A life worth living.. Really?

When I gave my presentation in St. Louis in that standing room only space, I wanted everyone to hear how those in the streets can live a life worth living with a hand up and not a hand out. 

I am sitting at home today and pondering that philosophy. Life is not easy. Of course, it is easier NOT being in the streets, but still... there are days that are so dark that I wonder if I will ever feel light again. There are memories that need to stay buried. Forever. 


The past few days I have been in a funk. Feeling the darkness creeping up on me. Depression is trying to rear its ugly head. Why now? What is going on?


Then it hit me.


When I was in St. Louis and someone asked me how I got out of that room when the guns were pointed at my full belly.. I could not remember. I never have been able to retrieve that memory. Then I started to go through my memory bank and wondered about those other times that are blank. 


I remember being "in a wall" when my body was being brutalized. I could see things happening to me, but I was not there. The body was vacant. Or was it? There was some piece of consciousness in that body. That piece was talking and carrying on to allow me continue to live. 

I am really afraid of the words that are coming out now.. but it seems to make perfect sense. I do not remember the things that happened to me because I was not in my body at the time. Someone else took over. Someone else came to protect the "me" that I was then and am now. 


I remember the days when I was in intensive psychotherapy and that my therapist told me that I had experienced a "merging" that was the day that I had so many memories flood back into one space. That was the day that when I laughed I could feel my 3 year old, and 7 year old and 10 year old and teen and young adult and mom all become one. The laughter joined me to those pieces that I thought were lost forever.


But now.. I wonder. No. I know. There is more that has been buried. I am not ready for those dark memories. I do not want to know what happened to "me" when I left for three days to escape the tortures and brutality that were performed on my kidnapped body. I want to keep the series of events that occurred behind that locked door, locked behind another locked door. 


I think her name is Saqui. I remember having a kitten by that name and loving the way she was so brave and fierce for someone so small. I believe that Saqui took over my body at those times that I had to leave. 


This is a path that I am not ready for. Not now. I do vow to one day shed light on that darkness, to remove its power and exorcise those demons that still are buried deep, deep inside.

But today I will push on and push back on the depression. Now that I know where it is coming from, I can let it go. For today.

Memories.. can be debilitating.. and liberating at same time.

A reader recently wrote and asked why I am not writing my memoirs in chronological order. I tried to explain that these are memoirs, not an autobiography in the true sense. Memoirs allow us to retell things as we remember things.

It’s funny how our memories work – the way we remember events. Sometimes the memories flood in and ravage you, just like a rogue wave in the ocean. No warning. Knocks you off your feet, leaving you gasping for air, scrambling to regain any semblance of balance. Sometimes they sneak up on you, triggered by any one or combination of smell, taste, gesture, or sound. It might also be a spoken phrase, tone of voice, song playing in the background. Other times you are jolted awake by the recurring nightmare that dissipates like smoke, not allowing you to hold the memory and ironically keeping you from letting it go at the same time. Sometimes you might find yourself struggling to remember something. You might think back to events preceding or following the event, to try and rekindle the memory.

So given the fact that memories are not recalled in a systematic way, you might understand why sometimes my stories will come to an abrupt end and leave you hanging. It is not that I don’t want to go further, it’s not that I want to tease you, it is just that sometimes the memory is inaccessible, sometimes I am grasping at the smoke…never able to see the images clearly.

I am sure if you have ever survived a trauma you will understand what I am talking about. They have a label for this: PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Many survivors live with this on a daily basis- victims of molestation, neglect, sexual abuse, spousal abuse, and soldiers, to name a few.

PTSD has a way of causing victims yet more pain, through loss of self, loss of memory, loss of self-esteem, loss of trust, and on and on and on. As we heal, we find the memories surfacing a bit at a time.

If all of my memories flooded back at once, I am sure I would be in a loony bin right now.. or worse. My higher power gauges how much I can deal with at any one time and only allows those to come through. I take a deep breath… let it go and move on.

If I had not gone to therapy, if I had not self medicated, if I had not broken my consciousness into several pieces and hidden them away someplace deep inside where they remained safe.. who knows where I would be.. or even more importantly - IF I would be.

When I force myself to try and remember something too soon, before I am ready; I feel a disconnection. I leave my body and I numb my feelings (emotions). I find myself observing me from outside of my body. This is the only safe way for me to re-experience the events, without opening the wounds. You see, I am still afraid. Very afraid. Afraid of some of the memories.

I feel them clawing at the outer shell of my sanity. I dare not turn around to face them.. not yet. Soon. When I feel safe. When I am empowered. When I have the weapons cocked and ready. Until then, I will walk briskly down this path. Trying to convince myself that I will not be hurt again. Assuring myself that the past cannot catch up with me until I am ready. I have to be ready to defeat my demons once and for all. But there are so many.. so many.

Sometimes I need a rest. I guess that is what my “real life” is all about.. resting between the stories. Time to spend working, studying the mundane, playing at renaissance faires, loving my family, baking, spending time with my pets. It is at these times that I try to find time to heal the little girl inside, the one who was neglected and abused. The one I abandoned in the past when I ran to the streets. The one that lived her life as a victim. A victim I will be no more. I have made the choice to go back to that little girl and forgive her. To forgive that teenager. Forgive myself for walking that line myself as a mother.  

And then- once recharged, I find the courage to face another dark memory. Reveal it to the light. See it for what it is or is not. Let it go. Let it go.

I deserve more… but until I release that which I have kept locked up all these years I can never be free. Not really. As Janis once sang: “…Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose…”

Jail bait © Dakini 2010

Jail bait © Dakini 2010

Cindy was my best friend growing up. She lived about a mile away in Blue Mountain, New York. We lived in the middle of nowhere, but then again, we lived about 9 miles from the quaint little village of Woodstock. Woodstock was the place for artists and musicians to come and hang out. It was bohemian before it was hip. You can just imagine how much trouble we could get into there. 


Cindy and I were joined at the hips from the time we were 13 or so. We were constantly on the phone talking to each other, in those rare moments when we were not face to face.

She came from good German stock. She lived with her mom and four siblings (from what I remember) in humble home on Blue Mountain Road. At the back of her property you could find a small babbling brook. There were many evenings spent playing on the hill which led to that stream. On warm summer nights we could look up at the sky and watch the bats dart about, catching small flying insects like mosquitoes and no-see-ums (gnats). 

I remember when I lost my virginity (by date rape) and was afraid to tell Cindy about it. I thought she would think I was a whore. My sense of self worth was non-existent back then. 

She and I experimented with various drugs together. I was the adventurous one and always got us in trouble. Her mom used to hunt us down when we were out where we were not supposed to be. Cindy thought it was because her mom knew everyone, I think she was psychic on some level. 

Like the night we pulled, or I should say, tried to pull, that classic trick: "you tell your mom you are staying at my house and I will tell my parents that I am staying at yours." It worked fine with my parents; they were in their own world of denial when it came to me. Cindy's mom, on the other hand was very protective about her children. She checked up on Cindy and discovered we were not where we said we were going to be. Of course not, we were off to meet boys in the Village of Woodstock.

Autobiographical Statement - C 1994 Dakini Verona

My Autobiographical Statement

The year was 1994. I had just graduated from California State University, Long Beach, with a degree in psychology. My plan was to continue on to graduate school and earn a master’s degree in family counseling. Well, as they say “best laid plans”. I never did get that advanced degree in psychology, I ended up getting it in business and it was not until 2009 that I was able to reach that goal.

However, as a part of my original plan, I applied to Antioch University in Marian Del Rey, California. As a part of the admission package I had to prepare an autobiographical statement. What follows is the “watered-down-unemotional and politically correct” account of my life. Like I said, although I was accepted at Antioch, I did not attend. Life got in the way. 

ADVENTURE TIME LINE 2 1968-1973

ADVENTURE TIME LINE 1 1954-1968

TRAUMA LINE 2 1968-1973

TRAUMA TIME LINE 1 1954-1968

Kidnapped. Part II Innocence Lost © Dakini Verona 2010

Kidnapped. Part II © Dakini Verona 2010

Innocence lost.

Saugerties, New York. A very small town, not only in its size but in its level of tolerance. It was 1961. Me, I was 7 years old and just been transplanted from a beach city in Florida with my family. We lived in an even smaller section of Saugerties, called West Camp. The settlement of West Camp did not even warrant a traffic light. It was just a small area more rural than anywhere I had ever lived before.

As with many dysfunctional families, priorities were not quite straight at our home. Mom and Dad were in love with each other, that was quite clear to my sister and I. They were not really equipped to deal with the “problem child” I had become. I was a surprise to them. After all, Mom was 34 and Dad was 43 when I was born. They were looking forward to enjoying their golden years and then I came along and messed up all of their plans. It was no wonder that I was neglected. 

They tried to do the best they could, but as I look back, I can see that I was a hindrance. But it was that neglect that drove me to seek attention from others. So was it the chicken or the egg? Was I a problem because I was neglected or was I neglected because I was a problem? I know that each of these actually fed off of each other, so whichever came first is totally irrelevant at this point.

...................................

~to be continued~ 

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Kidnapped. Beaten and beyond - time to slay some dragons. © 2010 Dakini Verona

Kidnapped. Beaten…and beyond. © 2010 Dakini Verona

 

I have been putting outing off delving into some of the darkest and painful memories of my past because of fear. Fear of unleashing the monsters lurking within. They have been trapped within the deep crevices of my mind, out of reach from conscious thought for so very long. I know I must release them. They haunt me from beyond the shadows. I pray that once they are purged from my mind, it will somehow cleanse my soul. Even if only a little, it will be worth it.  

Why do we (victims) walk around thinking we have done wrong? Why do we wear the acts against us in shame like a scarlet letter? Shouldn’t the guilty be the ones to suffer for their crimes? You would think so. However, society has led us to believe that we are responsible for all choices we make. Even those made as innocents. Even those we were led to make at the coercion of evil doers. Yes, even some that we made as naive children.

Once a decision leads you into a mistake – leads you into harm’s way, there is no way to erase the damage. The invisible scars are etched on your soul forever. You are no longer capable of making the right choices and are often led a recurring path through the darkness, with an insatiable appetite for destruction.

Dare I uncover those deep dark secrets? Dare I release the demons? Am I afraid of letting go for fear that my soul will be empty once purged? Or, am I afraid that the demons will take over my soul? I don’t know what will be worse, to keep them or let them go.

There is something inside urging me to press on. To walk through the fire to help me overcome those fears. I must look back, once and for all and come face to face with those demons so that I can conquer them and move on.

the full story and more have been published in my book

Memoirs of Dakini

Now on Amazon

Wicked and Evil Grandma Helen © 2010 Dakini Verona

Wicked and Evil Grandma Helen © 2010 Dakini Verona

I was born in Queens, New York in the year 1954. Dad was a New York City fireman and mom was a stay at home mom. We were one of the first blended families that I knew. Mom was divorced and had a son from the previous marriage; dad was a widower with two kids of his own.  I was what they referred to as an “after thought”. Mom was 34 and dad 43. Unheard of for that era. I sometimes wonder if birth control if had been an option for mom, if I would have even seen this life.

My parents were very loving ...  loving to each other. They did not know how to love children – but boy, did they love each other. I remember being embarrassed as a teenager by their ‘loving’ many a times, but I am getting ahead of myself.

I cannot remember being held or rocked by my mother. I do remember the stories my mother told me of how I was a horrible baby. She told me that I would take off my diapers and paint the walls with my poop and how I would escape from the confines of my crib by climbing up the curtains. But now that I think about that… how can you leave a baby in a crib long enough for her to do those things?

Why can’t I remember being caressed? Most likely because it never occurred. I know my mom had a tough time as a child. She hated her own mother. Grandma was from a long line of stern English/Irish blooded hard-assed business women. Her sister had a boarding home in New York City and I remember hearing stories of how she would throw out people who did not have the rent. Wicked evil family.

Memoirs of Dakini available on Amazon

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