Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come”

Dear Little Sisters,

"Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come." It's kind of funny where my mind goes when I hear this line. I guess I do think about the men who threw me away like trash when I was younger. Sometimes, I used to imagine that I would bump into them somehow and they could see me with the family they never thought I would have-or deserve. They would see me as a wife and a mother and not the one-night stand, the booty call, the on-and-off-again back-up that I always was to them. I want to bump into them not because there are lingering feelings, but just so they can know that they were wrong about me. I wasn't going to be living in psych ward and I was going to be normal and happy. And, yes, you missed out suckers.

But, now that I am older, I think less about how they were wrong and more about how I was wrong. Who knows what they really thought? I'm sure they were dealing with their own issues when they were treating me like shit. It doesn't make it right but I now realize I should have focused more on developing myself than letting myself be defined by them. So now I can see that I proved my 20-something self wrong. That I could be healthy and sane. That I could love and be loved. That I could bring life into this world and not fuck them up. And I have done it for years. Is everything perfect? No. But that is okay because I approach every challenge like it is solvable now. Not like the world is ending.

Because back then my world was hanging by a thread. Every slight was a reason to drive the car incredibly fast and imagine hitting the wall or pole ahead. Every rejection was a reason to scratch my arms until they bled and left long red scars. Every disappointment was a reason why I would sit in my car hear that voice say, "Do it. End it. Now."

I recently went to the store and the girl checking out my groceries, handed me the receipt and her sleeve went up. It was filled with all kinds of cuts. I didn't have to say anything to her because there was a huge line behind me, but I wish I had. I wish I could have said that things do get better even when all you see is darkness around. Even when the pain and hatred for yourself are so much that you can only concentrate on getting through the next hour. That getting through the next hour, can become getting through the next day. That the days turn to weeks and then years. And you find yourself not feeling that pain. That the monster inside you died-not instantly-but by a million cuts of hope. I hope I get another chance to see her and tell her that she is wrong and the best is yet to come.

I know, because I lived it.

Sincerely,
Ratsiram

It was all I could think about

Dear Little Sisters,

x

It was all I could think about... I had a plane to catch in a couple of days with my dance company for a performance in Los Angeles on Saturday afternoon. The problem was I was on 51-50 hold in a psychiatric ward in Mountain View. How the fuck did I end up here? 

Well this is part two of the night that I decided to stab my wrists and as a result taken into the emergency room. The days that followed were a surreal haze of interactions, tears, and solitude. Sometimes I forget that moment in time, that is, until I look down at my left wrist and see the now subtle scar that runs right alongside my vein. I used to fear that someone might notice it but now it’s simply one of the many scars that I carry, most of which are not physical and cannot be seen. 

Maya Angelo said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”  In the days that I spent in the psych there are three people that I will never forget. I don’t recall exactly what they did or what they said but I recall exactly how they made me feel. 

The first was the doctor that treated me in the emergency room. He made me feel so stupid and shamed for having drank wine when I was feeling depressed. Even in the midst of my despair I managed to tell him that perhaps he should avoiding telling someone who was about to be put on a 51-50 hold something like that and that if I truly had better ways of coping with my situation, which he knew NOTHING about, than maybe I wouldn’t be there right now. He apologized. Asshole. 

The second was the woman who was my roomate. The moment I came in I could feel her warmth and care. She gave me both the space I needed but also offered me the comfort and attention when I needed it. Again I don’t recall exactly what she said or did but I could feel her love, like that of a mother. I find it incredible that in the midst of her own pain she was able to find enough openness to see me. Isn’t that how it works? It is often those who have endured the most pain and hardship that are the most empathetic because they know the depths and darkness of their own greatest fears and pains and would never wish that upon anyone. 

The third was my nephew. He was only a child but my sister took him to visit me. He didn’t know he was in a psychiatric ward and that I was being held there against my will. Seeing him run down the hall to embrace me made me smile in the midst of my own dark cloud of fear and shame. His innocence and lightness of being was a stark contrast to everything that was inside of me. Everything that was slowly crawling out after years of being chained inside. The memory of how he made me feel is what later inspired me to make a frame during “art time” to hold a picture of him and I. He is a reminder of the hope that I have to break cycles of abuse. 

After being held for 72 hours, I was released to my sister just in time to go home, pack my bag, grab my dance costumes, and be dropped off at the airport just in time to catch the fight with my dance company. It’s crazy that that is all I could think about in the midst of the storm that was just beginning to brew inside of me. I couldn’t let my company down. I still refused to show anyone on the outside anything less than the dedicated, perfectionist Maria. If only I knew what was to come.  

If you look closely at the pictures from that performance you will see that my left hand is bandaged and there are band aids on my right arm covering the bruises. Nonetheless, I am still smiling and gazing into my partner’s eyes putting on the show that folks came to see. It’s ironic and fascinating that one of my best friends made me an art piece from one of those pictures and titled it what only few can see,”between all the pain and glory.”

Love, 

Espe

Something good did come from this after all

Dear Little Sisters, 

Something good did come from this after all. He almost made me lose my glow, well actually he did cast a shadow over my light for almost two years until I finally exploded but that story will be for another time. 

“You’re nothing.”

“You’re a monster.”

“You didn’t deserve to go to Stanford or Harvard.”

“You’re crazy.”

“You’re a violent and terrible person, just like your father.”

“You’re F***** up in the head.”

“No one will ever love you.”

-------

Hair pull. 

Phone thrown across the room.

Bloody nose. 

Pushed to the floor. 

It was abuse and now I can say that. J emotionally and physically assaulted me. He made me feel tiny and powerless; vulnerable to his continuous threats and put-downs. His words like ice picks to my soul, slowly bringing me to my knees. But he also made me feel like the most precious thing known to man. He knew how to give me the love that I had been longing for my entire childhood. He made me feel that I could shine by his side but I now know that he had it all wrong because I can shine on my own. I was J’s prey and he was the vulture who knew exactly how to shame or smoother me into what he wanted me to do. 

It was a tumultuous roller coaster of emotion. It was the highest of highs to an ecstasy I had hardly ever known but it was also the lowest of lows to a darkness of depth that I still fear. Every special occasion or outing would end in fighting and tears. Weddings, birthdays, holidays, dinner parties, family events, he knew exactly how to instigate a fight or how to bring me to tears. I was reliving my childhood in the worst possible way but now I was my mother and I was the one walking on eggshells. 

I’ve never had a bloody nose, that is, until that terrible night in Calistoga. I should have known the supposed getaway weekend that he had planned would be a disaster when that morning he picked a fight about something minimal and then threatened to not take me, per his usual behavior. But in the end, like so other times, we ended up getting ready, looking our best as if nothing had ever happened and then driving away in his fancy BMW with our sunglasses and the wind blowing in our hair showing the world that amazing power couple they thought we were. If only they knew and if only the wind could blow away all the pain.

Like so many of our fights, it began with him picking at something about me, me reacting, and then him leaving me at the bar where we were, triggering my greatest fear...abandonment. He walked back to the B&B and shortly after him so did I but instead of going upstairs I decided to have one last drink. It angered him that instead of running to him, I choose to talk to the bartender and watch tv while sipping on my old fashioned. Eventually, he came down and insisted I go upstairs where it began. 

Shouting. Pacing. Arms flailing. Items tossed. Bloody nose. I don’t even recall how it happened; all I know is that I felt the warm blood coming down my face as I fell to the ground. The moment he saw the blood and heard my cries, I saw the panic in his eyes. And in an instant he was gone. He fled without even hesitating, grabbing anything, or saying a word to me. Actually, he did say something he said, “oh my god, the police can’t come, I’ll lose my license.” He was so terrified that the police would get called that he selfishly ran away like a coward, leaving me yet again but this time with a bloody nose, without a phone and terrified in tears. The asshole had the audacity to drive intoxicated all the way to our home in Redwood City from Calistoga. 

The good that came from this is that this relationship forced me to relive, process, and break the power and abuse cycle that I saw in my parents. The good that came from this is that now I can support domestic violence survivors. The good that come from this is that no one will ever have that much power over me again. While it took a lot of tears, pain, humiliation, anger, and time, I eventually came to see that he was nothing but a scared, and insecure man who was intimidated by the woman that I was when he met me and the woman that I rediscovering. 

You should listen to the lyrics from Keysha’s song Praying...it’s like they were meant for J. 

“I'm proud of who I am

No more monsters, I can breathe again

And you said that I was done

Well, you were wrong and now the best is yet to come”

Who knew that a psychiatric ward could be so peaceful?

Dear Little Sisters,

Who knew that a psychiatric ward could be so peaceful? I sat there leafing through the magazines. When I saw something that spoke to me, I began to tear at it gingerly with my fingers. I loved the way it felt to rip the paper. There was something satisfying about using my hands instead of scissors. Not that I had a choice, but I still liked it. I loved that I could just sit there and worry only about how to tear paper with my hands. Not about how I had failed as a teacher, as a friend, and as a human being.

So, I did more leafing. And then, I found her. Just the naked back of a woman with fat rolls and almost the same color skin as me. I cut her out, following her curves with my hand. She was like the Grand Odalisque but plus-sized and in an advertisement for body wash. I put her to the side to look for what could go alongside her. I looked through some more magazines and there she was again! I had two of them. I glued them on my paper in a ying-yang, a 69-shape, if you will. I did not know which side was up and which was down, but I was okay with that.

I cut out strips of dark hair for each of them. I gave one of them a crown and a dress of flowers. She lived in the darkness. I gave the other one no crown but she had the sun and lightness. However, the heaviness of the metal weighed her down. There they were: lightness and darkness, triumph and failure, freedom and bondage. I had made it, the perfect picture. In all my years of creating, here was my greatest work and it was done in the psych ward. I admired it. It reminded me of a funny thing my dad used to say when he had finished working on a drawing: “Leonardo, put down your brush. This is your masterpiece.” I couldn’t wait to share it.

So, everyone got a chance to present theirs. And not to be hateful, but theirs were crap. They made collages of random shit. They cut out cliche pictures and tossed it on the paper. Their art pieces said “vision board.” My piece said, “here is my fucking split-soul.” My heart was beating when I had to explain my piece. I knew the beauty of what I had created. I thought they would too. But they didn’t. Everyone was in wrapped up in their own shit and couldn’t see the wonder of my creation. I guess I could forgive them because we were all there with bigger fish to fry. But, still, someone could have approached me, and said, “I see you. I know who you are. And, you are special.” But, none of that happened. They collected our pieces and promised to give them to us when we left. I was scared that my piece would get lost in the trash, but, again, I didn’t have a choice.

Later, we would have free time and I would work on the 1,000-piece puzzle with a few others. We ate the hospital food, which I really didn’t mind. And, eventually, I went back to my room. I don’t think I had the urge to scratch the skin off my arms that night. I had said what I needed to say with my picture. Instead of tearing my own flesh, I tore paper. Even if no one else could see my girls, I could. I went to sleep thinking about them, Little Sisters. It was all I could think about.

Sincerely,
Ratsiram