Who we are: That at some point in our lives we identify ourselves with the lives of oth

By Maricella Obando Moya

"Who we are" is a moving and deeply personal reflection of one extraordinary woman's life. At some point in our lives, we identify with others. This book offers that opportunity. By following along on the author's journey, readers will experience growth, reflection, and change. A must-read personal memoir, readers will connect with and be touched by each page.

Author Maricella Obando Moya reminds us to be ourselves, and get away from things and people who harm us – including family members. When we seek our own peace, we find ourselves in a beautiful balance of harmony. Get ready to experience the growth processes to achieve such harmony in life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667808727

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Who We Are

©2021, Maricellan Obando Moya

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-66780-871-0

ISBN eBook: 978-166-780872-7

Contents

Introduction

My Evolution

My Grandparents’ House

My Lita

Gardener

The Lagoon

The Escape

Our Little Ranch

The school

When Chris Moved

My Self-esteem

The Elves

Futuristic Dreams

My First Communion

The Bakery

The Bees

My Stepfather

The Wounds

The Witches

The Dolphins

Broken Bones

Christmas

My fifteen years

My first husband

The Wedding Day

Kevin my first son

My Aftermath of Trauma

The psychiatrist

The Twins

Angel

Richard

The Pandemic Covid-19

Introduction

The facts narrated here are part of my own life story. Through the power of a divine force, my sixth sense or just the desire to change my outlook to a more positive point of view, I have worked tirelessly to achieve a better quality of life for myself and my family.

I leave you to interpret my whole story as you wish, the story of a girl who, despite her lost childhood still had an innocence within her. As I grew, I sought ways to learn about the world around me and change my life for the better. I saw, one can survive challenges and still achieve their goals, even though they may have been raised in a hostile environment with ignorant parents who lacked knowledge and passion.

Despite the difficulties I have endured in my life, I now understand more about me and my inner self. I know that there is always a light of hope, and that light and hope is what we call our God, a spirit or source of energy——we are never alone. Discovering a new rebirth in every step of my life, I have learned to heal from many wounds.

As we go through life, the decisions we make and the actions we take help to direct the course of our lives, hopefully for the better. The more we know our inner self, the greater the chance that the changes we make will be for the better.

When our inner self is unknown to us, our path will either be more of a confused one or even take us in a worse direction. At least, I find this to be true in my own life. I have found my better decisions to be a huge benefit for my life. It is up to us to choose our own paths and decide who we are throughout our lives.

My Evolution

I was born in Costa Rica on June 4, 1977, at 1 p.m. My mother named me Maricella, a name chosen by my father who had been watching a Venezuelan Novella and fell in love with the main character’s name, Marisela. My name is spelled differently, because either my mom or the person at the hospital mis-spelled it on my birth certificate.

My mother says that when I was six months old, I had pneumonia. The fever was so high that they had no choice but to take me to the hospital. The doctors at that time, when the children had fever, put them in tubs with ice to lower the body temperature. But when they did that to me, that thermal shock affected me so badly that I fell into a coma.

The doctors told my mother that if I did not respond during the night, to not expect to find me alive in the morning. My mother went home sad and in despair. While alone and crying in a corner of the room, she heard a noise in the living room where all my aunts and other family members were gathered. They were all complaining and crying aloud. She got up and went to them exclaiming, What is happening here?

One of my aunts had my cousin Alejandra in her arms who had just fainted from a fall. I liked to call this cousin Alitos. She was a baby, like me, but a year older. Everyone was desperately trying to save her.

My mother shouted, Somebody does something, for God’s sake!

She put my baby cousin on the floor and gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She was now so purple—almost lifeless. My mother massaged her chest tightly, Alitos then responded and Mom took her in her arms and patted water upon her forehead. Alitos then came to, showing better color. The blow on her head was because she had been playing and jumping on her bed, falling back, hitting her head on the bed rail, leaving her almost lifeless. Everyone was so thankful to see her doing much better.

The next morning my mother went to the hospital to see if I was dead or alive. A great miracle had happened here as my cousin Alitos, and I were alive and both doing well—as if nothing at all had happened to us! The doctors were surprised and said it was a miracle and that there is someone up there (in heaven) who was taking care of her. For me, that is how it was from that point on. I never felt alone.

My mother was a young, submissive woman, having endured much humiliation during her 20 years of life thus far. Yet, because of my father with his jealous and manic ways., altered my mother’s nerves she had a strange desire of always having everything excessively clean and orderly.

I have an older brother, Christian. He is older than me by a year and a half

At that time, my parents took care of children in a shelter; there were four children and with my brother and I we would be six that my parents would have to take care of. They took that job since we had no place to live and to take care of those children meant they would give us a house and food.

When I turned one year old in 1978, Mom made me a cake and I celebrated my birthday with my foster brothers. Everything was nice over there, we had a roof and food, but my father’s obsessive jealousy made him mean and difficult, and he would hit my mom much of the time. One morning he threw a piece of wood to hit my mother, but she crouched down, and that piece of wood landed on me instead. Since I was so small, being hit by the wood broke my fingers, legs, and feet. He then took my mother by the hair and dragged her out of the house into the street, her body being raked from the little stones all over the ground. I was eight years old the first time my mom told me about this terrible day. That for her it was very traumatic because she told me all the time especially when she got drunk. My Mom said that it was such a fuss that they threw us out from the place where we lived. Without work and a home, we were forced to look for a new place to live.

My father’s mom died when he was a baby. He was raised from then on by his siblings. He never got to go to school and turned out to be a man who never learned to read or write. Even though he was illiterate, he was intelligent. He raised us to believe that everything would be fine and that the earth would provide. He would always say to us, Cows provide milk to make cheese, chickens to lay eggs. He was the kind of man whose thoughts and ideas were good, but he could never quite fulfill those thoughts and ideas on a positive level.

I remember that we always lived on different farms with livestock, taking care of cows and working in the fields. One morning, we moved to a town called Cot where my parents worked taking care of a farm. They were given a small old house to live in. We had no beds; we were so poor, we slept on the floor on cardboard and pieces of clothes that mom had laid down for us. That night we went to bed tired after a long day. When everything was calm, we heard a rumble on the ceiling. My brother, Christian, and I hugged each other in fright! Mom lit up a candle because in that old house, we had no electricity. We discovered there were hundreds of large rats that lived in the house since it had been abandoned for a long time. At night, by the glow of the candles, I could see the red eyes of the many rats and Christian and I would feel so frightened. It was impossible to try to sleep at night, so sometimes we slept sitting down so the rats didn’t bite us.

Because of frightful experiences like this and too many others, Christian was a very nervous child. This anxiety has stayed with him in his 46 years of life.

Every morning at 4 a.m. my parents would wake us and take us with them to work in the potato fields beneath a volcano. My job was to throw the potatoes in a basket. Up there on the mountain I saw the sun rise. It looked so beautiful and full of its bright yellow light. I always liked to imagine seeing that light when night came since I was very afraid of the giant rats, with their scary red eyes that did not respect anything, even my little feet, where one day one of them bit me, which caused me a lot of nerves, to this day, and I sleep with a little light on.

Time passed in that horrible place and every night the plague of rats was upon us. After a few months, we moved to live at another farm. This other house was much better. We had time to play in the forest and I loved talking to the wild animals there. On Sundays, we sold watermelon in the street to people who were preparing to walk through the forest or have their picnics nearby.

My dad never liked alcohol or other drugs, he was a clean and sober man, but his manic depressions were strong. Too strong. Dad always beat my mother very hard and beat us. He also had a stick and would beat us with it repeatedly to our heads or wherever he chose at any moment—he didn’t seem to care. To me, as a young toddler at three years old, I saw him as a beast.

When I turned three years old and my brother was four and a half, my mother made the decision to move to live with my grandparents, Ramon and Mariana. By then my grandfather, Ramon, was very sick. Six months later, he died of cancer. I enjoyed living in my grandparent’s house, and on the day of his funeral, they brought the coffin to the house where they made a beautiful altar decorated with white curtains and many flowers—all to say goodbye to the body. Goodbye to Ramon. I saw the faces of everyone, so sad and with eyes closed and praying. Being a toddler, I started to think that if I touched the coffin to call my grandfather he would get up, so I got under the coffin and began hitting the coffin and singing a stanza to my grandfather Grandpa, get up that the angels are here!

Suddenly my mother took me by the arm and gave me such a hard pinch I will never forget it, stating, You need to learn to have more respect for the dead. It is too bad my mom misunderstood me.

I am a very outgoing and curious girl—my mind is always creating. I often see bright lights, movements in the air, with a feeling of peace that overcomes me. This is something that is always with me despite having endured so much misery and pain, and it makes me feel so good.

I have never lost sight of those lights and images that attract me so much. The images of them appear to me like seeing a prism of light reflected by the water. They appear at any given time, and I believe that they are angels. I can talk with them, and they give me signs when I ask something of them. Especially when I need advice, and they always give me answers.

My Grandparents’ House

Before my grandfather died, there were forty people (all relatives) living in that big house that he built. My grandfather was a tall and very handsome man of Spanish descent. He always told my mother, If one day you have the opportunity to go to Spain, look for the Moya’s Coat of Arms; they are our ancestors.

Grandfather Ramon was a carpenter, and in turn a talented artist. He would take a piece of wood and transform it into a fine piece of art. He had his workshop in the long corridor of the house that faced the street. His machines and saws stopped only when he went out to the bar to warm up, as he said. On his return, his character became a man who protested everything and shouted his famous words, sons of the fucking mother! Since there were so many children living there, it seemed like living in a hospital for the insane. Children running and playing, drunk adults talking to other drunks and my aunts always cooking. There were so many people (not to mention, the cats, hens, and dogs) that there was never a place to feel alone in my grandparents’ house.

On many occasions, while I was playing hide and seek with my cousins, my grandfather was working vigorously with his saws. We would run past him, without any one of us taking into consideration the danger that was lurking there with the saws, tools, and large pieces of wood ever present. My grandfather, using his choice words, would get so impatient and angry with us that he would take off the belt of the saw and give us a good blow to our bottoms. As I was a small girl of stature, I hid behind the door so I would not take the blow. My cousin, Alitos, who I enjoyed very much, was chubby and taller than me, she stood in the doorway, and I was able to hide behind the door. I gestured to her with my little finger to not let him know I was there. I did not take the blow that day.

Many times, there was no money for milk. My mother gave us Aguadulce, molasses mixed with water or coffee in the bottle (in Spanish chupon is the word for bottle). I loved to enjoy my chupon!

Sometimes there was a septic-tank-like smell due to the outhouse that overlooked a small river that passed on by. I enjoyed my chupon so much that when I smelled that unpleasant smell, it was still wonderful for me. The taste of the Aguadulce combined with that stinky smell is something that got branded onto my subconscious, where even to this day when I smell something similar stinky, it brings me right back to my childhood.

With so many people living in my grandparents’ house, it was so noisy, too noisy. When it would rain, mostly in our winter, I loved to hear the downpours falling on the roofs of the houses. Everything was quieter when nature made more noise than humans.

Every morning my mother gave me a bath with cold water on top of the pila, a type of sink or basin. This was something I did not like; the water was just too cold, and my mother would be waking me up too quickly. I went from the warmth of my bed and my pajamas to the chilly feeling of the cold-water drip over my little body. I shivered with the chills and my mother would take me and quickly wrap a towel around me and send me to my room to dress. My cousins were all waiting in line for their turn. Anxiously I ran alongside them in line, and I stated, It is your turn for your torture shower!

We liked it when my grandmother’s sister, Maria, arrived on weekends because she had a child with intellectual disability, Mario, who was always sticking his tongue out.

As innocent children, we were all very curious about his behavior, so we liked to play hide, seek with him, and let him chase us down the street.

While playing the game, whoever touched Mario, or grabbed him, would get jerky blows to their head—his nature to do that. For us, it was a lot of adrenaline to run to escape from Mario. Other times, we would say, Kisses and hugs, because you are so strong. He gave great kind and gentle hugs. Throughout his life and as an adult, he then became famous because he would sing in the streets of the capital with his famous guitar to passersby who would stop and give him money for him to play his guitar. A book was written about him. I called him, The Great Mario! He died as a hero, with a big heart and loved by everyone.

My Lita

I called my grandmother Lita. Mariana was her name. She was a strong woman with a big, hard heart.

When she met my grandfather, she was a single mother with three children whom she worked very hard to support. In those times when a woman was alone with children, it was a repulsive act in the eyes of society; however, she had the support of her parents. One day Lita learned that there was a widower who was looking for her since Lita was famous in the town for being a working woman and strong.

My grandfather told her to work at his house and he would pay her well. So, my grandmother accepted. He needed someone to help him with housework and take care of five children left by his late wife who died in childbirth with his fifth daughter, Aunt Flory. My grandfather Ramón was left alone with five children to raise.

When after five years my grandfather fell in love with Lita, and asked for marriage, she accepted that the family would start with eight children. Then she gave birth to seventeen more children would come to that marriage.

Lita was a woman who, under her cultural beliefs and orthodox upbringing followed the man, respected him regardless of her own opinion since she never expressed it.

Lita Mariana, when she spoke, was wise, and she said everything in parables. She told many stories, but when she started talking, she did not like anyone to interrupt her. If we ever interrupted, we were given her famous phrase, Well fuck! We would all look at each other, trying to hold in our laughter, when she mentioned that bad word.

One night when everything was calm and my big family slept, I went to the kitchen to see if I could find my chupon. I found Lita peeling a tub full of potatoes. She saw me and asked me, What are you doing still awake, mama?

I replied, "I can’t sleep without my chupon." I then sat next to her. As usual, she started the conversation with one of her many stories, which moved me to magical places in my mind. Other times her stories were scary, filled with witches and things that had happened to some of her childhood acquaintances. While she told her long stories, I saw between a hole that was in the kitchen wall, a piece of land. A beautiful sky full of stars met my eyes, and the moon reflected its light between that hollow of the wall. It gave me a sense of peace; I then slept next to Lita, watching the stars, and listening to her stories.

As the years with her passed, with the many stories between grandma and me, that allowed me to learn a lot from her. Especially her strength, she always told me. Even if life hits us hard, let’s turn the other cheek. That the good or the bad both teach us lessons.

Gardener

One day, Mom dressed my brother and me in white with yellow and said that we were going to leave gardeners for the Celebration of Christ (a tradition of the Catholic Church to dress the children in white and yellow holding a basket full of flower petals to go throwing down the street when the priest gave the blessing to the parishioners)Sunday came, and with it my dad to see us and to spend time with us. Mom also dressed me in white patent leather shoes and told me not to get out of bed because it would make them dirty. I stayed very still because I did not want to dirty my new shoes! To this day, patent leather speaks to me in a special, happy way—bringing me back to that moment.

Another memory of this day was that my dad (although a man with confused ways, also had a generous side at times), showed up as somewhat of a surprise, bringing us a bread roll that was 4 and a piece of cheese that was 3 kilos and this little box of milk that was 3. Dad looks a lot like the image of Jesus in Catholic churches, and every time I went to Mass, I always saw him crucified and with his gaze to heaven, everywhere I saw my dad. Even though he was not with us, I thought that dad was a good and famous man since his pictures hung everywhere and people prayed to him. Dad took time to be with us and then left, since he said he had to visit his brothers who were like eight siblings (very loving to each other).

Mom said, now that your father has left, let’s go to the ceremony (Mass) that is about to start. All of us were happy. My brother and I, with my basket of flowers, which mom had arranged very nicely for me, went to the church ceremony (Mass). At the ceremony, Mom had paid a cameraman to take one picture of me and my brother and to always remember this beautiful sunny Sunday.

The Lagoon

In 1948, there was a very bloody civil war in Costa Rica that lasted for 44 days. During this time, it is believed that 2,000 or so people were killed. During the war, a wealthy lady, named Ana Cleto, who had a large estate with a large lagoon in the center of it, sought to protect people and keep them safe from the war. To do this, she sheltered many poor people in tunnels that were built on her land, a place known as The Lagoon.

When Ana Cleto died, she had no children or family members to inherit her property. For many years her land was empty and belonged to the Costa Rican government. After many years and in honor and in memory of Ana Cleto, the mayor of the city of Cartago broke up her land into small plots to be given out too many poor people to build themselves a home. My mom was one of the lucky people to receive land so our family could have a home of our own. I was around the age of five when this occurred.

After hearing the mayor tell us the story about the lagoon, I talked with my brother about my wish to go see it someday and investigate the tunnel and see for myself if it was true.

Mom brought us to see where we were going to build our own house. She was very happy since she could finally leave her grandparents’ house and free herself and us from the crazy drunken rants from the uncles making scandals, and from the noisy environment, due to big family living there.

That day I heard Mom say that she was also happy because several of my aunts also received land to build homes as well.

In a big caravan, we set out to each discover our new piece of land. While many people waded through waist-deep water, one person had the idea to cut down a tree to create a bridge. Many of us now passed over the small river by carefully balance walking over the fallen tree. It was a great adventure for me, since I was incredibly happy to do something new and climbing that tree was an unforgettable experience. I greatly enjoyed walking above the river while hearing the people saying, Pass carefully! Once across the small river we continued the road up to the top of the mountain.

Arriving at the top, the land plots were already located with stakes and with the name of each person registered to live there. The plots for people’s new homes were set so high above the road so that stairs would need to be built to gain access to our future homes. The whole earth there was a reddish color, much like terra cotta pots, from all the clay. My mother said, Here we are going to make our little house.

The days went by, and slowly our house started to take shape. My mom would eventually call it her little ranch. Some construction materials were given to her, and she would find pieces of wood and bring them up the mountain. We all helped, each one of us, big and small, carrying pieces of our new home. It was a lot of sacrifice and work, but with all of this work our new home, Mom’s little ranch, was finally built.

A short time later, Mom was living with Dad again, and even though she was newly pregnant, he kept mistreating us, treating my mother and his children without compassion.

When my brother Jonathan was born, he was a very cute baby, he looked like a doll and I liked to play with him, by that time I was just six years old!

One night I slept in the middle of my two parents when I felt that Dad was putting something behind my legs. I didn’t know what it was, but I was very scared. I was hitting mom in the back and saying see what dad is doing! But Mom did not wake up and Dad covered my mouth as he sexually abused me.

That day at school, I remember feeling so dirty from what my father had done to me. I no longer felt at home in my body, because of what he did. I remember scratching at my skin and biting at myself because of all this pain.

One day Dad was given work in the town cleaning the pipes and garbage collection, but on his days off Dad used to work at home building a great fence made of bamboo. Each bamboo cane made a point like a spear, he said that with the fence he would keep us locked up while he went to work so we could not leave.

My mother had a rare obsession with my dad, someone that could be that paranoid and that extreme! My mother was a submissive and quiet woman, she did not want to say anything since my dad was the head of the family; the woman followed what the man said without having her voice or vote.

Every moment with him was terrible, but it always felt like we needed to walk on eggshells so we didn’t do anything that might disturb him. One morning, my dad carved very nice handmade wooden spoons and marked them with hot irons that he put on the flame to mark the wood and make