From victim to survivor
By: Otha Farley
In my semi-dark living-room I sat in the early morning quiet thinking of momma, her legacy, and how would I go on without her. She was in the hospital and after surviving many trips to the emergency room, this time, the doctor told us [her family] that she would not be going home. I wasn’t ready for mama to go. She was the “glue” that made us a family and without her in our lives there would be no family togetherness; just fragments of people scattered around the valley with everyone doing their own thing. But God was ready for our matriarch and no matter how difficult it would be, we had to let her go. I found solace in believing that because of her deep and abiding faith in God, momma was prepared for her inevitable journey. I don’t know how long I sat on my sofa remembering my mom before I drifted off to sleep and so unaware that this time NOW was my quiet before the storm; because lurking outside in the shadows of the night was an enemy who planned to make my nice quiet condo, a battle ground.
It was 10:55 am when I awoke in a state of calm. There were no rubbing sleep from my eyes, no yawning, no stretching or feeling tired, just an easy transition into the light of day. I went to my front door and looked into an ominous sky. It was overcast-kind of gray looking, not from rain or clouds, but dreary-looking just the same. As I stood looking at that sky, I noticed fire-embers on the grass, people scurrying about, and a fire engine parked down from my unit. Although these were not everyday sightings at Sunpointe Community, I did not acquaint them with my unit being on fire until I closed the door, turned around, and saw bold red and orange flames making their way into my living-room. The WAR had begun!
Without hesitation, I opened the door screaming that the fire is in here! Someone yelled for me to get out of there! I grabbed my keys and cell phone that I always place on the table nearest the door and walked quickly to the sidewalk, about eight feet away. The fire must have been only seconds behind me because immediately, fire-fighters were pulling their hoses and running to my unit. At that moment, I turned and saw the flames, bolder now, spitting out their fury on the firemen through the screen on my front door. I stood and watched those flames reach almost 20 feet high as they came outside to destroy the trees, plants and flowers adorning my condo. The fire seemed angry as the wind blew it every which way. So angry, that it took up residence at my apartment until it had destroyed part of my life that could never be recovered.
In a matter of minutes, the fire had come from outside my back patio through to the front of the building. What had made it move so fast? Where had it started? Relevant questions which quickly became irrelevant as I realized just how close I had come to being fuel for this fire. One minute more of sleep and I would have been burned alive as I lay sleeping on my sofa. I took that reality with me as I stumbled to my neighbor’s stairway, seeking refuge from this raging fire-war. My body trembled. My chest tighten, sweat covered my face, my breathing was rapid; I thought I was having a heart attack, but God had just saved me from a hellish death, he certainly wouldn’t let me die now. That thought began a wave of calm spreading through my body. I’m going to be okay, I thought.
A crowd gathered. My smoked-filled eyes searched it, desperately seeking someone to share my pain, only they didn’t see anyone who was there for me. But family and friends of the other victims hugged each other, they cried together and they prayed together; I called my son Michael. I yelled into the phone “everything is burning, everything is on fire”! I heard him say that he was on his way. I closed the cell phone and noted the time on the screen, 11:02 am. In all of seven minutes I had become a casualty of war. It was a war born out of a senseless and selfish act; a war that would destroy so much profoundness. I fought back an eruption of tears because in my family you didn’t show emotions in public. You just kind of sucked them up and rode out the emotional storm. But this storm was too big and much too difficult to endure alone. A tear fell then-dropped right onto my hand. I squeezed my eyes closed hoping to stop the flow, but it was too late, the tears rolled unchecked down my face.
Glass shattered. I smelled smoke that was filled with so many memories and I saw faces of courage on the fire-fighters who worked diligently to save Sunpointe Condominiums, a place that I had called “home” for almost a decade. But there was no way for them to save every unit. It was still very windy and the flames were traveling much too fast, so I prayed for SOME of the memories in #147 to be spared. Someone said that the fire was fueled by the dry shrubby along the back fence, causing the flames to reach monster heights and the fire to stay on course as it changed one life after another. Nothing was normal at Sunpointe on that windy day in June, and for me in my life, it probably never would be again.
I felt someone touch my shoulder. When I turned to look I saw my son with a concern in his eyes yet he assured me that everything would be okay and that he would be right by my side. Hearing him say that helped me to relax. Yet, each time I heard the blood-chilling sound of breaking glass and wood frying under the heat of the fire, my body would tense. I would feel anguish slicing through me raw and hot. I was mad and I wanted this life-altering moment in time to hurry and become a distant memory.
Time did pass on. Not much, just a corner of forever. The battleground, once a raging inferno, was calm after claiming another victim. A young fireman was hurt and needed medical attention. I hoped for the well being of one so young and so brave. I believe that first responders to disasters has got to be included as American Heroes because at the sound of an alarm, at the ring of a telephone, these men and women put themselves in harms way-on the front line day after day to save others. Oftentimes, people forget to say “thank you”. I made a mental note that I would not be one of those forgetful people.
Police officers passed information that an emergency shelter opened up at the church down the street and they would appreciate the elderly and anyone with breathing problems to go there. I qualified in both categories, only I couldn’t leave. I was afraid that I would be too far away from my things; afraid that I wouldn’t be there to help. I know that made NO sense…nothing did! My thought process was all over the place-stay, go, stay? It was Mike who said that I should go; that I would be in a more comfortable situation.
He slowly drove around to the complex exit. The police were denying entry to everyone. There were maybe 100 people waiting on the other side, wanting news about their units. Some ran up to Mike’s car asking questions. I looked into tear-stained faces with worry and fear spread across them. I provided what information I could and wished them good luck. When Michael told the two college students who lived next door to me that their apartment was not that damaged, they thanked him as though he had personally saved their home; Soon cars starting honking behind us because we were blocking the out-going lane, so my son drove off after we left our sorrow and regrets with the worried faces.
The members of the church could not have been more attentive and compassionate; for sure they had to be God sent angels. They provided us with food and drinks along with their genuine concern. It didn’t take long before the shelter filled with victims and their families. We sat and watched our horror played over and over across the TV screen. I don’t know how the others felt, but for me, it was difficult to watch how my world was turned upside down. I laid my head on the table, hoping to block out the images. Soon, one of the volunteers began to read addresses, saying weather that family could return. Each time numbers were read, the fear living deep inside my psyche tighten my stomach muscles. I was afraid to hear, but also afraid not to hear 3591 Quail Lakes #147 called. Now that I was away, I didn’t know how I would react to going back; didn’t know if I could look at the devastation and relive the pain again.
The day moved on and some people relaxed and began to smile; almost as if the fire didn’t happen. But for me, the fire did happen and I wanted the day to slow down, wait and allow me to catch up when all was right in my world again. Only, the day ignored me and continued to move on. I walked out on the balcony. I was standing there wondering what would happen next, when I noticed the sunset staring at me; so beautiful and so powerful, the great disc colored the still windy sky in colors that announced summer would soon be here.
Where would I be when the sweltering heat arrived? Would I still be homeless or living with Mike and his family? Or would I be so overwhelmed by this devastation that I would have lost all sense of saneness and be in a mental institution? Would I have clothes to wear and food to eat? God, please tell me where will I be one week, one month, one year from this day? Michael interrupted my musing with news that it was okay for me to return to my apartment. I turned away from the sunset and abruptly stopped. My son coaxed me to come on, reminding me that I would have to go back sooner or later. I wanted to opt out for later, instead, I followed him to his car.
Entering the security gate was no longer prohibited. A good sign, I thought. However, as Mike drove further inside the complex, I realized that all entries to the back row were still blocked, so those thoughts were erased and replaced with fear. Mike parked and we walked to my unit. The crowd, once a solid wall of family and friends were reduced to a few scattered on-lookers. Everything was wet! Water was all over the place! The boots and jumpsuit of the fireman who was hurt was still lying in the road. I thought about him maybe being more of a victim of this war than I.
A cop stopped me from entering my condo. He said it wasn’t safe; that the ceiling was caving in, there was just too much debris; it was too hazardous and I might get hurt. I wanted to tell him how much I was already hurting. I wanted to say that it was so bad that I needed to hold some back because I couldn’t take so much pain at one time. I wanted to say, in spite of all the dangers, I still wanted to go in; I needed to see how the war had left one of its chosen battlegrounds. Someone at the shelter said it was okay for me to return and I was going in, but he blocked me! He said “I just can’t let you in”! My anger grew! I yelled that this was my home, how can he keep me out? He allowed me to vent without interruption. I supposed he realized just how much I WAS hurting. Over my tirade a soft-spoken fireman asked “if there is something I can get without too much movement, I’ll go in for you”. I could only think of my purse on the loveseat. But when he asked me “where was it sitting”, I screamed, because I realized that if the loveseat was gone, so was everything else. The nice guy went in anyway and returned with a pile of charred rubbish. A gasp escaped my throat. I managed to tell him to just throw it in the garbage. But the kind man told me he had been “doing this” for a long time and found purses to be pretty resilient. Just go through it he offered and see whats there.
I am sure he just wanted to give me something to hope for, so Mike collected the mass of ashes and we walked in silence back to his car. Having been denied entrance to my home made me feel like a victim for the second time that day. Searching through the ashes of what was a Louis Vuitton shoulder bag, we found a roll of breath mints, some pictures of the grandkids, a small bible, and a half-burned dollar bill. I couldn’t believe these things had survived when everything else were reduced to ashes. After the emotional search, a wave of reality washed over me. All that day I may have spoken the words “I’m homeless” but didn’t believe it because I had keys to a condo in my hand, but the policeman had confirmed what I tried not to believe…I WAS homeless. My keys no longer fit the lock.
My son offered me his home. I was very grateful that he was giving me a place to live, however, I couldn’t accept it. His three bed-room home was already overcrowded with eight people living there, and he was unemployed. I just couldn’t burden Michael with anymore stress, even if it meant that I would have to stay in a shelter. When I told him I appreciated his generous offer and he did not respond, I realized how much I hurt him. I should have remembered, he was also affected by this fire just because he loved me. I began to cry inside. The water flowed through my veins like my life’s blood. I wanted to share those tears with my son; let him know how much it hurt to turn him down, but he had already seen me shed too many tears for one day. Silence surrounded us. Neither knew how to break the deafening sound. So Mike started the car and took me shopping. He stopped for food and rented me a motel room. He left with a promise to return before check-out the next morning.
Have you ever noticed how loud silence can be? In the small room it spoke volumes. I turned on the TV set to end the silence and reflected on all of the challenges I had made it through in my lifetime, growing up poor, surviving domestic violence at a young age, but neither would compare to this. For so many reasons the fire would be my most difficult challenge, but perhaps the toughest one to endure was not being at the hospital with momma. I needed to hold her hand; see her face one more time because the doctor said she would not be coming home. But I couldn’t go and say “good-by” to my mom because someone chose me to become a victim. It was a role that required no audition. It was a role that was too easy to get, and it was a role I wanted to give back, but nobody would take it. I laid down on the unfamiliar bed hurting and crying. Consequently, these emotions purged up all of the days stored away pain and released it in loud hacking sobs. It was a cleansing of sorts, but it failed to wash away my troubles, because they remained deep inside, twisting and turning my nerves every which way, but loose.
Thoughts of momma weighed heavily on my mind. After the fire, I tried to push her deep down inside because dealing with the fire’s aftermath AND what was happening to her was too overwhelming. But just for THIS MOMENT I needed to call her “mama” out loud. I needed to talk about her with someone who was hurting too. I called Gwennie, the youngest of momma’s fourteen children. For a moment we cried together-bonding in our time of need; each of us understanding the enormity of what was about to happen, my sister and I silently begging the other for strength to make it through this terrible time. Then she started talking about the fire. She revealed that they [she and other family members] had watched it on TV. I showed no emotion. However, I was MAD that my very large family had watched my horror on the TV screen and not one of them came to see about me! The thought wiped away the tender moment Gwennie and I shared. Without uttering another word, I hung up the phone. For me, there was nothing left to say. In her few spoken words, I felt my sister defined where my place was in the family…It was certainly not high on their priority list. But that was okay, because as I march across this battlefield of devastation I would have the one soldier in my army who was truly my saving grace, my son Michael. He would be ready to help me fight this war, one battle at a time.
Sleep was elusive. I could not shake the fact, but for GOD’S GRACE I would have been burned alive as I lay sleeping on my sofa. I wondered if I would ever sleep again…
In the morning paper the images resonated. They profoundly depicted the devastation surrounding the more than 20 families whose lives would be forever changed by the “Quail Lakes Fire”. The paper touted “the worse residential fire in Stockton’s history”-WOW! Of the many articles written, the one which sounded loudest to me was about the guy who lost everything, including his mother’s remains. I thought about how painful it would be for him to search through the ashes of his home…I hoped that he would find courage to cope.
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The Red Cross workers told Michael to bring me to their office and they would financially assist me in getting an apartment. I immediately thanked God for the blessing, although when we arrived, the situation changed to $180 on a debit card-$50 for food, $130 for clothes and the money had to be spent that way. While I was so grateful for their help, it was a let down because I had hopes of getting a place to live. Being homeless was very scary for me. I had gone down that path before and I was not looking to return to such a horrible existence. Remembering the cold nights I spent on park benches with no food, cause tears to spill from my eyes and make their now familiar trek down my face. I did not attempt to hold them back-I just did not have the strength. My son looked at me with pain in his eyes. I could feel it in his heart too because he wanted to do so much for me. I hoped he understood how much he was doing just by being by my side. Many of the people who were at the shelter were also at the office. We had empathy one another, with each of us acquiescing to the tough road ahead. Mike and I said our “good-bys” as we walked back to his car. My angst was raised realizing I wouldn’t be getting an apartment on that day. The anxiety was impossible to ignore so my son tried comforting me once again. He offered to pay for two nights in a hotel. Knowing my son had my back made me feel good, so I smiled for the first time in two days.
The hotel was in a different class than the one the night before. The room was much larger-maybe because it had 2 beds. It was very clean and bright. So much sunlight came in through the sheer curtains that the room seemed “cheerful”, an atmosphere I could not take advantage of because I was still dealing with a typhoon of emotions. Later, I received a call informing me of a meeting in the Sunpointe club house that evening. I asked Mike to go and represent for me because I needed to stay in, make some phone calls, try to find a place to live.
According to Michael, the meeting was held in a very hostile atmosphere. The residents were angry after learning the dry brush and leaves that covered the storm drains and our patios, was fuel for the fire. It was debris left by the yard crew. Instead of picking up the trash, the guys blew it against the back fence and under our patio enclosures. Each week I complained about this situation to the on-site manager and the head of the management company. I suppose they wrote me off as being a crazy old lady because nothing was done about it. This news warranted pause. I had to think about what this meant. If I had been taken seriously, then maybe, we would not be 20 families displaced. Perhaps, those two people should be responsible for some of our suffering. But that would have to wait for another day-another time.
Mike left with a promise to return the next day. I did not want him to go, but I understood that he had a family and I couldn’t demand all of his time, not even in my worst hour. However, at 11:30 pm when Gwennie called to say our mother had passed, my son was who I called. He came right away. We hugged, but we didn’t speak. Mike lay on one bed and I on the other; each of us in our own world dealing with the loss of my mom and his grandmother. And that’s the way we let daylight in. Subsequently, I would realize I could no longer stay in that room. I needed to move to another hotel. There would be no more cheeriness in this hotel and I will always remember that room 207 was where I heard that my mother had died and gone away.
The next morning had to be the saddest day for me. My mom was “gone” and I was placed in a position; a “nomad” of sorts by someone with blatant disregard for others. It would also be the most difficult day to make it through because I’d never dealt with the ramifications of something like this, having to accept so much loss at one time. It was emotionally devastating. I felt as though the world was coming toward me and I couldn’t stop it. I wanted to give up-let the world consume me and let someone else fight this war. I was tired and the battles were becoming much too long. But Michael wouldn’t let me quit. He urged me to keep pressing on; to take the battles one at a time, to stand up and fight and claim the victory. He made me understand that the demons of war are not so easily dismissed; you don’t just set them aside and go around them, you’ve got to fight through them.
So I started a battle that would find a place inside me to cope with losing momma. This would eventually become my toughest fight because I didn’t understand how I could just wrap up the memories of my mother and put the package someplace and what, just forget about her? How do you forget someone as enormous as she was? I struggled with it until I realized…you don’t. “Though you have died you shall not perish”. [Confucius] And that’s how I endured; not letting her be forgotten. Everyone I spoke with that day, I told about all of the goodness that embodies my mom: her unselfishness, her unwavering faith, her humbleness, her generosity, and her aura that made everyone she met wanting to be in her family circle. I also told them about how much she loved her 14 children. Telling others about mama took me to a happier place; a more easier time, so that when I thought about her body lying in a morgue waiting to be prepared for her final resting place, I also remembered the “feel-good” part, that her soul was on its way to heaven to lay in God’s bosom, because momma was such a good person on earth, where else would she spend eternity, but in her “father’s arms”?
It was those thoughts that kept the tears and the sadness away so that when I moved into a different hotel I was able to appreciate it being like a studio apartment. There was a full kitchen with dishes, dish towels, and a micro-wave oven. I decided then I would stay there until I got my own place. I was very tired from not getting any sleep and I needed to bring some stability to the chaos all around me. My son did not agree with my decision. He said it was too expensive; at $70 per day, which included a discount for the fire victims, it was too much for me, but my other option was to move in with him; something we had already talked about, a solution I decided would not work. So I took a loan from my bank and basically set-up housekeeping in the hotel room.
It was a struggle for me to survive the first night in that room. I was overwhelmed with thoughts and fears; thoughts that made the anguish and guilt I felt for not being at the hospital with momma, almost unbearable. I was afraid to fall asleep, believing another fire would happen if I did. I was scared of being alone; afraid of every sound and afraid of not having mama here anymore. I panicked and called Michael. He talked with me until he heard calm in my voice. I then assured him I had control back and would be okay. I sat at the desk and began a NEW journal. The one I wrote hopes and dreams in for 30 years were now ashes blowing in the wind over North Stockton. Everything about my sons, my grandkids, and my mom; all of those heartfelt moments…gone. Now, I just hoped these written words would help me to heal-help me to get my life back. After I started to write, daylight seemed to come quickly. I was grateful because as long as the sun shined, the night fears and memories would stay away.
Mike was coming to take me to look at apartments. I called to tell him I just couldn’t go out. I needed to grieve for momma and try to get some sleep. Over the past few days I thought I’d cried myself out of tears, but I was still so emotional vulnerable that when I lay down, once again, the tears flowed like water. I couldn’t get any sleep because the reporters found me at the hotel; ringing the phone and knocking on the door. I refused interviews from the beginning, why would I give one now when I had tsunami waves of emotions going on. Regardless of how loudly I said “NO”, they continued to push for my story. Finally, I had to stop answering the telephone and keep the door locked because I wasn’t ready for those reporters to portray to the public that they really cared about what was happening to me, when all they cared about were the accolades that came with “good reporting” and “good pictures”. I would later read that a number of reporters received awards for their coverage of “The Quail Lakes Fire”. That’s how everyone referenced it, even though the fire started on another street three blocks from our community.
One week after the fire-war was over I received a call saying I could return to the condo. I was nervous about returning, but also anxious to get there-get back to what was mine. When I arrived, police and firemen were roaming the area, I wondered why? U-haul trucks were parked in every conceivable place waiting to be loaded with the remains of twenty families, lives. A chained-link fence enclosed what was left of the burned units. The VICTIMS were told to line up along that fence and when our name was called, we were to follow a cop or fire-fighter into our unit. I was about to realize, what was mine…wasn’t. My name was the last to be called. I felt as though I was in prison; humiliated, having to be ushered into a place I had lived for 10 years. For a moment I stood and looked at the ruined outside structure; the wall was destroyed, the door, my plants, the large tree my grand-daughters had taken pictures under, the grass, everything was gone! These sites and memories awaken how vulnerable I still was. I started to tremble deep inside and then the trembling radiated outward, causing my hands to shake and my chin to quiver. I willed my legs to carry me inside and got sick at what I saw! All that remained were the memories; the ones that spilled over ripe into my presence; the ones that were too heavy to take all at once. The smell of smoke and heat “greeted” me as I made my way through the ruins. At any moment I thought the ceiling would come crashing down around me. The fire consumed everything it could before the fire-fighters came with their hoses; what they tried to save, they couldn’t. I stooped to gather the pieces of a glass angel that lay shattered at my feet-a memory with a story. In between spasms of coughing, I combed through the wet garbage using only my bear hands, hoping to recover something, my ring, my watch-anything…nothing was there!
In the bedroom I found hope. It was the only room standing as a whole with the contents damaged only by water and smoke. I thought that was my “blessing” for the day because I would be able to save most of those things. But as I frantically searched for some old coins and paper money, Tasha, the head of the management company for Sunpointe, came in with a cop and Gil [the on-site manager] passing me a paper to sign. I asked what was it for? She explained that by signing, I agree to leave the property after an hour and a half and not return until the units were rebuilt. “Are you serious” I asked, shocked. I explained that my glasses were destroyed and my son had gone to get his truck, therefore, I would have to wait for his return before signing any paper. She said I would have to sign now or leave the property. The cop stepped forward, alerting me that he had her back in this situation. I stood there, sweaty and exhausted, in total disbelief of what I was hearing! Didn’t she get it? I’m the VICTIM! I tried telling her there was no way I could possibly go through this place in such a short amount of time, but my repeated pleas and desperate attempts to get more time…failed. I scribbled my name and began a strong hate for a woman named Tasha. Michael returned and we packed what we could in his SUV and drove off, leaving so much behind. I was hard-pressed to understand how Tasha could take control of me and my things as if I were a criminal going off to jail. I wanted to hurt her. But we were burying momma the next day and my typhoon of emotions had become a tsunami of emotional waves reaching higher heights with each passing moment.
Mike became irritated for the first time since my crisis began. He had recently bought his truck so he complained about the damaged items staining his leather seats. I assumed that he was just nervous about mama’s funeral the next day because he had been my ROCK throughout this ordeal, certainly, he would not cast a shadow over that important role for something as minute as CAR SEATS! I was frustrated too! It seemed like each time I moved a step forward, someone or something would pull me back two. We drove around aimlessly becoming more and more stressed. He finally asked where I was going to put my stuff because he did not have enough room to store anything in his garage. I left those few pitiful looking pieces in a public storage along with an enormous amount of money for the few days they would be there.
We buried momma beside our sister who had passed away a few years earlier. Afterwards, my sisters, brothers and I, went our separate ways. I went back to the hotel to prepare for my move to an apartment the next day.
That morning Michael came in his NEW SUV with his sons to move my very few possessions. It was evident that I didn’t have much because all of my things fit into a few grocery bags. That was a sad sight, watching my grandsons put those bags in their dad’s car. It made me reflect on just how much I lost in the fire. And as I stepped across the thresh-hold of my “new” apartment I realized that it was going to take a long time for me to restock my life.
When Michael and my grandsons left, tears started rolling down my face. It was my time now to grieve for my mother. “They” say that time heals all wounds. I needed time to hurry with its healing because my wounds were still opened and raw. I didn’t know how long I could last because in the ten days since the fire, I had not risen to the challenges well. I was grieving twice with no perspective on how to grieve. Any loss is hard to accept; so it became increasingly difficult for me to mourn losing momma and not grieve for my other loss. Some psychologists suggests there are seven stages of grief: shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression and loneliness, upward turn, reconstruction of life without loved one, acceptance and hope. Although, I fail to understand how anyone can “map” out your grief, I had experienced several of these steps. Now, I was stuck in pain and guilt with anger and depression moving in fast. The Red Cross offered counseling, but I found reasons not to go.
As days turned into weeks life in my new apartment was filled with doom and depression. I was constantly reminded that I was still a victim each time I reached for my favorite book, my favorite movie, my favorite Gerald Levert CD, or wanted the comfort old photos give. When I realized that my journey to survivor was still on-going I wrapped myself in misery and prayed that the police would arrest whoever was responsible for the fire. Because something of that magnitude had to be somebody’s fault and maybe holding someone accountable, would help me to heal.
My passion for life felt choked. I didn’t go out or let anyone in. I spoke to a limited few on the phone; mostly to fast-food order takers. I ate only what I could get delivered and gained 43lbs. I didn’t get dressed and I didn’t let the sunlight in. This was not normal behavior for me. I was a mover and a shaker; I enjoyed going out and doing things. But it was a lifestyle indicative of someone who had lost so much and was riding out a very emotional storm.
It was the up-coming presidential election I credit with saving me from going over the edge. I was so engaged I had conversations with my TV set; I had purpose and that kept me alive, gave me something to look forward to each day. And then on November 4, 2008, America elected “change” to the oval office. Barack Obama [an African-American] became the 44th president of the United States of America. It was the first time in six months that I experienced some part of “happy” and I cried tears of joy. Throughout his acceptance speech, the president spoke of change. His words were so moving and revealing, I had to pause, take a look at ME and realize that I needed change in MY LIFE. And for the first time since the fire, I wondered if myself imposed exile; my life of seclusion was really what I wanted. I decided it wasn’t. I began to reinvent me. Barack Obama was my inspiration…my muse.
To get started, I needed something to build a dream on. I needed my confidence back. I needed to be defined. So I embarked on an evolution journey. I went in search of great hope that I would fine my definition. On my journey I marked milestones along the way; went on a diet-lost 10lbs., rejoined my church, reconciled with my family and re-opened communication with my grandkids. I embraced everything positive because I wanted to build my dream on the cornerstone of good. Thanks to the “freedom” I felt, I began to live my life out loud; out from under the gray cloud of doom and depression. I adhered to the liberating practices of being bold, of being intense, of being ambitious and began to write a book. “Walking In My Shoes” is a very poignant story, intertwined with lies and deceit that changed and destroyed lives. It is my son, Leonard’s story. He is dying of cancer in a California prison-unjustly accused. I also believed that God had saved me to help other victims. Sharing my experiences may give hope where there is none or provide light in the darkest hours. This epiphany was like my rite of passage back to reality because again, I had purpose.
I understood that any success I achieved would be earned one day at a time. So I celebrated each accomplishment as I continued on my journey. The most memorable was finally celebrating the arrival of DaArron, the lead of the fourth generation in my immediate family. My great-grandson was born on July 21, 2008. Moving back into the condo was a great accomplishment, but it was the most frightening and remains so today. I still experience bouts of depression, however, when that happens I take a walk or go shopping. Some family members say I was brave to move back, others say courageous, I say “I’m just trying to get control of my life back.
In his book “My Life”, Bill Clinton wrote, “a lot about life is just about showing up and hanging on”. Thank God I did just that as I waded through a flood of despair and hopelessness. Because there are no more harsh realities, no more overwhelming thoughts of doom, nor is there doubts or fears. So far, this has been an incredible evolution journey. I feel my future now is so bright, I need sunglasses just to THINK about it!
Memories and loneliness look backward
Fear looks around,
But faith always looks forward
E. Lynn Harris |