Today is Sarah Browder's death day. In commemorating her existence and her untimely passage,
I have some thoughts that I 'd like to peck out.
People who knew her will say Sarah was a free spirit. She was loving and generous. She was creative and funny. I saw Sarah's fragility. She tried so hard to cover it up with her raucous laughter, her flirtatiousness, her drinking. I worried about her. Rather than embrace her tender heart and guard it carefully, she held her heart wide open, embracing everyone equally. And when you do this, your heart inevitably gets trampled on the ground. Like a tiny bug under a bully's foot. Like a flower in a cow pasture. Sarah got stomped on.
She was resilient, though. It broke my heart to watch her weep in a pile of despondency at night and get up the next morning, laughing, getting ready to do it all over again: to set herself up for more heart stomp by loving fully and passionately regardless of the way others treated her.
I did not like being surprised by the news that she had married. It seemed to have happened in secrecy and this put me on alert. This was trouble, I felt. It was nearly impossible to talk Sarah into doing anything she didn't want to do or out of doing something she wanted to do. Any way, it was too late. I hoped that she would realize soon enough that she'd made a mistake and dissolve this marriage. I didn't even know the guy. I just had a feeling.
I never told Sarah that.
I rarely saw Sarah after she married. And I never met her husband. Kirk. Kirk Harris. A marine. Son of a doctor in Winston-Salem.
The night that Kirk shot her, she had been at the Silver Moon Saloon where a mutual friend worked. He had seen Sarah and Kirk that night. He said Sarah seemed the same as always. And Kirk seemed the same as always: a dick. My friend the bartender had met Kirk, so he could say that.
There are things I wonder about. I can't help it. Kirk shot Sarah in the throat and the shoulder as she was running away from him. His bullets severed Sarah's spinal chord. Had she lived, she would have been paralyzed from the neck down. Her larynx was damaged. She could not speak. She laid in the cool damp grass of predawn before anyone noticed her. Alone and wounded in the grass for what must have seemed like eternity to her. Where was her mind? What was she thinking after this traumatic event? After the man who swore to love and protect her shot her? And after he shot himself and died in the driveway across the street? Did she realize he had shot himself?
How did she look in the hospital, without her usual purple eye shadow and eyeliner? Was her face injured from the bullets? How much did her body hurt? How was her emotional state when the marines came in to tell her that her husband had died of a self inflicted gunshot wound? Was she comforted by her parents, by her sister and brother?
Kirk got off easy. Sarah lingered in the ICU for four days before she died. It was all so unfair. So wrong.
I wish I could have seen her one last time to tell her I loved her. I wish I could say that I'm sorry I never came to get that haircut from her when she was in cosmetology school. I wish she hadn't died at all. I wish she hadn't married. I wish I'd kept her under my wing and protected her.
Wishing is a form of magical thinking that we believe does some good. It really doesn't. All wishing does is torment the wisher.
I write these words with fondness, sorrow, love and gratitude. Women everywhere: you are smart. You are beautiful. You are well loved. You have a unique reason for being here. Treasure your heart. Do not allow any mistreatment of your body or emotions to transpire. Stand up for your beauty, for your wisdom, for your strength. Be everything all at once. Be free. Be happy.
I love you.
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abuse. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Reflections From a Parking Lot
I am in the parking lot at Planet Care a half an hour before needing to clock in for the day. I am hammering out this missive via my portable phone unit.
I came to work this early in order to avoid being late. I am six to eight minutes late 93% of the time. Planet Care does not care for this practice and threatens to fire me from my post there.
I have assisted Planet Care in its money making practices for eight years. It is hard to believe I have worked there this long and even harder to believe that I am recognized more consistently for the things I do wrong than for the things I do right.
I am not alone. My coworkers express the same sentiment. And I recognize that working conditions in general have deteriorated in America. More work is put on each worker with less time alloted to complete designated tasks. Compensation does not match energy expended.
How did we reach this point in our history? When I hear my elders speak of the way companies used to take care of their people, I feel sad for never really knowing what it feels like to be appreciated for my work.
Ah me. The customers appreciate my work. Because frankly, I kick ass when it comes to customer service. I like making people happy. I just have to remember that corporations aren't people and I won't ever make them happy. They will always demand more.
I feel like I am in an abusive relationsip. Maybe it's time to move out.
I came to work this early in order to avoid being late. I am six to eight minutes late 93% of the time. Planet Care does not care for this practice and threatens to fire me from my post there.
I have assisted Planet Care in its money making practices for eight years. It is hard to believe I have worked there this long and even harder to believe that I am recognized more consistently for the things I do wrong than for the things I do right.
I am not alone. My coworkers express the same sentiment. And I recognize that working conditions in general have deteriorated in America. More work is put on each worker with less time alloted to complete designated tasks. Compensation does not match energy expended.
How did we reach this point in our history? When I hear my elders speak of the way companies used to take care of their people, I feel sad for never really knowing what it feels like to be appreciated for my work.
Ah me. The customers appreciate my work. Because frankly, I kick ass when it comes to customer service. I like making people happy. I just have to remember that corporations aren't people and I won't ever make them happy. They will always demand more.
I feel like I am in an abusive relationsip. Maybe it's time to move out.
Friday, February 7, 2014
My Victory
The worst thing that ever happened to me - worse than breast cancer, worse than ITP - happened to me on a late afternoon in West Virginia. It was early autumn. The sun was making ready to disappear for the night. The now ex-husband and I had uprooted ourselves and our children earlier that summer in order to be a part of an "intentional community." It is with a great sense of irony that I use the term "intentional" to describe my life at that time.
On this particular early autumn afternoon, the ex-husband and I were arguing. I don't remember what we were arguing about. (I don't remember the content of any of the arguments that ended in violence.) I only remember the last words that left my mouth: "I'm not your mother."
At that point, the ex-husband flew into a rage, pushing me down a staircase, dragging me out into the yard, throwing me down on the ground. I was laying on my back. He got down on his knees and straddled my chest. He wrapped his hands around my neck, squeezing it tightly, using it to repeatedly lift my head and bang it on the ground. Over and over he did this, snarling unintelligible words in time with the banging. So what I heard was a word or two interrupted by my own gasps and grunts as my neck was forcefully pulled upward and as my head hit the ground. I could not breathe. The only thought in my brain was Oh God. This is it. I'm going to die now.
I vaguely remember my children standing nearby. I often wonder if they fully took in what was happening. I wonder how they felt as they observed their father assaulting their mother. I remember ex-husband guy ushering them inside as I laid on the cold ground with the colors of sunset hovering over me.
Dark orange. Brilliant pink. Deep blue. Midnight blue.
I felt as if I were becoming part of the ground - cold and hard like a rock. I was heavy. Frozen. The vibrancy of my life slowly seeped out of my body as the colors faded from the sky. I do not know how long I remained on the ground. I felt the chill and the damp of the autumn night falling onto and into me. I might have laid there all night under the silent stillness of the crystalline stars. I remember a tear rising to the surface of my eye but not fully manifesting. It never rolled down my cheek.
I do not remember getting up, going into the house and interacting with the ex-husband and the children, which I'm sure I must have done. Because I'm not lying on the ground now. I must have gotten up. I must have pushed myself away from the safety of the cold ground and back into the continued motion of family life.
On that night, I ended. I died. Checked out. I put the requisite time and attention into being the primary monetary provider for the family, into preparing meals for the children, making sure they were dressed for school and the like. But part of my attention remained there on that cold hard ground, staring at the sky, trying to feel alive.
There is absolutely nothing worse than feeling dead inside and trying to pretend like you are living.
Eventually, my awareness returned. I have memories of events that occurred after that one, including more episodes of violence. A beer bottle nearly hitting me in the head as it was hurled across a room. One of the children's favorite bowls filled with cream of wheat smashed against a wall. Being whipped across the back by a denim dress with brass buttons again and again as I curled up in an attempt to shield myself from attack.
It took a while, but I left the husband, who is now the ex-husband. I knew that if I didn't, I would end up dead. Not that he would have murdered me. I probably would have killed myself. Thoughts of driving my car at high speed into a tree planted themselves firmly in my brain. So much so, that I had to actively fight the urge to do this on my way home from work every night.
It occurred to me that I must choose to live or die. And I must fully commit to whatever choice I made. For example, if I chose to die, I must stop beating about the bush and off myself. And if I chose to live, I must really start living.
I chose to live. At the time, I made this choice for the sake of my children. I did not want to impose a lifetime of psychological suffering upon them by taking my own life. Additionally, I wanted to send a very distinct message to them both - but especially to my daughter - that the type of abuse to which I subjected myself was unacceptable. No one ever needs to be reduced to that degree of humiliation and shame. I come from a long line of women who married abusive drunks. It was time to break the chain for future generations.
I am constantly amazed by the number of beautiful, smart and talented women who are or have been physically abused by a man. Having come out of it, I understand how difficult it is to extract yourself from that scenario. I stayed with my husband much longer than I needed to. I had to reach a point at which I felt courageous enough to leave. And I needed the safety of a support network. This was absolutely crucial.
It is important to note that I did not feel completely empowered to leave the ex-husband until we moved back to North Carolina and I lived in close proximity to my family. I found a job and began to establish a network of friends again. I opened my own bank account. I needed to have a safety net in place. My family and friends provided a great source of strength to me. And through their love, I began to realize I needed to take better care of myself and my children.
Initially, I blamed ex-husband guy for the violence perpetrated against me. Then, I went through a phase in which I owned my share of the responsibility for the dynamics of our relationship. Now, I have come full circle and realize that no matter what I did to contribute to the fucked up dynamic of our relationship, I never physically assaulted the man to whom I was married, the man whom I professed to love and who professed to love me.
Anger is a volatile emotion. But there are any number of things one can do with it. Anger does not need to result in assault. Period.
Assault is against the law. This simple frame of reference could have helped me so much had it been present in my psyche back in the day. But I accepted assault as the norm - as part of the dynamic of my relationship with the ex-husband. I suppose I accepted assault as the norm because I grew up seeing it in my immediate and extended family. A certain degree of violence, it seemed, was simply a part of life.
I now reject that attitude. Violence is not a part of my everyday life. I have no tolerance for it in whatever form it manifests: verbal or physical. I am quick to call bullshit on any type of bullying. I walk with growing strength and confidence. I am grateful for my life.
Not every woman makes it out of a violent relationship alive. I nearly didn't. But I accepted the challenge of rescuing myself and making my life count. This is my Victory.
I wish for all people to believe that they have value. I wish for all people to understand that violence is not an acceptable form of communication. I wish for all people to free themselves from the traps established long ago by a patriarchal belief system - a system that is outdated and destructive in nature. I wish for all women to acknowledge their strength, their power, their absolute wildness and to never, ever, become domesticated.
On this particular early autumn afternoon, the ex-husband and I were arguing. I don't remember what we were arguing about. (I don't remember the content of any of the arguments that ended in violence.) I only remember the last words that left my mouth: "I'm not your mother."
At that point, the ex-husband flew into a rage, pushing me down a staircase, dragging me out into the yard, throwing me down on the ground. I was laying on my back. He got down on his knees and straddled my chest. He wrapped his hands around my neck, squeezing it tightly, using it to repeatedly lift my head and bang it on the ground. Over and over he did this, snarling unintelligible words in time with the banging. So what I heard was a word or two interrupted by my own gasps and grunts as my neck was forcefully pulled upward and as my head hit the ground. I could not breathe. The only thought in my brain was Oh God. This is it. I'm going to die now.
I vaguely remember my children standing nearby. I often wonder if they fully took in what was happening. I wonder how they felt as they observed their father assaulting their mother. I remember ex-husband guy ushering them inside as I laid on the cold ground with the colors of sunset hovering over me.
Dark orange. Brilliant pink. Deep blue. Midnight blue.
I felt as if I were becoming part of the ground - cold and hard like a rock. I was heavy. Frozen. The vibrancy of my life slowly seeped out of my body as the colors faded from the sky. I do not know how long I remained on the ground. I felt the chill and the damp of the autumn night falling onto and into me. I might have laid there all night under the silent stillness of the crystalline stars. I remember a tear rising to the surface of my eye but not fully manifesting. It never rolled down my cheek.
I do not remember getting up, going into the house and interacting with the ex-husband and the children, which I'm sure I must have done. Because I'm not lying on the ground now. I must have gotten up. I must have pushed myself away from the safety of the cold ground and back into the continued motion of family life.
On that night, I ended. I died. Checked out. I put the requisite time and attention into being the primary monetary provider for the family, into preparing meals for the children, making sure they were dressed for school and the like. But part of my attention remained there on that cold hard ground, staring at the sky, trying to feel alive.
There is absolutely nothing worse than feeling dead inside and trying to pretend like you are living.
Eventually, my awareness returned. I have memories of events that occurred after that one, including more episodes of violence. A beer bottle nearly hitting me in the head as it was hurled across a room. One of the children's favorite bowls filled with cream of wheat smashed against a wall. Being whipped across the back by a denim dress with brass buttons again and again as I curled up in an attempt to shield myself from attack.
It took a while, but I left the husband, who is now the ex-husband. I knew that if I didn't, I would end up dead. Not that he would have murdered me. I probably would have killed myself. Thoughts of driving my car at high speed into a tree planted themselves firmly in my brain. So much so, that I had to actively fight the urge to do this on my way home from work every night.
It occurred to me that I must choose to live or die. And I must fully commit to whatever choice I made. For example, if I chose to die, I must stop beating about the bush and off myself. And if I chose to live, I must really start living.
I chose to live. At the time, I made this choice for the sake of my children. I did not want to impose a lifetime of psychological suffering upon them by taking my own life. Additionally, I wanted to send a very distinct message to them both - but especially to my daughter - that the type of abuse to which I subjected myself was unacceptable. No one ever needs to be reduced to that degree of humiliation and shame. I come from a long line of women who married abusive drunks. It was time to break the chain for future generations.
I am constantly amazed by the number of beautiful, smart and talented women who are or have been physically abused by a man. Having come out of it, I understand how difficult it is to extract yourself from that scenario. I stayed with my husband much longer than I needed to. I had to reach a point at which I felt courageous enough to leave. And I needed the safety of a support network. This was absolutely crucial.
It is important to note that I did not feel completely empowered to leave the ex-husband until we moved back to North Carolina and I lived in close proximity to my family. I found a job and began to establish a network of friends again. I opened my own bank account. I needed to have a safety net in place. My family and friends provided a great source of strength to me. And through their love, I began to realize I needed to take better care of myself and my children.
Initially, I blamed ex-husband guy for the violence perpetrated against me. Then, I went through a phase in which I owned my share of the responsibility for the dynamics of our relationship. Now, I have come full circle and realize that no matter what I did to contribute to the fucked up dynamic of our relationship, I never physically assaulted the man to whom I was married, the man whom I professed to love and who professed to love me.
Anger is a volatile emotion. But there are any number of things one can do with it. Anger does not need to result in assault. Period.
Assault is against the law. This simple frame of reference could have helped me so much had it been present in my psyche back in the day. But I accepted assault as the norm - as part of the dynamic of my relationship with the ex-husband. I suppose I accepted assault as the norm because I grew up seeing it in my immediate and extended family. A certain degree of violence, it seemed, was simply a part of life.
I now reject that attitude. Violence is not a part of my everyday life. I have no tolerance for it in whatever form it manifests: verbal or physical. I am quick to call bullshit on any type of bullying. I walk with growing strength and confidence. I am grateful for my life.
Not every woman makes it out of a violent relationship alive. I nearly didn't. But I accepted the challenge of rescuing myself and making my life count. This is my Victory.
I wish for all people to believe that they have value. I wish for all people to understand that violence is not an acceptable form of communication. I wish for all people to free themselves from the traps established long ago by a patriarchal belief system - a system that is outdated and destructive in nature. I wish for all women to acknowledge their strength, their power, their absolute wildness and to never, ever, become domesticated.
~In Memory of Sarah Browder~
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Abortion
Yesterday at work, I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that had obviously been designed to stun people such as myself. In larger-than-life gold letters against an olive green background, the words "Cure Abortion" were emblazoned across his chest. The back of the shirt said, "Abortion: leading cause of death in America. 1,200,000 a year."
This man clearly had an agenda. And his steely eyes and tightly clenched jaw revealed his determination to fight about it. I had never before seen him in Planet Care. And I made a silent plea to the Universe to keep him out of my lane at the check-out.
The Universe wasn't listening.
The man began to unload his goods onto the conveyor belt while being polite but curt and watchful. He was ready, oh so ready, for me to make commentary on his attire. But I did not. I turned my attention towards his daughter, who was wearing a remember 9/11 t-shirt. This girl looked like she might be 10. Which would mean that she had been an infant during 9/11. Clearly, her daddy dresses her.
I tried to make small talk with the girl since talking to the man proved to be excruciating. He would not allow the conversation to be diverted. I learned that he is a sixth grade special ed teacher. The girl offered up the information that her mother is a teacher as well. 8th grade. I said, "Wow. Both your parents are teachers. Do you get enough attention?"
A stunned silence ensued. The girl reflexively gaped at me as if I'd discovered a family secret. She cast her eyes to the ground and murmured "sort of." I could tell by the father's bulging vein that I needed to smooth this over. "I'm only asking because my dad was a teacher and I never got enough attention from him. But I'm the sort of person who always feels like they don't get enough attention. So there you are!"
The father immediately protested. "She gets plenty of attention. When I leave work, I leave it behind. I know how to let things go. I can draw the boundaries between work and home. I don't have a problem with that like some people do." He continued to sing the praises of his strong family life while the girl continued to eye me. I couldn't tell whether she was suspicious or curious.
The man had been ruffled by my stream of consciousness chatter. The vibrational intensity of his emotional disturbance generated a tangible heat. I was glad when he left.
About 15 minutes after the life-loving patriot left, a lovely boy came through my line. He must have been 16 as he wore the uniform of a fast food joint - complete with name tag. No one was with him, so I assumed he drove. But even if he were only 15, he looked like he was 12. His face was freckled, his hair curly-red and very short. The light reflected off the peach-fuzz on his cheek. He was timid and shy, never looking me in the eye. He was buying peanut butter.
As he opened his wallet to pull out a card with which to pay, I noticed a dark pink line, surprisingly thick, tracing the inside of his right forearm. Before it fully registered what this line might be, I automatically checked his other arm for a matching scar.
This precious child had already attempted suicide. At what age? And over what? I wanted to do or say something. All I could think of was to ask whether he had to work all weekend. He nodded with a vague attempt at a smile. I replied with something like, "Ah, retail!" To which he lightened up tremendously, revealing teeth untainted by tobacco, tea and other staining agents. He seemed almost grateful that I had made a poor attempt at humor. Undoubtedly he sensed my realization as it occurred, my momentary confusion, my overwhelming desire to protect this precious being from anyone or anything that could hurt him - from people wearing "Cure Abortion" t-shirts who carry an unnecessary amount of rage in them at all times, for example. So I'm certain he was relieved that I merely attempted humor and camaraderie.
I awoke this morning thinking of the boy with the suicide scars, about how he must endure the curious scrutiny of everyone he encounters as long as he wears short-sleeved shirts, about how his mother may have wanted to abort him but did not because it was immoral, about how his life had been at some point in time, and might possibly still be, unendurable and he had wanted it to end.
For some reason the words kill or be killed continue to circulate around my brain.
None of this makes any sense. The only thing that is clear to me is that I want to visit the fast food establishment indicated in the uniform the boy wore. I want to find this angel baby. And when I do, I want to give him flowers.
This man clearly had an agenda. And his steely eyes and tightly clenched jaw revealed his determination to fight about it. I had never before seen him in Planet Care. And I made a silent plea to the Universe to keep him out of my lane at the check-out.
The Universe wasn't listening.
The man began to unload his goods onto the conveyor belt while being polite but curt and watchful. He was ready, oh so ready, for me to make commentary on his attire. But I did not. I turned my attention towards his daughter, who was wearing a remember 9/11 t-shirt. This girl looked like she might be 10. Which would mean that she had been an infant during 9/11. Clearly, her daddy dresses her.
I tried to make small talk with the girl since talking to the man proved to be excruciating. He would not allow the conversation to be diverted. I learned that he is a sixth grade special ed teacher. The girl offered up the information that her mother is a teacher as well. 8th grade. I said, "Wow. Both your parents are teachers. Do you get enough attention?"
A stunned silence ensued. The girl reflexively gaped at me as if I'd discovered a family secret. She cast her eyes to the ground and murmured "sort of." I could tell by the father's bulging vein that I needed to smooth this over. "I'm only asking because my dad was a teacher and I never got enough attention from him. But I'm the sort of person who always feels like they don't get enough attention. So there you are!"
The father immediately protested. "She gets plenty of attention. When I leave work, I leave it behind. I know how to let things go. I can draw the boundaries between work and home. I don't have a problem with that like some people do." He continued to sing the praises of his strong family life while the girl continued to eye me. I couldn't tell whether she was suspicious or curious.
The man had been ruffled by my stream of consciousness chatter. The vibrational intensity of his emotional disturbance generated a tangible heat. I was glad when he left.
About 15 minutes after the life-loving patriot left, a lovely boy came through my line. He must have been 16 as he wore the uniform of a fast food joint - complete with name tag. No one was with him, so I assumed he drove. But even if he were only 15, he looked like he was 12. His face was freckled, his hair curly-red and very short. The light reflected off the peach-fuzz on his cheek. He was timid and shy, never looking me in the eye. He was buying peanut butter.
As he opened his wallet to pull out a card with which to pay, I noticed a dark pink line, surprisingly thick, tracing the inside of his right forearm. Before it fully registered what this line might be, I automatically checked his other arm for a matching scar.
This precious child had already attempted suicide. At what age? And over what? I wanted to do or say something. All I could think of was to ask whether he had to work all weekend. He nodded with a vague attempt at a smile. I replied with something like, "Ah, retail!" To which he lightened up tremendously, revealing teeth untainted by tobacco, tea and other staining agents. He seemed almost grateful that I had made a poor attempt at humor. Undoubtedly he sensed my realization as it occurred, my momentary confusion, my overwhelming desire to protect this precious being from anyone or anything that could hurt him - from people wearing "Cure Abortion" t-shirts who carry an unnecessary amount of rage in them at all times, for example. So I'm certain he was relieved that I merely attempted humor and camaraderie.
I awoke this morning thinking of the boy with the suicide scars, about how he must endure the curious scrutiny of everyone he encounters as long as he wears short-sleeved shirts, about how his mother may have wanted to abort him but did not because it was immoral, about how his life had been at some point in time, and might possibly still be, unendurable and he had wanted it to end.
For some reason the words kill or be killed continue to circulate around my brain.
None of this makes any sense. The only thing that is clear to me is that I want to visit the fast food establishment indicated in the uniform the boy wore. I want to find this angel baby. And when I do, I want to give him flowers.
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