Yes, I can see it. I feel it with each thing I write. Sadness. There are a lot of emotional things I’ve written about here. If you feel sadness when you read the things I write… I’m not sorry. I won’t take on your sadness. That’s for you. If you feel emotion, then I’m touching something in you… my words are speaking to you. If that’s too uncomfortable for you and it’s all you can see, then this isn’t the place for you to be right now.

Why do I write about sad things? It’s simple… I don’t. What I do, is write about the things I know. If I want to write well, then I have to feel something about what I’m writing. I can’t fake it. For years, I have yearned to write… but I was afraid to write what I knew. I was afraid I might hurt someone. I was afraid I might be judged. I was afraid people would think I was looking for attention. I was afraid people would think I wanted them to feel sorry for me. I was afraid it might affect someone in a negative way. I was afraid my truth would be called lies. I was afraid for people to see the real me.

For months and months after my mom passed away last year, there was this voice that kept saying… “Write.”

I was searching for a way to resolve all that I was feeling. I was searching for the answer to my confusion. I was searching to know what I was now supposed to do with myself. I was searching for an answer that had always been inside of me. Write.

The voice was relentless. It didn’t just speak to me once. Every time I broke down, it spoke to me. “Write.”

I ignored it so many times. One day, I decided to stop ignoring it. I could feel the presence of my mom on many occasions telling me it was okay. “Just write.” That’s what she told me. She put into my mind, the knowing of all her writings. For years, I wondered how she survived. How did she survive loneliness? How did she survive abandonment? How did she not want to end her life? How did she have hope for anything? How did she keep pressing forward? How did she keep living? How did she live every single day with her life? She wrote. She didn’t just read a book… she wrote in it… all over it. She wrote in notebooks, journals… anything that had space for her to write.

When I finally gave into the voice telling me to write, I knew this wasn’t just a temporary thing that I would do a few times, or just in that moment. The voice wasn’t telling me to write something in that moment. It was telling me that I was to write… and not stop. Write everyday. Stop denying my gift. Stop denying what was within me. I believe with all my heart, that every human is bestowed gifts from their creator. Yet, I could only deny mine. I denied the gift that I felt from a young age. I shut it off. I blocked it.

I knew every action had a consequence. I wasn’t just scared of negative consequences… I was scared of every possible consequence. What if people like what I write? What if they ask me for more? Will I be able to give them more? What responsibility will this put on me to those who read what I write? What if something is triggered within someone who reads what I’ve written? Will they reach to me for support? Will I be able to give them the support they need? What if people praise me for my writings? Will that change me? Will I become self-centered? Will I think I am above others? Will I think it is about me instead of knowing it’s about God and what He is saying through me? Will I claim the words as mine, instead of His? Will I lose my focus and begin searching for money from my gift? Will I use the gift with the wrong intent? Will it become about something different? If money comes from it, will I lose sight of my purpose? Will I become greedy? Will I be irresponsible with my gift? Will He take it away from me? The spectrum of questions in my head were endless.

I resolved to do my best to let go of my fears. Stop focusing on them. Stop letting them distract me. I decided if I was going to start writing and sharing what I wrote, I would have to make a commitment to myself to not let outside influences play on my fears. Don’t let what others think or say stop me from continuing to write. Don’t give power to the negative thoughts that come from the one who would have me fail. The one who would not want me to touch the lives of others. Rather choose to have faith, that the promptings I have felt to write, are from a loving Heavenly Father that would have me share who I am, my experiences, because He needs me to.

I am writing to tell my truth. I am writing to let people see that what we perceive on the outside, does not tell us anything about what is on the inside. I refuse to pretend that the only thing that matters is showing the world that I look happy and well put together on Sunday afternoon. I don’t want to participate in that contest. I want to be over here… telling people the real stuff. My greatest desire is to reach out to others and let them know they are not alone. I want to be accessible to people so they can feel supported and understood.

My writing cannot be about trying to please someone else. Pleasing others is a life long habit of mine. Do what they want and maybe they will like you. Do what they want so they won’t want to leave you. Do what they want so they will give love to you. That’s a hard habit to break.

I remember being about 18 years old and my brother told me that I was a fake person and that I just adapted and became whatever I thought everyone else wanted. It really hurt my feelings at the time. I thought that if that’s how I really was, that meant there was nothing of value in being me. It felt like if that was true, it meant I was faking who I was. It meant that even if people liked and accepted me like I wanted them to, they really didn’t because I wasn’t me. I was a chameleon… adapting to preserve myself. Changing color so that I would blend in and people would believe that I belonged there.

I think I’ve had this constant internal battle of needing to blend into the background so I could be part of things and not be left out or left behind, while at the same time, wanting to let the bright color within me out, so that I could feel genuine love for who I was. Most of the time I chose the blending. Don’t rock the boat. Just ride the flow.

Every once in awhile I let the color show. I’m getting to a place where I’m gradually allowing the colors of ME to show more and more. I know not everyone will see the colors that are here… it all depends on their perspective. Some people will look and see only darkness, which will make them turn away or back to the facade. Others will look at my tears, see the light I’m shining on them and see the rainbow.

It was only a few months,
after my mom passed away.
I received an invitation.
It was to attend,
the 70th birthday,
of my 3rd dad.
I hadn’t see him in over 20 years.
Even then,
it was a brief meeting.

They divorced,
when I was probably…
10 or 11.
I think their relationship lasted,
about 7 years.
I was around 3 or 4,
when they met.
He became my full-time dad.
During that time,
I saw him more,
than my own dad.
I lived full time with my mom,
and only spent,
every other weekend,
at my dad’s house.

Even when they divorced,
in my mind,
he was still,
one of my dads.
The divorce,
didn’t erase the love,
the affection,
I felt for him as a father.
Like always,
when my mom left someone,
that meant I also left them behind…
at least physically.
I was a child,
I went,
where I was told to go.

The invitation to the birthday party,
soon after my mom’s death,
peaked a certain kind of interest in me.
It spoke to that empty,
yearning space…
where the love of a parent,
was supposed to be,
but I often found empty.
It was currently…
raw.

When I thought about him,
I still felt the affection for a father.
Time was frozen…
I just felt,
what I had felt,
when I was that little girl.
Love,
admiration,
for a father.

He watched late night tv shows with me,
taught me table manners.
He provided a comfortable home,
with luxuries like a swimming pool.
He gave me new experiences,
like raising a steer to slaughter.
He gave me a horse to ride.
Chickens to collect eggs from.
Bunnies who were always multiplying.

In my mind,
he was still that dad.

The invitation was presented to me,
in a way,
that made me feel special.
“He would be so excited to have me there,
it would be a surprise!”
The idea,
of being a surprise,
at this significant family gathering,
that I hadn’t been a part of,
for over 30 years,
was a little intimidating.
I didn’t really like the idea,
of being the surprise.

I had no idea,
how he would react…
to me.
I didn’t know,
what he might say…
about my mom.

I knew,
I would be extra sensitive.
I expressed my concerns.
I was assured,
he would be warned ahead of time…
of my sensitivity.
That meant,
he would also know,
I was coming.
He wouldn’t be caught off guard.
When I agreed to attend,
I left it open,
to back out at the last minute,
if I was having a hard day.

The day came.
I debated.
Back and forth.
In my head.
I made the decision.
I would go.
I knew if I didn’t,
I would always wonder.
I chose,
to swallow my fear,
my anxiety.

I
went
all
by
myself.

On the drive there,
I started to feel anxious.
I kept repeating to myself,
“Be brave, be brave, be brave.”
I reminded myself,
“You have done hard things before, be brave.”
Even when I felt that twinge,
to turn around,
drive back home…

I
was
brave.

I found the neighborhood,
drove up to the security gate,
pushed the call button.
“Hello?”
“It’s Peggy.”
The gate opened.
They knew I was there.
No turning back now.

I parked my car,
put on the bravest face,
that a little girl could muster.
I stood tall,
was greeted outside,
by the person who had invited me.
There were several other people,
outside the door,
I was introduced,
then brought inside.

The door entered into a big room.
It extended even further,
to include a formal dining area.
It was a vast,
open space.
I stood there,
courageous smile,
saying hello,
to a couple of guests.
The immediate room where I was standing,
was void of people.
The space wasn’t cluttered with things.
It was just open…
all around me.

My father was brought to stand,
about ten feet in front of me.
He looked at me with a smile,
a little chuckle…
trying to figure out who I was.
I could see,
there was a glimmer,
of recognition in his eyes…
but he couldn’t quite place me…
and then he did,
“Peggy? Is that you? It is you…”
as full realization,
came to his expression.

In the time he was figuring out who I was,
horror had filled my mind,
realizing,
he had no idea I was coming.
Every insecurity,
that a person can feel,
about not being accepted,
cared about,
recognized…
significant,
came to my mind.
There was a moment,
when I thought he would have to be told…
who I was.

I was on display.
Here she is!
Long,
lost,
daughter,
of the ex-wife.
Look at her.

The house was full,
of close relatives.
Most of which,
had known me,
as that little girl.
It was a beautiful family.
They were laughing,
drinking,
telling stories.

A slide show,
of old photographs,
from his life,
streamed on the tv.
The pictures…
memories flooded my body.
I was looking at my family,
that existed,
when I was that little girl.
A family,
that had moved on,
moved forward,
without me.
It stung.

I was introduced to his “new” wife ,
that he married after my mom.
Then his “new” daughter,
who had replaced me,
taken the spot in his heart,
where I once lived.

It felt like that time,
when I had been playing Three Flies Up,
in front of our house,
with my 3 brothers.
The football,
was coming straight for me.
I caught it,
with both arms,
hugged it into my body,
then fell to the ground…
unable to take in air.

Be strong.
Be brave.
You are strong.
You are brave.
You have come through so much.
You can do this.

“This is Peggy. She’s the daughter of my ex-wife, from 30 plus years ago.
You remember Peggy, don’t you?”

He was uncomfortable,
I could feel it.
I didn’t blame him.
He had to explain.
There wasn’t a simple way to say it.
It took a lot of words.
The scenario was repeated,
over
over
over…
again,
as I was introduced to guests.

Repetition of the recounting,
refuted my recollection.
The words he wrote,
from his mouth,
poisoned my reflection.

It was ridiculous,
that I was there.
It was foolish,
to think I was still his daughter.
Absurd.

It had been thirty years,
since I had been his daughter.
Through his adult eyes,
It was a blink.
Through my young hopeful ones,
it was infinite.

It may have been in my own mind…
I could feel the self-contained conversations,
going on inside of people’s heads…

“Why did she come?”
“Doesn’t she already have a dad of her own?”
“He’s not even her real dad.”
“She must not have a dad that loves her.”
“She must be lonely.”
“This is so awkward.”
“How long is she going to stay?”

I endured two hours.
Two hours, pretending I belonged there.
Two hours, watching the family, be a family without me.
Two hours, of faking feeling right at home.
Two hours, bluffing that I was part of the family.
Two hours, seeing pictures of my step-brother,
who was my hero,
who I had adored,
but never got to say goodbye to… when he died.
Two hours, of not knowing where to stand.
Two hours, of not knowing who to talk to.
Two hours, of faking being interested,
in whatever conversation,
was going on next to me.
Two hours, of enduring the feeling,
of wanting to run out the door and just drive… forever.
Two hours, of fending off the pain of realization.
My little girl memories,
of being a loved daughter,
were only mine.
Now they were shattered.
Two hours, of holding my disillusionment inside.

As I drove home,
I heaved the sorrow from my gut.
My memories were stained,
they were changed.
I mourned.

No, I wouldn’t change the decision I made to go that day. I have no regrets. I look at it and see the strength God has placed within me. It is His strength. I can face all things that He needs me to face. He has made me resilient. I am grateful. I hope that through seeing the strength He has placed in me, you will know He has also placed it within you. It is there for you to grasp.

I know everyone has a story of strength and bravery… please share yours in the comments if you feel prompted to do so. I would love to read it.

~Peggy

This might surprise you,
but I don’t think the world,
or God,
owes me anything.

I don’t believe,
I should be above struggle.
I would never want to be,
above struggle.

Struggle,
is one of the greatest gifts,
God has given me.
Without struggle,
I am nothing.

God made us incredible,
resilient,
intelligent beings.
He gives us,
every tool we need.
Sometimes we don’t see it,
or we decide to not use it.
It’s there.

He’s there.
He’s the one,
and only,
constant parent I’ve had.
The one who loves me so much,
that He allows me to fall.
But He is there.
The one who loves me so much,
that He allows me to feel pain.
But He is there.

He is the one who sacrificed,
His perfect son,
so that I,
could choose,
learn,
and find my way back.
All while gaining strength,
wisdom,
compassion,
love,
and all He has to give.

Why would I expect,
not to suffer?
Why would I think,
I am above it?
Why would I think,
I am above my brother…
who suffered everything?
Why would I be,
so selfish,
to think that I,
am walking this earth…
only for myself?
For my own pleasure?

I look around,
see the organization,
in all things created by God.
I look at the deepest level,
there is always a pattern,
a plan,
a system…
all things working together.
It’s not random.

What I experience in my life,
is not random.
It is for me.
It is for my good.
It is for my good,
that I may do good for Him.
He may use me,
to help others,
find their good.
He wants me to do all things,
for you,
which is Him.

Ripples don’t only happen in water.

This life…
this thing I do everyday,
has a purpose.
I do not know that full purpose,
because I am not Him,
but I know there is a purpose.

The hardest part,
has become,
trying to figure out,
the purpose in my timeframe,
instead of letting Him teach me,
when He wants me to learn.
The hardest part,
is letting go of the control,
that I never had.
The hardest part,
is being patient.
The hardest part,
is getting out of His way.

The more I resist,
the way He chooses for me,
the harder it is,
to walk forward.

When I let go,
open myself,
stop resisting,
I end up finding,
the greatest reward.
The greatest happiness.

Sometimes,
there is so much pain,
and hurt,
but happiness is always there waiting.
He always gives me,
the understanding…
eventually.

He allows me to feel,
some of His greatest blessings.
He allows me to BE,
one of His greatest blessings.

What other purpose do I need?
What else could feel more at home,
comforting,
than that?

NOTHING.

We all suffer and hurt. No one is exempt. When we focus on the suffering and hurt of ourselves, we are blinded by what He needs us to learn. When we shift our eyes to the suffering and hurt of others, we see what He needs us to do. He owes us nothing. We owe Him everything. What is He asking you to do? Are you seeing?

It’s coming.
The day is coming.
The people say let it go.
Forget about it.
Don’t keep living it.
It’s done.
It’s finished.

I want to pull down the zipper,
step out,
run.
Don’t look back.
Just…
run.
Leave it,
in a heap on the floor.

I won’t.
I won’t touch the zipper.
I have to wear it.
It’s mine to wear.
No one else will wear it.
I have to wear it.

If I drop it to the floor,
it was all for nothing.
Too much of me…
was spent.
It has to be something.

I’m lost.
No one,
can see the moment.
It’s only mine.

I’m standing,
in the middle,
of space,
spinning,
in a circle,
reaching out,
touching nothing.
I am alone.
Air twists,
funnel around me.
I am solid,
in the center,
it doesn’t touch me.
The empty surrounds me.

I’m stuck.
There’s no way,
to walk through it.
No door.
No break in the wall.

I reach out a finger,
I graze it.
It stings.
I can take it.
Deeper.

Put my hand against it.
Electricity up my arm.
It’s familiar.
I stand straighter,
reach further,
arms wide…
the essence catches,
I leave the ground.

Lifted,
charged,
I am strong.
I draw it deeper…
into me.
It has lived here…
before.

I fly.

I’m in the storm.
It tries to throw me.
I won’t be thrown.
My wings are spread,
I ride the tempest.

Feelings drip from my eyes,
I am not overtaken.
I touch my face.
Moisture runs around my finger tip,
I don’t wipe it away.
I let it flow to my mouth.
I taste it.
I savor it.

My air is,
the antidote.
Touch me.

Still…
sometimes,
I reach for the zipper…
I never pull it.

The anniversary of my mom’s death is coming. Legally it’s June 18th, 2015… that’s what her death certificate says. But, I was there… she actually took her last breath at 11:55 pm on June 17th, 2015. As this anniversary approaches, I feel an urgency to figure out how I’m supposed to feel about it. An urgency to figure out what I’m supposed to do with myself on that day… and the days leading up to it. I feel a responsibility to make it matter. I know I could easily ignore it, put it out of my mind. I choose to hold it, look straight at it, to feel it. People face difficult anniversaries every day.  This is what it feels like to me…
What does it feel like to you?

They’re invading me.

I’m tired.
Looming around me,
waiting for me.
Do something…
anything with it.

Do I just keep them,
closed?
Send them away?
Do I put them in a pile,
light a match?

There are hundreds of books.
Her marks,
writings.
They seem sacred.
What do I do with the things?
Do they contain a piece of her?
Pieces I never knew?
Do I let someone else know them?
Will they be valuable,
to those who discover them?
Are they of value to me?

It feels wrong,
to put them out into the world.
Is it my responsibility,
to read every word?
Is there something there,
that I’m supposed to discover?
What energy do I put,
into looking at her?

If I open a cover,
will I get stuck there?
Will I be able to find my way…
back out?
What if she speaks to me?
What will I do,
with the things she says?
Will they change me?
Do I need to be changed?
Will anyone recognize me,
when I come out the other side?

Will my view,
be completely different?
What new things,
will my eyes see?
What will I not be able…
to un-see?
Am I strong enough to see?
Am I meant to see?

I saw it…
now what do I do with it?
Do I give it to someone else?

I just want to be free.
Free from everything,
that has been placed upon me.
How do I free myself?
I know,
I can’t run away.
Am I allowed…
to free myself?

Journal entry April 20, 2016

What do you do when you’ve spent your life,
trying to be everything she wasn’t?
What do you do when all you hear growing up,
is how bad she is?
What do you do when all you see,
is her bad decisions?
What do you do when she wouldn’t,
protect you?
What do you do when all you hear,
is that she was wrong?
What do you do when you know,
she hurt you?

What do you do when they tell you,
“You’re just like her”?
What do you do when they say,
“You pick all the losers, just like her”?
What do you do when they tell you,
“You think you can get whatever you want with your looks”?
What do you do when you’re told,
“You play the martyr”?

What do you do,
when the person you are supposed to identify with,
that’s supposed to be your biggest influence,
is bad,
wrong,
of no value?

When you look in the mirror,
what do you see?
When you look in the mirror,
what do you want to see?
Everything that isn’t her.
You want to be loyal.
You want to hide your beauty.
You want to prove you can do what she didn’t.
You want to show the world you are nothing like her.
Anything that makes you think of her makes you sick.
The thought of seeing anything of her within you makes you want to vomit.
You want to hide who you are.
You want to pretend you are better than her.
You want to prove that she had no influence on you.

When she talks about the girl fun,
doing your nails together,
how fun it was,
you want to puke.
You want to laugh.
You want to say you don’t remember any of that.
All you remember is the hurt.

All you want to be is everything she isn’t.
You don’t want to be her.
You don’t want a trace of her within you.
You will do anything to squash it,
not let it show.
You will prove you are better than her.
You will stay.
You will protect.
You will give.
You will not think of yourself.
You will sacrifice everything you can to not be her.

And you will slowly die.
Everything in you,
that is her,
will die.
Suffocate.
It will still be there,
inside you
like an illness that you will never let show.
You will pretend it’s not there.
You will ignore it.
When it tries to peek out,
you will smack it back down,
tell it to stay where it is.
You will silence it.
You will squeeze the breath out  of it,
will it to die.
You won’t show it.
No one is allowed to see it.

What if they see her in you?
You will be bad.
You are bad.
She is in you,
but they don’t have to know.
You can hide it.
You can keep it inside.
You can adapt.
You can be,
whatever the people around you,
need you to be.
You just keep being.
You can do it.
Keep hiding.
Keep pretending.
Don’t let them see.

Now she is gone.
There’s nothing here.
She left nothing.
There is no trace.
She is no longer walking,
hurting,
destroying,
draining.
She is gone.
She left nothing behind.

This is the continuation of my post Dark.

I will no longer keep this story locked inside of me. I share it to bring awareness.

What follows is the actual account of what happen on the dates and times indicated as recorded by me in a notebook the day I returned home. Please be aware it is sexually graphic. If you are under the age 18, I recommend you have the guidance of a parent, guardian, or mentor. Please also be aware that this story could be a trigger for those who have a history of sexual trauma. If you are a victim, you can find help through the National Sexual Assault Online Hotline.

November 11, 1999
11:31 am

I walked over to the cafeteria at 7:30 am and at the same time a man named George* (*name changed) who was also staying in the Aspen unit walked to the cafeteria. I was not walking with this man, I walked behind him, passed him and went into the food serving part of the cafeteria in front of him. There was another man in the line and the three of us spoke casually as we waited for our food, asking each other how we slept the previous night. As I was getting my juice I heard George say something like, “Hey baby.” I turned around and looked not sure if he was speaking to me or another woman that had entered to get something. I felt the comment was more targeted towards me due to the fact that this woman looked like a staff member because of her clothing and name tag. I didn’t think he would say something like that to her. I do believe she heard what he said because she turned around and looked at him. I did not respond to the comment. I just went and sat down at a table to eat my food. This man George followed me and sat down directly in front of me at the same table. I felt a little nervous considering the room was filled with empty tables and chairs; the seat he chose didn’t face the T.V. which was on or even a window he could look out. I was really the only thing in his line of sight directly in front of him. I tried to make light conversation but felt really uncomfortable and couldn’t think of much to say. George sat there and just stared directly at me. He didn’t look away, he didn’t eat his food, he just sat still staring at me for several minutes. I ate my food and pretended to watch T.V. more aware of his stare than anything else. His stare felt very deep and penetrating like he was drawing a picture in his mind of my face. I was frozen not sure how I could get up and move and not wanting to be rude, I just thought this man had some mental health problems of his own and I did not want to offend him by leaving. After sitting there for approximately ten minutes I noticed this man was gently moving his arms up and down in a back and forth motion, his arms were positioned straight down to his lap. At first I thought he was just feeling nervous or anxious and rocking back and forth. The entire time he did this he stared at me. He would do this motion with his arms just long enough to what seemed to bring him to a certain point of pleasure and then stop for a moment and then repeat it. His arms were angled in a way that his hands were definitely both in his lap, even though I could not see below the table and actually see his hands. He was making some occasional sounds of sighing or breathing pleasure. At one point he did stop abruptly and said something to me although I don’t know what it was. I just ignored him and looked at the T.V. and he started the motions again. Then I could see some other women through the window that were also from my unit coming into the cafeteria. I watched them with a longing look hoping they would come “save” me by sitting with me. By this time through realizing this man was masturbating in front of me I was frozen with fear and did not know what I was supposed to do. I watched the women as they got their food wishing they would just hurry up. Finally one of the women came and sat down by me. One of the other women went to sit at a table closer to the T.V. and told the woman who had just sat down by me to come over there so they could be closer to the T.V. The woman by me got up and when she did, I said, “I’ll come over there too.” and I got up and went over and sat with the three women. I sat in a place so my back was facing George so I wouldn’t have to see him anymore. I stayed with the women while they ate even though I was already finished because I didn’t want to be alone, I was afraid. After they were all done eating I walked back with them to the Aspen unit, when I got there I went to the nurses station and asked to speak to a nurse in private. A nurse came into my room with me and I told her what happen. She did say that she was sorry, that she had never heard of anything like this ever happening and that she would figure out how to talk to him about it without letting him know that I said anything. Then she left. Right after that one of the student doctors came and got me to meet with him just doing his regular assessment of my condition for which I was hospitalized. He asked how I was doing and I told him not so good because I had an incident in the cafeteria. He asked me what happen and I told him, he said he was really sorry that that happen to me (he was very sincere). He also made a comment that that was really “sick”. I finished telling him how I was feeling besides that and I let him know I wanted to go home because my brother was getting married the next day. He wrote down my information and said as soon as the doctor came in he would talk to him right away. I went back to my room and laid down on my bed and cried. I was really upset that this had happen to me when this place was supposed to be a place of “safety” for me and a place to help me feel better. I kept thinking back to other childhood situations of sexual upset and wondering why this had to happen to me. I felt like it wasn’t fair because I’ve been through counseling the last year and a half and dealt with sexual problems stemming from my childhood and now here I was experiencing an unpleasant sexual experience with a strange man in a place I was supposed to be safe. It brought back to mind the feelings of being afraid of being alone with a man and feeling like I have to hide because men who see me look at me purely sexually. I feel as if I will forever have this experience in my mind and images of this man George and this experience.

While I was crying in my room a nurse peeked in and saw me crying and came in to see how I was. This was a different nurse/or counselor than the first one. I told her what happen and she asked me how I felt and what I wanted to say while this incident was happening. I told her I wanted to say, “How dare you!” “You can’t do this to me!” and I told her I was just frozen with fear. After talking briefly my roommate asked if I could help her in the bathroom with her clothes. She had a broken shoulder so I helped her put her clothes on. After that the student doctor told me that Dr. Patino was there and ready to see me. I went in to see the doctor and he asked me what happen that day. I asked him if he was already aware of what happen in the cafeteria, he said, “Yes”. He told me that I needed to learn to stand up for myself and not let people walk on me. He told me that I was giving this man George power over me by letting it affect me in this way. Letting it upset me and make me sad and afraid. Then he asked me if I was suicidal and I told him no and I just wanted to go home and he told me he would release me to go home. After that I went to my room and waited to be discharged, called my husband to come get me. I packed my things filled out my paperwork for discharge and left. On my way home in the car I told my husband what had happen in the cafeteria, he was mad! As soon as I got home I called and left a message for my counselor to call me as soon as she could. After approximately twenty minutes she returned my call and I told her what happen in the cafeteria. I also told her about my following experiences white at the behavioral health center.

On November 10, 1999 I was in a group session that was held in the morning at 9:30 or 10:00 am. In this session called “Life___” (I can’t remember the full name) the counselor talked about communication and communicating what we really want. The counselor asked each of us to tell her two things that we really wanted. George who I spoke about earlier in the cafeteria was also in this group session. When the counselor asked us to tell two things that we really want George spoke up saying, “Sexual pleasure”. The counselor wrote this on the dry erase board and then discussed it. She said that this answer of “sexual pleasure” means “different things to different people. To some people it means wanting companionship, to some people it means intimacy, and to some people it might actually mean having sexual contact.” Then she asked George what he meant by “sexual pleasure” and he said he wanted “sexual contact”.

In a different group held on November 10, 1999 in the afternoon around 1:00 pm George also attended we were asked to talk about what had brought us into the hospital. I decided that I would talk because I felt that I was in this place (hospital) to get better and deal with my feelings. I felt that I should do whatever the counselors and doctors encouraged. So, I talked about how I felt sad and had a lot of deep hurt inside. The counselor and I spoke back and forth her asking me questions about feelings and different things and me answering the questions with true honesty and wanting to feel better. She asked me a question about if there was a specific time in my childhood where someone chose something instead of me. I immediately thought of something and told her about it while the group listened. I told her about when I was twelve years old and my mom told me that her boyfriend had told her that he was sexually attracted to me. I eventually was given the opportunity to go live with my aunt. I was very hurt by this, my mom chose the boyfriend that admitted he was sexually attracted to  me and I had to make the decision to leave so that I could be safe. This is a story that the whole group listened to including George.

On November 10, 1999 in the evening I was also offered prescription drugs to help me sleep by another patient staying in the Aspen unit. I refused the drugs shocked that she even had it. Earlier I had made a comment in conversation with this woman that I was not sleeping well and very anxious. This same woman later told me she had given one of the other patients a pain pill for an injury she had. This woman told me that earlier when her daughter visited she brought her these medications. Later that same evening around 9:00 pm I was in the arts and crafts room with this same woman and one other man. After being in the craft room for about an hour the man became very sleepy, he was passing out while painting his project and I was very concerned for him. When this man began drifting in and out of sleep the woman who had offered me the medication earlier said, “I gave him what you didn’t want.”

On the night I was admitted to the behavior health center I was sitting in the day room watching T.V. feeling very uncomfortable in this new place where I didn’t know what to expect. While I was watching T.V. I saw a man go in my room, he stayed for approximately a minute and came back out. I wasn’t sure what to think except that I felt like I might not be safe. I worried about whether or not someone could just come in there in the night and attack me. When the nurse gave me the medication that evening I asked her if I was really safe in there. She told me that they put me in the room directly across from the nurses station for that reason and that I would be safe because they were right there. I told her about the man going into my room and she said that sometimes patients get confused or forget where their room is and that’s probably what happen.

Why would I share any of this story? It’s relevant for so many reasons.

First, just telling and admitting that I was in a dark place and had to admit myself to a facility due to suicidal thoughts… and that it wasn’t the first time. It’s a TRAGEDY how we hide our mental health issues… that we feel shame. Shame for being human.

Second, what I witnessed and experienced in this facility did nothing to facilitate my personal healing. After this happen I was determined to shed light on it so no one else would have to be put through a similar experience. I spoke with an attorney, I wrote letters, etc. and eventually I just didn’t have the energy to keep fighting.

Third, I visited a facility like this recently and everything came rushing back to me. I remembered everything. Again I felt how broken the system of mental health care is. These facilities throw everyone together no matter what their mental health issue is. Women and men staying in the same units. How can that be safe? Why is there not supervision in places like the cafeteria where these people from all walks of life are thrown together? Everyone being required to attend the same group therapy sessions even though their issues range anywhere from depression to drug addiction? I was preyed upon by a man in a place where I was supposed to be safe. He knew my sexual fears and experiences because I was forced to be in the same group counseling with him. As a patient in these facilities, your privileges hinge on your participation in these group sessions. Your participation is required for them to see that you are progressing so you can get eventually go back home. If you’re going to throw these people together in one pot then the least you can do is have someone present and aware at all times to protect them.

Fourth, the abuse I received while in this facility didn’t just come from George, it also came from the doctor who responded by chastising me for not standing up for myself. His first concern should have been my well-being after being put in that situation. Instead he agreed to let me out… so I couldn’t continue to tell what happen to me.

We are all touched by mental illness either personally, through a family member, or friend. Please don’t blindly trust that you or your loved one will be safe in all aspects at a behavioral health facility. The patients in these places are not well. They need someone to constantly advocate for them and make sure they are not just safe from harming themselves, but safe from those around them who are also seeking help.

Please share my story to bring awareness. These places can do better. My experience shows many flaws in the system. I know my experience cannot be an isolated incident… If you are feeling brave, please share yours.