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Although I wasn’t comfortable with the decision, I understood the reasons … not to mention that I wasn’t in any position to argue. My dear brother wanted me out of sight, and unable to be found. Berwick, where he lived, and Lewiston, where my folks lived, were out of the question. Patty’s mother’s place up near Augusta was a wise choice, but a difficult one. Although Midge had always been nice enough to me, I found her a bit intimidating.

Patty used to say that her mom accomplished more in one morning than any normal person gets done in a full day. It didn’t take me long to realize that Patty had not been exaggerating. Midge was up by 5 AM every morning, and never seemed to hold still the entire time she was awake. A doctor’s widow, she had the manners of a lady. I felt like a lumbering peasant beside her.

I was only there for two weeks. Midge was kind enough to take me to all of the places I needed to go. With dread in my heart, I went to the Department of Health and Human Services, expecting to find another Mrs. D, however the people I dealt with in Maine were humane, and very kind. The benefits were also substantially higher. Deneen and I would be able to actually eat reasonable meals again, and I would be able to do things like run the oven, and afford the non-grocery necessities we needed, like toilet paper, and laundry detergent. In Rhode Island, it hadn’t been possible to get anything besides diapers. I had to make everything stretch a very long way.

The other place that Midge brought me - was not quite as pleasant. I don’t know if she had found these fellows for me, or if the state had been responsible, but I wasn’t given a choice of OBs for delivering my baby. After my very first visit with one of the two fellows there, both of them foreign, I was relieved that I was only two weeks away from my due date. Little did I know …

My OB back in Georgia had followed my pregnancy from the second month on. He had delivered Deneen, and I trusted him. He informed me that I was due sometime in mid August, which also fit with my own calculations. He looked out for me until I was 5 months along, which is when I left Georgia. Once in Rhode Island, Sue took me to see a local OB. I saw him only once, but he concurred with my Georgia doctor. The first fellow I saw in Maine also concurred. He estimated that I had another two weeks, although I wasn’t showing any signs of being ready yet.

Just around the time I was expected to go into labor, the state found a little motel to hide me in. I’m certain that Midge was glad to have her house to herself again, and Dena and I were glad to be able to sleep in a little later.

The month or so that I spent there was like living in suspended animation. Dena and I shared a double bed, which I had pushed against the wall so that she wouldn’t fall out of bed during the night. In the daytime, we passed the long hours walking the perimeter of the grounds of the tiny place. I never dared go very far, or stress my poor bloated body too badly, because I had visions of taking my 21 month old toddler for a walk, and going into labor far from any help.

One of the first days I was there, I heard a quiet knock at my door. I opened it to find a rather heavy gentleman with a beautiful smile on his face. He introduced himself as Ken. He was a friend of Patty’s sister’s family, and a medic; he taught at a local high school, and drove an ambulance part time. I liked him right away. He was a charmer, and was so thoughtful and solicitous that it took my breath away. The second time he came to see me, it was with a dozen, long-stemmed red roses. I was wowed.

It was Ken’s task to check on me daily, because I was expected to “pop” at any time. Ken was supposed to bring me to the hospital when I went into labor, and deliver Deneen to my Mom in Lewiston. Things didn’t quite turn out that way …

The week passed … and then another. Nothing happened, except that I became more and more uncomfortable. I began to be afraid, because the two physicians disagreed with each other - one of them wanted to induce labor, and the other one kept insisting that I wasn’t being honest about the first physician’s estimated due date. Unfortunately, he was wrong.

As time slowly crawled by, I could feel what I can only describe as hysteria beginning to build up inside. The maple leaves began to blush as we headed into September, and my mid-August due date was by now long behind me. I began to be afraid that there was something wrong with my baby.

Each visit to the OB became more unpleasant than the one before, no matter which of the two physicians I saw. Both left me with the impression that they didn’t like me … and as time passed, I was beginning to think that they didn’t like each other, either. The situation with myself vis-à-vis each one of them, and with myself juxtaposed between the two of them, became almost unbearable.

One of the physicians eventually decided to try inducing labor against the other one’s wishes. He had me report to the hospital in Augusta, and they started a pitocin drip. Less than an hour later, the physician who didn’t want labor induced found me. He looked livid. He said a few rather unjust, accusatory things to me, and then still angry, checked to see if I had begun to dilate. I don’t know if he was deliberate, but he was rough enough for the pain to bring tears to my eyes. He had the drip stopped, and sent me home, all the while making me feel as if I’d done something wrong.

No one else I dealt with was like that - just these fellows. Only much later was I to look back and realize that the difference between the care I received from them, and the care I received for my other three babies, could be summarized in one word: Medicaid. I’m relatively certain that these men didn’t treat all of their patients like that - they would never have stayed in business.

Still more time passed. Everything began to seem surreal. I felt as if I’d wandered into the Twilight Zone - my life would forever continue as it was at that moment: me, weeks overdue to deliver my baby, and my hyperactive toddler doing her best to destroy our little motel room. The hysteria which I’d only just managed to keep at bay up until that point began to seem as if it was percolating just below the surface. Even more terrifying was the realization that the more frightened I became, the less I was able to express it. That wasn’t a new situation for me - it had begun sometime during my abusive marriage to Dale. However, with no place to call home, one baby whose behavior was becoming more and more difficult to control, another one on the way, with the added worry of there being something seriously wrong, and no one that I could turn to with my worries … I was overwhelmed into silence.

The sweet German lady who ran the motel came to my door one afternoon to ask how I was, and commented in her lovely accented English: “Everyone is very worried about you, but you! You are a cucumber! You are not worried at all!”

I remember feeling stunned when she said that. Could no one tell that I ready to go off the deep end? What on earth would people think if they knew what I had going on inside?

At the end of a month, my brother moved me into a small apartment in Winthrop Village. I was relieved to get away from the confinement of the tiny Augusta motel room, and into a place where my baby could sleep on her own bed. I was having some rather serious problems sleeping by this time, and it was becoming extremely difficult to not wake her up during the night.

The apartment was above a barn, attached to the house of a retired school teacher. She was an angel of a woman, and always very kind to me. Her home was within walking distance of the tiny downtown area. The apartment itself had a small living room, a bedroom, a kitchen which was just large enough to contain an ancient metal table, the smallest 4 burner stove I’d ever seen, and an old fridge. The bathroom was off from the kitchen, and had one of those immense antique tubs with four feet. There’s nothing better in the whole world if you need a nice hot bath.

The apartment was furnished with very old furniture. The living room contained an antique sofa which must have been gorgeous in its prime, but which was now faded and worn, a threadbare chair, and a daybed. The bedroom had a tiny chest of drawers which smelled suspiciously of rodent, and a high, large single bed. I’d been given a crib, and I needed it for the new baby … so this high bed was where Deneen was going to have to sleep. She was a real wiggly kid, and I was afraid she’d get hurt.

On the day they moved me in, I was nearly six weeks overdue. I didn’t know that pregnant women could even get as large as I was. People frequently commented that I must be carrying twins - at least.

On the third day I was there, I began to be ill. I couldn’t hold any food down, and I felt as if I had absolutely no strength. I was fortunate enough to have my parents visit me from Lewiston on that day. When they saw that I was completely unable to take of Dena, they took both of us home with them.

This wasn’t easy for my mom to do, although she loved us both to bits. My parents were old enough to be my grandparents, and my mother, who never learned to drive, and could be sent over the edge with even fairly small upsets to her schedule, had a difficult time with Deneen’s hyperactivity. I felt terrible leaving my mum with her full care, but I was completely unable to prevent it.

I lay on the bed in my brothers’ old room for the rest of that day. I began to run a fever during the night, and slept in ten to twenty minute intervals, never really falling into a full sleep. Morning brought no relief. I just seemed to be getting worse.

By mid-morning, a new pain was added to the nausea - cramps. Finally. I was fully 6 weeks overdue, and no one believed me. I was bemused by the realization that I felt too sick to be frightened by that fact anymore.

My father drove me up to the hospital in Augusta, and dropped me off. It was early afternoon, and my labor was picking up steam. I didn’t expect to be in labor for long, because the first time had been unusually brief. I was looking forward to the entire ordeal being over with, and to seeing if my baby was OK.

This was back in the days that going in for a delivery meant being given a soapsuds enema … and although I was already pretty dehydrated, I didn’t manage to escape it. The nurse apologetically did the deed, as I tried very hard to not dissolve into tears from the pain of the advancing labor, the nausea, the lack of sleep … and the overwhelming feeling of weakness. I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse …

… but I was soon disabused of that idea.

For those who don’t follow the link to the more graphic description of the birth, I will say that the doctor who delivered my son, and his crew, were nothing short of brutal. The emotional agony was every bit as keen, if not more so, than the physical pain of the delivery. Never before, or since, have I been treated in this manner by anyone.

I don’t think that the treatment that I received in the hospital in Augusta, Maine on September 29, 1977, was all that uncommon for people on welfare. I hope to the powers that be that such inhumane practices no longer exist - for anyone, whatever their state of life. Poverty, difficult situations … hard times … are not respecters of social status. They can happen to anyone, at any time.

Such is life - you may have everything today, and tomorrow find yourself rivaling Job. Remember that, before you deign to look down on another human being, and consider yourself a better person simply because of your financial successes. In doing so, you’ve already lowered yourself beneath your own imagined station.

The first thing I remember after the birth was waking up in a large, dim room. A single nurse was there, whom I didn’t recognize. She told me that I’d given birth to a healthy seven and a half pound boy at about 6:30 PM. I don’t know what time it was when I woke up, but it was dark outside. When I asked if she knew if they’d given me something to knock me out in the delivery room, she told that they hadn’t given me any drugs. I could feel my heart skipping beats, over and over, and the nurse commented on it, but nothing ever came of it. I was brought into a private room - which really surprised me, since they were hard to get and expensive.

They brought me my son, and I finally got to hold him and nurse him. My first impression was that his head was huge. I’d never seen another newborn with such a large head. I became afraid again, but the nurse reassured me that the doctor who’d seen him had given him a clean bill of health. I later learned that post mature babies frequently have large heads. He was also a full pound heavier than any of my other three babies - which tended to run small, from 5 pounds, 7 ounces, up through 6 and a half pounds.

He had a good appetite, however, and seemed to act normally … which was encouraging. Dale had not allowed me to nurse Deneen, and I was determined that I was going to nurse the rest of my children. Darian Dael and I began our bonding process.

It wasn’t until I made my first foray out of bed, and wobbled my way to the rest room with the help of a nurse, that I began to understand why they had put me in a private room. When I looked in the mirror, I thought at first that there was something wrong with my vision. A closer inspection made me understand that it wasn’t my vision - it was my face: it was covered in broken blood vessels. I had varying sized bruises across my face, from pinpoints all the way up to dime sized. I looked as if I’d been peppered with red and purple blotches. I was a sight to behold! The nurse explained that I had done that to myself when I trying to push during labor. It made sense. I truly had been beating myself against a stone wall, after all. I though of how I should be angry at the doctor for making me push before it was time, but I just didn’t have the energy to bother.

The day after Darian was born, my parents came up from Lewiston with Deneen. My mother, my poor mother, looked as if she were about to have a heart attack … and with her congenital mitral valve problems, I was afraid for her. Deneen - who had been a wild thing ever since I’d gotten her back from Dale, was more wound up than I’d ever seen her: my 23 month old daughter was turning over the furniture in the hospital waiting room - she was completely out of control.

Arrangements were made for Patty’s sister, Pam, who lived in a nearby town, to take Deneen until I was discharged, and my poor mother went home to rest. Alone in my hospital room, I wondered what would become of us: a lost soul, put in charge of two, delicate little lives. How could things have ever gotten so confusing, so difficult … ? How on earth was I going to raise those two children alone?

A very kind lady who had been watching from across the aisle got up, and offered to let me change Dena on her seat. She and her husband both got up to allow me to lay the baby across both seats, and change her. I was so grateful that I could feel the tears beginning to fill my eyes. I lay Dena on a little baby blanket, and removed her clothes … and was horrified when I realized that she had the runs … very badly. She was feverish, cranky … and apparently had a reason to be. I cleaned up as best as I could, and expressed my gratitude to the couple who had been so kind to allow me to use their seats.

My brother was waiting for me at the airport, a concerned look marred his otherwise handsome features. Seeing him was a physical relief. I was home! Home among people who knew me, who loved me - people who would never abuse me. Why - why - why had I ever left?

As we drove home, we discussed our plan of action. I couldn’t stay with them in Berwick, or go to my parents in Lewiston … since those would be the first places Dale would look for me. Where could I go …

I thought of two places … California, to stay with a friend in Victorville, or perhaps Rhode Island, where an ex-nun I had been friends with since my adolescence was living. It would be hard to get me to California, but RI would work out fine. Paul and I decided that I would try Claire in Rhode Island first.

When we got to the house, Pattie so happy to finally see Dena, and I was so happy to finally see Pattie! The “big sister” I’d never had! I remembered nearly a decade before … when Paul had first shown up with Pattie. Petite, short haired, slim … down to earth … nothing like the cookie cutter blonds he had been bringing home for us to meet up until then. The minute we saw her, we knew that this was the woman he was going to marry. She was nothing like the others. Paul - had gotten serious.

I was never able to tell her how much I admired her … how I looked up to her. Seeing Paul, seeing Pattie … I knew things were going to be OK.

A call to Claire in Woonsocket sealed the deal … I was on my way.

Paul and Pattie put Dena and I on a Greyhound bus headed south. I was going into hiding. I had no idea what sort of life waited for me, but it turned out to be like nothing I had ever expected.

Claire picked me up at the bus station. I hadn’t seen her in years. She was serious - far more serious than I remembered. I wondered what had happened to make her so … sad.

She put us into a small bedroom in her apartment in the middle of town. She explained how her brother lived upstairs - and owned the building. I could tell there was something she wanted to say to me … and I could feel myself become more and more tense as she stood in the door of the little room, watching me unpack. Unspoken words seemed to fall between us like yesterday’s leftover and unsettled argument.

After I had unpacked what little we had brought with us, Claire led me into the living room, and turned on the television. That feeling of “something left unsaid” increased until I became so uncomfortable, that I lied and told her that I was exhausted, and had to go to bed. Anything to make the discomfort go away.

“Wait! Before you go to sleep … you need to know something.”

… ahh … here it comes …

“A friend of mine called me just after I talked to you. She needs a place to stay.”

… I see …

“I found you an apartment in the building right next door … ”

… quite clearly …

My understanding of what it was like to be forced to accept the charity of friends jumped up a notch. I realized - not for the first time - that I wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable. People around me were as uncomfortable as I was. I was not only living a nightmare, I was bringing it into other people’s lives.

Not only would I not be able to stay with Claire, but for some reason which I only fathomed when my inexcusable innocence finally wore thin …. although she was an RN, should not be able to be my Lamaze coach when I gave birth to my baby. Her “friend” did not approve.

Say what … ?

Perhaps things were not going to be “OK” after all …

Over the next few days, Deneen and I had time to settle down, and begin to get used to being where we were. Not such a great thing, since we wouldn’t be staying long. The intense diarrhea which started on the plane continued. Claire arranged for us to see a pediatrician, and we were told that if it didn’t stop, Deneen would need to be hospitalized.

My immediate reaction was to take Deneen and run away with her. Nothing - no one - was going to get between she and I again … not Dale … not a doctor - no one. Even while I recognized that there was a serious problem with my thought processes, I also realized that I was not going to be able to “get on top of it” easily. I tried to push the crazy ideas which came unbidden into my mind out of my way … I was not going to run away in the middle of the night with my sick baby …

The week or so before moving into the apartment next door was long, and difficult. Claire was at the hospital working most of the time, and had forbidden me to do any housework. Claire’s sistern-in-law, Sue, came downstairs to visit me occasionally, and we slowly developed a warm, wonderful friendship. I came to appreciate the fact that if there was anyone in the entire state of Rhode Island I could depend on, it was Sue.

For the first time since I had lost Deneen - and gotten her back, I had time alone to think. I couldn’t believe that I had actually left Dale. I was alone - with a baby, and another on the way. I had no skills, since I hadn’t finished nursing school … and that, my friends, is another story that might be worth telling at some time. I was in someone else’s home - unwelcome. The immensity of what had happened - and what I’d done - began to impact me.

One afternoon, I had finally gotten Dena to take a rare nap, and I sat in the living room, exhausted - although I’m sure it was more of an emotional exhaustion than a physical one. I remember that the blinds were drawn, and the sunlight filtered in through the cracks … the dust motes danced in the diffuse light as it made its way down to the carpet, ending there in horizontal stripes of warmth. I let my mind numb out … not think … not feel … and so, I was not prepared for the song that began to play on Claire’s radio, one I’d never heard before that moment:

The realizations rushed in … I would never see Dale again, my babies would grow up without their Daddy. I was alone with the overwhelming responsibility of two children. How would I raise them? What would I tell them? And how was I ever going to go from day to day without Dale? Yes, he abused me. Yes, he beat me … called me names … starved me and my baby … secluded us from the rest of the world with his insane jealousy … but he was the still the man I had fallen in love with, still the man who had fathered my two babies, and still the man that I had so many good, warm moments with. Those are what keep a person hanging on - the memory of reciprocated love. Gone. All of it gone. I cried until I couldn’t breathe anymore.

The next few months were a blur. I used to lay awake at night, listening for footsteps that I wanted so badly to hear again, but knew that it could spell the end of my life if I did. Cruelty doesn’t always kill love.

Claire and Sue were kind enough to bring me to all of the places I needed to go in order to be able to take care of my babies and myself. When they brought me to the Rhode Island Welfare Department, I was assigned to a woman I’ll name Mrs. D. I can’t believe it, but although it’s been 30 years, writing about the first time I was with that woman still makes me cry. She made me realize what it was like to be thought of as human trash. When she found out that I not only had my baby daughter, but I was also expecting another one, she stood up and leaned over her desk to get a better view of me. The look on her face was - sheer disgust. I had become quite timid over the last several, painful years, and it took Mrs. D. about 4 minutes to reduce me to helpless, humiliated tears. Note that - I was still not one to ever cry in front of anyone.

I remember the thoughts going through my head … rebelling against her treatment. Up until a month earlier, I had been a regular wife and mother, expecting a second child - welcoming a second child. My husband had changed, and become abusive over the last few years, but that didn’t make me trash. That made me a wife who still loved her abusive husband, loved her babies, had tried very hard to make it work before leaving … and who didn’t want to be in the helpless position she was in.

Deneen and I survived on next to nothing over the next several months. I would buy inexpensive things, like bologna, and freeze two slices at a time - so that Dena and I could each have a sandwich at lunchtime. I never used the oven, and our electric bill usually ran about $3 for the month. Someone gave me a crib for Dena, and some toys … I had a blow up beach mattress to sleep on, and it had it a leak. I had to get up, over and over during the night, to blow it back up.

Sue was the bright spot in my day. She would come up and sit with me - never prying, always kind. After I’d been in Rhode Island for 3 months - from May through August, Sue came to my door one day, looking frantic. What I’d been afraid would happen - had happened. The very lovely Mrs. D had located Dale, and demanded child support from him. Some of my Georgia friends had called my brother to warn him: Dale was on his way up to find me.

On the run again … and even more painful lessons to come. By nightfall, Deneen and I were back on a Greyhound bus, heading north. For the second time in 3 months, we had left everything behind, and all we had was each other.

In spite of everything - my being afraid for my own life, and everything I’d been through with Dale, I still didn’t want him to be killed. I just wanted my baby back … and I wanted to be left alone.

On Friday the 13th of May, 1977, the two gentlemen appointed with getting my daughter back for me picked me up early. We drove out to Cumming, into the countryside, and slowly past the trailer. No one was home. Dale had already left for work. We stopped at the trailer, and they quickly went inside, made an assessment of what was there, saw some young marijuana plants on the kitchen counter … and realized that they had just found the “honey pot” they could use to tempt the police into helping us. Those same plants nearly got me into trouble though, since it was going to be hard to prove that they weren’t also mine. Thankfully, because of their size, it was later determined that they’d been planted after I left.

Due to this new find, the police did, indeed, become interested in the situation … which later proved to be providential. With careful checks in place, we left the trailer, made our tour by the police station, and then continued on our way to the head of Post Road, where we parked in the lot of small, country store … and waited. We knew that sometime in the late afternoon, Dale would be coming down the street just ahead of us, making his way past us, and down Post Road, heading for the trailer. He would already have picked Dena up from wherever he was keeping her, and she would be with him. Chances are that he would still be unarmed … since the gun had been spotted near the bed back at the trailer.

The primary plan was to trap him at the trailer. The police would come arrest him because of the plants, and I would get Deneen by default. Plan B … was not as pretty. Every time I saw a car come down that long open road just ahead of us, my heart flew into my throat, suffocating me. The two detectives were very kind to me, and tried engaging me in conversation, but I’m afraid that I didn’t acquit myself very well in that department … I was too frightened of what was about to happen.

The hours dragged by … still no Dale. As dinner time crawled by, and the shadows got longer, I could feel that the detectives were becoming restless. They decided to run by the trailer, head into Cumming, grab a burger, and head back by the trailer again. They promised it wouldn’t take long … and I remember one of them jokingly saying that Dale had all day … surely he wouldn’t pick that particular half hour to come home.

At the time … I thought that it was exactly what he’d do …

…and I was right.

We headed back to our ambush location via the road the trailer was on less than 40 minutes later. In the gathering darkness, we could see that the trailer door was wide open - there were no cars in sight. He had been - and gone.

Frustrated cursing filled the car as they threw open their doors and ran into the trailer … with me timidly trailing behind. The gun was gone. There was clothes everywhere, as if someone had hurriedly done some packing. A piece of paper near the phone with a California telephone prefix seemed to tell the tale. We had lost them.

A very apologetic Mr. Perdomo explained that there was nothing else he could do. He told me that I should go home, try to find out through family and friends where he could have gone, and trace him down from that end. His guess was somewhere in California, if the number by the phone was to be believed. As wily as Dale was … I wasn’t so sure.

In a haze, feeling as if the sandwich I’d just eaten was going to forcibly fight its way out of my stomach, I turned my back on what had so recently been home, and silently got into the car. As we headed back for Roswell, to everyone’s intense discomfort, strains of “Mother and Child Reunion” filled the vehicle. The words dropped like bricks into an awkwardness so thick it almost had its own hue.

One of the most difficult things for me over the span of time that Deneen was missing were the unspoken words. I could feel the discomfort of whomever I was with. The younger women, almost all of them with babies of their own, empathized to the point of agony. It was painful for them to be around me, and vice versa. The young fellows … just felt awkward. No one ever knew what to say. Pain would radiate across any room I was in like an electrical charge. I can’t count the silent, knowing looks I saw people exchange.

Dotty wasn’t like that. She never gave me time to feel sorry for myself … made sure I ate - even if I couldn’t keep it down … and kept us moving so fast that I barely had time to think. She had tirelessly taken me from one government office to another, one overnight nursery to another … trying to get help, trying to find my baby. She was relentless … “unsinkable,” in spite of the fact that we were getting absolutely nowhere.

Dotty was not going to allow me to be alone. I was screaming silently inside for privacy … but she insisted on talking to me, trying to bolster me. Urging me to make plans. I simply couldn’t function. To me, the next several hours were like an indistinct blur … Dotty talking … phone calls to Maine to let my brother know what happened … plans for briging me home - without my baby. Just about midnight, Dotty decided to trundle me off to bed. Finally! I was going to have a bit of privacy - space - to take it all in.

Before I could find the shelter of my little bed … and the now nearly empty box of tissues beside it, the phone rang … it was her mother, back in Cumming. She had Dena.

Afraid to hope, fearing a sick joke, it seemed to take an eternity to make our way to Cumming from Roswell.

Dotty’s parents did, indeed, have Dena. She looked like a little shadow, in a white pajama top, and light green bottoms … so tiny, confused. I squeezed her until she protested. I’m not sure she even knew who I was at first …

They told us what had happened …

The police had apparently been to the trailer almost immediately after we’d gone for our sandwiches. Dale had either seen them there, or seen that things were disturbed. It had spooked him, and he’d packed up his stuff, and headed out. Not too many minutes later, we’d found the trailor door open, and realized we’d lost him.

However, before he’d gotten too far, he realized he’d forgotten something back at the trailer that he apparently felt he couldn’t do without, and he’d turned around - and headed back for Cumming. While he was there, which I’m sure was not for very long, the police, who were now looking out for him, happened to drive back by … and they saw him. I don’t know if they had any difficulty, but they arrested him for the marijuana plants.

Meanwhile, there was the problem of what to do with Dena. The police had acted on their own, and could have cost me my daughter. Dena couldn’t go to jail with Dale, and I wasn’t there to claim her. Dale didn’t want to leave her with our friends, Curtis and Debbie, because he didn’t trust them to not bring her to me. In fact, when he’d visit them, he would block their cars so that they couldn’t leave. The only other people he knew in town were Curtis’ grandparents, whom he thought might be able to be browbeaten into not saying anything. He was wrong. He left her with them. Within minutes, they had called their daughter with the news.

Once there, I was determined to take my daughter and leave, but before I could do that, I was forced to speak at length with an officer over the phone. He tried his very best to get me to agree to give her up to a foster home until some court could decide what to do with her - for her own good, of course. I would be forced to stay in Atlanta, in danger, have my baby there, and live … how? … until God knows when … and I would have to trust some court to decide the fate of my daughter? I was determined to not allow that to happen.

Once off the phone, I picked up Deneen, and headed toward the door. Marcus, Dotty’s step father asked me where I was going, and I told them: “I’m going to the airport.”

I must have been quite a sight. Pregnant, emaciated, sick … holding my 18 month old baby … and heading for the door. I was going to carry Deneen the 50 or so miles between Cumming and the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, south of Atlanta. I didn’t care what it looked like … I didn’t even stop to think that I would never have even made it a mile in my condition. All I knew was that I had my baby, and no one was going to take her away from me again - ever.

Dotty decided that it would be no good to try to reason with me. She packed me into the car, and we headed back to her appartment to pick up Deneen’s clothes, and what few other things I had managed to take with me. There were a few hours before my flight, which had been pre-arranged by my brother, and Dotty insisted we lay down.

Deneen had begun to cry, but it wasn’t one of those “tired baby” cries … it was a definite “I hurt!” cry. I thought she might need a fresh diaper … and I couldn’t believe what I saw when I undressed her. She was filthy! Not just grubby little kid dirt, but her skin actually had a brownish-gray crusty layer in some places. Dotty and I were shocked. She immediately grabbed Deneen, and ordered me to lay down … and then gave her a bath.

We’d known about some of the things Dale had been doing with Deneen … we were sure he was drugging her. There were drops her pediatrician had given us which made her sleepy … I don’t remember what they’d been for now. Dale and I had had vicious arguments over using those drops on her. He wanted to get some peace and quiet … even if it meant drugging the baby when it wasn’t necessary.

Some of our young friends visited him during the time he had Deneen, and they would later tell me what they’d seen. It broke my heart and filled me with fear when I heard that during one visit, my happy, mischief filled little lady sat in a chair, staring straight ahead, not playing or talking. Another time, a friend told me that when they’d visited, seeing them had made Deneen think of me, and that she’d spent the entire time they were there, going back and forth between her chair and the door, saying “Mummy. Mummy.” … expecting me to show up with them.

A cleaner, but still very unhappy little girl was placed next to me on the bed, and she and I had about 2 hours to sleep before we had to get up and leave for the airport.

By dawn, thanks to Dottie’s care and my brother’s support, we were on a jet, headed for Boston. My baby was with me … and everything was going to be OK … or so I thought.

The police never came. Dale was gone … with Dena. I felt the evening begin to chill as I stumbled back to the trailer, knowing that he had taken Dena with nothing but a diaper on. I worried that she’d be cold. I worried about where they went … if they’d come back … what I should do …

I worried.

An eternity later, Debbie showed up with her little sister. She told me that Dale had been to her house with Dena, and was going to find an overnight daycare to put her in. I could sense that she was watching me carefully for a reaction, and so far, I’d managed to hold myself “together.”

A pause … a silence.

“You have to come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because … he said that he was going to drop off the baby, and then he said that he was going to come back here and ‘finish dealing’ with you. I’m not sure exactly what he means, but Curt and I thought we should get you out of here, just in case.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

Everything rushed in on me at once - my baby was gone, and he was going to kill me. My stoic exterior crumbled, and to my utter shame and dismay, I dissolved into a flood of tears.

Debbie wanted to be compassionate, but she knew that at the time - haste was more important.

“Grab what you can - and let’s get out of here. Quick!”

I collected Dena’s clothes, and only a handful of my own. I don’t know if, at the time, I thought I would get her back, and then things would be “normal” again … or even if I was thinking at all. I was in a cloud of surrealism the likes of which I’d never before experienced in my life.

The following two weeks were a blur. Curtis and Debbie hid me in their home for a while, and when that became too dangerous, they moved me to his mother’s house in Roswell. We spent the days going from government office to government office … overnight daycare to overnight daycare … hunting for my baby, and trying to find someone to help.

After the initial breakdown in front of Debbie and her sister, I managed to hold myself together a bit during the daytime, while people were around - but when the sun went down, and I would lay on the sofa in a strange room, without my baby … that is when the real waking nightmares began. The nighttime had become a dark torture chamber, filled with unimaginable terrors. My daugther! My little infant daughter! Would I ever see her again? The demons that tortured me at night were relentless … often keeping me awake until the sun would begin to lighten the room, and I would again realize that I was in someone else’s home … accepting someone else’s kindness … so broken I was completely unable to make my own decisions.

Mother’s day passed, and by then, I was able to take a bit of food again. People were very kind to me, but I was like an empty shell, living completely inside of myself - but still very, very empty. I learned to pray again, and whether through needing to believe that Someone heard me and understood my agony, or whether a Master Healer truly reached down and calmed my soul when the pain became so much that I could no longer tolerate it, I’ll probably never know … but prayer seemed to ease some of worst of the torment.

I was afraid that if I saw my baby daughter, I wouldn’t recognize her! The two weeks were like two years to me. I could feel my tiny baby inside of me flutter and squirm, and he seemed to be protesting against ravages which my illness and deprivation must have been causing.

My brother, my dear sainted brother, the savior of my life more than once before, reached down from Maine, and hired a private detective to find my baby. There was finally hope!

I never lost that springtime impression, although for myself, life in Georgia was anything but gentle. I went to Georgia for all of the wrong reasons, and 5 years later, I ran away from Georgia clinging to my little baby daughter, and in fear for my life.

Sometime in the early 1970’s, young, idealistic, naive … I moved to Georgia for the love a fellow I’d met in Illinois. He’d had me meet him in Michigan, and together, we’d driven down to Atlanta. I was going to be “his girl.” He was smart, handsome, blond … and very, very paranoid. In fact, he was so paranoid that he decided it wouldn’t be safe for me to know where he lived. I had been going to stay with his mother … so, bewildered, disbelieving, I stood with my suitcase outside of a little motel within view of the airport, and watched the only person I knew within 1000 miles drive away.

I was pretty resourceful, but this was a whole new game for me, and I had no idea what to do. I’d spent most of the little bit of money I had on the bus trip from Maine to Michigan, reassured by my friend that I wouldn’t have to “worry about that” once he and I were together. During the trip, I had hurt my foot; it was painful enough to keep me from wearing a shoe, and I was a long ways from Atlanta proper, way too far to walk. There was nothing else for me to do but check into the little motel with what little funds remained, and regroup … make some decisions.

A few days later, still barely able to hobble along, I’d used the very last of my money to take a taxi into downtown Atlanta. I told the driver about my situation, and he was kind enough to bring me to the only place he thought I’d be able to put a roof over my head - and not get raped … or worse … it was a commune - a hippie commune. Now that I look back, I realize how lucky I was that the driver was an honest man … I was far too trusting.

Things at the commune were extremely strange. It was an old house near Little Five Points, there were no closets … no doors. Sheets were hung in every room, turning each corner into a makeshift alcove with barely even an impression of privacy; my spot was a little hall closet with a beaten up, stained mattress, and a sheet across the door. The “proprietors” of the commune lived in the only room with a door, and there were rumors that there had once been 3 people living in that room, but that they were now down to 2 … and that the circumstances behind that change had been more than a little suspicious. I was not happy to be there.

Just around the corner was another commune - smaller, and safer. Through the benevolence of a fellow who frequented both places, my situation improved just a bit when he arranged for me to move into “Crazy Dave’s” commune.

One young fellow who visited there, an attractive red head named Dale, stood out from the rest. I found him to be interesting and attractive, and it seems that he thought the same of me.

Thus began a turbulent, downhill slide into near oblivion. The next 5 years led me through such dark places that it sometimes hurts to simply remember them. I followed him into a morass of drugs - and worse. He was verbally and physically abusive, wouldn’t allow me to hold a job, kept company with adult childhood friends who worked for organized crime, and was jealous to the point of insanity. I loved him - but I was terrified of him.

In the last year of our marriage, things had become very frightening. He’d moved our trailer out into the “puckers” … behind an old farmhouse in Cumming. We had no power. He ran everything on a few car batteries which he charged up during the day with a lawnmower motor. Our overhead lighting came from dashboard bulbs. We had no phone. He’d come home from what was his fourth job in less than a year, hopped up on speed, angry and violent. I knew - I was certain, that it was only a matter of time before he killed me in one of his ever increasing fits of rage.

The last week I was there was a nightmare. The kidney problem which was later to become a major issue asserted itself for the first time in my adult life. I was also struggling with a distracting, widespread case of poison oak … and was five months into a pregnancy which was proving to be even more difficult than the first one had been.

There was no fridge, and the food had to be kept in a plastic cooler. All we’d had in the cooler for a number of days had been some bologna, a few tomatoes, some mayonnaise, and some slices of American cheese. There was no bread. This is how I’d been feeding our baby daughter. Also, with a kidney infection, I was unable to hold any of those items down, and very little in the way of liquids. I was beginning to be afraid for the baby I was carrying.

On that last fateful day - April 28, 1977, Dale came home crashing from the amphetamines he still hadn’t admitted to me that he was taking. There was no food. Some young friends who lived a few miles away had dropped in earlier, inviting us all over for supper. I think they knew what the situation was with us, although it had never been discussed between us. Half afraid, I mentioned the invitation to Dale when he came home. I didn’t like telling him that anyone had been to see me, because I knew that it made him angry for people to come while he wasn’t there. He refused to take them up on the offer. I told him that Dena, our little daughter, needed some food … if we couldn’t go eat at Curtis and Debbie’s, could we please buy some food? No … he wasn’t shopping for food. He threw himself onto the bed, and promptly passed out.

In his condition, I felt certain that he would be there, crashed, until the next morning, and that there wouldn’t be anything for Dena to eat … or for me to try to eat. I made the mistake of thinking that he was deep into that post-amphetamine “dead zone” when I said: “I’m not going to put up with this much longer.” He flew from the bedroom as if he’d been shot from a rifle, furious. I was holding our daughter in my arms when he did - which probably saved me.

He advanced on me, backing me down the narrow trailer hallway, telling me over and over to “put the baby down.” I wouldn’t. Of all the things he had done, he had never raised raised a hand to the baby - or to the two children from his first marriage. Dena was safe … and while I had her, so was I.

I told him that I would only put her down when he promised not to hit me, and he told me that he couldn’t promise that. I told him I’d put her down if he let me leave the trailer … and he agreed to that. I’m sure he was thinking that I had no place to go … so he had me whatever I did.

I wasn’t sure if I trusted him to keep his word to let me leave, but I couldn’t stand there forever. She was heavy, and she was beginning to squirm - sensing something was badly wrong. As I put Deneen down, I felt a rush of fear wash over me, and drill a hole in my back as I slid past Dale as quickly as I could, and made my way to the door.

I left the trailer, and numb with dread, went up the yard to the farmhouse. Up until this time, I’d never told anyone about our problems - no one knew that he beat me, and only a few young couples with whom we were friends could see how we were living. Whatever information they had, they garnered from observation, because I wasn’t one to confide in anyone.

In a haze, with my heart pounding so hard that my vision was almost completely red and black, I knocked on the door of the farm. Mrs. Riggot, a sweet gentle lady, came to door. I asked her if I could use her phone to call the police … concerned, she immediately moved out of the way, and motioned for me to come in.

While I was on the phone, humiliated, frightened, yet very calm on the outside, I begged for the police to come so that I could take my baby, some clothes, and leave peacefully. Mrs. Riggot came into the room and exclaimed: “He just left with your baby! She’s only in a diaper!” Meanwhile, the tinny voice in the receiver was telling me that if he hadn’t beaten me, or threated to kill me, that there was nothing they could do … and Dale had just left with Dena.

I remember one Saturday afternoon … during our once monthly visit to the dreaded confessional. I always went to same priest - I don’t know why. Perhaps it was his nose - I remember being fascinated by it. It reminded me of a big red strawberry. Had I been a smart little girl, I would have ignored the nose, and gone to different priests, so that none would have been wise enough to catch me at my little ploy. I couldn’t imagine actually going into there and saying something I’d really done wrong! I had a very carefully thought out list of sins, little innocent sins, which I faithfully paraded before Fr. Strawberry once a month. They never varied … he never flinched.

Then one fateful summer afternoon - Fr. Strawberry either caught on, or had simply become very tired of my rote laundry list, and he questioned me on one of my so-carefully chosen “sins.”

“Why do you always tease your brothers?”

Now, this wasn’t what I expected … and really, I was always in trouble with them, but it was never from deliberate teasing. After all, they were 6 and 8 years older than I am … and I didn’t have a death wish.

A bit tentatively … “Um … because they like it?”

“They do?”

A little more certainly … “Yes. I’m sure they like it.”

“Well then. It’s not a sin. So - stop confessing it!”

So much for that.

However, even when I padded my list of sins with red herrings for the benefit of a priest who intimidated me, I always acknowledged them in heart. I was never able to deliberately kid myself.

I remember just after my seventh birthday, Christmas Eve, crying myself to sleep because I couldn’t make myself believe that Santa was coming anymore. I didn’t want to be a “big girl” … I wanted to still be able to lay awake as long as I could, trying to catch even the tiniest glimpse of a sleigh and reindeer through my window before drifting off to those wonderful Christmas childhood dreams. What a blow it had been to realize that there was no Santa in the skies!

My complete inability to lie to myself once I’d had a realization followed me through life - sometimes a boon, sometimes a bane. That’s why it’s so hard for me to understand how I could have gone this last quarter century, not seeing, not realizing … moving through a haze of amorphous shadows … finally finding myself so lost, that I no longer had any idea of who I was - who I am.

What I didn’t see or understand in my intellect, I must have seen and understood on some level. When the realizations began to come, they were too close to the surface - came too readily.

There have been times in the last two decades when I’ve felt that I was in a dangerous frame of mind. Already, my struggle against an unseen battle had begun, but always, I blamed myself. I must be too emotional. I must be unstable. I should be able to do this!

I have 4 kids, a husband who doesn’t cheat, drink or gamble … I live in the country … I have my own ministry … I’m respected in my community … what’s wrong with me!?

It never occurred to me that my inner agony could have an external source. I was no longer examining a laundry-list of polished-up sins … I was examining my deepest self for the origin of my despair. Certainly I found faults … things that I needed to work on. But in themselves, I knew they weren’t enough to cause the intensity of emotions I was experiencing.

And what was worse … I had already embarked on what would become, in these last two years since the start of my illness, the worst battle I’ve ever fought against myself: the battle to speak up and try to tell someone where I was, what was happening …

Only those who were very close to me got an occasional glimpse … a few drinks would also sometimes give me the courage to say a bit … but the silence that would trap me almost completely was already taking over like a silently advancing paralysis.

Those familiar with Asperger families would probably understand … although I’m only beginning to myself. Somehow, when the realizations all hit me last week, it was almost preternaturally clear … but now that they’ve begun to slow down, they’re a bit vaguer; the keen razor edge of a sharp fresh wound has dulled some. I want to write as much as I can now, before the habits and discouragements of the last half of my life reassert themselves over my will to make things change for the better.

I will begin tomorrow’s post by relating a bit of how I’ve journeyed to where I am … and a bit of where I am as I write. With each word I set down … with each idea I commit to this blog … I’m gaining the strength needed to continue doing so. It’s not exactly like a snowball yet - but each day, the honesty is easier. I know that I’ll be able to save this post, and not set it as “private.”

What will I do when dear friends find this blog and begin to ask: “Why didn’t you say anything?” … Honestly, I don’t know. I think it was all part of the silence I couldn’t break out of. When people got too close, I chilled the relationship. The closeness smothered and terrified me … I could share only so much.

Even in writing - I could share only so much. The more real a person became to me - the less I could share. The intimacy I needed the most, was the very thing I wouldn’t allow to grow. Again - I blamed my perverseness on some inner darkness which I couldn’t quite find … it was just there out of nowhere - ready to snap into place whenever someone came too close.

There were a few exceptions to that … none of which proved to be very healthy … but that’s for another post.

And for now blogland - good night.

I feel as if I’m looking down on a huge pile of boxes and bags which all need to be sorted through, categorized, and put away … only the pile is even deeper than what we usually bring home from camp after our two month stay. I’m a bit overwhelmed - wondering where to begin … wondering if the sequence will make a difference … and wondering if I’m even up to it. Something keeps nagging at me in the back of my mind … I should try to get some help, maybe call Dr. A and ask to be referred … but then he may want to see me, and after over a year, I don’t want that … and worse, I’d find myself nose to nose with a stranger, expected to bare my soul. I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to do something like that.

There have been changes along those lines already though … and they didn’t take any volition on my part. They just suddenly were. I don’t feel like I need to hide anymore. I’m beginning to see why I never want to admit the negatives to anyone … why scrutiny of almost any sort is so painful for me. I’m even beginning to see how I could have tuned out all of those changes as they gradually encroached from all directions, making me a prisoner in my mind, in my home, in everything and every way I am.

There’s so much working together right now, that I know I can’t see all of it. I can’t tell where it’s all coming from - if it’s a natural response from within myself to what I’ve learned and what I’m realizing, or … if there may be some “Outside” choreographing. It all just seems to be such an unlikely harmony …

Yesterday’s lessons …

… Annie came to Mass. I was amazed to see her during the winter. She only flies in from England in the summer, usually in order to be here for the date of the St. Anne de Beaupre pilgrimage. I could tell there was something wrong from the look on her face - and the fatigue in her eyes. I wondered if she was upset with me for having cancelled last summer’s pilgrimage …

As soon as the Mass was over, she asked if I had change for a $20 … I looked, but only had a few ones and a five. She told me that she wanted to light a candle for her mother, so I gave her the five, and then asked her what was going on. Her mother is going to die this week. Imagine knowing that! No wonder her eyes were empty and lifeless. Mrs. Janu had been through a series of very serious health crises in the last year, and after this most recent set-back, needed a ventilator to continue to live. She didn’t want that. She wanted the ventilator turned off. Annie looked at me, and with her soft accent, said: “Doris, it’s going to be a hard week for me.” Ah yes Annie … it will create a memory that will echo in your heart for the rest of your days. Her father had always been so concerned about his wife’s salvation, since she still belongs to her Hindu faith, and Tony is so spiritual. People I love are going to be in a very serious hurting way this week.

My own lesson in this came when Annie looked up at me from behind lost, bewildered brown eyes and said: “I have lost my faith.” Time suddenly slowed to a crawl for me. I felt myself sit down next to her on the pew, and wondered what I would say to her. From nowhere, the words came … I told her that I was in the same place. I didn’t even have time to feel shocked that I’d admitted that, before more words came … that neither of us could allow that, because everything we live loses meaning otherwise. I told her that when we feel God becoming unreal in our lives, that we need to find a quiet place and listen for Him … for the sake of sanity and survival. I said much more, but I don’t remember it all anymore. I saw a little spark of life come into Annie’s moist eyes, and she said, “Yes, yes. I will do that. I will find a way.” Next week, I expect I’ll see Annie and her sister, and Tony at Mass. I only hope that I can be there for them in some real way.

My second lesson wasn’t far behind …

I left Annie in front of the statue of St. Anne, lighting her candle, and went downstairs to the coffee hour. No one had signed up for next week’s coffee … I reluctantly put my name down. That twenty bucks was going to be hard to scratch up …

Maria caught me first - wanting me to help with organizing the bean supper. Hearing about the bean supper made me realize that I’d missed a meeting last week … but immediately following that thought came the realization that I would not have been able to help much even if I had been there.

The next people who caught my eye were those two ladies from the Midwest who visit the parish occasionally. They’re apparently partnered, since they have matching rings on their left hands, and “feel” like a couple. I went over to greet them, expecting to be caught up on their adventures since I last saw them, some time last summer before we left for camp. The conversation ended up being far more involved than that …

Valerie had been moved out to New England from the west coast by her employer. Chris worked online for an insurance agency, and her work was portable. Neither of them were very fond of the area, and found the locals to be somewhat cool. They were attending a parish in Portsmouth, and in 8 months, no one had ever greeted them. They kept coming back to St. George’s because whenever they came, they found warmth, community, and that people remembered who they were and took an interest in their lives. The only thing keeping them from joining the parish was the liturgy - very difficult to adapt to for someone from the Roman Rite … I know. Now I can respond in Aramaic with the best of them, and none of the Mass seems odd anymore, however I have a bit of a background in some Middle Eastern languages, and I’ve been in the parish since December 2002.

Chris immediately began to pour her heart out - Valerie had been fired from her job. They’d been moved out here for the job, had nothing else here, and now Valerie had been fired. And that’s not all - she’d been fired the day after Chris had renewed the lease on their house. I could see that Chris was making herself sick over it - and that Valerie wasn’t feeling much better about it. She had the added burden of seeing Chris fall apart so badly. I gave Valerie some practical advice on how to get by until a job in her field opens (not always easy for a 57 year old woman) … and Chris advice on how to not have a heart attack. There was quite a bit said … about them remaining open to each other, about being quiet enough to hear and see where to go next … I could see them exchanging meaningful glances.

Then my number came up - again. Chris said, “All of this is just so bad. I’m losing my faith over it!”

I felt as if I’d been punched in the gut. I don’t think she noticed, because she kept right on with her frantic monologue, oblivious. I grabbed her hands, which caught her attention - and in the momentary silence I told her, “Look, you’re the second person this morning to tell me that they’ve lost their faith over something happening in their lives. You haven’t lost your faith - you’re just struggling so hard against what’s happening that you can connect with your faith. Slow down and find a silent place to listen!” That struck a nerve for both of them.

The conversation was interrupted as my lovely parish matrons began to leave, and each one came by tell me how they were doing. Evelyn has broken another rib … Lorraine seems - so tired - and I don’t know why …

Finally, our conversation was brought to a close when Toby tapped on the table and rattled his keys. Yes - we were the last ones out, yet again. Valerie and Chris agreed to “splurge” on the way home … to stop and do a few things they enjoy. They were both far more peaceful than they had been a short while ago.

And this time, I’d gotten as much as I’d given … odd thing is that what I’d gotten had come out of my own mouth.

Once back home, I got to savor an email that I’d seen only briefly before leaving for church. Up until now, when I’ve mentioned this person, I’ve used the name “St. Luke.” St. Luke - the physician Gospel writer … truth-sayer … exemplary researcher into details which no one else seems to notice. It was an apt “nick name.” Dr. Bob and I had been exchanging emails since November, when the imagery and spiritual impact of his blog posts had become like a fire inside of me. I’d created an untraceable gmail account, and sent him an anonymous brief question about his faith - never really expecting an answer. However, he had answered, and his answer had only provided me with more questions. What followed was a series of emails which continue to be exchanged even now. Some of his earlier emails used such intense wording that it had become almost physically painful for me to read them … and although I miss the evocative poetry inherent to his verbal illustrations, I’m still a bit relieved that he no longer paints his replies in such exquisite detail. Perhaps later, when I’m not bruised emotionally and spiritually from head to toe …

I’d used the name Emanon … “No Name” … too embarrassed, too ashamed to admit who I was, even though he wouldn’t have known me if I had. I began putting our email exchanges on another blog, so that I would have a place to read it all together. Soon, I began to use that blog as a journal, and only last week did I abandon it as a journalizing tool to begin this blog - Emanon’s Journey. Too much has changed … I couldn’t continue there, in that shadowed place where everything I say is veiled and obscure. I can say who I am now, and somehow, it doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t know if it means that I’m getting worse - or that I’m getting better - but it’s OK if people know that I’m Doris, I’m Moof … I’m Emanon. I can no longer expend my energy in maintaining layer upon layer of false personae - I need to put my energy into becoming whole again.

I’m amazed that I can write that in a public place, and not immediately want to delete it - or make it invisible somehow. In his last email, Dr. Bob talked about pride being an obstacle to faith … and he’s right, it is. And so is fear … and sometimes our fears are borne from pride (and vice versa) … and they’re not just an obstacle to faith, but also to healing, honesty, openness, and even a will to survive.

This has been a long entry, and I still have so much more to say. Before I can just jump into the meat of the issue, I feel that I have to show who I am … not just say who I am. In that way, I hope to not just be “journalizing” my thoughts for whatever unlikely others who may be interested in the life of some unknown white haired woman in Maine who’s lived too long, and not long enough … but hopefully you can become me, in some ways. Perhaps I can help you to see through my eyes, and feel through my heart. And maybe in doing so, neither of us will be so lonely any more …

What a week it had been! Hartley’s death, the wake, the funeral, Kay’s 60th birthday party … I’d barely had time to do any schoolwork … there’d been no time to be quiet and “regroup.”

I got into my PJ’s early, grabbed my lap top and headed for the bedroom. Doug lay next to me on the bed, relaxing quietly. I was doing some school work, the familiar “new email” chime caught my attention. Sarah! A response from the earlier email I sent her about not being able to come up to Old Town to visit them for a while yet.

It was short. At the end of the email … a brief paragraph:

Daein is certain he has Asperger’s Syndrome. He’s doing all kinds of little tests and looking up symptoms right now… Yeah, no cure for that either AND it’s genetic. Always love good news…

Asperger’s? I’d heard of it … but I had no idea what it was all about. I knew that Daein was very astute, and if he used the word “certain,” it was exactly the word he intended to use - and he was seldom wrong. I decided to do a bit of my own research. I was not prepared for what I found … and I never realized that what I was about to read would change my life forever.

Asperger syndrome is a form of autism, a condition that affects the way a person communicates and relates to others. A number of traits of autism are common to Asperger syndrome including:

• difficulty in communicating
• difficulty in social relationships
• a lack of imagination and creative play

National Autistic Society

A sense of surrealism crept up on me as I continued to read:

CHARACTERISTICS OF ASPERGER SYNDROME

Each person is different. An individual might have all or only some of the described behaviors to have a diagnosis of AS. These behaviors include the following:

• Marked impairment in the use of multiple nonverbal behaviors such as: eye gaze, facial expression, body posture, and gestures to regulate social interaction.
• Extreme difficulty in developing age-appropriate peer relationships. (e.g. AS children may be more comfortable with adults than with other children).
• Inflexible adherence to routines and perseveration.
• Fascination with maps, globes, and routes.
• Superior rote memory.
• Preoccupation with a particular subject to the exclusion of all others. amasses many related facts.
• Difficulty judging personal space, motor clumsiness.
• Sensitivity to the environment, loud noises, clothing and food textures, and odors.
• Speech and language skills impaired in the area of semantics, pragmatics, and prosody (volume, intonation, inflection, and rhythm).
• Difficulty understanding others’ feelings.
• Pedantic, formal style of speaking; often called “ little professor”, verbose.
• Extreme difficulty reading and/or interpreting social cues.
• Socially and emotionally inappropriate responses.
• Literal interpretation of language. difficulty comprehending implied meanings.
• Extensive vocabulary. Reading commences at an early age (hyperlexia).
• Stereotyped or repetitive motor mannerisms.
• Difficulty with “give and take” of conversation.

What is AS?

I began to read some of the signs out loud …

“Oh my God Doug! That’s you!”

He chuckled quietly … within a few minutes, he was sound asleep. I looked over in annoyance … of course he’d go to sleep now! When I’ve just found this amazing information, and I want to tell him … *lightbulb moment!*

And there began the first of many realizations I was to have over the course of the next several days, and in fact, continue to have today, nearly a week later.

As Doug snored quietly, I kept researching … I found a page of emails, letters, poems … written my those who are married to people with Asperger’s: that was the moment of revelation - I saw my life described in detail by strangers I’d never met. As I read, I realized that my hand was covering my opened mouth, and I was sobbing out loud - not my usual reaction to even the direst news. Doug lay beside me - snoring peacefully, as he had been since I’d managed to read the first few symptoms to him.

It all began to be clear - quite clear. I had no idea how much clearer it was going to become over the next several days.

Asperger’s Syndrome

I long to reach you -
so I stretch out my hand -
but I touch a thick glass wall -
and I don’t understand.
I think that it’s me -
something that I’ve done -
so I try double time,
to reach you - precious one.

But you’re feelings are locked away -
behind that thick glass wall -
and you don’t care - or even hear -
my heartache - and desperate call.

I haven’t always understood
that you can’t connect with me.
I thought you cruelly rejected
my deepest self - you see.

My deepest self that FEELS -
and expresses not in words -
an inflexion or a tone of voice
or body language that occurs.

My precious lonely husband -
behind glass you’re locked away.
My eyes can see a smorgasbord -
but I’m starving every day.

[…]

and I must grow in love and patience
and forgiveness and long-suffering too -
through the long and empty hours -
of the silent unreachable you.

When I feel like I don’t exist -
with loneliness way beyond bearing -
and anger rises to irrational heights
at this lack of nurture and caring.

[…]

Copyright © 24th July, 1998 Marguerite Long

“Is Anyone Listening?…

We, the families with our blistered hearts and souls and damaged psyche, are the end-product of undiagnosed and untreated Asperger’s Syndrome. How many of us are out there? Too many I am afraid. The feelings of rejection and loneliness play a major role in the lives of the Aspergers’ family. You and your feelings are not recognized or understood by the afflicted person. You keep giving and giving and trying to change your behavior and ideas and ideals, your hopes and dreams to ‘make peace’, to please someone who doesn’t need or want your emotions, your thoughts or your feelings. They do not comprehend what you are trying so deseperately to convey. Daily living is like a prison with no boundries. Their inability to respond to you emotionally robs you of your self-esteem, friends, family, confidence in yourself and in your confidence in others. It steals a ‘normal life’ away from ‘normal’ people. Those born with the affliction of Asperger’s Syndrome survive at the emotional and psychological expense of others. Of course this is not done consciously on their part! This is the agony of Asperger’s Syndrome! Those afflicted cannot relate to our pain. The pain is in us, the parents, the siblings and the spouses, not the person with the diagnosis of Asperger’s Syndrome. Yes, we should help them! We should do everything humanly possible to make it easier for them to live in our world! But, what about those of us who have had to live in their world for years? Where do we go? What should we do, the parents, the spouses, the siblings, the bearers of this emotional pain in this unrelenting abnormalcy?

Where do we, the ‘walking wounded’ go for help?”

Anonymous, 1997

Taken from Letters: FAAAS

It’s been such a long journey so far. I don’t know how much longer I have to walk on my new path, but I want to be sure to inscribe as much as I can while I’m able - both for myself, and for anyone who could be prevented from going through the things I’ve been living for the last 33 years.

For now, I’ll follow a blog format … perhaps later, that will change. I’ll be adding posts that deal with where I’ve been, where I am now, and what my thoughts are as I journey.

I’m going to use words I’ve never used before in relation to myself … and express ideas that I’ve never dared speak out loud …

I no longer want to hide where I’ve been, and who I’ve been … and since I don’t know who I am, or who I’m becoming, there’s no reason for me to hide where I’m going. I may end up being other than what I’d like to be - but that’s ok, because whatever I end up being will be real.

I’ll end this with one thought: what you do not know CAN hurt you …