Moments of Hope

One week ago today I was raped by a man I’d just met less than a half hour earlier. The pain and humiliation were overwhelming in those first few days. In my state of shock the day of the rape I was fixated on my need to see Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship. I knew that seeing him would help me in ways I just couldn’t begin to explain, even to myself. I’m very comfortable with him and since I have strong feelings for him I knew that being with him would flood my soul with good, positive emotions. I considered how hard it would be to lose him once this was over but my need to feel okay again was stronger than my fear of getting my heart broken. I couldn’t find Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship’s phone number until almost 24 hours after the rape. I was relieved when I finally located the number but afraid to call him. I had to have my son send him a text message because I was terrified he would either ignore the message or refuse to come. Any kind of rejection at that point would have thrown me over the edge. Thankfully Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship was kind enough to answer right away and agreed to drop everything and come to my aid. He lay down on my bed with me and pulled me tightly to him and I longed for time to stand still. In that moment I knew that this was exactly where God wanted me; I knew I would survive. I clung tightly to Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship for several hours, and he to me. Those were glorious hours and I have referred to them my mind countless times in this past week as a means of shutting out the negative images of the rape, for comfort or purely for pleasure. Thank you Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship, you are precious to me.

As I thought of that moment and my desire to share it here with strangers and the select few friends I allow this close; I was reminded of a few other defining moments in my life.

This morning I had one such moment in which I knew I am going to be okay. It happened around 6:00 a.m. I was parked at a scenic overlook watching the sunrise through a pair of camera lenses. God granted me the most spectacular view I’ve seen to date from that vantage point. The sky turned from blue-black to red, orange, yellow… and then the blue-black clouds shifted forward and all the colors could be seen at once. I was squealing with delight because each shot was turning out better than the one before it; I knew right then that the pig who raped me had not killed my spirit. It felt great to feel alive again.

On a Friday the 13th in 1989, my youngest son, just over a year old, had become very ill. The ambulance had to be called out on a couple of occasions and we rushed him to the hospital by car a few times as well. This was our 6th trip to the hospital. We were at a famous children’s hospital in a large city and my baby’s fever was quite high. The nurses had asked lots of questions and were adjusting my son’s care accordingly. It wasn’t until a couple of social workers were called in that I was made aware that I was suspect for being a Munchausen by Proxy mother; they thought I was doing something to my child to make him sick in order to get some kind of twisted sympathy for myself. (Up until this point, only myself and my other children had ever seen the baby go into one of his “fits.”) Just as this is dawning on me, I looked across the room saw that it was going to happen again. The doctors and nurses were standing around and I said, “There he goes!” Just then the baby went into a grand mall seizure. At that moment I knew that he was in the best possible hands. I turned my back, closed my eyes and said a prayer of thanks that this time more qualified hands than my own were there to look after my baby and I was cleared of all suspicion as well. The look of remorse on the faces of the social workers was all the apology I needed. My baby was safe at last and that’s all that mattered.

In 1991 I was a young mother of four children, the youngest of whom was having seizures; we had just finished a 5 month period of homelessness after which I promptly suffered a nervous breakdown. I was working on my recovery from the breakdown using self-therapy. During some research into anxiety and depression, I learned that I needed to concentrate on doing something I love to do so I chose to take up writing professionally again. As a first project I chose to write a short story about a dream I had about a troubling time in my life. I’d just read the story over the phone to a friend and she asked, “Why don’t you turn that story into a book.” As I attempted to explain that it was a short dream and there wasn’t enough material for a book, I was struck by a compelling idea. I believe it must have been around 3:00 a.m.; I found myself still at my computer tapping out the best work of my life. I realized I was starting a new chapter in my book and in my life.

In 1979 I lost my cousin in a motorcycle crash. We were not only cousins but best friends as well. I was only 20 at the time and she was the first person close to me to ever die. I was devastated and I wore a death wish around. I don’t think I smiled a single time in three weeks. I was in a deep depression. One night I’d been out and when I pulled in my driveway a new song came on the radio. It was such a happy, upbeat song that less than a quarter of the way through I was tapping in time to the music and wearing the biggest smile that would fit on my face. I knew that my cousin would have loved that song and in some weird way I was very comforted by that. I remember going to the neighbor’s door after hearing Pop Muzik (by M) and telling them that I felt happy for the first time since my cousin died.

The last project my mother and I did together was to plant a large patch of garlic in 1987. We both used a lot of garlic in our cooking and we wanted to produce the best garlic on the planet. The patch was approximately thirty feet square (I told you we liked garlic). The plan was to grow plenty for ourselves, all our friends and some to sell for a church investment project. (Garlic is planted in the fall, comes up in the spring and is harvested in the fall.) We’d planted the garlic at the end of September but in early March when the green shoots were only a few inches out of the ground, my mother suddenly died of congestive heart failure at the age of 57. In September when the stocks were drying in the sun I knew that the last project with my mother had to come to an end. Dirty tears slid down my cheeks as I stood taking a picture of my three year old daughter sitting on a trailer load of garlic neatly arranged for the picture. It suddenly dawned on me that my last project with my mother turned out to be the first of many projects with my own daughter. The mud cracked on my cheeks as I smiled at my daughter and said, “Say garlic!”

In 2004 my husband ended our 20 year marriage leaving our two youngest children and I in the rental where we’d lived for 11 years. In 2007 I received a settlement for a car accident in which I had been injured 9 days before my husband walked out. I used that money to purchase a two bedroom mobile home in a quiet park on the edge of a small, neighboring town. I was anxious about leaving the home I’d lived in 14 years by then but excited about starting over. (It would just be my son and I in the new place as my daughter had married by then.) This was the first place I’d decorated all on my own and I was bringing very little from my old life to the new one. During one of my early trips out to the new place, along a scenic stretch of highway, eagles soared in majestic circles overhead and a sense of peace and well-being settled over me. In that instant I knew that this was the path to my destiny. Since that day, every time I see the eagles playing in the up-drafts, it brings a smile to my face and fills me with peace.