My Hometown: Was the Backseat of a Car

By Yvonne Grady

What really goes on behind closed doors?
Are you a survivor of childhood abuse?

My prayer is this book will give you a clearer understanding of where some of your beliefs come from. Yvonne gave her inner child a voice to express her feelings about the abuse she suffered at the hands of her parents. As she allowed the memories freedom from the self- built concrete block storage unit in her minds eye, she could see the storage unit had become a living being. Pulsing, festering, with seething rage trying to seep out of hiding, refusing to be ignored any longer.

These memories were affecting her life, health, and relationships with others. What she tried so desperately to keep hidden from others wanted a voice. Yvonne could no longer hide from the truth, pretending all was well, it was time to look back and heal the past.

Stripped naked standing before you, I am allowing myself to be truly seen for the very first time. I have learned you are not your experiences; you are the interpretation of that experience. I have decided to let the past go, glean the knowledge, and move forward. I know I am who I am, because of my experiences, and I do have Value.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Feb 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504373043

Yvonne Grady

Yvonne is a daughter of a Pentecostal Evangelist, who grew up in the back seat of the family’s car traveling across the United States. Yvonne is a spiritual counselor, teacher, and healer. She lives in TN with her husband Steve and all of their beloved pets.

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Copyright © 2017 Yvonne Grady.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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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.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

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.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-7303-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-7305-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-7304-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017900420

Balboa Press rev. date: 01/28/2017

Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Early Memories

Receiving Guidance

Flowers Everywhere

Labels

Chapter 2

Starting Over

Dreaded Saddle Shoes

Clear the Air

Dolly, Can You Help Me?

Whose Side Are You On?

Shame

Chapter 3

Abandoned

Left at the Police Station

Officer Joe

Temporary Foster Care

Family Court

Chapter 4

Permanent Foster Home

Summer Fun at the Lake

Time to Start School

Overnight Visitations

Holey Slip

Vindicated at Last

Dad’s Calling to Preach

Chapter 5

California, Here We Come

Haunted House on Sixteenth Street

Hobos

Who Has Time to Play?

Mirror

Water Fight Tension Breaker

Griddle Cakes

Chapter 6

Aunt Jennie

Building Muscles

Hungry

Penny Candy

Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child

Chapter 7

Mama Collins

Lost Time

Insecurity or Fantasy?

Jealousy

Dirty Laundry

Ma Knows

Jezebel

Chapter 8

On the Run

Rejection

Learn by Example

Inspection

Dancing Is a Sin?

Is Love Only Reserved for Babies?

He’s Not My Child

Just Things

Chapter 9

Daddy Doyle?

Counselor

Caught in a Web of Lies

Chapter 10

Mission Work

Who Is Going to Rescue Me?

Games

She’s Not Giving Up without a Fight

Chapter 11

Tithing

Make Up Your Mind

Choices

Juvenile Hall

Dad Has Been Arrested

Day in Court

You Have a Funny Way of Showing Love

Justice?

Chapter 12

Last Trip in the Backseat of a Car

Texas

Final Thoughts

This book is

dedicated to the survivors of abuse, regardless of your gender or the form of abuse you experienced. It is part of the very fiber of who you are, as well as the spur to be the catalyst of who you choose to become.

Preface

I was continually getting nudges from God to write about my childhood. I couldn’t understand why God wanted me to relive my childhood experiences because I preferred they remain in the storage room I had carefully built in my mind, with concrete blocks, a reinforced steel door, and multiple locks to contain my tortured memories.

Whenever one of the memories managed to surface, I mentally saw myself placing that escaped memory back in the storage room, slamming shut the door, and locking it up. In my mind, I would lean against the door and feel the memories trying to escape. It was like the whole storage unit was alive, the pulsing, festering, and seething rage trying to come out. Now God wanted me to let them out?

For two years I resisted. I didn’t want to relive the nightmare called my childhood. What purpose would it serve? I never spoke about my childhood to anyone; if someone asked, I would change the subject or turn the question back around, asking them something about their childhoods. My emotions became like a rollercoaster ride, resisting the nudges and burying the rising memories.

At long last, I gave in and started writing my story every chance I had, allowing the memories to flood my mind. Then one day, I reread what I had written and became very angry with myself. I realized it was all negative. If I was to be honest I needed to add in some of the good times because there are always good times in people’s childhoods, even if it’s minuscule glimpses.

I started over and gave my inner child a voice. I let her tell the story as she remembered it, with any emotions she felt during each experience. Later I reflected on the memories and added in lessons learned.

All was going well until I discovered that after one of the many beatings, I had lost time. This terrified me. I’d never realized I had lost time before. What did he do to me while I was unconscious? This new memory terrified and tormented me, and I was an emotional wreck. I stopped writing for over a year. I was lost in the playground of my mind with no adult supervision, trying to remember what he did to me—yet terrified to know the truth.

One day it occurred to me that it didn’t really matter. My mind had blocked that memory for some reason, and I had to honor that. What purpose would it serve, really? Further torment? I didn’t need that any more. I was willing to move on and accept that by the grace of God, I was protected from that memory. I started writing again.

As I was writing my story, I found myself censoring and omitting certain memories. I felt like I was dishonoring and betraying my parents by telling our family life. I came to the conclusion I was trying to protect them from the ugly truth.

I wrote this book to share my story and help survivors of abuse. Nevertheless, I was still seeking to be loved and approved of by my parents. I realized the memories had to come out for healing to occur, and to free myself.

My prayer is that my story will help others to see no matter what you have been through in life, there is hope. You can take charge of your life and set yourself free. You are not your experiences; you are the interpretation of that experience. Glean the knowledge, let the past go, and decide to move forward.

Life doesn’t come with instructions; it is through life experiences that we chart our course. We can choose to correct the direction anytime we are willing to make the change. I believe in you!

Chapter 1

Early Memories

Ma was busy in the kitchen cooking dinner while my younger brother, Stan, and I ran through the house. Ma called out, You kids go outside and play. It’s too pretty to be indoors.

That was all I needed to hear. I ran outside, letting the old screen door slam shut behind me with a bang. I was headed for the fields where all the wildflowers were in full bloom. I loved exploring and seeing what new things had come to life.

Buttercups were everywhere, and the butterflies were flitting from flower to flower. I picked a buttercup and pushed my nose as deep inside the flower as I could get it, breathing in the sweet essence and knowing that it would leave a yellow dusting on my nose. I didn’t realize there was a bee deep inside gathering some nectar. The bee announced his presence by stinging me on the tip of my nose. Startled and shocked, I let out a big yelp, and tears sprang to my eyes. I immediately dropped the buttercup and started running and crying, calling out for my mother.

As I got closer to the back porch, my mother flew out of the kitchen door to see what was wrong. After one look at my swollen nose, she sprang into action. She quickly grabbed a handful of dirt, ran over to the well, pumped up some water to mix in the dirt, and made a poultice of mud to put on the affected area. Ma said the mud would draw out the poison from the bee and its stinger. Amazingly, the mud also made my nose stop hurting.

Lesson learned: Don’t put your nose where it doesn’t belong.

We lived out in the country on Black Creek Road, in an old, ramshackle, two-story farmhouse. The house was in rough shape; and my father used all of his free time to work on it. Dad had hired a farmhand to help out with the chores in exchange for food and a place for him and his wife to raise their infant daughter. Their bedroom was over the kitchen, and they accessed the stairway in the kitchen.

Stan and I shared a bedroom. We had to go through the living room, turn right, and climb up some steep stairs to get there. Our room was big, and we had twin beds on opposite walls facing the road at the front of the house. At night we would lie in bed giggling and talking till we fell asleep.

One night as we lay in bed, we heard a loud thump on the window. Startled, we both looked over, and there was a huge, black hand on the window. We looked at each other with terror in our eyes, afraid to move or speak. As our eyes slowly wandered back toward the window, we saw that the hand was still there. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that when I opened them, the hand would be gone. I started rubbing my eyes vigorously, trying to rub out the image of the hand. Upon opening my eyes, I saw it was still on the window. Stan and I started screaming at the same time.

Ma and Dad came running up the stairs and asked what was going on. Stan cried, There was a black hand on the window, and we heard a loud noise!

Ma and Dad both looked at the window, and then they looked back at us. Ma said, There isn’t anything there. Dad said we must have imagined it or been dreaming. We tried to explain we were awake and talking when we heard the thump and saw the hand.

Dad said we’d probably scared each other by telling scary stories. Stan and I denied telling scary stories, and Stan explained that we had been telling jokes. Ma said it was probably a reflection from a car driving by. There was no way anyone could reach our window because it was on the second story. We were told it was past our bedtime, and go to sleep.

Years later, Stan and I were reminiscing about that night. We both remember with