Letting Go: A Memoir

By C.C. Rayne

Read Carlenes crazy and wonderful journey as she began running from a life of abuse, cultish religion & unhealthy relationships. Her journey gives new meaning to the word control.

It began with a life of control and fear. She was out of control by trying to fit in with a different world. Ultimately, she found that letting go of control was when the healing process began.

Are you a victim of abuse but havent faced up to it? Have you been exposed to a religion that has left you feeling broken with false hope and a warped view of God? Does the ministry dictate certain standards you are to adhere to, all in the name of Jesus? Do you feel shame for things that happened to you as a child but have pushed the demons so far down that suicide might be the only option?

If you want to find healing and freedom, read Carlenes journey and find that you are not crazy. You are not alone: let your journey begin today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491805138

C.C. Rayne

CC Rayne resigned from Child Protective Services to finish her memoir and pursue her dream in writing. She continues working on other projects in order to publish in the near future. CC Rayne desires to help others find their own way by sharing her story and volunteering within the community. Spending time with family is where she finds complete joy. CC lives with her husband in Ohio where they enjoy hiking, and traveling together.

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© 2013 C.C. Rayne. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/05/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0512-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0511-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-0513-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013913578

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1 Family Life

Chapter 2 Church—Cult

Chapter 3 Controlled

Chapter 4 A Moment with Matt

Chapter 5 Life with Pete

Chapter 6 Out of Control

Chapter 7 Letting Go

Conclusion

In memory

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Preface

I wake from another nightmare filled with anger, fear, and confusion.

You’re going to hell Carlene! Mom screams at me, or is that the preacher? I’m in a dark tunnel running from someone. At first I can’t tell if it’s Mom or the red-faced preacher. But now I see the face. It’s her. With only one tooth in her mouth, she is terrifying, with her long auburn hair flowing and flames of fire surrounding her. She chases me with a belt while screaming, Carlene, get your ass in here! Then I see another figure: my preacher. He’s on the pulpit preaching fire, hell and brimstone. His eyes are so huge they look like they’ll pop out of his head. His face is as red as the devil’s.

Oh Lord! I forgot to pay my tithes this week. Mom is chasing me around the house with that belt, hitting every part of my body as my pastor yells, You’re going to split hell wide open! His face is the color of the fire above his head. Mom’s eyes are wild and bloodshot, and her hair is tangled, long and messy as she hits me over and over again. Oh how I hate the belt! And the buckle. God it hurts! Now she’s yelling, Spare the rod, spoil the child, Carlene! And I can hear my minister in the background yelling the same thing on the pulpit to the saints of the church: Spare the rod, spoil the child! You need to correct the sins of your children! God don’t want spoiled kids in heaven!

I wake up. My pillow is soaked with tears.

Chapter 1

Family Life

Mom’s parents were Catholic. She remembers her father as a quiet, happy, hardworking man, but her mother was a different story. My grandmother was a gambler and loved to play bingo. According to Mom, she spent most days in the bingo hall, and lost more than she won. She says there were many times Grandma would send her to the water department or landlord to ask for more time to pay an unpaid bill. Her mother made her do cruel things, like shave when she was 15 years old. My mom made me use a razor on my face and ever since then I have had to shave like a man every single day, she said. I felt so sorry for her. She only made it to the 11th grade in school. Mom said she resented me for having it easy. That’s why I hate you sometimes. I can’t help it, Carlene. You don’t have to be exposed to things like that. You’re lucky. This is my cross and it’s something I have to deal with. So when she hugged me after a beating, I felt I had to forgive her.

My father only got as far as the 2nd grade in school. He could write and spell his name, but he wasn’t able to read. He was a welder and galvanizer with the Schuler Factory, which fabricated structural steel for the electrical industry in, Ohio. He would come home with white chunks of steel on his clothes and smell like chemicals. Between breathing in that toxic air and smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, his lungs were in bad shape.

My parents’ moved seven times after my fifth birthday. I went to three elementary schools and two high schools. My mom, Claudia, was 22 years old when she married 32-year-old Gabe, my Day. For some reason we called our Dad Day until we were old enough to be embarrassed about it. Mom and Day were married on May 6, 1965. Two months later she gave birth to William. I was born a year later; and the following winter Claudia Maddie entered the world. She was born with creamy, white skin—Day used to say she was his little china doll—and a head full of dark black hair. Claudia was named after Mom, but they called her by her middle name, Maddie. Mom became pregnant soon after Maddie was born, but miscarried in 1968. This was a painful loss for her, but she didn’t have time to mourn. She had three children under the age of three to take care of.

Soon after Mom’s miscarriage, on July 23, 1969, she gave birth to Penelope Ruth. But the umbilical cord had wrapped around the baby’s neck, and Penelope did not survive. After the nurses had washed her, they wrapped her in a blanket and placed her in something like a shoebox. Mom began sobbing and yelling, That is my baby! She has a soul. She is not just a piece of meat! Take her out of that box and we’ll take care of her! She is a human being! Although my parents had no savings, my father promised he’d find a way to make sure Penelope had a casket and a proper burial.

It is known that, after a stillbirth, mothers can experience psychotic breakdowns. Children born before or after a stillbirth, where there has been a failure for the mother to properly mourn, can have severe emotional difficulties. I believe my mother was very depressed and experienced feelings of hopelessness that she never had the chance to overcome. It was while my mother was in this vulnerable and dangerously unstable condition that she became involved with the Pentecostal faith.

Elder Jones Sr. visited the hospital periodically, spreading the word of God and searching for lost souls to join his mission. It was on that awful night, as Mom lay emotionally drained, that Elder Jones walked into her room, and her life was changed forever. Brother Jones was comforting and she accepted his offer to anoint and pray over her. Dear heavenly Father, we come to you right now asking you to heal this sister’s heart. She has just suffered a horrendous loss, Lord. Hallelujah! Lord, we know you’re coming after a group of people who is ready to meet you, who are called by your name Lord! God fill this sister right now with the gift of the Holy Ghost! Ashanti ma Ki ah! Praise God! Praise God!

My mother claims she received the gift of the Holy Ghost that night in her hospital bed as Brother Jones was praying for her. She raised her hands in the air, lips quivering and repeating Hallelujah over and over again. She has told this story many times, also describing how God sent an angel to her room that evening and she heard a choir singing:

"I saw the Light, I saw the Light.

No more darkness, No more night.

Now I’m so happy no sorrow in sight.

Praise the Lord! I saw the light."

My mother knew right then and there she would become a new person. God had just saved her and she would put Him first for the rest of her life. She now needed to be baptized by submersion in Jesus’ name to complete her repentance.

Penelope was buried at the Hills Cemetery in a potter’s field, among poor and unknown persons, with no marker or headstone. In order to find my infant sister’s grave you’d have to know who was buried beside her. I remember Mom always saying, You know when we get our tax returns we’re going to get a marker for Penelope. This has not happened yet.

I was four and a half years old when my brother Gabe Jr. was born on March 3, 1971. We moved from O’Bann Avenue to Vista Street. Gabe was a good baby and rarely cried. Mom was depending on me as the big sister to help out a lot, so I was changing diapers, making bottles and doing a lot of dishes. I felt a kind of fulfillment helping out around the house, especially when it came to taking care of the new baby. I realize now that Mom put too much responsibility on me, but nurturing and domesticity came naturally to me.

Mom was angry all the time now. It didn’t seem to help that she was going to church three times a week and twice on Sundays. She buried herself in the church and never really dealt with the miscarriage. I believe this ruined her. She was hitting all of us more often now, and no longer only with her hands: we got the belt.

One afternoon William was outside playing with our dog Pokey when we heard him screaming. OW! I’m shot! Mom, help! We all ran outside to see what was wrong. My brother had blood gushing from his ear. Oh Jesus, Jesus! Mom screamed as she frantically grabbed him and ran in the house. What in the world happened? she asked. I was just playing with Pokey and some kid across the street shot me with his BB gun! Mom yelled, Those damnable brats! I was always so shocked when she cursed because it was against our religion. When Dad walked in the door, Mom was washing the rag out in the sink. She said, You need to stay with the kids while I take William to the hospital, she commanded. Dad looked flustered, unsure what to do. Mom grabbed the keys and they were gone. He looked nervously over at me and Maddie and Gabe Jr. I told him it was fine. Don’t worry Day, I’ll take care of the kids. I wasn’t even five years old! Dad looked at me and smiled, You’re such a big girl Carlene. I felt special.

Dad used to call me the little helper because I took charge when Mom wasn’t home. He was physically present, but lacked parenting skills. He was a very sweet man and easy to approach, but his passiveness made him a weak parent who did nothing to protect his children. Mom could be nurturing, dominant, negligent, abusive and inattentive by turns; it all depended on her mood.

By the time Mom and William came home that day, I had finished feeding Gabe his bottle, changed his diaper, and let Maddie hold him while I washed the dishes. I wanted the kitchen cleaned before she returned in hopes of getting her in a better mood. William had a big white bandage covering his ear. I had never known anyone to get shot before, so I thought this was a big deal. Mom told Dad that William was okay, that the pellet hit the side of his ear but there was no damage. I felt bad for my brother but also thought he was lucky because Mom didn’t hit him that week. She made spaghetti for dinner—cheap but filling and good. I remember Mom giving me a big hug for taking care of Gabe Jr. and washing the dishes. I loved it when she was happy; it made me feel so relaxed and secure.

Maddie and I weren’t allowed to go outside much before the BB gun incident, but now we couldn’t go out unless Mom or Dad was with us. Since Mom didn’t take us out to play, we waited until Dad came home. He was always outside piddling around in the yard. Once in a while they would take us to Mound Builder’s or Well’s Avenue Park. If things were really good, we’d get a KFC chicken dinner to take to the park. I loved days like those, when Mom and Dad showed love toward each other and we played together.

In our house, we did not have a television, since they were of the devil. The only time we watched TV was at Grandma Hallie’s house. Hallie was my Dad’s mother. She was plump and had the softest skin I’d ever felt. Going to her and Grandpa Fred’s was a treat. We’d drink her sweet tea with lemon and Grandpa gave us mint candy. Grandma was always watching her soap operas on the devil screen, so when Mom went witnessing or whatever she did, we’d watch along with her. Witnessing for Jesus was when mom would go from door to door sharing the word of God with sinners. She was so faithful at it, because she wanted to get as many sinners to join the church as possible. William would ask to spend Friday nights with them so he could watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. I caught on to this and quickly joined in the sleepover. William was Grandma’s favorite grandchild, and she made that obvious throughout our childhood. I didn’t really care, because at least I wasn’t home. But I did get mad when he got to pick any channel he wanted on TV. One Saturday morning I got brave and turned the channel, but this made him furious. Grandma! Carlene keeps changing the channel, will you make her stop? Why certainly she would. She went to her bedroom and came out with a large razor strap. She gave me three good swats on the butt and told me to keep my paws off the TV if I knew what was good for me. William just smiled, bounced up and down on his butt, and continued watching his cartoons.

Mom would often go witnessing, leaving me home alone with my sister and brothers. She would be gone from early morning until Dad got home from work. I spent most days taking care of Gabe Jr. and Maddie during the day, and then bossing William when he got home from school. Mom would tell me, Carlene, for a girl almost five years old, you have become my right hand. I don’t know what I’d do without you honey. Pleasing her made me feel she really did love me. We didn’t have a toaster, so for lunch I would make toast in the oven. I did dishes, and washed clothes, and hung them on the line in our back yard. William was not much help, spending most of his time outside with Pokey or kids from the neighborhood.

I felt so responsible for keeping the peace that when Mom got mad I felt it was my fault; that somehow, if I were better or did more to help, I could prevent her from having her rages. The verbal attacks, intimidation and impossible demands from mom was just as damaging as the physical abuse. I had the bruises and scars to show for the physical; but the yelling, cursing, belittling, threatening attacks were just as scary to me. At such a young age I felt I was on high alert at all times. I was a nervous Nellie! Mom projected so much hate toward me when there was no one else present. She’d play a game that she would hit me in the face and then see how fast I would back up. I remember being in the car with her in our old Ford and we were taking lunch to my dad at work. She flailed her hand across the seat and then brought it back really fast. You’re getting better at that Carleen. I thought I was going to pee my pants. She scared the shit out of me. There were tactics like this she would use to intimidate and hindsight it was the perfect way to control me. After an incident like this she would bring her hand to my face, I’d flinch and she’d just pat the top of my head so sweetly. I think she got a kick out of shocking and scaring me at the same time. She’d say things like, Carleene, you know I love you, but sometimes… you just remind me of myself and I just expect so much more of you then the others. I would look over at her and think horrible thoughts but smile because I wanted her to love me. When Mom was on one of her rampages and she usually included all of us; we were lined up and had to drop our underwear, and then we all got it together; it didn’t matter who made her mad or who did what. She beat us with whatever she could grab. It could be a belt, coat hanger, stick, switch, brush, fly swatter or any other type of weapon. She didn’t like me to move either. God help me if I did! Then she’d hit me in the face—I hated that!—and she would threaten to hit me again if I flinched. For a small child to have to stand still and not flinch when getting hit in the face takes a lot of will power, and I just did not have it, so I got hit over and over. It was better when she used her hands to beat us, because they didn’t leave scars like the weapons she used. I absolutely hated to take baths after a beating. Those welts stung!

Beer

Mom also got furious with our Day. He enjoyed an occasional beer and would buy a six-pack and cigarettes after work on Fridays. He looked forward to relaxing and having a few on Friday and Saturday, but I never saw my Day drunk. He was a quiet man and never had a bad word to say, even when he had drunk a few. It was evident that in our home Mom ruled everyone and we all, including Day, listened to her. And she did not like Day drinking.

One weekend she was constantly on Day’s case. She harassed him and called him names. You’re just an alcoholic! You are no example to your kids. We have church in the morning and where are you? You’re sitting out here drinking, smoking on your way to hell! He never yelled back at her. Sometimes he snuck over to the local bar behind our house just to get away from her yelling. That Saturday, she hounded him all day about going to Sunday school the next morning. He wouldn’t commit to going, so she made his afternoon and evening miserable. That night, he quietly left the house and went to the bar.

I remember we had macaroni and cheese mixed with hamburger for dinner that night while Day was at the bar. Mom obviously hadn’t paid the gas bill again that month because, as it was too cold upstairs, we had to sleep downstairs. She had a kerosene lamp in the middle of the kitchen to keep the downstairs warm. Mom told us to get right to sleep because we had church in the morning. There was no whining about having to go to bed. We never argued with Mom, we just did as we were told. Not paying the gas bill was a bad habit Mom had even as we grew older. I remember putting on extra clothes for bed along with two pair of tights, wrapping myself really tight in the blanket and staring up at the sky through the curtains of the living room window. I curled my sister’s body up next to me, as my older brother slept on the couch, and Gabe Jr. slept in his crib.

I could hear Mom sniffling and talking to herself in the kitchen. She sounded like she was crying. First she was just washing dishes, and then the banging began. She went from sad to mad