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Introduction
I am sitting at the kitchen table of my childhood Saint Lucian home writing a letter. Bridges, my white German shepherd mix, is lying behind me making a strange whiny sound. He is smart, and knows how to push my buttons. I spoil him always giving in to whatever he wants, the moment he wants them. I repeatedly ask him to stop making that annoying sound, but he does not obey.
In anger and frustration, I turn around and hit him on the nose with the pen I am using —its point upwards. The pen pierces his right eye, injuring it. Realizing what I have done, I quickly run to the kitchen sink, grab a towel, soak it in cold water, and place it on his injured eye. But Bridges recoils, whimpering, rubbing his watery, wounded eye. I start crying uncontrollably.
“Oh, my God! Bridges! What have I done? I am sooo sorry! Please, God, stop his pain and restore his sight!” I begged.
Waking from the disturbing dream, I remained in bed sobbing, wondering what it meant. I could not imagine myself hurting my beloved Bridges. How could I abuse my closest companion of fourteen years? As a puppy, Bridges helped save me from self-destruction. He is the son I never had.
Bridges is part of my present life, but in the dream, we were in my childhood home, a place I had not lived for over thirty years. I was realizing that my past was the key to unlocking the full meaning of this nightmare. Moreover, it confirmed something I have known most of my adult life. Whether victim or perpetrator, abuse is a learned behavior, which becomes a part of you, as though it is in your genes.
Right there still lying in that bed, it became clear.
The avenue to ending the stranglehold of my past was in sharing my story. That would be my catalyst to peace.
If I could show you, dear reader, that the pattern of violence does not remain hidden in the past, but repeated like a scratched CD in the brain of both the abused and abuser, poisoning every facet of their lives, then my suffering would not be in vain and I could finally let it go. Before this revelation, I would never have considered this arduous undertaking. I found nothing appealing about divulging my darkest secrets and most unflattering qualities. Only such an awaking dream could have ignited this course of action.
While writing the book I discovered how disturbingly common my story is. Child abuse is out of control, the statistics flabbergasting. I knew it was a problem, yet overwhelmed by all the facts that made my assumptions more concrete. Childhelp, a national non-profit organization indicates that, “14% of men and 36% of women in prison in the USA were victims of abuse. Children who experience child abuse and neglect are 59% more likely arrested as a juvenile; 28% likely arrested as an adult; and 30% more likely to commit violent crimes. Teen pregnancy is 25% more likely among victims; 60% of people in drug rehab centers report being abused as a child; and about 30% of abused children will later abuse their own children, continuing the cycle.
My prayer dear friend is that my experience and journey of recovery will serve as hope to you if affected by this affliction. In that spirit I offer simple but concrete steps that will help alter your course and set you on the solid foundation of change you seek. Know this, no matter your past, it does not define you, nor determine your future. For I am persuaded that you, like me, can break the bonds of your past and find your way to the future and life you crave.
Christmas Princess
I awoke to the sounds of loud voices and the clanking of pots and pans. Slowly, I stretched, rubbing fists against sleepy eyes and was about to turn over, pull the tattered covers over my head and return to sleep, when my eyes popped open and a warm tingly feeling filled my slight body. It’s Christmas!
I jumped out of bed, put my rag bedding away and slipped into my dress, an oversized t-shirt, the same soiled one I had worn the day before, and hurried to the only bedroom window. My father was outside; I can tell he had been up all night, busily cleaning and cutting the cow and goat meat gathered from the animals he had butchered. My mother and two older sisters, Elizabeth and Francisca, were in the outside kitchen, seasoning and cooking the meat. My mother looked up and saw me at the window. With both hands still buried in the container of meat she was seasoning, yelled, “Go get me more celery and parsley from the garden!”
“Yes, Mom!” I called back excitedly, as I ran out the back door. Our garden consisted of a number of long rows of various herbs, with walking pathways befpeen them. Planted were basil, celery, cilantro, mint, and much more. At seven years old, I was getting very good at identifying most of the herbs and enjoyed helping with the planting and picking. And finally now assist with the cooking.
I picked a handful of the herbs my mom wanted, and since mint was my favorite, I grabbed a handful of that too. I took a moment to dally and inhale the fresh scents that filled the morning breeze; the combined aromas stirred all my senses.
I loved our majestic Caribbean isle, Saint Lucia, captivated by her vastness and magnificence. I took pleasure in the colors and greenery of my families’ assorted gardens, the loveliness of the massive trees stretching far beyond them, and the mountains that provided a picture-perfect backdrop.
Produce from our other gardens included: cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes, watermelon pumpkin and a variety of peppers. Huge mango and tangerine trees surrounded our house and the gardens, as did a display of colorful wildflowers. One of the tangerine trees was so close to our house that my siblings and I could pick the fruit from our bedroom door. Even further out, we grew bananas, coconuts, papayas, and more mangos. Our section of land was part of an even bigger area of property shared by our family, my mother’s brothers and sisters, and their families. My two uncles, Gregra and Sonny Boy, grew other kinds of fruits and vegetables in their fields. Oranges and soursops made them lots of money. Many of us neighborhood kids often grabbed oranges from their trees. They hated it and complained often to our parents.
“Hurry up!” Elizabeth hollered. So I rushed to the kitchen with the herbs.
My family prepared all year for this one day. Aside from Christmas being a religious celebration, we also celebrated my godparents’ yearly visit. Friendship aside, my godparents were rich, so my father always wanted to impress them.
The house would be fitted with brand new lanolin carpets, new curtains, and a holiday-decorated plastic tablecloth for the only living room table. And if my father had managed to save enough money, a fresh coat of paint. On Christmas Day, the Joseph family had more to eat and drink than on any other day of the entire year. On Christmas, we were rich!
I slept on the wooden floor of a tiny bedroom with my three older sisters, while the living room became my four brothers’ bedroom. Our “beds” were sugar and flour sacks as a base, then covered with layers of old clothes and rags, which we laid out every night, then picked up and stuffed into the sacks, and hid away in the morning. Once a week, my sisters washed all the bedding. On top of supplying the water needed for the washing, I helped hang the pieces of cloth on a line tied befpeen two trees or drape them on stones to dry in the sun. Sleeping on old rags may seem lumpy and uncomfortable, but to us, it was our version of a bed and all we knew.
We certainly were not the only family who lived that way; most families living in the countryside, could not afford modern conveniences and appliances. Running water, indoor
