First the Inside of the Cup – Part 9
April 13, 2012 – [4.13.2012] – 3:33 pm
If you have not read part 8 of this testimony about my street life, it might be best to read it first, so that you can continue to see the depths of my wickedness. Only when you see the darkness I walked in, will you clearly see the undeserved mercy and grace of a Sovereign and good Creator.
I also continue to caution readers to not proceed in reading this testimony, if they are sensitive to the harsher, harder side of life. Nothing has been sugar-coated. You will read of my dark side, as well as that of those I hung with.
He that walks with wise men shall be wise: but a companion of fools shall be destroyed. [Prov 13:20]
Be not deceived: evil communications corrupt good manners.
Having been forewarned, the choice remains yours. Please read Part 8 of First the Inside of the Cup before reading what is below. It will keep the flow of the testimony.
This part of my testimony is one of the harder parts to speak about, just as speaking about my mother was the other difficult part. (My mother and this part of my testimony are the parts the Lord says…Let it go now, child.) I will have to tell it just like it was. When I mention the demons in me, please do not think that I blame them for everything. I still had the freedom to choose. They know what buttons to push and how to manipulate us into making choices. There are times though, that the demons become so strong that they override a person’s will. We see this in the case of the lunatic in the bible, as well as other references. They do have the ability to complete take over us.
The Birthday Gift
There was a man who came into the restaurant many times during my first months of waitressing, a regular. He would always come in with one or more friends. We never talked outside of my taking his order, but I heard his friends speak his name, which was *Paul. On my 19th birthday, I went out with four girls. They had tried to invite me out before, but they had wanted to go to a male strip joint. I declined and told them that I was not interested in watching men dance and strip. I did not have to tell them what I had been through. They could just accept the fact that I was not interested. They never bothered me about it again.
I had met them from working in the restaurant, where they were regulars at night time. The girls decided to take me out on my 19th birthday, as they thought it was time that I got some serious drinking ‘under my belt’. My parents had given me Kahlua (a coffee liqueur) before or a small glass of brandy at Christmas, Easter or my birthday, so I had tasted liquor.
The girls decided to treat me to a special night. We went out to a loud and wild place. I noticed that it was all women, no men. I only drank one beer in my life before that, with my mother one night when I was 14. That was the night that I found out the most I was ever to learn about my real father. It was a sad night, but still, I was grateful to get some history, albeit brief history. I have already shared what she told me, when I began the testimony.
Suddenly, a new song began playing loudly over the speakers and a male dancer came out. He began taking off his outfit piece by piece and I realized where the girls had brought me. I wanted to leave, stating I didn’t want to watch this, but the girls called me a ‘stick in the mud’ and said to stay. One of the girls went up to the dancer, whispered something in his ear and put some money in his waistband. He came dancing over to the table and around me. ‘Happy birthday!’ The girls were hysterical because they had ‘got me’. They were drooling over the man, whooping and hollering. I couldn’t believe how they were acting, worse than men!
The dancer got right by my face and I was seriously embarrassed. I tried to turn away, which seemed to entice the male dancer more. The girls moved the jug of beer, shouting, ‘Table dance, table dance!’ and the man complied. ‘Lap dance; lap dance.’ My heart raced! I got up to go to the washroom and I could hear the girls shouting, ‘Loser, get back here; c’mon! Loosen up old lady, hey, c’mon, it’s your birthday!’ I stayed in the washroom until the dancer was finished.
The girls heckled me when I got back about being ‘old school’, prissy and ‘no fun’. They told me that I was acting like an old woman. I tried to joke it off by saying that they could have warned me. The comeback was that it was a birthday surprise. We left when the jug was finished. ‘Time to party! Let’s bar hop!’ one of the girls shouted. We were all on our way to feeling no pain. This was my first time drinking more than one drink. I was drunk. The girls said that their goal was to ‘drink me under the table.’
The girl who owned the car drove back to our town. We had been in a town that was about 25 miles away. It was a larger town and had more ‘action’ than the little town I lived in. I formally met Paul through the girls. He had seen me waitressing and had wanted to ask me out when he saw me at the restaurant, but he had a girlfriend at the time. There was a car race coming up, the Indy 500 at Mosport. It was going to be a weekend long extravaganza. Would I be interested in going with him? I had had one boyfriend for two days out west. When I was on the street, I had been a whore (gives freely), a one-night stand two times and a prostitute (demands money) once. Even though I was not really interested in him and he was five years older, I figured ‘why not?’
The Indy 500 weekend was quite the experience. I had never seen anything like it. People camped out in tents or vehicles; women walked around topless or with little on and everyone seemed to be drinking or high on something. For someone who had only gone out once drinking, I surely drank beer that weekend. I also had my first experience smoking the green. It was like a huge outdoor party, where you could walk around and get any kind of drink or drug you wanted. I do not recall seeing any police. Everyone paid a lump sum, whether they planned to stay the weekend or not. Most people chose to stay, since they would have had to pay the same amount either way.
I continued working at the restaurant, sometimes doing double shifts because staff would come and go. Since I was 19 now, I could serve drinks too. The bosses were Greek and they were good to me. Sometimes they would throw in a little bonus on my paycheck. One day I didn’t feel very well, so I booked a doctor’s appointment. The town was small, so the doctor’s office was just up the street from the restaurant. The doctor asked basic questions and ran some tests. Old Dave gave me a message after work that I was to drop in at the doctor’s office at my earliest convenience.
When I went in, the doctor’s receptionist (who was young also) gave me a big smile and blurted out, ‘You’re pregnant!’ There was no one else in the office. The doctor was in his room with the door closed. I went outside to sit on the curb. I was in shock. How could I be pregnant? All that time with the gang and I never got pregnant. Why now? I was not happy. I did not want a baby. I had only known Paul eight weeks and I was six weeks pregnant. That reveals the type of woman I was. Up to that time in my life, I had only smoked cigarettes occasionally, but once I found out I was pregnant, it wasn’t long before I was smoking a pack a day.
Afterwards I met up with Paul and told him the news. He was happy; I was miserable. One day he came over to my place and I told him that I wanted an abortion. He grabbed a butcher knife from the drawer, stuck it in the wall beside my head and shouted, ‘If you want an f*n abortion, do it yourself!’ With that, he stormed out. My head raced with thoughts. My mother had wanted to abort me. How could I even consider it? Yet, if I had this child, I would lose my ‘freedom’. This child was an inconvenience; I was not ready for a baby, especially with someone I didn’t even love, I concluded. Shortly after that, Paul came back to apologize for his reaction. I told him I decided not to have an abortion; instead, I would have the child. He gave me a hug. Then he took me to meet his parents.
His parents had 6 children. Upon hearing the news, his parents, who were Catholics, said, “And here we were worried about Paul all along.” Then, they asked Paul when we were getting married. I wondered why his parents had been worried about him. After all, they had five other kids. Their youngest was an 18 year old son, same age as I was. I didn’t want to marry this dude; I didn’t even know him that well. I didn’t say anything. Paul said he hadn’t asked me yet. This was crazy; it could not be happening. They asked if my parents knew. I had to explain that we did not get along the greatest and that I had not spoken to them in a few months. When my mother hung up on me the time I asked if they would help me after my belongings were stolen, I had not called them until I had a room and a job in the new town. Two years had passed. I only called a couple of times after that.
Paul’s father called and spoke to my stepfather. I do not know all that was said, but my parents surprisingly agreed to come and meet them. They lived about an hour away. I had not seen my parents since I had left Quebec. Meanwhile, they had moved back to Ontario, when once again, my stepfather was promoted.
After my parents met with his parents, they came over to where I was living. They were polite enough, but were aloof towards me. They insisted that Paul and I get married, to give the baby a father and family. I was so torn inside, desiring to share with them how I felt so confused and that I did not want the child, but I could not. My parents and I had never spoken of any deep and serious things. They said if I did not do the right thing here, they would not speak to me again, nor could I contact them. I asked if I married him would they come to the wedding and would they want to be grandparents to the baby. They answered affirmatively to both questions. I did not want to marry Paul because I did not know him or love him, but I desperately wanted a relationship with my parents. I loved them, despite everything that had happened.
I hated being in this position. I was being forced into something that I did not want to do. That is, if I wanted my parents in my life, which I did. Paul’s parents said their priest would marry us if we attended masses. His dad said he would loan us a few hundred dollars to pay for things, if we paid them back. We agreed.
We went to a healing mass, where a nun gave her testimony about being healed of varicose veins. The way she told her story was amazing. She actually said that Jesus had healed her. Jesus! Then she lifted up her long dress to her knees, turning around so that people could see how perfectly clear her legs were. There was no flaw on them. She had witnesses that testified to the number of times she had been in the hospital because of her varicose veins.
The story captivated my interest. When my leg had been cut to the bone in the orphanage, damage had been done. By the time I was eight years old, I already had some varicose veins. By the time I was twelve years old, kids were making jokes about doing ‘dot to dot’ on my leg, or how people could use my leg for a road map. By high school, I hated changing for gym in the locker rooms. Girls would tell me that I had the legs of an old woman, or they would comment on how ‘gross’ my legs were. I wore a bathing suit as an adult twice, and then never again.
After the nun gave her testimony, the priests said that anyone who wanted prayer for healing was to come forward. Obviously, I went forward. I was 19 and I wanted healing for my varicose veins. The priest prayed for me, then he looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Something is blocking your healing.’ ‘What’s blocking it? I asked. ‘I don’t know’ he said. ‘Does that mean I can’t be healed?’ ‘I’m sorry’, is all he said.
I knew what was blocking it. Jesus wasn’t with me anymore and He obviously did not want anything to do with me. The demons were lying to me. Even though I thought these things, I felt so happy… For the next few weeks, I told everybody about the nun who was healed and about Jesus. ‘You will come down off that mountain soon’, someone had said to me. I insisted that I would be high on Jesus forever, but it was not long before I came crashing down off of that mountain!
The Empty Side
It was hard getting a dress and flowers for the wedding. I really did not want to get married to this man, but my parents had pretty much told me that if I did not do the ‘right thing for the baby’, I could not contact them again. My mother did not come to help me. I called my parents to tell them the wedding date and give them the address of the church. They said they would come. That part made me happy.
Paul began inviting some of his friends. I only knew the four girls and so I invited them. I was four months pregnant when I got married. I took a cab to the church from my house. As the cab approached the church, fear gripped me, so I told the cabbie to circle the block a couple of times. I thought of my parents inside the church, waiting for me. I thought of the four girls I invited and the people Paul had invited. Finally, I thought of the baby and the reason I was getting married in the first place. I hated this baby. It ruined my life. I got out of the cab and entered the church.
Paul’s father was there and smiled at me. He told me the priest was getting anxious. He said he would walk me up the aisle. Before I could say anything, he opened a door and made a motion. The organist began to play the Wedding March. Paul’s father put my hand on his arm, saying to just walk slowly and not to worry about a special walk. Again, before I could say anything, he opened the door for us to enter. It was only then that I realized that my parents had not come. No one was on ‘my side’ of the church at all. The ‘bride’s side’ of the church was empty. The only ones there had been invited by Paul.
I could not get my head around the fact that my parents did not even come. I was heartbroken. Paul was up at the altar smiling at me. I had to go through with it now. Finally, it was over and everyone went back to Paul’s parents’ house to have a barbeque. His parents told us that they paid for one night at a local motel for our honeymoon.
Someone gave Paul two hits of LSD as a wedding gift. We received an additional $100 dollars from miscellaneous people and off we went after the meal to enjoy our ‘honeymoon’.
We got high and watched television at the hotel. I was miserable and Paul just tripped out on television. Five months later, I was induced because I had told the doctor that I didn’t want the baby. I felt nothing when she was born, not physically or any other way. I asked the woman across the room from me what her name was. She said that her name was Nicole. That is what I named the baby girl, as we had not even picked out a name for her before she was born. I have to admit that she was a sweet baby and I decided that I would do my best in raising her, but I still did not want her. She had been born on Easter Sunday, the last Sunday in March.
When she was a little over a year old, Paul and I decided to revisit Mosport. There was another wild weekend happening there for the Indy 500 and I had not gone out anywhere since Nicole was born. Paul’s mother had suffered with cancer before I met her. She had a mask specially made that she wore over half of her face because when doctors had removed cancer from her, they also had to remove the left portion of her face, her eye and cheekbone. The mask covered the deformity left. She was not feeling particularly well that weekend, so I called my parents, who agreed to babysit my daughter.
The Gift that Was Not a Gift
Only once, did Paul and I visit my parents after Nicole was born. I had told Paul that if he wanted to get on the good side of my parents, he had to take their favorite (expensive) brand of whiskey, which he did. My parents were indeed pleased. My father always had whiskey in his liquor cabinet, so he made Paul and I each a drink. After that drink, Paul made a wrong move. He opened up the whiskey that he had brought as a gift and helped himself to a few drinks.
That was a big mistake with my parents, who decided then and there that they did not like Paul. In fact, they left us in sitting in the living room and went into the kitchen to play a board game with my two sisters. Another reason that they did not like him was because he refused to work. He preferred welfare, even though it was relatively easy to get employment at that time. I went into the kitchen and asked what was wrong; that is how I found out what happened. My stepfather said he was ready to take us back home.
We dropped the baby off with enough clothes and food for the weekend and headed for the races at Mosport. It felt good to be going somewhere without a baby. I had not done that since she was born. After the Indy 500 weekend (which somehow was not like the first time I went), we got a ride back to the town where we lived. My stepfather had told me to call when we got back and he would bring my oldest little sister with him (who was now 11) and she could watch Nicole on the drive to my place. I called. To my shock and horror, my stepfather said that they decided they would not give the baby back to me, unless I left Paul. I argued, but it was to no avail. I could not believe this was happening.
Although the child was a sweet baby, and I had done my best to be a good mother, I still had not fully accepted her. However, whether it was pride or what, I felt that my parents could not just rip her away from me. Paul said something about court, but my parents were now rich, whereas we were on welfare. I had a police record from the possession of marijuana. My stepfather was ex-military and now a top executive. What were we? Who would the judge listen to? Why would my parents force me into the marriage, not show up and then rip my child from me, unless I left the very guy they wanted me to marry? This was so messed up!
They surely must hate me! I was furious and feeling resentment, anger and bitterness, but mostly helplessness, with no one to turn to. I was angry also because Paul would not stand up to my parents. He was the man! Why could he not just stand up to them? It was his baby too. Instead, Paul said that he would go stay at his parent’s place, until I got the baby back. He told me to just tell my parents that we had broken up. It seemed like a good plan. Trick my parents just like they had tricked me, get the baby (which I did not want) back. Yes, that should work. The demons were likely rubbing their hands together and laughing.
When my stepfather came to pick me up, we said few words on the hour trip home. It was good to see Nicole and she was happy to see me. My sisters welcomed me with the usual excitement of young children, which always made me feel so special. We ate a good supper. My mother was a superb cook. After my sisters and Nicole were asleep, my parents said that Nicole deserved a better life than what Paul would give. They would help me find an apartment, take me to Social Services and make sure I was set up to begin a new life. I did not want to live in the city again, but one thing my mother had said kept coming to mind. When it came to standing up to my parents, I had no backbone. I kept seeing my mother striking out and hitting me, and I saw my stepfather as a sexual pervert, even though the time he betrayed me was an isolated incident.
Welcome to the Dungeon
It was only a matter of days before I had the money for a new apartment. My stepfather took time off work to help me find an apartment and move me. He was a top executive now, on salary. He could take the time off and still be paid. We went to see an apartment that had been advertised as a one bedroom. It was in the basement of a house. The house was in the poor part of town, where each house was almost side by side, with only a driveway dividing the houses.
It was a dark basement because the windows were only half windows, up near the ceiling on the wall, as many basement windows are.
I would have my own entrance to the place through a side door of the house. Upon entering the side door, there were immediately steps going down, with four stairs to the left going up to the main part of the house. There was a door that was kept shut for privacy. The owners could lock the door on their side, but I could not lock it from my side.
Once down the stairs, there was a large room to the left; a doorway to the right and a doorway straight ahead.
The large room to the left had a double bed, a four drawer dresser, a couch and an old floor model television with a remote. The doorway to the right led to the furnace room, which was dark and dingy. I had to walk through the furnace room to reach the bathroom. There was a toilet and a tin standup shower stall. The other doorway led to what they called the kitchen.
The double sinks were steel laundry tubs, stained with paint. The owner had put a three foot board, affixed to two small planks to serve as a counter. There were two cupboards to the left made of thin metal for dishes. They had a couple of cups, plates and bowls in there. On the opposite wall from the laundry tubs was a metal stand with three shelves, where food was to be stored. There was a small bar fridge with no freezer, a small hotplate, a card table and two fold-up chairs. There was a long metal pole that had been screwed into the wall for someone to hang their clothes. The owners had put a shower curtain a couple of feet in front of the pole to make it private.
My stepfather had concluded that it was likely all that I could afford. It was close to buses and streetcars, with many stores in the neighborhood. He suggested that I take it. It was horrible place and I did not want to take it, but I did not argue. They were so well off, yet he wanted me in this dungeon. How he must have hated me! He called my mother to tell her the ‘good news’ and that we would be there in about 45 minutes.
I could not believe my life; things just seemed to go from bad to worse. My mother had packed a couple of small boxes of dried goods, a can opener, some silverware, a pot, kettle, electric fry pan, some towels, dishcloths, one set of sheets and a bedspread. They had bought Nicole several new outfits, diapers, a stroller, crib, shoes and toys. My mother bid me farewell, no hug except for Nicole. I should be grateful that they gave me anything, but they had been kinder to Nicole. Then my stepfather drove me to my new apartment. He set it up the crib for me.
I felt hatred, bitterness, anger and resentment, but outwardly, I put on a fake smile, filled my mouth with polite words and convinced my stepfather that I was happy. How dare they steal my baby to make me leave the very man that they forced me to marry? How could they even allow me to live in a place like this? Why did they hate me?
The large room had carpet, but the kitchen, bathroom and furnace room (which I was not allowed to use) were all cement floors.
I hated the place. It was dark, dingy and depressing. I placed Nicole on the carpet with a few toys. She was happy. Such a good baby really! My parents had also bought me an umbroller (umbrella stroller, which folded up small). I made Nicole’s bed, put her in it since it was getting late and waited until she was asleep to put my things away. It did not take long. My heart was filling with great anger, as unforgiveness became stronger.
Unexplainable Twilight Zone
The landlord was Sicilian and his wife was Asian. They had a child 13 months old and she was pregnant with their second child. I do not know how long it took me to call my husband. He probably thought that I was still at my parent’s house. One night, something woke me up. It was very dark and extremely quiet. I didn’t want to turn on the light to wake up the baby, but I thought I would just put my hand on her to see if she was alright. I could not find the crib!
The place was very small. The crib was at the foot of the double bed and there was just enough room to stand between the bed and the crib. I got on the bed, moving to the end of the bed, so that there was no possible way that I could miss touching the crib, even in the dark. The side of the crib was less than a foot from the end of the double bed. I reached out and no crib. My heart raced.
I walked up to the wall. How was I able to walk up to the wall? The crib was at the foot of my bed! Still in the dark, I followed the wall all along to the next wall. Nothing! I did it one more time, and felt the end of the double bed. This is crazy! Where is the crib? My god, where is the baby?!
I felt around and found the light, which was on the opposite wall of the crib by my bed. I turned and there was the crib. Nicole was fine. She was asleep. I went over the scene in my mind, feeling the wall. I even got on the bed again, near the end of it and reached out, to see if there is any possible way that I could have missed the crib. The crib was longer than the width of the double bed. There is no way I could have missed touching the crib. I remember that experience right to this day because it absolutely defied all logic. It was as if the crib and the baby did not exist, yet when I turned on the light, they both were there. It was like The Twilight Zone. It did not make sense.
The next day, I finally decided to call Paul because I was lonely, plus I wanted to tell him about my weird experience. I was married to a man that I did not love and had his baby that I did not want. I was not a happy woman, but I called anyway. He took a bus to the city and got there a couple of hours after I called. He had brought a 24 of beer. That night, when Nicole was asleep, he made a strange request. He wanted to dress up in my clothes and do some role-playing. He asked me to bind my chest and put on his shirt. Then he glued some cotton balls together, used magic marker to make it black and made a ‘beard’ for me. I was to be the man and he was to play the woman. We even altered our voices. It was all so very strange to me, but being young (21), drunk and having missed out on playing games, due to abuse and all the constant moving when I was growing up at my parents, I went along with it.
The Day My World Came to an End
The next day, we went to the park with the baby for a few hours. Then we went to a small restaurant for lunch. The place was strangely quiet. The waitress (who must have been an angel) asked if she could feed Nicole her soup. I had spent months alone and with the baby day after day. Even though she was such a good baby, the break was welcomed. Afterwards, we went back to the apartment.
It was a hot day in the city in June. The baby was worn out because of the time at the park and was ready for a nap. When I laid her down and put the blanket over her, I thought that I should sew it first, because the satin border had separated from the wool part of the blanket in places, but I decided that I would do it some other time. I tucked it into the bottom of the crib. Within minutes, she was asleep. She looked so sweet with her rosy cheeks that I took a picture of her.
Paul and I went outside to drink beer and talk about moving. After awhile, I decided that I wanted to change because I had long sleeves on and it was hot out. When I came in, I could smell that the baby had dirtied herself and needed a diaper change. She was still asleep, so I decided that I would go to the washroom first, change my clothes, then I would go and change her diaper. If she woke up, at least I would be changed.
When I finally went to her crib, the blanket was over her head. I moved it off her face and she looked odd, very gray. I screamed at the top of my lungs for Paul. He came running in from outside. I babbled, ‘Something is wrong with Nicole!’ He picked her up and untangled her from the blanket and began mouth to mouth resuscitation. I ran upstairs, but the Asian lady was out. The door to their place was unlocked and I ran to the phone to call 911. I ran back downstairs.
Paul had stopped giving mouth to mouth. ‘Don’t give up Paul! For f** sakes, don’t give up! The ambulance is coming!’ It seemed like forever before the ambulance came, but it was actually there very quickly.
I do not remember how we got to the hospital, since we did not have a car. I only remember the doctor telling me that her EEG was almost flat. She was comatose, but alive. I was told that if she lived, she would be a vegetable for the rest of her life. She was on a life support system. I don’t know how many hours we stayed there, but we stayed for a time.
The demons in me were stirring up. I wanted to go home and have a beer, so I could handle this. Paul agreed. We told the nurses that we had to do something, but we would be back within two hours. The nurse said that she would call us if there was any change.
How long we were at the house, I am not sure, but I don’t think it was too long. That is when Paul blurted out that this was probably *T’s fault (his ex-girlfriend). He said that she had cursed him when he started going out with me. She was a witch, but not just any witch. She was about to become a high priestess. This involved great evil, rituals, sacrifices and much more. He had seen her kill a black cat and many other things. ‘This is her doing! I hate that f’n b**!’ I didn’t know anything about witches, the occult or anything else, except what I had seen on tv, or read in books. In other words, I really knew nothing about it at all. ‘That’s b**s, Paul. Witches aren’t real!’ ‘You’re f’n naïve!’ he retorted. With that, I went upstairs and called the hospital to tell them that we were on our way back.
The nurse said, ‘I was just about to call you, Mrs … I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter did not make it. She died about five minutes ago.’ Shock hit me. I could hear the nurse ask if I was still there. In that moment I became a fool, as I shouted, ‘There is no God!’ I smashed the receiver down as hard as I could.
Please Wake Up
The next thing I know, we were at the hospital and someone was asking me if this was my daughter. I said, ‘Yes.’ Whoever it was said, ‘I’m sorry, could you please say, this is my daughter Nicole [last name]. It’s a formality.’ I complied. With that I turned to leave the room, but it hit me that I would never see her again. In that moment, I realized I did love her. I ran back to the table they had her on. ‘Nicole! Nicole! Wake up, mommy’s here.’ I went to pick her up, but someone took my arm and pulled me out of the room.
We sat in a room with five men and women. I assume they were doctors and nurses because someone stated that if we had any questions, they would answer us. I could not think of anything; I was feeling nauseous. I had to get up to go to the washroom, but all that came up was dry heaves.
The next thing I remember was the man called Steven. He was from social services. Maybe I had called him. Two detectives had been there shortly before he came. All I remember is they were dressed as business men and they were so kind and gentle with me. They had examined her crib and asked if they could take the blanket. I nodded. I was going to give them the sleeper that she was dressed in too, but they said it was not necessary. One of the detectives said, ‘We’re sorry to put you through this, but we have to investigate any accidental death.’ All I really remember is how gentle they were with me. I was so grateful to them.
When Steven came, he took me into the kitchen area. He said he had been working hard to get us out of the dark basement. Then he asked me in a very gentle manner, ‘Did you kill Nicole?’ I looked at him and he seemed to have the face of an angel. I nodded and said, ‘Yes.’ He said that he understood. He gave me a hug, said he would be right back and left the apartment. The next thing I know is that I was in the Forensic unit for the criminally insane.
I called my parents to tell them. There was no answer. Everything became a blur again, until I remember that a psychiatrist was questioning me. He asked me some questions. He sat at a desk with his back to me, writing down my responses. Then he said, ‘Did you kill your baby?’ I said, ‘Yes’. He asked me how I had done it. I said, ‘I did not sew the blanket.’ He put his pen down, turned in his chair, looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘You are blaming yourself for her death because you did not sew the blanket?’ I told him that it was my fault that she died because I was an irresponsible mother. I did not sew the blanket that had strangled her.
It was my fault that she was dead, I told him. Yet, deep inside, I carried a deeper grief. I was the only one who knew that I had wanted to abort her. I was the only one who knew that I had never wanted her because she was an inconvenience. I was the only one who knew that I had not realized that I loved her until that moment that they made me identify her as she lay dead on the table.
He gave me some kind of medicine, told me that it was an accidental death and to not blame myself. I would sit in the lounge for hours, listening to music. An old song came on by the Bee Gees. All I remember were the words: Why does the sun go on shining? Why do the birds sing above? Don’t say no, it’s the end of the world… it ended when I lost your love.’ My world was over. Now I was being punished. I was a wicked woman. I deserved everything I got.
A priest came by to talk to me. He asked me if I had anything to confess. I told him I had killed my daughter. He asked me how? I told him I did not sew the blanket that killed her. Whether it was my imagination or not, it seemed that he looked disgusted as he got up and said, ‘Say 100 Hail Mary’s and 100 Lord’s Prayer.’ Then he left. I got down and my knees and using my fingers to help me count, I did as he said. Maybe God would forgive me.
Rejected by Parents
A few days after Nicole’s passing, I was let out on a pass to go to her funeral. I do not know how I got there. When I walked into where her little white coffin was, I saw my parents. They looked away when I walked in. At the casket, I screamed no and tried to bring her out, but an undertaker took me to a side room. A priest gave me a solid silver cross and a white bible that was about 18” long by about 12” wide and approximately four inches thick. I do not remember going back to the hospital. My parents never spoke to me or hugged me.
About a week passed since the funeral. The head psychiatrist called me into his office. He was an elderly, white-haired man. He asked several questions. Suddenly, he began to accuse me of things, such not caring for my daughter and other accusations that I do not recall. In my mind, I was wondering how he knew these things. Had I told someone that I had wanted an abortion, but I didn’t carry it out only because I was a failed abortion, so I did not have the courage to do it? Had I told someone that I didn’t love my husband and that I had not wanted a baby or even be married? I did love her, but the sad thing is that I did not realize it until after she was gone.
His words became a blur. Suddenly, I blurted out, ‘You don’t understand!’ and for the first time since I was 14; for the first time in seven years, I cried. The doctor immediately grabbed a Kleenex, handed it to me. Then he put his arms around me and said, ‘I’m sorry, but if I did not get you to cry, you would break down in 20 years from now and never relate it to this tragedy. I had to make you cry because you have not cried since you came in here.’ I did weep, but I did not allow myself to weep for long. I apologized to him and he told me to cry and keep crying until all the pain is out. I said that I would, but I did not. The next day or the day after, I was released. Nicole's death had been determined to be an accidental death by both the police and hospital. The case was closed.
I cannot tell you what I ever did with my child’s belongings. The child that I finally realized was like an angel died when she was 14 months old. She had lived for 28 hours from the time I had found her in the crib. I moved to a new apartment and had a job working in an office, but I don’t remember moving or beginning the job. I don’t remember how long I was working in the office before my husband caught me completely off-guard.
Who Was that Man?
One day when I came home from work, he was sitting on the couch dressed in one of my outfits. He never did work all the time we were together. It was pay day and rent time. I was not in the mood for role-playing. He sat there all smiles, greeting me in a feminine voice. He said he wanted to talk to me. I said okay, grabbed a beer and sat down beside him. He began with small talk, then, he told me that he had important news to tell me. He had been thinking about something for a long time, but now he would like to begin the process. What process I had asked. He said that he wanted to change his sex to female, to be a transsexual.
Just as I thought the gang members were joking when I was told that I was kidnapped, I thought my husband was joking about having a sex change. The gang members were not kidding; neither was my husband. He asked if I would consider a sex change too because he would like us to remain partners. My head began spinning. Surely this was not happening. This had to be a bad joke. Could someone please make this nightmare stop? When I realized that he was not joking, I packed my things, called a cab and left him there, sitting on the couch in my pretty dress.
I had the taxi stop at the liquor store before I got myself a hotel room, which was not far from the office where I worked.
Surely God was punishing me for the evil of my heart. I had a beautiful baby girl that never caused me a moment’s trouble, yet I struggled in my heart to accept her. I did love her, but she had been an inconvenience. What a horrible person I was. This was my punishment. I was married to a man who wanted to be a woman, a man that I had married, but had never loved; a man that I had felt forced to marry by parents who had tricked me, lied to me. When I got the hotel room, I sat in a chair with a whiskey in my hand.
Cut the Pain Off
I wanted to die. My life was ruined. For five years, it had been hell on earth. From the kidnapping, to the streets, to an unwanted pregnancy and the death of a beautiful baby girl, to a man who wanted to be a woman. This life was a dramatic hell hole that was a bottomless pit.
I went into the bathroom, grabbed a razor blade, cut each wrist several times, then took half a bottle of aspirin and washed it down with a glass of whiskey.
Awhile later I puked, until only dry heaves came up. The bleeding from the cutting must have stopped. For the next two days, my ears kept ringing, my stomach was constantly nauseous, I felt indescribably horrible, couldn’t eat and I couldn’t die. Death would be welcomed… but I was afraid of going to the hell that was not on this earth. Why, o why was I even born and where was Jesus now?
There is a way that seems right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death. [Prov 16:25]
for His glory
B C Petroff firstname.lastname@example.org