;My Story Isn’t Over

Today is the 12th anniversary of what I call my “rebirth” day. This is a story that I haven’t shared with many people. My youngest daughter, Raylynn, likes to call me “extra”, so now that I am finally ready to tell the tale, why not tell it to the world via the internet?

On the 12th of February, 2010, I was sexually assaulted. I do believe that the only thing that stopped me from being raped was the fact that my friend Dustin texted me from out of the blue, and I told him that no matter what, just keep texting me. It didn’t matter what the messages said, just keep texting me, which he did. My phone kept going off and my attacker got scared. I could feel it. Although it felt like forever, he finally took me home.

I won’t get into too many details, because this tale isn’t about the attack and more about what happened afterward, but I was supposed to be starting a job working with this man as my boss. He had picked me up to go have tests done so I could start work. How the hell was I going to work for someone like this?

When my then husband came home from work that night and I explained to him what had happened, the first words out of his mouth weren’t ones of comfort or sympathy. They were, “What were you wearing?” As if it was somehow MY fault! In fact, I was wearing a large, oversized sweater and baggy jeans because, by that point in my life, I had been programmed to “dress down” as to not draw attention to myself.

I was 40 years old, the mother of nine children, and up to that point had survived two physically abusive relationships. When you survive those kinds of relationships, you don’t always recognize it when someone is mentally abusing you, especially when they disguise it as them “helping” you. It wouldn’t be until years later that I would realize that the mental abuse is just as bad as the physical kind. Both take years to heal from, and both break you in ways you never thought possible.

I was a shell of the person I once was. I lived in a house filled with people, but never felt so alone. I was ashamed and felt as if I had no one to turn to. I was programmed to believe I wasn’t good enough for anyone else. I was stupid. I had no clue about how the real world worked. I could go on and on. Anytime I tried to do something to better myself or my situation, I was met with him telling me I couldn’t do things and he would make up various excuses as to why I couldn’t. I had no self-confidence and no self-worth. I was severely depressed and didn’t know it, because at that point, I didn’t even trust any of my own thoughts, because I was always told I was “wrong”.

While, unlike the slaves, I put myself in that situation and had no one to blame but myself, I think what I went through helps me understand more of how they must have felt. I had absolutely no control over my life. I was told how to dress, who I could talk to , where I could work and when. When I went for trips to visit my father on Long Island, I was reminded of how he “allowed” me to go. I wasn’t permitted to be my own person. When I tried to be, I was constantly reminded that I was “his wife”, as if I were a possession that was owned. On that day, I didn’t know what laid ahead of me. I just knew I had to escape, but I didn’t see any way out at that time other than death. Yes, I had my children to think about, but in my screwed up state of mind, I thought it was better for them to grow up with no mother than it was for them to have one who was the mess that I was mentally.

I spent the whole next day planning it. I would swallow a bottle of pills I had to treat my fibromyalgia, and I would simply go to sleep. The pain would finally stop. However, I still had a sense of duty, so it would have to wait until the next day, which happened to be Valentine’s Day. Sundays were the day I cleaned the library. I couldn’t leave the library a mess for someone else to clean up, and I couldn’t change my normal schedule, because that may tip someone off about my plans.

When you are planning something like suicide, a small piece of you tries to find any little glimmer of hope to hang onto, a Plan B. Well, at least I know I did. I thought to myself, I have the plan in place, but let’s see what Valentine’s Day morning holds in store for me. Nothing. That’s what it had. Not even a card. When I needed to feel cared about the most, I got nothing. Plan A was a go.

When I arrived at the library, I jumped on the computer to check my social media. I was shocked to find a message from an old friend who knew me back when I was a teenager asking me if I was okay. He could tell from my posts I was not. He reminded me of who I was when I was young and told me that I am the toughest person he had ever met. That saved my life. That was my Plan B! I needed that reminder of who I once was, and the hope that I could be that person again. I had not had an easy life, but I had lived through it all. I was not a victim. I was s survivor! And I would survive this too and find a way out of it. My story was not over. It was just a little bump in the road. A small pause. A moment to catch my breath.

As I look at this old picture of the house from the 1980s, I can remember feeling this way. I was hurting. I was broken. I was falling apart, but I was still hanging in there, just barely, but I hadn’t completely fallen down yet. And then someone came along and started fixing me.

If I compare the house’s journey to that of my own life, it is at the point now where I was when I met my current husband, Rodney. It was a year and a half after that day that changed my life. I finally met someone who loved me for me. Someone who saw all of my imperfections and didn’t care. Someone who didn’t want to tell me how to run my life in order to make himself feel better. Someone who is always there to be my biggest cheerleader and encourage me in every crazy endeavor I take on. Someone who raises me up and helps me flourish. Someone who saw all of the good things in me and helped bring them all out. Someone who fixed me when I was broken. Someone who is just perfect for me.

I won’t say that I haven’t suffered from a bout or two of depression since then. Every single one of us has dealt with that emotion at some point or another in our lives. There is no magic cure for it. There is nothing anyone can do to help us get out of those dark times. It is something we all must do for ourselves. Having my friends there to help pull me out was a definite advantage, but in the end, I had to reach out for the hands that were offered to me. Like the house, I had to be reminded of what I once was and needed the help of friends to restore me to my original state.

Twelve years ago, I never could have imagined that I would be where I am today. Yet, here I am. You never know what the future holds, or what is waiting around the next corner. I’ve heard the stories of people who have been interested in the house, and looked at it as being “too much work”. Nothing worth doing is ever too much work. And if Plan A doesn’t work, there is always a Plan B. I didn’t give up on myself, and I am not going to give up on the house. I truly believe that this house will help me more than I can ever help it. Our story isn’t over yet. In fact, it has really only just begun.