Before the sun could shine again, it rained, and rained, and rained. Darkening my very heart, and causing me great pain. I searched my soul for many years, to repair the damage that was done. Before I saw a rainbow, and could walk into the sun. Are you living your life in fear? Are you over stressed? Were you diagnosed with depression, anxiety disorder, compulsive thinking disorder, agoraphobia, or panic disorder? If you were, you need to read this story, my story. At times, do you wonder where you came from, who you are, and what is the meaning of life? I sure did. Sometimes our lives spin out of control in ways we would never expert. We search for answers, sometimes feeling discouraged, confused, and alone, but we never have to feel abandoned. Where there is faith, There is love. Where there is love, There is God.
Courageous Butterfly
A journey to self-acceptance – A message of hope, love and courageBy Nancy ForbesBALBOA PRESS
Copyright © 2011 Nancy Forbes
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4525-3321-6Contents
Foreword.........................................................xiAcknowledgments..................................................xiiiIntroduction.....................................................xviiChapter 1. My Early Years........................................1Chapter 2. Teenage Years.........................................9Chapter 3. The Wild Escape.......................................19Chapter 4. Sweet Jessy...........................................31Chapter 5. The Incessant Dialogue................................53Chapter 6. The Winding Road to Recovery..........................65Chapter 7. Yoga..................................................93Chapter 8. Yesterday, a wise young man spoke.....................109Chapter 9. The Whispers..........................................117Chapter 10. The Ego Speaks Hard..................................135Personal Messages................................................151The Monkey Mind..................................................155The Truth........................................................159Closeness with God...............................................165God Is Love, Love Is God.........................................169The Greatest Gifts...............................................173A Precious Moment................................................177Coming Back to Love..............................................183Fly Away.........................................................191The Art of Moderation............................................195The Power of Friendship..........................................199Whispering, "I love you."........................................203It's Okay to Ask for What We Want................................207I Will Live this Day, and Love this Day..........................213The Power of Letting Go..........................................217People Pleaser...................................................221A Knock from Heaven..............................................225How Can We Help?.................................................231Self-Healing Mantra..............................................235Afterword........................................................239
Chapter One
MY EARLY YEARS
I was only five years old when my sisters Sylvie, six and a half, Johanne, three, and I were placed in a convent outside Montréal. I remember that terrifying period of my life, recalling how frightened and shocked I was when our parents abandoned us. Terrified of the unknown, we were left with strangers without any explanation of why or when our parents would come back for us. A war started to rage inside me, fear took over my tiny body, and I could not understand why my mother had left us. Minutes turned into hours, then hours turned into days, and the weight of the rejection began to rip my heart apart. Overwhelmed by fright, I curled up into a ball and cried for days. I hurt from the very core of my being; that was the beginning of my intense suffering.
With a broken heart, fear seemed to be the only emotion left in me. At this very young age, I had set in motion soul-pain feeling unwanted, unloved, unworthy, and unaware that this baggage would follow me for most of my life. Yet during those terrible months, I had also set in motion my survival instincts. Somehow, I found the strength to survive every obstacle that came my way. I stood for long hours inside a crib, in wet diapers the nuns had forced on me. Humiliated, I waited and waited. I waited for the return of my mother.
As time passed, exhaustion took over, and this allowed me to sleep. It was a brief release from my deep sadness, but only until my eyes opened again. After weeks of endless tears, I finally stopped waiting. I felt trapped; morning to night, I lay in the crib and used my imagination to pass the excruciating hours of seclusion. Behind bars in a crib, like a bird in a cage, I felt abandoned and neglected by everyone, including my parents. The three long months felt like an eternity. I was only five years old, and I lived through my first experience of isolation and abandonment.
The bittersweet return
Home again, my parents tried to reconcile their differences for almost two years. This interlude resulted in two more children, twin girls, Chantal and Sonia. We were now five innocent little girls, ranging from the age of one and a half to eight, in a very dysfunctional household. My father was constantly missing and seldom supported his family. My mother was struggling for money and time, and she worked long hours in a distressed state of mind. Running out of patience, she became overwhelmed with responsibilities and decided to leave our father and send us away. Déjà-vue! As I recalled the pain of our previous separation, I became hysterical and out of control. I cried and begged my mother not to leave me again. I was overwhelmed with fear, as I knew what to expect—the abandonment, the loneliness, and the excruciatingly long wait. I remember crying out, "How long, Mom? How long this time, Mom?"
The very first night at the convent of Centre Térèse-Martin, I cried so hard that I threw up all over my bed and on the stuffed animal that my mother had given me for Christmas, my own precious lion. My insides were torn to shreds; my lion was the only friend I had in the whole world, and I had vomited all over him. That little ball of fur was my only comfort, my companion. It was the most precious possession I owned. I felt my mother's gentle touch in the comfort of its soft, warm fur. I was devastated. I could no longer press my little furry friend against my chest to feel my mother's love. Scared of the reaction of the nuns, I got up, removed my sheets, took them along with my lion to the washroom, and tried desperately to wash them clean. I then returned to bed, carrying with me a very wet stuffed animal. I rested my head on the pillow, squeezing my only friend in the world close to my heart, and waiting forever to fall asleep in a cold, naked bed.
My sisters and I were making a great effort to survive and trying to understand the new situation. We had been separated from each other. Sylvie and I stayed at the convent Centre Térèse-Martin and my younger sisters were put in foster homes. I was only seven years old, facing my second horrific "left behind" abandonment. Little did we know that this time, the wait would be five long years! Even though Sylvie and I were living in the same center, we were separated from the start. We had been placed in two different dormitories, walls and floors apart, so we could only see each other at meal times. My eyes would hunt through the large, noisy cafeteria, hoping to have a glimpse of my sister, desperately looking for a familiar face. My life was upside down; nothing made sense any more. I was sitting only a few feet away from my older sister and yet I was unable to reach her. I wanted to scream, "Let me go, let me be with my sister. I need my life to make sense again." But I was trapped. Someone else was in charge of my every move. I couldn't do what I knew in my heart was right. I had to walk their way, speak their way, and follow their rules. At all times, I had to be obedient and well mannered to meet their expectations. I was forbidden to sit with or talk to my older sister.
To survive Centre Térèse-Martin we had to be good little girls, and luckily, somehow, I managed to do that. I was leaning to survive.
The following year my sister Johanne came to stay with us. I remember clearly the terrifying moment when I was forced to ignore her. I could not protect, comfort or hold her. Johanne was now living with her two older sisters, Sylvie and me, yet walls and floors still kept us apart. On her first day in the cafeteria, Johanne's big brown eyes looked lost and sad. While standing in line with her classmates, she stared in frozen silence at the sitting area. My heart pounded. I was in so much pain to see her so frightened. Her eyes began wandering across the room until she noticed me. Only ten feet away from her, I was anxiously waiting for her eyes to reach mine. When finally they found me, she smiled.
Johanne was only five and a half years old and to me, she looked undersized, too fragile to be here with us, and yet, she kept smiling. I had a deep and profound desire to hold her in my arms, to let her know that I was there for her, but it was forbidden. Johanne was surrounded by many lost little souls just like mine. I stared at her big brown eyes and cried inside, Don't be frightened Johanne, I am here for you. Except, I can't reach you. I'm sorry. I am so sorry.
I felt powerless to help her.
Today's reflection: My sister Johanne
So many years have passed since I last saw my sister Johanne. I can't believe that the last time we spoke was ten years ago. I still want to hold and protect her, although this time, I know it's really up to her.
For over twenty-five years now, Johanne has chosen to follow a strict religious organization with very strong convictions. For her it's the only way to God's ultimate love. I have chosen a different path to meet God—not that my way is a better way, but Johanne has decided to break all ties with our family. We tried for years to reach her, but failed every time. I have decided to let her go and to let God protect her. I love my sister and I respect her decision, and by surrendering and accepting what is, I know I have freed her and myself from more suffering.
However, I am letting her go with an open heart. Whenever she is ready, I will be right here to meet her with open arms.
I love you, Johanne I miss you so very much
1971: The excruciatingly long wait, at the age of eight
Sylvie, Johanne, and I were able to visit my mother almost every other weekend, and for that short time, my mother's kind words of love would help us to survive the wait. She would say, "Soon, very soon, we will be together again." However, time would pass and her words left me drowning in disappointment and in a deep silent sadness. Every day I dreamed of our reunion, but week after week, there was nothing but heartbreak and disappointment, just another month of grief—another year of disillusionment. For five anxious little girls, the word "soon" meant days, possibly months, but certainly not five years. I was losing hope, I was losing faith. Every single night, I prayed to God, "Please reunite my family, and I promise that I will be a very good little girl." Nevertheless, five long years passed, and it seemed to me that I spent my whole childhood in a convent. I was twelve years old before my family was reunited. Finally, I was living with my mother and sisters, and nothing else mattered. I don't even recall feeling angry about what had happened. I was too high with relief to be resentful. For a while, I lived in the moment, enjoying every minute of my freedom. It seemed that I had let go of the past and was moving quickly forward. Adjusting to my new surroundings came easily. We had a wonderful new house, I had a bedroom I loved, and I adored A journey to self-acceptance—A message of hope, love and courage. my new school. However, adjusting to my mother's boyfriend, who became my "sort-of stepfather," was another story. It did not take too long for us to dislike his ways of parenting. He was short-tempered, cold and demanding, constantly screaming to intimidate us. He had no trouble demonstrating that he did not want us there. I was scared of him from the beginning. However, Lucien was the reason we were all together as a family, so we had to endure his presence and his rules. It became more and more difficult to live with him. We had to ask his permission for everything: to go out with friends, to watch television, to listen to music, to take a bath, to eat, and even to speak. He had no tolerance. Our cheerfulness annoyed him, so he stopped us from playing and being childlike. He ruined our newfound happiness. It didn't matter what day or time it was, when he was around, we had to be extremely quiet and well behaved. It was very stressful for five little girls who desperately needed to experience love and playtime, and to have a little freedom. Forbidden to be a child, my life became a prison once again. The dreadful feeling of not belonging soon came back to haunt me.
"God, where do I belong?" I questioned again.
The obsession with questioning my identity started around that time. By the age of twelve my given name meant nothing to me; in fact, it troubled me. A few months following our family's reunion, my hopes and dreams were shattered. With little concern for our happiness, my sisters and I were forced to survive in a house full of tension and extreme demands. When things got too out of hand, my mother would try to ease the pain. She would share a smile and giggle with us without my stepfather knowing. It was her gentle way of telling us to listen and do whatever he said in order to keep the peace.
At times, when everyone else was asleep, my mother would come into my bedroom. She would gently wake me up so as we could talk. At such times, I realized how much she truly loved us. My mother knew how difficult it was for us, but felt she couldn't do anything about it, as Lucien was the reason we were all together.
I saw my mother cry frequently, and I knew her heart was breaking. She wanted security and a refuge for her children. She endured and suffered as much as we did. When Lucien would leave for work, the tension and negative energy left with him. Then, and only then, would we be able to breathe and laugh again together with my mother.
For six long years, I tried to cope while I waited, waited to grow up so I could move out and maybe fall in love. I wanted to have someone to be with, and wanted to belong somewhere.
Caught in a haze, I often saw myself standing in the middle of the world—alone.
"Is there a place for me here?" I wondered.
Chapter Two
TEENAGE YEARS
Although it was wrong from the start, I fell in love at the age of fifteen with a sixteen-year-old boy, whom I shall refer to as Derek. Derek was a popular teenager; however he was always getting in trouble. The boys respected him because they thought he was the coolest kid in town, and the girls loved him because of his attractive bad-boy image. He was six foot tall with a great smile, piercing green eyes, and long beautiful hair; he captured my heart. Unfortunately, Derek came from a very dysfunctional family, as I did. He was emotionally wounded from lack of love, attention, and parenting. He was suffering, and through his constant emotional outbursts, I suffered as well. He was subject to explosions of jealousy and was very controlling. He ordered me around constantly and criticized my every move—the way I dressed, the way I spoke, even the way I walked—not much of a change from my prior and actual life. Wanting desperately for the relationship to work, I agreed to his demands. I dressed, talked, and walked to please him. I believed this would keep the peace between us. He would then love me and then I would be happy. Being submissive had worked with the nuns and now at home. Therefore, I assumed that by following the same pattern with my boyfriend, everything would be okay. I would have someone to love me and would no longer feel alone. I jumped head first into the relationship, unaware that things were about to get worse, and I mean a lot worse. During his insecurities and fits of rage, I became his punching bag. This irrational behavior came to be a consistent affair. Wanting desperately to belong, I allowed this abuse to happen. I let him mistreat me for the three years we were together. The verbal abuse began almost immediately, and the physical abuse started shortly afterwards. At first, he pushed and called me names, and soon, I was being dragged, punched, and beaten into the ground. In the beginning, he apologized and begged for forgiveness, and I felt sorry for him, so I accepted his apologies. I allowed this to happen over and over again. I somehow believed he had the right to treat me this way.
Derek blamed me, one way or another, for his heated outbreaks. They became my fault, of course. "You are too beautiful, too nice, too friendly. Look at the way you dress. Look at the way you approach people, your walk stirred up attention, your smile is provocative. I love you so much that it makes me crazy when I see you talk to other people. It drives me insane when guys are looking at you."
I began to think that he might be right, perhaps I was too friendly, too nice, to pleasing, etc. I wanted so desperately to find someone and leave my miserable life that I changed to please him. I transformed myself to whomever he wanted me to be. I tried to look distant and less attractive, and very soon I became introverted. However, it did not matter how much I distanced myself from the world, it was never good enough for him. It did not work. He always found a reason to mistreat me, and because of my insecurities and hunger to feel loved, I slowly began to fade away. Sadly I continued to accept and tolerate his physical and mental abuse, losing myself piece by piece along the way, until one day I had all but disappeared. I had no self-esteem, no self-respect, and no self-worth left in me. I had faded into Derek's shadow. No one knew about the abuse, not even my mother. However, I know she saw bruises on my body from where I had been pushed, cut, and punched so many times, even though I was trying very hard to cover them and find excuses for each mark. I told my family and friends that I had fallen off my bike, hit the corner of a table, or fallen down the stairs. I even said that I had fistfights with friends. I learned how to cover up the bruises and the pain, lying to keep people from knowing my secret, the secret I was so ashamed of. I knew it was wrong and I knew one day it could kill me, but I was blinded by desperation.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Courageous Butterflyby Nancy Forbes Copyright © 2011 by Nancy Forbes. Excerpted by permission of BALBOA PRESS. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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