What hurts me is that the property I paid $5,000 for is now worth over $200,000. That hurts! I was so eager to get away from Todd that I sold the property for what I paid for it. My regret is in not keeping the property. It stands just as it was because it is a "county island." I was meant to have that piece of land, just not with that man! My younger brother (he's in his 40's) lives directly behind the property in a newly developed neighborhood. It's uncanny: his house numbers are the same as what mine were, only a couple of blocks north!

My triggers are Hayden Road in Scottsdale where he terrorized me while driving my car. Speeding, driving reckless and actually doing a 360 degree spin in the middle of the street. What an idiot. My parents live about two blocks from where I lived with him so driving to their house brings back some ugly memories.

Certain restaurants where we went - certain intersections - and places I lived before I met him after I had left my husband who was cheating on me and how scared and alone I was at that time. I'm not sure these can ever be forgotten because it wasn't a good time for me.

Thanks for sharing.

Hi Dianne, no wonder you live across country in TN. Reckless driving seems to be a common characteristic amongst abusers. My father was a reckless driver, endangering his own children! And Todd was a reckless driver, "peeling rubber for emphasis." What immature behavior! How can these things be forgotten? The memories do serve to remind us how far we have come as survivors. You're so right about the intersections: they become more than cross-roads, they are landmarks of our prior lives.

Sounds like a title for another book, Lynn. "Intersections."

Lynn, you never mention anything about your little stepsister. If it's too painful, I understand.

The things we do to ourselves sometimes by not holding on. I left my 2nd husband and the beautiful home we owned right on the lake in a private subdivision in Northern Illinois called The Chain of Lakes. I left because he and my eldest son, his step-son didn't get along but mostly because one day he cancelled the mortgage Insurance on the home and he was 22 years my senior. I was scared to death that if he died I wouldn't be able to manage. SO STUPID, SO SHORTSIGHTED of me. I could have managed just fine and the property now today is worth nearly $400,000 because of where its located. Talk about 'cut my nose off to spite my face.' So here I sit trying to save $5000. so I can kick this border out on his behind and have a buffer for when the paycheck is alittle light...Who knew, right Lynn329???

Chatty, thanks for sharing this story. I feel exactly like you! Yes, I too could have handled the measley payment, even though I went to waitressing and lived on tips while going back to college. Heck, I took all of the bills because I knew he would let them lapse and it would ruin my credit. How I had the foresight to even think about credit, I don't know. So you married a man much older than you? It sounds like so-called security was a motivator for you. A quote of Maya Angelous is: "When you knew better, you did better." I hope I have learned from my mistakes. Land never depreciates. Thanks so much for jumping in here.

Hi Dianne, thanks for asking about Heather. It's not that it's too painful, it's just that I don't have anything to say. I always get asked what happened to her, and the truth is my relationship with her stopped just like it stopped in the book. For those who haven't read, Heather was born with Down syndrome in 1969. Not only was she mentally retarded, but she also had severe physical handicaps. She was put into a state institution when she was 4. She could not have lived a long life. And here is the last sentence I have regarding her in the book: “Love is never lost. Heather was here long enough to teach the lesson of unconditional love. The exchange of love experienced with her will never leave your heart.”
Am I remiss for not hiring a detective to find out when she died? Dianne, what else can I share with you? I know the readers are left with a loose end as far as Heather, but that is just the way it is for me, too.

Hi Friends, I am posting the first chapter in case you are interested and missed it over on the announcement forum.
Pills and Prayer
That night, December 20, 1978, the radio reported the most rain in Phoenix in one hundred years. Broadcasters called it the flood of the century. While I was driving, I listened to reports of accumulated rainfall and road closures. “Stay off the streets,” the announcer warned. The wet pavement reflected the colored holiday lights that adorned cactus. Seasonal garlands, heavy with the weight of rainwater, drooped to the gutters. Carols interrupted newscasts, followed by the countdown: “Only four shopping days left until Christmas.” I felt a pressure as intense as the rain that pounded on the windshield.
I sipped from the Michelob that rested between my legs, and then lit a cigarette. The cough of a nasty cold rattled my chest. As I passed gas stations and convenience stores, I could not decide whether or not to fill the empty gas tank. It was too dark to stop, too cold to get out, too wet to pump. My T-shirt and bra were soaked through to my skin, and the denim jacket and jeans provided no warmth. The heater vents blew warm currents of air, but I still shivered.
In a trance, I drove until the high beams of my Chevy formed a solitary tunnel of light. The roads were as dark as the thoughts driving me to an undetermined destination. The vehicle transporting me through the desolate desert was as isolated as the body that entrapped me on earth. I longed to be on the other side, in another realm.
After courting a death wish for over a decade, I thought I heard a voice that urged me to die. Die! Die! I imagined giving in to impulse and stabbing myself with scissors straight through the heart. Die! Die! Because I could no longer live with myself, self-annihilation seemed to be the only answer.
My hand shook as I reached for the glove compartment. My fingers trembled as much from fear as from the cold. The glove compartment contained vials of pain medication that my doctor had prescribed for the headaches that never ceased. I’d carefully counted and hoarded the pills: ninety Darvon Compound for mild pain, thirty Tylenol with Codeine for moderate pain, fifty Percodan for severe pain, one hundred Serax to relax me, Dalmane to sedate me, and Compazine for nausea. I planned on using this multicolored mix of tablets and capsules to put me out of my misery.
I had scripted suicide scenes for months, wondering how each setting would play out. If I killed myself in a muddy field, a cotton farmer would find a skeleton in the spring. If I committed suicide in the car along a county road, passersby would think the car had been abandoned in the mud. If the sheriff discovered my body locked inside the car, I would be considered a criminal because suicide was against the law. If I nicked a vein with a razor from my overnight bag, I would surely cringe at the first sight of blood. However, would I, could I feel any pain? Perhaps an oncoming cattle truck would veer across the yellow line, causing a head-on collision. If I spotted the bright, raised lights of a semi coming towards me, perhaps I could ever so slightly steer to the opposite lane. What if the truck driver had a family awaiting his Christmas homecoming? It would be best to stick to my original plan to take pills, leaving others out of it.
Close to midnight, I turned back toward town and pulled up to a Holiday Inn I had passed earlier. I parked in the far corner of the lot. After turning off the engine, I sat behind the wheel to think. Drops of rain were pelting the roof like pebbles: ping, ping, ping. I was trying to collect my thoughts.
I packed the collection of pills into my purse and grabbed the grocery bag of beer. As I stepped out of the car, cold currents of water washed over my leather clogs. The rustling leaves of the oleander hedge spooked me. I ran to the office. I must have looked like a breathless bag lady with wet brown hair, a soggy brown sack, and an overnight bag. As I checked in with cash, the desk clerk politely handed over a black key tag numbered 206.
In the motel room, I tugged the orange-and-green checked spread and the pillows from one bed and crawled into the other bed, fully clothed. This was the final suicide scene: checking out at the inn. Who would discover the body in the morning? Maybe the maid would think this guest was just asleep and forgot to put out the light and the do-not-disturb sign. I was still shivering, even after I’d wrapped myself in several blankets.
Sitting on the bed with legs crossed under me, I rocked back and forth. Every night I would rock away the day, rehashing the scenes that were safe to repeat and repressing the acts too intolerable to talk about. The rhythm of rocking silenced the cacophony of random thoughts. My life had been quite a dramatic production, and the curtain was finally closing.
I placed the prescription bottles around me in a semi-circle. They rattled like baby toys. I opened another beer and swallowed the Compazine first, so as not to vomit. Then, dumping the pills by handfuls into my mouth, I found they went down with an easy gulp. Soon my vision blurred and the patterns on the beds, the drapes, and the carpet floated around in geometric shapes of garish orange and green.
As I succumbed to drowsiness, I waited for death. I realized I was always waiting for some catastrophe to befall me. Why not get it over with? I gulped more pills and lay down, curled up.
I worried about the fate of my soul, if indeed I had a soul. Parochial school taught me that it was a sin to commit suicide, so I would burn in hell. Surely, my soul was unworthy of any place other than hellfire and damnation. At twenty-four years old, I deserved to die.
I sensed the presence of my deceased father. I was definitely my father’s daughter, killing myself as he had killed himself. His surreal presence was neither benign nor violent, but finally, he was there for me. Was that my father whispering? “No, Lynn, not this way.” God, please don’t let my father haunt me in hell!
In case God could hear, I began to recite the Lord’s Prayer: “Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.” I lost track of my place in the prayer and started over: “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come.” I forgot the rest and started again: “Our Father, who art in Heaven.” How could I forget the prayer that was repeated a thousand times at Mass, in confession, during Lent and on Easter? “Our Father, who art.”

No, I don't think you should hire someone to find Heather. I just wondered if you ever knew what happened to her. I felt sorry for your stepmother too, but in a different way. She seemed to be doing the best with what she had, like all of those who are with abusers or have been in the past.

[ April 05, 2005, 12:55 PM: Message edited by: Dianne ]