Introduction

An Unlit Path

Author: Deborah Hannah

Introduction Reflections on a Life Once Lived “Give yourself fully to God. He will use you to accomplish great things on the condition that you believe much more in His love than in your own weakness.” Mother Theresa Today, I found the courage to open my front door, looking out as if for the first time. I saw to the west, the mountains of Colorado, and to the east, the sun rising in an array of colors. I am sure this happened every day; today however, was the first time in over two years that I had allowed myself to see it. As I stepped out, the crisp spring air swept gently across my face, creating a stark contrast to the long lonely winter that I had now survived. The truth is it was not just a winter; I had somberly watched as each season took its turn. Once so aware of the magnificence of nature, now I could not even fathom how much I had missed. I longed to leave my safe haven and rejoin the world but I was haunted by visions of a past that I could not escape. As I walked out on the veranda, I remembered it as this beautiful place, once used for the gathering of family and friends and the sharing of stories and laughter, now, at its best, it was merely an anxiety-provoking extension of my personal refuge. Leaves, debris and other evidence of abandonment cluttered the flooring; tumbleweeds overshadowed traces of large blooming rose bushes, and the deafening sound of silence drowned out the sounds of a life once lived. The sentence of my self-imposed imprisonment had ended, and freedom was mine, if only I could find the courage to accept it. Each sight, each sound, each smell reminded me of what I so wanted to forget. I had many reasons for not coming out here anymore and it was not only who or what I would see, it was who would see me. I wished foremost for anonymity. I had been here only a moment and already I missed the safety of my sanctuary. Still, I had to stay, because this day could not be one of fear, it could only be one of truth. The leaves left laying where they had fallen months before, crackled with the wind; suddenly, my mind drifted to five years earlier. I remembered walking out the front door of Fort Lewis, the state mental hospital, when then too, I noticed the leaves; they were falling in the night breeze. It was cold, and I was frightened. I looked back as I heard the hollow metal clang of the door shutting behind me. I pulled my collar up around my neck to protect myself, I suppose from the cool night air, or perhaps instead, from whatever demons I sensed I needed protection. I heard emanating from within the walls, the disturbing sounds of people distressed by something they did not understand. I then felt the presence of someone’s eyes watching me as if he were aware of how truly frightened I was. I reached for my keys; I wanted them in my hands when I found my car. I did not want to take even one extra moment at a place where I did not belong. I wondered if the man who was watching me thought he belonged there, or if he too, shared my denial. I looked towards my car and the distance I would need to walk. The man, once hidden, now outwardly stood on the side of the building. I debated in my mind if I should wait in the safety of the light, accepting those demons that waited therein, or if I should venture out, because despite the danger, it was at least an attempt to reclaim my sanity. I began walking briskly; to my dismay, he followed. I walked faster and faster, each step I took, I felt him behind me. I had begun to run by the time I reached my car; I fumbled with the key to get it in the lock, sure that at any moment he would reach out and grab me. The door unlocked, I pulled it open and quickly I was in, and just as quickly, I locked the door again. I looked around, but to my disbelief, I could not see him anywhere. I sat in the dark, weeping, and wondering what was real and what was not. Had there really been a man there at all? Maybe it was what he represented that frightened me. Was I afraid that if I did not leave this place, that what he had, I would too? Was I afraid I already did and that he sensed it? Did he know of the last few years of my life and the depth of the darkness I had been drawn into; did he know that I belonged there, probably more than he? I do not know who he was or what he represented, all I knew for sure was that I had to leave this place and I never wanted to come back. I looked around me, I had left that place and five years had since passed. I was home but the home I once knew no longer existed. My memories, once so real, were now only witnesses to an illusion. Feeling weak, I looked at the old rocking chair swaying in the wind; it called out to me with the squeak of an eerie rhythm. I remembered singing to children as they sat in my lap on this chair, now, empty and weathered by the years; it offered no proof of this past. Still, I sat down and began to rock. I wondered where all the years had gone, I remembered happiness and true joy, yet now they were only a distant memory. I reached out to touch the crumpled brown rose that still clung to the vine. I watched as although it turned to ash in my fingers, to my amazement, it began to slowly regain its beautiful red color. Not so, the red was simply an indication of the thorn piercing my skin. I thought of how often I had made that same mistake, confusing betrayal for beauty. I was brought back to a day only two years prior, when then too, I felt the thorn of deceit. It was the afternoon that I learned where my children were; they had been missing for what seemed an eternity. The nightmare I had been enduring of not knowing what had happened to them was over, only now a new nightmare had begun, accepting the betrayal hidden in that truth. No one would speak to me, instead only about me; the truth was now lies, and lies now the truth. The betrayal continued as I learned the people I once counted as dear friends and confidants had known all along where my children were and decided not to tell me. What I once saw as beautiful, my family and my friends, was now only the piercing thorn. I wiped the blood from my hand, if only the blood of their betrayal could have so easily been washed away. I rocked a little longer trying to remember why it was that I had not wanted to come out here for so long. I remembered such happy times but those thoughts were sharply interrupted by the memory of a loud knock on the front door. I had answered it with no fear or trepidation; I had not known such emotions yet. It was the police, followed by Social Services; they would teach me to experience those emotions each time thereafter. I lived in fear from that day to this, unable to regain the confidence and innocence that had marked my character prior to that knock. It was a defining moment in the life I had created; it was a defining moment in that life now lost. I remembered why I did not come out these doors for so long, it was a memory that I wished had also been lost. I found myself wiping the tears from my face. It was so painful to look back, so frightening to look forward, so lonely to stay present. I looked out towards the pond and saw a couple walking along. My first thought was to jump up and go back into my fortress. Instead, I put my head down and waited until they had passed. I had averted this threat but apprehensively, I awaited the next. I was beginning to understand it was not these walls that kept me captive; it was my own fear and self-doubt. This doubt was birthed on a winter evening at the Sheriff Department, my whole family interrogated, each in our own rooms, forced to write statements as to what had actually transpired over the past years. Once born, the doubt gave place to shame and guilt, which grew into a barbed wire fence around my heart, completing the imprisonment. I could no longer sit in this rocking chair; these agonizing visions of the past were now becoming too painful to bear. I stood up as if trying to get away from them. Still, I knew, the more difficult ones were yet to come. The memories of the hurtful times of deceit, betrayal and abandonment ripped my heart out. The memories of the times of love and trust and genuine joy left my heart in tact to feel the depth of the wound, over and over again. Suddenly, I heard the sound of a dog barking, as I looked over towards it, my eye caught the big blue van that sat in front of our house, as if telling the whole world who we were. This 15-passenger van had been our second home. We took it to baseball practice each day and to basketball games and wrestling tournaments. We took it on family outings, bowling and to the movies. We shared songs, laughter, and always our love for one another in this van. Whether we were eating an ice cream cone in it or having a serious discussion about life, it was real. People jokingly referred to it as “The Brady Bunch Van.” We knew the Brady Bunch had nothing on us. The kids named it John Henry when they were young because it was so big and strong. We took it on vacations and yes, several of the children had even taken their turn getting sick in it. It was once full of a time in our lives that we knew happiness, now it sat empty, the seats removed on the inside and rust beginning to take its toll on the outside. Like our lives, it too, showed the wear and tear of the days gone by. I wanted it gone, just as I had wanted to move from this home. I wanted to break free from the sights and sounds of whom we once were and again claim the obscurity that now evaded us. Yet, the van remained, perhaps because of our unwillingness to let go and perhaps because it was the validation of our truth. I walked towards it and as I placed my hand on the side, I sighed; I could almost hear the sounds of the children coming from within it. In reality, I knew that it was nothing more than a beat-up old van, and no matter how much I wanted it to, it held no truth. I walked back up to the porch with the nervous energy that is found when you walk but really do not have any idea where you are going. I was on the porch again, safer than in the world, not as safe as if I just went back in the house and decided to do this another day. Nevertheless, I had said that so many times before; this truly was another day. I had to wonder though; did reliving all this hurt serve any possible good? I needed understanding of my life and its purpose. I knew of no other way to get it, so I continued. I looked to the sign that hung above our front door, “Bienvenidos, mi casa es su casa,” it read. We had brought that sign home with us from a cruise that we had taken to Mexico, Joe and I and all of the children. We loved traveling together, spending so much time learning of other cultures and other people. We had gone swimming in the ocean, and horseback riding in the mountains. That trip was not a lie, was it? The hugs, the laughter, the intimacy of spirit, had all been real to me, but had they been real? In all this time I had not found the answer to that question, maybe I had been afraid to seek it. The only truth I did know is that I longed for those days and yet hated every memory of them. As I walked back towards the rocking chair, I saw in the bushes, underneath a pile of withered leaves, an old worn football. I picked it up, and in a futile effort, tried to wipe the dirt off as if to bring it back to life. It reminded me of every Saturday afternoon in the fall. We would always have several games to attend, Joe, as football coach, and I, as cheerleading coach. We worked hard all week with each of the children to prepare for Saturdays. As I tossed the ball up and down in the air, I could almost hear the whistle of the referee, the sound of helmets hitting helmets and the echo of the girls cheering for their brothers. None of which were as loud as the scream of the crowd and the sound of parents trying to relive their youths. Those truly were the glory days, the days we were sure our children would never forget, and the days we as parents would cherish. I laid the ball back down and again sat back in the rocking chair. This time it was harder than I remembered, offering no comfort to my growing uneasiness. There was no escape from the harshness of my reality. The harshness I felt, the reality I still could not sense. Is the truth, the truth when only you believe it? Is an illusion an illusion if you cannot see through it? If I could find a way to perceive my reality, maybe I could accept it. To do that meant I would need to pick through the pieces and instead of judging my life by brief visions and memories, I needed to look at the totality of what I had tried to do. Did the tragic consequences negate the premise or was this in some ways, the predictable end to such a journey? I took a sip of my tea, wrapped the afghan around my shoulders and settled in for the long process of remembering a past that most would choose to forget or at least admit no involvement in or liability to.