How would you feel if you saw your doctor and, after weeks of tests, his prognosis was no cure? There is no way that this can be fixed. If it is possible, even the possibility is slim. If you heard your doctor say: "
I received one such prognosis today.
Wait now...it's not what you might think, so hold on and let me tell you what I was told.
My story (the whole thing) is devastating to read, tell or live. This is not my first time being homeless. For those of you who are not aware, my homelessness began when I was 15 years-old. During my teenager years, I suffered my first brutal rape, being beaten and choked near death (feeling the breath leave my body as I blacked out from a strangling ordeal as I heard my mother laughing in the background and calling me numberous explicatives. Her laughter during that incident haunted me for many years and was a difficult memory for me to overcome in therapy), being held against my will at gunpoint for 13 days (the assailant wouldn't allow me to dress most of the time and had me perform unspeakable acts), watching others beaten and killed. So much for young eyes to see. I lived a life of a hundred victims and my mind was fit for an insane asylum.
When you've seen that much and had your body branded by men. Forced to do what your body was never designed to do under the fear of death. It is greater than hard to believe you are worth anything more than a toy for men to play with. My reocurring thoughts were of death. I dreamed of it and cut myself only to watch the blood trinkle down my arms. I burned my skin to feel the physical pain which hurt so good that it made me forget about the mental and emotional anguish...he shame, the smells, the tactile imagery. How my family thought I was nothing. I talked too much. I sang too much. I was "fast" or "loose." I was dumb. I couldn't read well. They didn't think of the time when I was six. When that Jason kid almost knocked my left eye out with a brick. No one had taken me to the eye doctor so I went through life seeing two of everything. I learned later that the muscle tissue behind my eye was permanently damaged...sandwich images everywhere. Layered images of everything on top of one another like pancakes. (mmmmm...pancakes...STAY FOCUSED, Yolanda!)
So you get it, right. Well, you get the few things I could share. I have some things hidden. Some things I don't feel are safe to share or even deal with. One could only imagine what a 15 year old went through walking through the streets of Chicago. Washing her dirty body in McDonald's restrooms. Walking from Harvey to Roseland like a zombie seeking a place to ravage flesh...seeking a place to belong...someone to love her...someone to care. How many men do you think picked me up and how many do you think I got in the car with? Where do you think they really took me and what fee was assessed for my fare? Whatever you imagine is probably only mildly accurate because once an over-developed girl tells a grown man that no one cares...that everyone has abandoned her, that man knows he will not be accountable to anyone (at least that's what he thinks) for what he plans to do. He can fulfill his wildest and most demented dreams. What man wouldn't take advantage of that? There are very few, and I'm certain I didn't run into any of them.
I sat there today, in my psychiatrist's office. I talked about the holidays and I told him about how I feel about this whole homeless situation. My doc began to talk to me about my memoir. I've had the manuscript for the last five years and everytime I complete any of the necessary documentation to publish it, I get an enormous lump in my throat. I begin to sweat. My body shakes and I feel flush. Then nauseous...then I cry. There are a litany of things going through my head and not one of them is good. All bad...when I'm done, I decided that this story isn't read or maybe that I'm just not read to share it. Nonetheless, when I begin to share bits and pieces of my story to help a student or to minister to someone, I just keep thinking that there is more to my story than just me. Therefore, my psychiatrist was one of the first people I made this confession to. merely because I trust him...why? He is bound by the LAW not to judge my fear. His job is to help me find ways to overcome it. Thus, as I began telling him my story, since there was too much to tell in 10-20 sessions, he asked me to trust him with my manuscript. I wanted him to read it because there were some things in it that I just didn't want to keep re-living.
Today was one of my most important sessions because I knew he had plenty of time to read my memoir; thus, he would come into our session knowing exactly how he could help me. Today was the day that we would finally have an opportunity to move forward. How can we fix what's wrong with me? For all of my Christian brothers and sister, please understand that I do not rely on man for direction. I do not seek ungodly counsel, yet I strongly believe in therapy. I love the Lord and I know He loves me; however, God has used my therapy to confound the wise. My testimony is incredible and no one is able to understand why I am where I am. I learn new things about in me in therapy...things I have ignored...things I can no longer ignore. I learn new ways to cope with some of the tragic things I have encountered, yet one of the main things God has done for me during therapy is show me how strong He has made me.
My doctor began to talk to me about what he learned thus far by reading my manuscript. "I just don't understand how you made it" he said. "You are a miracle, Yolanda. Do you understand that in all of my years in medicine I have never seen anyone who has undergone as much as you have and remain drug-free. You are amazing." I sit there, listening and trying not to wimper. I find myself fighting tears...this is good right? I think to myself. Why am I about to cry? What makes me have to cry when someone tells me I'm great? He continues and I dred his next words. I have heard them before. "I can tell that all of your life you have tried to live differently from the way things were when you grew up. You are nothing like the mother you saw growing up. You had no long term example; however, you strive to become something greater than what you saw...My only issue is...I am hoping I can help you...I haven't figured out how I can help you; your case is so unique. You have suffered so much trauma, yet you have done so well for yourself. I'm not sure how I can help you" The last time I heard anything like that from a psychiatrist it came out like this: "You will never be normal." That hurt more than what my current psychiatrist said.
Now, I know what some of you are thinking: "You know you don't need man's approval anyway and WHAT IS NORMAL? Girl, ain't nobody normal. Brothers and sister, I know and I understand. I have had to deal with the flashbacks, night-terrors, sleepwalking, night-sweats, hypervigilance, claustrophobia, panic attacks for the last 30+ years. The night terrors, sleepwalking, nightsweats and panic attacks have subsided and I know how to deal with the flashbacks now. So, I promise you, I know I have victory over my past. I have dominion over all generational curses...I know I am an overcomer. However, in the end, it still hurts because I know that something I didn't do to myself continues to affect me. It is the main source my prayers and likely the major source of my struggles...Even though it hurts and at times I don't see my way out, I truly believe that God is ameliorating my character through it all. He is blessing me to be sensitive to the pain of others because I know what it's like to be permanently affected by unsolicited turmoil.
My Inspiration:
It took us a while to get here, but you probably know what I'm going to say. No matter what people do to you....No matter how they treat you, you can never forget how valuable you are. We have to fight for our sanity as well as our integrity. I've been doing it my enitre life. I silenced my flesh when it wanted me to drown my misunderstanding and pain into drug abuse. It was my choice to live a sober life. It wasn't what I saw in my family; instead, it was a standard I developed for myself from spending about three-weeks with a woman named Mrs. Janice Russell, who took me in at age 16. She didn't know me. I was a drug addict when she took me in and she didn't know it. After I left her house, I only used again two years later when I was held against my will; however, even though I never went bck to her for help, the imp[act she had in my life was so strong that I never wanted to use again. I stopped when I was 18 and stopped smoking when I was 19. I have been sober from drugs for 20 years and tobacco-free for 19 years.
Can you imagine what you life would be like if you only found someone to draw inspiration from, even if that person didn't stay in your life through your struggle? What if you just decided your life would be better if you found inspiration in every little thing you didn't have to go through?
What God has spared you from...This is why I am so grateful. I brought this story to my blog today because I realize that my past is a significant part of my future. People have encouraged me to abandon it. Stop thinking about it....they have no idea how much strength I draw from it. Being homeless today is nothing like it was for me then. Therefore my past horrors evoke a feeling of safety and self-control in me that I am not willing to abandon. Also, We all know that we will never be able to control the way others treat us, yet we can control how we respond to the pain.
Are you having a difficult time understanding why you're struggling? Do you feel angry or discouraged about something you're going though? Please feel free to e-mail me your prayer requests. My e-mail address is yolandawhitted@msn.com I am praying you and your family through your situations and I ask you to do the same for me. If you've already sent me a prayer request and you have another one, submit it. I don't mind multiple requests. Thank you for reading my blog. Keep the comments coming. ILY and thank God for you! GBY!xoxo
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