Battling for Hearth, Heart, and Home, Part 2

Fast forward to the present; over the past two years an onslaught of tragedy and trauma consumed my life. My beloved daughter, my only daughter, a fourteen-year-old freshman in high school was abducted and raped by two sick men who remain at large. Then, mysteriously my sweet, dopey dog, not much more than a puppy came down with an ailment that wouldn’t allow him to eat; which ended up being diagnosed as stage four lymphoma (cancer)—he died at half his body weight whimpering in pain each day a month or so later. A few years back my father died in a very painful way (double pneumonia, lung cancer and emphysema)—painful for him and for me, his loving daughter, since I was the one that had to okay his removal from life support, in essence killing the one who gave me life. To exasperate things further I came within a hair of losing my marriage—facing the dreaded D word—this in large part a reaction to my soul being pulled and pushed apart by trauma. A voice screamed inside me, “Hey, but you’re supposed to be a healer—fix this!”

In the face of tragedy, trauma, mourning, and grief I began to examine my life. Who was the director—certainly not I. No, I was the one being controlled by unseen, undesirable forces. Throughout the years of psychological, emotional, spiritual, financial, physical, and indeed sexual domestic violence my partner claimed it was done out of love and caring for me. Whatever the reason all of it subversive or not, ate away at my psyche and my soul, removing one chunk after another until I felt too weak to carry on. I struggled to break free but alas there was still love, longing and hope—the thing that keeps many of us women tied to such unthinkable situations—the reason there are many chapters and articles entitled “Why She Stays.”

In reaction to the traumas, which were felt by us as a couple the controlling behaviors continually increased. He went for serious help. Still, I was a prisoner to my beliefs, to my hopes, to what I believed was supposed to be. With depression licking its thick black tongue over me, even my art, writing, healing, and gardening as outlets dwindled in their healing powers. I cut off my friends more out of pride than anything else. My ancestral altar grew dusty.