The Flower Lost - the Ruby Jewel Story: A Priscila House Story

By Charles Eason

The Flower Lost The Ruby Jewel Story is based upon a true story. The story is presented by Priscila House, a program dedicated to the care and concern of all those who suffer. It is the story of one womans struggle to recover from the effects of childhood abuse, sexual molestation, and parental neglect.

The story follows the tragic and sometimes heartbreaking events involving the lives of a young woman and her family. Her personal experiences begin with early childhood experiences of sexual abuse beginning at age nine. It also gives accounts of numerous incidents of physical and sexual abuse, rapes, and forced incest. The story details severe parental neglect and abuse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514420355

Charles Eason

Charles Eason is a life skills counselor and the director and founder of Priscila House.

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Charles Eason.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015917934

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5144-2079-9

Softcover   978-1-5144-2078-2

eBook   978-1-5144-2035-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

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.

Rev. date: 10/26/2015

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

The Flower Lost

Treats

Monster

Someone To Love Me

Come One, Come All, Come Cry For Me

The Lost Not Found

The Empty Me

The Edge of Me

Free To Be Me

Hush The Bird That Sings

A Final Word

Priscila House* Mission Statement

To My Precious Priscila:

This book is dedicated to my most beloved and cherished Priscila Palacios. Surely as God has given you to me that I should love you as though you were my own flesh and blood, I find in you an even greater bond. For surely the love I possess for you is of God Himself. As I gaze upon life as it nears a close for me, I do so with the peace of knowing that at least the one person shall look back upon me with favor. As I shall one day soon close my eyes for the last time, I do so remembering the times of joy which only you were able to give. I cannot think of a greater gift for which God could have given me than you. I shall forever love you.

Charles Eason

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I wish to thank my dearest and most beloved sister, Ruby Jewel Eason for sharing her story. Surely I experienced her pain and suffered her sorrow. But the greatest gift she gave me was her heart and soul. I am truly blessed to have her and her story of recovery will forever remain an inspiration to me. I will always love and cherish her.

Charles Eason

THE FLOWER LOST

Upon a distant meadow,

         Perched upon a hill,

Stood the lone yet beautiful flower,

         Amidst the evening chill.

The moonlight dared not touch her,

         Afraid he’d see her pain,

The wind afraid to caress her,

         Lest remind her of the shame.

Though rain should fall upon her,

         It could not hide her tears,

Though time would pass before her,

         It did not ease her fears.

Desire she had to love them,

         But could offer only emptiness,

For long ago, the flower lost,

         Lost her innocence.

By Charles Eason

The Flower Lost – The Ruby Jewel Story is based upon a true story. The story is presented by Priscila House*, a program dedicated to the care and concern of all those who suffer. It is the story of one woman’s struggle to recover from the effects of childhood abuse, sexual molestation, and parental neglect.

The story follows the tragic and sometimes heartbreaking events involving the lives of a young woman and her family. Her personal experiences begin with early childhood experiences of sexual abuse beginning at age nine. It also gives accounts of numerous incidents of physical and sexual abuse, rapes and forced incest. The story details severe parental neglect and abuse.

The Flower Lost describes a woman torn apart in mind and spirit. Emotional pain and suffering eventually led her to the brink of insanity. Severe psychological disorders caused her to develop into what was essentially two distinct personalities in the same body. On the one hand, there was Ruby Jewel, an emotionally scarred little girl who was unable to escape the horrors of abuse and move forward. She was trapped within the memories of emotional, physical, and sexual abuse and neglect. On the other hand she was The Flower Lost, a woman whose mind in an effort to protect itself from the pain and suffering she had come to expect and fear, led her to attempts of suicide and attempted murder, including one attempt at murder-suicide involving her own children.

Her brief confinement to a mental hospital was the second in a series of family members needing such treatment. It is the story of the pain and suffering endured not only by Ruby Jewel, the second youngest of fourteen children, but that of her siblings as well, many who endured much of the same.

Ruby Jewel’s personal experiences account for a mere fraction of the terrible suffering endured by the members of this family. Some of the events of this story took place over a span of some forty years, detailing a pattern of abuse within the family. The effects of their pain and abuse have become evident within the lives of their children and grandchildren as many of them now seem to suffer in similar ways.

Though The Flower Lost has been enhanced for the reader’s pleasure, we attempted to give an inside view of the conflicting emotions and thinking of our main character. The story is entirely based upon the factual events that caused her and several other family members to live their lives in continued emotional and physical turmoil.

Yet, The Flower Lost is a story of faith and recovery. It is one woman’s refusal to remain a victim. It is the story of how she found the courage and strength she needed to free herself from the past. It is the story of how Ruby Jewel chose recovery and healing over denial, shame and guilt. It is the story of how The Flower Lost blossomed into the most beautiful of all creations, a woman of faith.

It is the hope of Priscila House* that within these pages, and as they read and identify with our main character, that our readers are able to find hope and peace. It is our continued hope that those who suffer from the effects of physical or sexual abuse, as well as others who have been neglected, estranged, or forgotten may finally be able to find peace. We pray that those who suffer from alcoholism, substance abuse, or even negative behavior may also find the strength and direction to seek help and thereby be able to begin the healing process in their lives.

The Flower Lost : The Ruby Jewel Story

"Little Sally Walker, sitting in a saucer,

         Rise Sally, rise.

Put your hand on your hip,

         Let your backbone slip,

Shake it to the east,

         Shake it to the west,

Shake it to the one,

         That you love the best,

Rise, Sally rise."

The evening sun had begun to drop. The darkness was soon to follow. Soon it would be time, time to go inside. Left outside would be the games. The laughter would soon become distant memories.

I stared at the house. It stood cold and foreboding against a darkening sky, a lonely reminder of the sadness that lived inside. If houses could indeed have feelings, then perhaps this one might have agonized over the pain of those who lived inside her belly, as an expectant mother waiting to give birth to yet another horror.

The wind had begun to stir, causing a small whirlwind, like a tiny tornado of sand to play in the road. We imagined them as monsters. Time and time again we would race with them, ever attempting to jump inside as we imagined ourselves, like some Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, carried away to some distant land in our imaginations. Yet we needed no such games to remind us of monsters, for we knew that inside the house, he was waiting.

He had watched us play from the porch. Anxiously he had watched us play the game. His rise from the chair, his wicked smile, a last backward-cast glance signaled his intent. He needed not speak, for his evil grin told all. I watched as my little sister, the youngest of seven girls at age eight abandoned her place in the circle and slowly made her way towards the house. I hated myself, for even as I knew what awaited her, I could only rejoice in that it was not me, this time.

A sudden flash of lightning, the first sound of thunder caught my attention. Perhaps it was a reprieve, for soon the sounds of the storm would permeate the night. Maybe they could distract me from the sounds of my sister’s screams as she fell within the clutches of the monster. Again I would rejoice.

Surely I pitied her. Still I needed to avoid any signs of empathy unless I might begin to feel. I told myself that she would survive as I had survived. Yet I was not so foolish as to think of myself as safe. After-all, neither I nor my little sister were the first to suffer at his hand.

He was not alone in this land of monsters. He was merely the youngest of seven brothers. He had not been the first to terrorize the girls of our family. It seems that some of our brothers were obsessed with their sisters. Perhaps my eldest brother’s obsession with me and my slightly older sister was somehow to be considered a normal thing. Otherwise, wouldn’t our dear mother have put a stop to it? Wouldn’t she have protected her darling little girls from the monsters, rather than offer them up as if they were some chattel used to negotiate some favor for her own gain? Perhaps it was as she so often stated, our brothers simply loved us.

I thought of our mother. I tried to imagine myself safely tucked away in her arms. I tried to imagine what that must have felt like, for surely I had no real memories of my mother holding me. I had no recollections of affectionate moments shared with her. All I could do was to imagine such a wonderful thing, except that my imagination was filled with monsters and the creatures of the dark who sought us out in the middle of the night.

Also, unfortunately for my little sister, the monster in the house was not an imagined thing. He was real! It was real, as real as her screams. Again I retreated into the deep recesses of my mind where I had built the quiet place. It was a safe place, a place where monsters were not allowed. Unfortunately for my little sister, I could not take her along with me. She was left to the monster and he looked particularly hungry tonight. Tonight she was to be his prey.

It is amazing the terrible things which the mind of the child can endure. For the inexperienced mind there are many things which are quickly accepted as normal. Because I had nothing with which to compare it, I had no way of knowing that these same monsters did not live in every house, or that these creatures of the night did not wait around every corner. I knew only of my mother’s house, the land of monsters.

Again I thought of my mother. Though one cannot fully understand those things of which they are unfamiliar, I did in some way realize that there was something missing between my siblings, myself, and our mother. Perhaps her lack of care and concern for us, her lack of a nurturing spirit, or her complete disregard for our needs and safety did in some instinctive way feel strange, but how were we to know? How were we to know that a brother’s torture and rape of his sister was not a normal thing? After-all, she called it love.

I now wonder if perhaps my brothers’ primal need to rape their sisters came from some lack of motherly affection in their lives. At the very least it reflected a lack of motherly diligence on her part at raising them properly.

Yet, she knew better. Though even to this day she claims her ignorance of the facts, she knew that her children lived in a land of monsters. Even now I can only imagine as to why she did not care about us?

And then, there was the creature. He was an old and foul smelling man that had somehow replaced our father. Mostly he lived in the cave.

I call it the cave because that is where monsters hibernate. Caves are supposed to be cold and dark, damp and frightening. Yet, in the cave, in their cave was