Reprogrammable

By Dr. Secil Schodroski

In painting a beautiful masterpiece on a human canvas of life one must heal the pain of their past to prevent bleeding all over their future. Recognizing my assignment here on earth of caring for others are the building blocks of preparing for killing fear as I was afraid of me. My landscape, my foundation, and my infrastructure are all recreated as I scrubbed myself clean and blocking the cycles of darkness of my past from spilling over to my children. See sometimes we have to draw outside of the lines, take the cap off of our highlighters, keep a party in our purses, and surround ourselves with strong, positive, prestigious, motivating people. As the harp plays the beautiful string sound, one can, close their eyes and listen to the birds outside in the field as the bad guy is no longer here, the pain is released, and my troubles have been given to God.

Sharing my personal journey through life in hopes of assisting young people, women, young ladies, and those who have kept secrets in fear of releasing pain was very therapeutic for me. I feel like I went from “rags to riches” in a mental standpoint. I went from sleeping on floors in an old mildew basement to being Dr. Secil, a character, my character, my me, that makes things happen, a smile of peace, a provider in the community continuing to spread my love, education, fun, and care. Destiny has no limit, no sky, for we have placed a man on the moon. The glory is seen but the story was untold until now.

This piece took 2.5 years to complete and my goal was to publish in the following year, however my thoughts changed as the crew of “Netflix” encouraged me to publish as the documentary of “I am a Killer” is released, for there is a chapter in this book that is in connection of the documentary as I recognize that this is not the end of my story for I was told that I am a very complete woman, a one in a million woman, that should be treated like so. When someone tells you that, the feelings, the emotion, the time, and the goosebumps on my arms allowed me to view life, relationships, and hope in a different light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796063493

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Copyright © 2019 by Dr. Secil Schodroski.

Library of Congress Control Number:     2019915708

ISBN:             Hardcover                 978-1-7960-6351-6

                       Softcover                    978-1-7960-6350-9

                       eBook                         978-1-7960-6349-3

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.

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.

Rev. date: 02/07/2020

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CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Great-Grandmother’s Proclamation

Poison Control

Captivity

The Water Won’t Run Until the Faucet Is Turned On

Dark Face of Love

Broken Heart-Shaped Box

His Name Began with R

Familiar Voice

Kissed a Girl

Window View of Social Injustice

Exit Plan

He Took the Fall

Safe Place

Mantra Allows Sight

Smoke and Mirrors

Conclusion

Reaction

Acknowledgments

Author’s Note

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(Woman in the Mirror)

How did I get here? According to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. Success is an individualized journey and can be measured in the criteria that we believe show the impact of our work.

As my eyes open and my arms stretch, I look around the bedroom, squinting from the sun, which has appeared gently one September morning. I feel awake, and I feel blessed, for this day will be the first and the last time seen. I shed the blanket off my body and continue to feel the sun applying warmth to my face. I then turn to get out of bed and onto my feet to walk into the bathroom. I begin to think and have a race of thoughts. I step barefoot onto the ceramic tile of the bathroom floor. I view myself in the mirror.

As the tears begin to fall from my eyes down my face and land on the sink counter, my mind cannot fathom the reasons of emotion this particular morning. I look in the mirror, seeing a beautiful black woman with a huge smile, except this morning, that reflection is not given in return. When I look in the mirror, I see my daughter who looks just like me. She is looking back at me. She is beautiful, with smooth brown skin and long hair, but she is not moving her face and head along with me.

It has dawned on me that I have to stop the cycles. The cycles of my past have to be broken before they reach my children. Because of the closet hiding of pain, the darkness, and horrible viewings through my lenses as a child, I attracted the behaviors of my grandmother instead of mimicking my great-grandmother. I now know why when I look in the mirror this morning. The pain is pouring through my tears and disorganization of thoughts, fueled by fear of the potential monster that I might create if I do not repair myself.

All at the same time, I am wishing that the bathroom mirror would crack into tiny pieces of glass onto the floor. I hope that I would step on them barefoot while my feet would bleed, my pain as a punishment to myself. I feel afraid, and I feel alone. Depression drains me, narcissism disconnects me, Type A personality defeats me, being controlling alters my environment, and infidelity covers a snapshot moment of inadequacy. It is my thought to begin my healing process in the mode of writing, allowing for self-help, and to assist others who suffer from themselves.

Again, how did I get here? This life, this journey is twistedly beautiful. One may learn that because of this event or that event, alternative reactions occur that one may not have control over. I liken myself to a computer in many ways. Throughout my life, disqualified characters have been written all over my hard drive. I consider myself a woman whom so many people live their lives vicariously through … a woman who is snazzy, full of smiles, adventurous, extroverted, energetic, smart, and vivacious.

On the outside, I appear to have it all together, when in fact, I am a minor mess. I have decided to reprogram myself and scrub my hard drive clean. I wish to reconnect with myself by sharing with the world my experiences and displaying how one can be thrown into sometimes unpleasant behaviors—such as depression, narcissism, Type A personality, control issues, and infidelity—all as developing coping mechanisms over time. I want to delve deep inside, constructing words into stories while exhibiting a life of pragmatic events to explain measurements of success, struggles, and, most of all, how I got here.

Great-Grandmother’s Proclamation

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Toddler Secil Is Healed

(As Told by Angela Viehman)

Secil’s voice is soft and full of love as she recalls the story her lovely great-grandmother told her many times.

Lea Helen Blount’s beautiful hair was kinky, neat, and bright silver and white. She was so full of experience, love, and strong faith. On bended knees, so kind, so gentle, so full of hope, she tucked the several-month-old Secil in her arms. Sunlight beamed from the heavens through the half-open front door of her modest home as she rested her soft wrinkled forehead on the short square-shaped piece of furniture. The busy street echoed loudly with sounds of traffic. She began to pray and pray, for she was a God-fearing woman who had fallen in love with Secil at birth. She religiously prayed and cared for Secil through her congenital illness.

Secil looked up, pointed, and began to form words from her innocent small mouth. Bright light, bright light.

Lea Helen Blount looked up and said, Thank you, Lord. Thank you. She is healed. Her heart pumped with love, circulating faith deep in her soul for Secil and Secil’s life. Lea Helen Blount looked at Alexander Blount and said, Secil doesn’t have to see the doctor anymore. She is healed.

Alexander insisted that they get in the car for Secil’s doctor appointment. Lea Helen had Secil in her arms, no seat belt, back window cracked open, and static-filled radio in the background.

Secil began to speak sweetly and innocently, saying, Bright light, bright light.

Lea Helen said, You can turn the car around now. She is healed.

When Secil finishes this story, she smiles sweetly and says, I like this one. My great-grandmother used to say to me all the time that I was healed and they didn’t have to take me to the doctor anymore. I was in love with her. I was in love with him [great-grandfather Alexander]. My great-grandparents. They were the loves of my life, both of them.

Secil’s demeanor smoothly changes from one of sweet, innocent love for her great-grandparents to one of sadness as she tells me, It just tore me up when they got older and I had to take care of them. Secil’s demeanor again changes, this time abruptly to one of anger as she says, I was sixteen or seventeen years old and more responsible than any fucking adult in my family!

Secil’s speech quickly becomes more excited, her body language more animated. Her upper-body muscles tense as she gesticulates with her hands in symphony with her words, which she harshly utters in vivid description of her recollection of this piece of her teenage life.

I had a car. I had over five grand in my bank account. I was in school. Still on the honor roll. At the time, I don’t think my mom even had a car. I was pregnant, and they would always wake me up and want me to take them here, take them there. Who the fuck does that? I don’t know how I kept getting up, and I was tired, and I didn’t want to do it, and ‘Take me here,’ and ‘Take me there.’ I should be resting when I could. I worked at least thirty hours a week as a waitress at Steak ’n Shake.

Here, Secil’s voice becomes calmer, and her speech slows, sounding informative and punctuated as if to sell her teenage résumé to a potential employer.

I was in prep club. I was treasurer for Vocational Industry Clubs of America [VICA]. I was secretary for student council. I was team captain for volleyball, and I was pregnant with Sethan. So to me, I was doing a lot when I look back at it. So why keep up with ‘Drop me off here’ and ‘Pick me up there’? Because I was the only motherfucker with a car! That was ridiculous!

Secil’s tone transitions to awe, and her body language softens as she recounts memories of her great-grandparents.

"My great-grandparents were the only sane people in my family, and they were my foundation. I think that a lot of me, the straight part of me, is due to them. You know, Grandpa and I would talk about blue chips and stocks, bank accounts, economics, Martin Luther King Jr., and civil rights, and they watched him, I think, get shot on TV. They went through the Great Depression, which I wrote a story about and got an A on because I could sit there and listen to them tell me all kinds of shit and just write it all down.

"My great-grandfather had always wanted to be a doctor. He was very bright, very smart. In one of the stories I wrote, I quoted my great-grandfather. He said, ‘I was just a poor black nigger.’ One of my professors got upset. I had to fight the school to keep it in my story, and I won. They let me out of his class and put me in somebody else’s. I quoted him. You don’t tell me to change something that somebody in my bloodline who is a legend in my family said. I was very upset about that. But anyway, I won. I was just quoting what he said.

He did a lot of jobs that I could try to remember. My great-grandmother had her own little beauty shop on Marcus, and they lived upstairs, so when they moved to Pine Lawn, they would call it the country back then, even though it’s the hood now. She had her hairdresser’s chair—you know, the chair you pump with your legs and spin around on. She had it in the kitchen at the house. She had her hot plate on the stove and her Marcel curling iron! You put it on the fire!

Poison Control

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In the mind of a nine-year-old black female, as development occurs, one mimics what one sees. Understanding the thought process of a young person can take some years of quality experiences. I’m not speaking of the subject matter or even being an expert, however, just being quiet and witnessing yourself (or myself) viewing a snow globe of screening many years later as an adult provider. Each adult grows from a child in training, depending upon their experiences, lessons, opportunities, surroundings, and upbringing.

See, as we human children picture perfect cultures in portraits, variables are considered, whether in an African American household, a Caucasian home, and others. In this moment, I am thinking of one who was born to a teen mother who resided with her parents and later with her great-grandparents. What’s the parenting like in this home setting? What’s the socioeconomic status?

Eventually, she raises the child in the South City of St. Louis, Missouri, unwed and with a man who did not father this child. There are two other children in the household, born to another father out of wedlock. That father has never been involved with that child or lived with the mother as a family unit. Then the youngest child is born out of wedlock, but the gentleman who resides in the home is later discovered to have had many children across the United States while in the military. The once-teen mother makes a covenant with this man, who later becomes a drug addict.

How are the parenting skills in this home? What will be the fate of the young nine-year-old African American female child, glancing at other households in different locations of opportunity, love, positive teaching? How does this happen? Hypothetically speaking, a Caucasian child from Ladue, a suburb of St. Louis, will have many experiences by the time they are nine years old of traveling, parents owning not one or two vehicles, not having a clue of public transportation. What world is this?

This child, this family is not of the pedigree of the nine-year-old African American female child from South City, St. Louis, produced from an unwed teen mother. Again, where is her fate? What could her thoughts and dreams require, or is there even a dream of substance to speak of or to know of living off unsubstantial growth? How can one dream if they have not been exposed to dream-worthy material? Ah … How does one household function versus another? Did the Caucasian female child of Ladue experience fighting, beating, or even drugs in the home? Was the Ladue Caucasian female child taught to grow and blossom like the petals of a flower after the sunshine, after the rain, speaking properly and appropriately, carrying herself like a lady, classy in style, and