Becoming Bearheart: One Woman’s Journey to Find Peace After Trauma

By Patti A Williams

Sometimes, it takes profound change to move us forward, out of our comfort zone, and into the place where true wisdom lies. However, when this change comes in the form of a traumatic event, it can shake the very foundation on which one has built trust and security.

In a gripping memoir, Patti Williams chronicles her life from the horrifying moment in March 1986 when she learned her mother had been murdered through the aftermath as the world she knew slowly began to fall apart. Overwhelmed with profound feelings of loss, heartache, and abandonment, Patti embarked on a spiritual journey that took her to the deepest, darkest places of her soul where she had to courageously battle to find her way back into the light and onto a path of peace. Led by the spirit of her mother, Patti discloses how she eventually connected with her inner-warrior to rediscover her personal power, the meaning of self-love, and ultimately her true life’s destiny.

Becoming Bearheart is the inspiring true story of one woman’s journey to connect with the strongest version of herself and heal from personal trauma.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Mar 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781982220778

Patti A Williams

Patti Williams is a Gestalt-focused Marriage and Family Therapist, a Human Rights activist, a Motherless Daughter, and a self-proclaimed tree-hugging dirt-worshiper. Patti holds a bachelor’s degree in psychology from California State University and a master’s Degree in Counseling Psychology from Naropa University. She is a certified Victim’s Advocate who has served with the Boulder County Sheriff’s Office in Boulder, CO. She was previously published in Feathers Brush My Heart, a book of short stories by author Sinclair Browning. She has been on the ID channel’s Nightmare Next Door and Forensic Files discussing how her mother’s murder continues to impact her life in an attempt to keep the case in the news, and her mother’s killer in prison. She lives with her husband and two dogs in Central California near her beloved Sierra Nevada Mountains. This is her first book. becomingbearheart.com https://www.facebook.com/patti.williams.5283166 PattiWilliams@BecomingBearhrt

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 Patti A. Williams.

Interior Graphics/Art Credit: Patti A. Williams

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.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.balboapress.com

1 [phone]

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 Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9822-2076-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-2078-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-2077-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019900940

Balboa Press rev. date: 03/05/2019

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Chapter One Mom

Chapter Two Justice

Chapter Three Trauma

Chapter Four Shadow Man

Chapter Five Sweat

Chapter Six The Red Road

Chapter Seven Little Wolf Dreaming

Chapter Eight Bearheart

Chapter Nine Sick And Tired

Chapter Ten Healing

Chapter Eleven Coming Home

Bibliography

References

About The Author

Dedication: For Mom 1939-1986

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

40135.png

T his book has been thirty plus years in the making with many stalls and stops. Along the way, there have been a multitude of people who encouraged me to keep writing, to keep digging for the courage to tell my story, and to brave the pain that reliving it brought up. To all of those folks who listened, who read, who gave feedback, who helped edit, my deepest, most heartfelt thank you. To Lissa Baker, my Sagittarian sister, for all of the day-long searches for healing ‘medicine,’ the night-long ceremonies to create intentions for healing, and the countless hours of conversation to work through pain and roadblocks, thank you. To Elizabeth Birchmore-Riss, for your limitless support during grad-school, your unconditional love and compassion during some of the darkest and scariest hours of my healing process, and for making sure that I was never alone when shit got real, thank you. To my sisters, Nancy and Connie, who have grieved the loss of our mother right alongside me, thank you for supporting me while I did what I needed to do to heal even when it was painful for you. Our healing journeys have taken us on separate paths, but our powerful connection to Mom has always brought us back together. I am so grateful for that. I love you both so very much. To my closest and dearest friend Kim, you watched in horror as the events unfolded, and then stood by to hold me up when you, yourself, were also crumbling in pain. Mom called us Soul Sisters because she saw the unbreakable bond between us. I believe she spent her last day with you because she knew you would spend the rest of your life connected to me so that I would never feel alone. There are no words to adequately express my love and gratitude for you. To Bob, the very best and biggest surprise of my life, thank you for the most remarkable friendship I’ve ever had, for the endless laughter, the continuous adventure, for digging in when it would be easier to run, and for crawling into the cave with me instead of trying to force me out. And to your wife Tracey, thank you for supporting and encouraging me to continue my journey of healing, and for supporting Bob when he is supporting me. You are truly an amazing human. To Lorie Ruby, thank you for inviting me into your life and allowing me to bear witness to your own healing journey. You continue to be an inspiration and a shining example of what can happen when we don’t give up. Thank you for not believing me when I told you I would never publish this story. If only the world could feel and embrace the endless energy in your heart and soul that keeps you fighting for your own survival, as well as your commitment to the survival of the Polar Bears, the future would certainly look much brighter. Thank you. To Dancing Cloud, my teacher, my friend, my maternal life-line, you saved my life, literally. There are no words that would adequately express my love and gratitude for you. To my host of other Native American teachers, thank you for entrusting me with your sacred wisdom. I have and will always hold this gift with the very highest honor and respect. Every day it continues to be a guiding light and my gratitude is abundant. Finally, to my husband Steve, for loving me enough to let me go, and loving me enough to bring me back home, for nearly 40 years of standing like a mighty Oak while I ran around the forest like a wind-swept feather, thank you. You are, and have always been, my touchstone. You are my home and I love you more than words.

INTRODUCTION

40135.png

T he truth about living with depression is that we are always in a state of becoming. We are becoming stronger, becoming more educated about our emotional challenges, becoming better at communicating our needs… With depression, there is no getting over it, through it, or around it. You have to live it. Of course, depression is different for everyone, and I am speaking strictly from my own experience, but here is my truth: learning that life is fluid and that there is no endgame was my first step in beginning my journey of becoming. It has taken nearly half of my life to figure out how to navigate the landmines that come with depression, trauma, PTSD, and anxiety. Through countless years of searching, I discovered that there was someone living inside me who could help me master the skills. She is the strong one. She is the one who protects me like a mother protects her cubs. She is the one with patience and tolerance and acceptance and unconditional love. She has always been there, but I just couldn’t see her. She is Bearheart, and this is how I found her.

CHAPTER ONE

Mom

40135.png

A s I left the busy freeways of Los Angeles and entered the two-lane mountain roads of the San Bernardino National Forest, I could feel my entire body begin to relax. As I rounded each corner, my mind became quieter and I found myself noticing more and more detail of the natural world that surrounded me. It was as if my senses were becoming more acute with every turn. I rolled down my window and let the fresh, warm, summer air blow in my face. Occasionally, a waft of the wild honeysuckle that grew on the cliffs would get my attention. I could feel a total shift beginning to take place in my entire being.

I have always loved the mountains and being in them again brought back memories of when I was a little girl and used to visit my grandfather every summer in the Sierra Mountains of Central California. Sometimes Dad would take us all camping. Sometimes we would just hang out at the lake by Grandpa’s cabin. Whatever the case, I would leave all of my fancy clothes and hair-ribbons behind and wear nothing but blue jeans, old tee shirts, and sandals, with my hair down, wild and free.

01.jpg.jpg

Grandpa and me circa 1967

My special connection to my maternal grandfather started in infancy. Apparently, when Grandpa was in the room, everyone else was invisible. We were connected at the hip. I started spending summers with him around the age of ten, when my parents divorced. It occurs to me now, it was during those times that I was the happiest. Grandpa let me be me. He gave me room to breathe. We shared a love of adventure. Wanna go for a ride? meant, I have places to go and people to see, want to come along? Yes, Grandpa was a workaholic. He rarely spent a moment of his day that was not part of his job, his volunteer work, or membership on some board. But he never let that keep us apart. I would just tag along to the Masonic Lodge, the backroom of restaurants for board meetings, even bars where Grandpa would meet and schmooze clients. I loved it. Sometimes I would spend the day by the lake, meals with Grandpa, and nighttime listening to him tell stories next to the fire as he smoked his pipe. I knew most of the kids up there in his small mountain community. We would hang out at the Ice Cream Fountain, play pinball, swim, water ski, and watch movies at an old log cabin theater by the lake. I even met a very special boy there once. His name was Bob. He made me laugh…a lot! We had long conversations and he seemed genuinely interested in me and my life. We had some things in common and knew some of the same kids. It was so nice to talk to someone my age who made me feel like whatever I had to say was worth listening to. Bob was so thoughtful. He seemed to just love making me happy, and even more so, he loved to make me laugh. He even surprised me one night by making me a home cooked dinner at Grandpa’s house. What teenage boy does that? He was truly a good guy, and my time with him changed me. That summer with Bob was a very a special summer for me. In hindsight, I’m sure it was more special for me than for him. It was my summer of love. It changed the way I thought about what a true friend, boy or otherwise, should be. I cried when I left that summer, but I had to return home for school. As one would expect of teenagers, he met someone else before I saw him the next summer, as did I, but I never forgot him. That summer solidified my already passionate love of nature. I was a mountain girl, no doubt about it. That was the real me, and how appropriate that I should go back to the mountains to find the real me again. I was on my way to do some soul searching and to reconnect to the things that brought me joy and peace. It had been so long since I had felt either of those things.

02.jpg.jpg

Bob and me circa 1978

My mind wandered again, but this time to the moment my world turned upside-down. It seemed like just yesterday that I received the phone call which I deem the impetus behind my loss of identity, my loss of direction, and my loss of inner peace. The phone call was the one informing me of my mother’s murder. As I continued my drive up the mountain, I recalled that it had been 5 years since that terrible day. I had no idea at the time, but that was the day that would change the entire course of my life.

It was a Monday morning in March of 1986. It was a typical day, really, just like any other. I had arrived at work and was busy filing papers when my phone rang. It was about 9:00 a.m. and it was unusual for me to get calls at that time. I glanced over to my boss, who had transferred the call.

Who is it? I asked, walking back to my desk.

It’s your sister, Connie, she said, without looking up.

I picked up the phone and cheerfully said hello. It was a nice surprise to get a call from her while I was at work, but her response was less than cheerful. She immediately asked me to sit down and her tone gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew something was wrong. I continued to stand, paralyzed.

Patti, Mom is in the hospital, Connie said. She passed out at work and, Patti…she’s in a coma.

The words echoed in my head. I felt my face flush and my vision narrow. My knees weakened but I was unaware that I was about to collapse to the ground. Suddenly, I saw my boss jump out of her chair and rush over to me, scooting my chair under me in one swift swoop as I fell back into it.

I couldn’t really hear what Connie was saying after that. I kept asking her to repeat herself. She finally asked me to give the phone to my boss so that she could take down the necessary information. Connie had already reserved the next flight out of town, and we both had to be on it in less than two hours.

My husband drove me to the airport where I met up with Connie and we boarded the plane. I was still in shock. My entire body was tense, and I was emotionally paralyzed. The doctors told Connie that we needed to get there as soon as possible because Mom was in critical condition and they didn’t know how long they would be able to keep her alive. It was the longest plane ride of my life. I didn’t know if, when I arrived, Mom would be dead or alive. I kept praying that I would at least be able to say good-bye, but God knows I wasn’t ready to do that. I begged for that chance. Neither Connie nor I wanted to talk about what to expect, but idle chitchat didn’t feel right either. We sat in silence almost all the way to Phoenix.

When we arrived at the hospital in Mesa, Arizona, my sister Nancy was already there with her then husband, Mike. She was a wreck. She could hardly put a sentence together. She warned that Mom looked very bad and that it was hard seeing her that way. I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the worst.

Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what I was about to see. My young, beautiful, angelic mother was pale, and had tubes coming in and out of her entire body. The machine that was helping her to breathe announced every breath with a loud gush of air, and the heart monitor beeped loudly with every heartbeat. She had tape over her eyes to keep them closed, and there were washcloths rolled up and placed in her hands because her involuntary reflexes occasionally caused her to dig her beautifully manicured fingernails into the palms of her hands. Seeing her this way overwhelmed me with emotion and I began to sob uncontrollably.

A nurse approached me immediately to gently and supportively escort me out of the room. She explained to me that many professionals and researchers in the medical field believe that comatose patients can often still hear what’s going on around them, and that there had been many reported incidents of people coming out of a coma and recalling conversation that others in the room had engaged in. She encouraged me to try and stay strong and to say only things to Mom that would give her hope and encourage her to fight. I took a minute to get a grip on my emotions and went back in to the room. When I did, Connie was talking to Mom and telling her that she was going to be ok. We both sat with her for a while and talked to her about waking up for us, as our tears continued to roll silently down our cheeks.

It seemed like quite a while before we were able to talk to the doctor. We still had no idea what caused her to slip into a coma. The hospital was running every test imaginable to try and figure out what had happened to her. It felt, to me, like it was taking a dreadfully long time to get the results. When the doctor finally did come in, there was still no news. I thought I was going to go crazy. The only tidbit they gave us was that there was speculation that she had a severe stroke, but they were going to continue running tests into the night to be sure.

I think it was Tuesday morning when I became startled by a loud ring. I’d been up for 24 hours and I can’t really remember what time it was. I was lying on the couch in the waiting room of the hospital when the phone extension rang. We all looked at one another. I realized I was closest, so I picked it up. It was a Detective Palmer, from the Tempe Police Department. He was requesting to speak to my grandfather [Mom’s dad] who had arrived Monday night. Grandpa, with a bewildered look on his face, got up slowly and came over to take the phone from me. The room went silent. Someone turned off the TV. We all were focused on Grandpa as he listened intensely to the detective. After what seemed like an eternity, Grandpa finally spoke, but his words were not the words I would expect to hear from the soft spoken, loving man that I knew.

I’ll kill him, he said with his teeth clenched. I’m gonna kill him.

I was very confused. I could not think of what would cause the gentlest man I know to speak these words. Everyone in the room was focused on the one-sided conversation we were hearing. When he finally hung up the phone, he sat down and put his head in his hands and started shaking his head.

Grandpa? What is it? What did he say? I asked.

My heart sank as I sensed we were about to get more bad news; and more bad news it was. Detective Palmer had informed Grandpa that they had arrested a man and the charge was the attempted murder of our mother. Her mysterious comatose condition was no longer so mysterious. Someone had intentionally poisoned our mother with cyanide. The doctors had actually known this all along but were asked to keep it from us until the police had secured the evidence against the man who was responsible. They