ~ with knotty pine walls and two woodstoves ~ a place that quickly became the most frightening place on earth to me. It took over a year for him to convince me to move in with him. I think I only did to keep the peace. From the first month on, a repeating argument was his wanting me to live with him. I think I still was holding on to my ideals of wanting to be married to the man I lived with or something along that line ~ but also hearing my domestic violence advocate telling me that once I moved in with him it would be very hard to leave. She was right.
And so I left the tiny little studio I had found near the university in my first attempt to break free from him. My dad had helped me move out the Ben Lomond apartment only 9 months earlier. And I never told poor Dad that I had moved away. Dad never visited me there, so I just had my mail forwarded and started up a voicemail service with a Santa Cruz number, so Dad would think I still lived there. I had already changed my number twice in those 9 months in my futile attempt to end things completely with my abuser.
Life in Felton was a series of calls to the hotline while he was out in the driveway working on motorcycles. My most vivid memory is looking out the window from the outside door to the master bedroom watching him work while I cried to the advocate on the other line ~ making sure he would not catch me seeking help.
Two years later, it was the same corner of my sick world that ended in the worse abuse ever ~ when I finally called 911 ~ but never managed to get to a hospital after having my head bashed into the wall three times. The police called it a closed head injury. No broken skin ~ no blood. But pain that lasted for three days. And a neck that could not turn for three days either.
I talked to God during these horrific times. I would always say "God Help Me!" He really was the only one who witnessed the abuse 24-7. He listened to my tears. My fears. My hopes. My dreams for a better day. He was with me when my woman friends ~ from my domestic violence group or his A.A. program ~ turned their backs on me one by one. I had not met Delia yet. So before 2004, it was pretty much God and me. I think back to those days and realize I did not even tell my sister the full story. I was so isolated ~ tucked away in the Santa Cruz Mountains ~ that if it were not for working for the same university, I barely would have seen my sister.
So God and I spent many hours alone. I prayed, and I asked for strength. To get me through another day. I looked out the window from the room I was mentally locked into from fear ~ saw the sunshine beating down on the pavement as he tinkered with the bikes ~ and asked God to help me leave this prison ~ help me free myself from my captor ~ from the man who really seemed to enjoy hurting me.
I never got mad at God for any of my troubles. I knew he was with me even in the most desperate of times. I knew he could not just wave a magic wand and make me wake up from this horrible dream ~ this horrible reality that I had found myself a part of day in and day out ~ no God could not fix my problem ~ but he led me to others who could help ~ and to better friends ~ who understood me and supported me where I was at in my situation.
I got close to God when my mother died and gave me the final gift of telling me who she was already seeing on the other side. If I had ever doubted that God existed, my faith was sealed when Mama told me she saw Grandma Runyan in the doorway four nights before she died. Yes, I knew that God was with us then along with her other relatives in Heaven. And I knew my mother was with me now as I endured the daily torture of being with someone so unpredictable that I never knew what to expect from each minute of the day ~
"God Help Me, God Help Me!" I cried out loud each day.
And he did.
He protected me every minute of every day I spent with that man.
He allowed me to live.
I barely had anyone to turn to then ~ hiding the abuse from most of my immediate family ~ and finding every woman friend ~ except one who I am still friends with today ~ my friend Delia ~ slowly or quickly drift away when my situation grew worse.
There were times when I wish I could have called a relative to let me come over to stay the night, but the one time I felt I could pack up Lil' Red safely and get away, the relative turned me down for reasons I cannot remember. Maybe he did not understand the gravity of the situation. I do not really know.
My prison consisted of a home that was once very welcoming to me ~ with knotty pine walls and two woodstoves ~ a place that quickly became the most frightening place on earth to me. It took over a year for him to convince me to move in with him. I think I only did to keep the peace. From the first month on, a repeating argument was his wanting me to live with him. I think I still was holding on to my ideals of wanting to be married to the man I lived with or something along that line ~ but also hearing my domestic violence advocate telling me that once I moved in with him it would be very hard to leave. She was right.
And so I left the tiny little studio I had found near the university in my first attempt to break free from him. My dad had helped me move out the Ben Lomond apartment only 9 months earlier. And I never told poor Dad that I had moved away. Dad never visited me there, so I just had my mail forwarded and started up a voicemail service with a Santa Cruz number, so Dad would think I still lived there. I had already changed my number twice in those 9 months in my futile attempt to end things completely with my abuser.
Life in Felton was a series of calls to the hotline while he was out in the driveway working on motorcycles. My most vivid memory is looking out the window from the outside door to the master bedroom watching him work while I cried to the advocate on the other line ~ making sure he would not catch me seeking help.
Two years later, it was the same corner of my sick world that ended in the worse abuse ever ~ when I finally called 911 ~ but never managed to get to a hospital after having my head bashed into the wall three times. The police called it a closed head injury. No broken skin ~ no blood. But pain that lasted for three days. And a neck that could not turn for three days either.
I talked to God during these horrific times. I would always say "God Help Me!" He really was the only one who witnessed the abuse 24-7. He listened to my tears. My fears. My hopes. My dreams for a better day. He was with me when my woman friends ~ from my domestic violence group or his A.A. program ~ turned their backs on me one by one. I had not met Delia yet. So before 2004, it was pretty much God and me. I think back to those days and realize I did not even tell my sister the full story. I was so isolated ~ tucked away in the Santa Cruz Mountains ~ that if it were not for working for the same university, I barely would have seen my sister.
So God and I spent many hours alone. I prayed, and I asked for strength. To get me through another day. I looked out the window from the room I was mentally locked into from fear ~ saw the sunshine beating down on the pavement as he tinkered with the bikes ~ and asked God to help me leave this prison ~ help me free myself from my captor ~ from the man who really seemed to enjoy hurting me.
I never got mad at God for any of my troubles. I knew he was with me even in the most desperate of times. I knew he could not just wave a magic wand and make me wake up from this horrible dream ~ this horrible reality that I had found myself a part of day in and day out ~ no God could not fix my problem ~ but he led me to others who could help ~ and to better friends ~ who understood me and supported me where I was at in my situation.
I got close to God when my mother died and gave me the final gift of telling me who she was already seeing on the other side. If I had ever doubted that God existed, my faith was sealed when Mama told me she saw Grandma Runyan in the doorway four nights before she died. Yes, I knew that God was with us then along with her other relatives in Heaven. And I knew my mother was with me now as I endured the daily torture of being with someone so unpredictable that I never knew what to expect from each minute of the day ~
"God Help Me, God Help Me!" I cried out loud each day.
And he did.
He protected me every minute of every day I spent with that man.
He allowed me to live.
"I will praise you in this storm."
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