I Changed My Mind

By Tracie Crawford

Tracie has been writing all of her lifepoems, short stories, and inspirational verse. Although blessed with this gift, she felt something was missing. Should there be more?

Somewhere around 1992 she had an eye opening chit-chat in the ladies room at church with a friend. She discovered her friend had overcome some pretty big stumbling blocks in her own life and now had an amazing grace filled testimony! Tracie admired her friends courage and grit and wished that she too had her own dramatic story; one that would inspire others.

You know that old saying, Be careful what you ask for? Well, ask and you shall receive! Tracie got more drama than she had bargained for when she fell for a man who proceeded to turn her life upside down and inside out. She endured years of degradation, humiliation, and manipulation. She had been verbally accosted, emotionally drained, and mentally abused, but no more!

She found her strength and remembered her gift. Changing her mind hadnt changed her purpose, so after regaining her life, she put it into words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jun 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466922259

Tracie Crawford

It’s not always easy reaching one’s readers, but Tracie’s unique voice and gift of pleasing audiences spans from children to senior citizens. Once a bathroom philosopher, her love for words was born. Now she’s out of the stall and in print, and can finally write for everyone!

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Copyright 2012 Tracie Crawford.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

isbn: 978-1-4669-2226-6 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4669-2225-9 (e)

Trafford rev. 06/06/2012

missing image file www.trafford.com

North America & international

toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

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Contents

DISCLAIMER

Foreword

CHAPTER ONE    COMING TO TERMS

CHAPTER TWO    HUMAN NATURE

CHAPTER THREE    SOAP BOX DERBY

CHAPTER FOUR    IF I WERE GOD: TO THE POOL!

CHAPTER FIVE    THE DOG AND PONY SHOW

CHAPTER SIX    STAND UP AND BE COUNTED

CHAPTER SEVEN    LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

CHAPTER EIGHT    BITING THE POISONED APPLE

CHAPTER NINE    THE GREEN EYED MONSTER AND ME

CHAPTER TEN    THE WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

CHAPTER ELEVEN    TO LOVE, HONOR, AND OBEY

CHAPTER TWELVE    LAW AND ORDER

LUCKY CHAPTER THIRTEEN    FOR BETTER OR WORSE?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN    FINDING MYSELF AGAIN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN    IN SICKNESS AND IN HEALTH: MORE PAIN PILLS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN    MIND GAMES AND WORD PLAY: DECEPTION

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN    DEFINING DECENCY: FASHION SHOW FODDER . . . .

THIS ONE IS FOR ME!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN    THE FINAL CHAPTER

About the Author

A woman’s heart should be so hidden in CHRIST, that a man should have to seek HIM first, to find HER . . . . MAYA ANGELO

He’s not perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you can. He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking about you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don’t hurt him, don’t change him, and don’t expect for more than he can give. Don’t analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that is perfect for you.—Bob Marley.

DISCLAIMER

I have a singular job here, which is to tell you my story. In many ways I am a comedian with stage fright. I’m not a public speaker, I am a writer. There will be some laughs, so enjoy them. Parts of my story are completely ridiculous.

I’ve laughed at many things in this book, but my story is ultimately about the abuse and how I survived it’s many forms in the relationship I had with my ex husband. If you are currently in an abusive relationship or know someone that is, you may want to know if you (or the person you know) should leave. I’m sorry, but advice is not in my job description. I’m not a therapist, nor do I have a Ph. D. I can’t tell anyone what to do. In fact, I’ve found that a lot of people who ask for advice don’t really want it. They are usually just looking for someone to agree with them that their abuser, although intolerable, will change so they don’t have to make a painful life decision for themselves. Most of us must make our own mistakes.

Very few learn by example, but my hope is that you will read and then obtain some insight about me, about yourself, and others. So I invite you to read along as I tell my tale, but please understand, I do not relive the drama, old feelings, or emotions. Even with the distasteful event that happened when I was 5, which I will discuss in a later chapter, it does NOT influence my life. Yesterday’s stuff does not have an open invitation into my present life.

I am not a worrier by nature and can have a very I don’t care attitude sometimes. I don’t mean this in an offensive way. I suffer from multiple personality disorder. You’ll find that I can be serious and funny at the same time. I can be fickle, yet extremely loyal. I am steadfast, yet will change my mind in a heartbeat. I love the well laid plans of an itinerary and sticking to it to the letter, yet I love spontaneity and doing things on a whim.

We are all made up of many endearing qualities and we must learn to share them equally inside our hearts and minds. If we let 1 or 2 of them take over for too long then things can get slippery, and depending on how you view careening down the side of a mountain in a small plastic tub, it can be thrilling or scary. Reality is perception, so choose your viewing glass carefully. Oh, one other thing. Don’t get caught up in grammar, punctuation, sentence format, my love of metaphors, or if I end a sentence with a preposition. Just read.

Foreword

Whoever coined the phrase sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me didn’t know my ex husband. Words can honor and praise as well as be destructive, demeaning, and hateful. Life and death are in the power of the tongue. I’m not sure when I realized I was in a sadistic relationship, but in time it was very clear that I was being abused on a large scale by the man that I chose to love for almost 10 years.

As big and threatening as his words were, he was actually a coward. He mastered intimidation and coercion to satisfy his own desires. Mind you, some of his verbal assaults were successful. However, sometimes they were not and occasionally backfired. Verbal intimidation is a cowardly weapon used by bullies. The wielders of this tool count on their shows of superiority to beat down and force their victims into submission; in this arena they pray to go unchallenged. They push their way through life relying on subtle sneak attacks. The enticement of flattery is used as bait to gain your trust and devotion, which later spews with venom. Saying no to a bully is no easy task.

He never laid a hand on me. My hell was marked by cruel and insulting words, hateful eyes, intimidation, manipulation, blame, put downs, nagging, accusations, the silent treatment, anger, lies, vulgarity, jealousy, financial abuse, and other vile behavior unbefitting a marriage. He did things that didn’t leave obvious bruises or scars. I thought I had reached my limit a few times. He berated me and I lashed out. I threw a soda at him in the car. His serene reaction had me so tied up in knots, I was soon in tears. His stoic demeanor versus my emotional outburst increased his power and I handed it to him on a silver platter with a rose and a mint.

Some people don’t understand why victims of abuse don’t leave their abusers. I can offer some insight. A few answers acceptable in our own eyes: we’re brainwashed so we are afraid to leave; we really do love the person who treats us harshly; we could be afraid to be alone and would certainly not survive without them despite the insults, tirades, and depravity; yet, somehow against all reason, they validate our existence. Shouldn’t it be Christ who does this, and not some megalomaniac? It’s drama staged with fear; it’s the glue that holds a relationship of absurdity together.

Acceptance and complacency soften the rough edges of ugliness. At first it’s quite offensive, but after lingering a while our emotions begin to harden and the ugliness becomes like a smooth, black stone. It’s still ugly, just no longer dangerous with its sharp, pointy edges. The threat has become minimal, so easier to live with and to accept. Everything is justified.

My perception of the man that I married, and later divorced, was muddied. It’s laughable now, but much of the time we were together he portrayed himself as a victim. My life and marriage quickly became like that smooth, black stone; I ignored the deception and saw only the illusion. It was pretty and shiny; I wanted it. I wanted him. Lord, what was I thinking?

This book has helped me to heal, although I let go of much of it years ago. Forgiving him was the easy part. Forgiving myself for allowing his nastiness to be inflicted on me and my family, in public and in private . . . not so much. When I finally let go of the doubts and regrets, redemption was sweet and was like revival.

Gaining power over my weakness was my right of passage. I saw something online recently that I like. It said simply pain is weakness leaving the body. I will be truthful in this forum. You can take my word on everything I say. So, speaking of weakness, when I first met him, he made me weak in the knees; my lips quivered, and my throat got dry. My weakness allowed him to use me for years. It took a long time, but I decided to fight for my life. I was either going to drown with him, or I was going to save myself, so for almost 10 years I waited for him to change into the man I thought he needed to be for me, himself, and for others. I finally let go of him and my broken dreams. And yes, it was very painful for a while (weakness leaving), but where there once was weakness, now there is strength. I changed, not him.

My story leaves out a lot of information. Every single detail is not necessary, but what I have decided to share is all true. The moral of this story is that when life hands you lemons, write a book. Thank you for reading.

CHAPTER ONE

COMING TO TERMS

I don’t know exactly when I wrote the following passage, but after finding it on my old desktop computer, I realized it was this very book in the making.

Silent Night

All was quiet. No sounds, no movements. Only the fan was turning, circulating the night air, without so much as a hum. Just a coolness, devoid of name, shape or presence. There was peace and rest for the first time in months. It was the first night in which she really slept. In the stillness of the shadows of the night, her breath was barely detectable. Even the cat was still, all curled up in an orange fluffy ball, its whiskers stirring and twitching only occasionally.

It hadn’t always been like this. She had practically become accustomed to the nightly tirades and tantrums that were part of her life, and her marriage. For the first few years, it was for the most part, excused. It’s like the old saying, when he is good, he is very good and when he is bad, he is very bad. Of course, there were AA meetings, support groups, and friends and family that helped to sweep the problem under the rug. She did this herself while searching for answers that never came. One day at a time didn’t work for him. It only works for those who want it to work. And he didn’t. He had no intention of being sober. Then, there was a devastating accident. It would affect him for the rest of his life . . . . and hers. She knew nothing would ever be the same.

From almost the minute she had married him, she’d known it had been a mistake; that everyone was right, that she couldn’t change him, no matter how much she loved him. And she did love him, warts and all. But this life was different. It would take some getting used to. She began living it with him . . . because she loved him. Many times she justified her decision. People began feeling sorry for her. Here she was, working to support herself and the man she’d married. Why shouldn’t she work and devote her life to him? After all, he had survived a severe health blow and he needed her love and support. She would nurture him back to health and once again prove her devotion to him. She wanted to make him happy. Even if she were becoming less and less happy herself.

They wanted children, but he already had a son and daughter he didn’t support. Oddly, while wanting to bear his child, she had also begun to loathe him. She detested him to the point that she wished he’d died in that accident or later on the operating table. She’d almost lost count of the times he’d gone under the knife. While he got a kick out of going under the anesthesia, she quietly prayed to God for a release.

When he was drunk, cruel, or high, she hated him. As of late he was a combination of the three, if not all at once. Never had he laid a hand on her, but his special kind of abuse was just as degrading, though not as obvious as a bruise or a broken arm or nose. It was shame; and servitude. For too many years she had withstood the insults, the lies, the cursing, the filthy accusations, and the anger. Oh sure, there had been great times. Christmases, birthdays, days at the lake, movies and pizza, time with family . . . yes, there were truly good times. But his dark side leaked out little by little, and his anger revealed. Was it only a matter of time?

Three days after her 36th birthday, it was time to let go of her dreams of happily ever after. Once again he was high. Once again she went to work, trying to keep a roof over their heads. Once again, profanity, anger and contemptibility spewed from his heart and lips, and once again, he was NOT going to work. She went to work to escape. It was more than a means of support. There he couldn’t hurt or embarrass her. There, she was free of him.

She had phoned him several times during the night to check up on him, to gauge his level of mania and intoxication. He was playing loud music, answering then hanging up the phone, laughing in her face, and disturbing their neighbors. The police had come and gone to the neighbor’s dissatisfaction. He was high on pills and drinking. He denied it, but she knew.

She wondered where and how he had gotten them as she left work after her shift. The plan was swirling around in her head and finally formed a clear picture. She got into her car, pulled out her phone and dialed 911. The call was brief. I’ll meet a squad car at the house. she told the dispatcher. This wasn’t the first time she’d called 911 on her husband.

It would be the last. Three officers came and took her husband away at her request. No world war three. No broken furniture or stained carpet like last time. No threats, no broken promises, and no more tirades. This time it was neat and clean, without name calling, embarrassment, or shame. He sobbed, promising to change. He wanted a second chance. There’d been at least a thousand, but now there were no more. With blue lights flashing, yet, getting dimmer as the distance was broadened, the officers took him away.

Once he was gone she immediately began to reclaim her dignity. It was sweet. It was lovely and still and peaceful and quiet. It was subtle. So much so that she didn’t even realize it. She slipped back into the normal life she’d once known a long time ago.

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On December 31, 1993, my life took a sharp turn down and to the left. I’m older and wiser now. Wrinkles and age spots have taken up residence on my hands, but my face is still good. I regained my smile and my laugh. Although I’m free from the bondage of what once was, my hands have been the tool in the telling of my tale and they alone bear the scars of the account. Age spots and a few wrinkles on my hands are a small price to pay for pain that turned to joy and tears that turned to laughter, I think.

Fast forward 10, 15, or 20 years. You are no longer the person you once were. I’d be willing to bet that you’ve changed. Most have. However, some struggle with this notion. I don’t believe that kids intentionally decide not to grow up while playing video games, hanging out with their friends or sleeping half their young lives away. Some find the conversion difficult and refuse the trip. What’s not exciting about paying bills? Being grown up isn’t always exciting, but it is rewarding.

I believe that when we’re younger, many of us dream about getting married, having kids, a house, a couple of cars, and maybe a boat or a second home. Some of us get exactly that. Some of us want cats, dogs, horses, or exotic animals; others go petless. The animal issue aside, deep down, we all dream of more . . . of what happens after the hormones have quit raging and life settles in around us.

Do those dreams include a time share or a chalet in the snow capped mountains of some glamorous vacation destination? How about a romantic, albeit tiny little hut on a sandy beach beside crystal blue waters, like on the brochure? For others, it’s the all day/all night life in an electric city on the move where there’s hustling, bustling, pushing, shoving, energy drinks, and insomnia; where pink and green neon signs pulse rhythmically and your skins turns a weird shade of orange, yellow, or a vibrant mossy green. You’d better be rich or practice restraint for that dream.

Whatever your ultimate goal in life, after working and saving it’s time to put the plan into action. The options are endless. We can relax in the garden, go golfing in the Highlands of Scotland, spear fishing in the Caribbean, hiking in the Andes, or camping in the vastness of Yosemite. How about painting or sculpture in Italy? We can travel the world or stay home or do both by reading. Some will work until they drop while loving every minute of it. I’m not a work til you drop