I live here; learning to heal through embracing your own story

By Lori Ellen Poland

In 1983, Lori Poland was an ordinary three-year-old girl playing in her Colorado front yard, when a strange man offered her candy from the open passenger door of his car. Four days later, Lori was found abandoned in the mountains after sexual abuse and trauma. She emerged whole but unaware of the ripple effects her abduction would cause in her l

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lori Poland, LLC
• Release date: Jul 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985736113

Lori Ellen Poland

Lori Poland, MA, LPC, RRTLori is a thought leader by nature, guiding and leading innovation and conversation about taboo topics using authenticity, humor, and humility. Lori is a therapist who is trained in family counseling, child and adolescent therapy, and infant mental health. Lori provided mental health therapy supporting people in attachment, relationships, and personal growth. Lori has spent the last 25 years as a public-speaker motiving audience in self-improvement, personal introspection, and healing through life's presented challenges. Lori shares openly and genuinely about the effects of trauma, the journey of healing, and the impact that relationships have on our growth by opening up about her own traumatic experience of being abducted, severely abused, and left for dead in the pit of an outhouse toilet at the age of 3. Lori's healing experience has led her along, with her treating doctor from her kidnapping, to co-found and become the CEO of The National Foundation To End Child Abuse and Neglect (EndCAN). Through her work at EndCAN, Lori continues the conversation with audiences big and small helping people to talk more openly about child abuse and neglect, moving it from its current view of being solely a social and legal issue to also be seen as a public health, mental health and physical health problem that needs attention, community, a voice and significant change in order to end abuse and neglect. Lori's mission in life is to be intentional, impactful, kind, and loving to as many people as possible, spreading messages of hope and possibility and uniting communities to change together one audience at a time.

Book preview

Introduction

Be who you want to be

People ask me every day, How do you do it, Lori? How do you manage it all, with a smile on your face?

My response is fairly simple: intention. I think about the way I want to be in the world, and I do that. It certainly does not go without tears, upset, or snotty and emotional reactions to things that bug me. Every moment of every day, I attempt to be the change I wish to see in the world. I’ve had a strong intuition from a very early age. In nearly all difficult relationships and experiences in my life, my instinct often told me when things were off. I, unfortunately, have not always listened to it, and in fact, it wasn’t until later in life that I realized although I didn’t listen, it wasn’t wrong either. I often find myself ignoring it, typically driven from a place of fear. Once I began to hear me, the sight of things became clearer. I was able to see relationships for what they were and people for who they were, and I came to know when it was my time to step aside.

I write this book because I see millions of people who struggle with their shadow story, hiding the in the dark, keeping it in a room—door closed, lights off, avoiding its existence. I know what that feels like, to pretend that everything is okay. I know what it feels like to be on—to hold it together, smile and nod, and push forward. And, I also know, that we are given teachings in life. Ones that advance us. Ones that direct us to be our unique and individual selves, helping us with our tiny roles in this world.

When we are too distracted or avoidant of our shadow story, we are shaken, as if by an earthquake to our core, and we hit bottom. From here, the only way to go is up. We are made to notice and listen, made to attend, and amend, made to look at and address this shadow story so that we can be provided with our intended truest gifts. It’s in this surrender-ship that I write this book. It is from this place that I release all power, strength, courage, management skills, knowing, and directorship. Sharing my shadow story is true surrendering.

You are worthy of having a voice

I hold nothing back. I share my story with hopes that someone will read it, connect to it, find strength and hope in it, and use it to grow in their own lives. I share because I know that we learn from, through, and with each other, not on our own.

The idea of writing my story, sharing my inner darkest secrets, is frightening. I worry a lot. I worry that it will hurt those closest to me. I worry about the haters out there. I worry that people will judge me, judge us, for it all.

My kidnapping caused a lot of harm: From 1983—1985, and in 1989, 1991, 1998, 2001, 2014, 2018, and now. Most of those later years were caused when I brought it up, being a poster child for the collective efforts toward ending child abuse and neglect. The harm was sometimes caused by my willingness to speak, which in a sense was sacrificial, to provide hope, possibility, and healing to millions of people who were suffering with abuse—in fear, alone, isolated.

I write this story because I know the fear. I feel the fear, and I am okay with holding space for the fear. I am worthy of having a voice; you are worthy of having a voice; our children are worthy of having voices, too.

I believe there is so much hope and possibility after trauma and abuse. I believe that—while our stories get embedded into our brains—our way of doing, thinking, and being can be rewritten. We can—at any point—re-write the meanings we assign to them. Most certainly, with great intention, we can do things differently and live lives of surviving, thriving, and transcending.

I am with you all. I give me to you, and I thank you for being in this with me. ♥

Neither you nor I did anything wrong

I have attempted to write my story at least four times in my life. Each time I work at it, I become afraid. Fearful of causing harm, fearful of a backlash, fearful that no one really cares. I say things like, Who am I to be sharing? So many people have worse stories.

As a sexual abuse survivor, I have come to learn over the years that we—sexual abuse survivors—have so much shame and fear of our trauma. Fear that we will become the perpetrator, fear that we are the bad guy, that we deserved our abuse, that if there was any pleasurable feelings in our bodies that we are wrong and bad, fear that we continued to let the abuse take place and didn’t stop it, fear that we are only worthy of sexual relations, fear that we won’t ever heal or get better after our abuse.

So many of these thoughts have influenced my life. I know the feeling of shame. I know what it is like to hurt. I know what it is like to feel the utter rejection of love from those closest to you. I know how it feels when you believe as though everything about you is wrong. I know what it feels like to doubt every single thing you do, say, think, and believe. Those are feelings I don’t ever want anyone to experience. When I share my story, I am not seeking attention. I do not want people to feel sorry for me. I am certainly not looking for people to defend and protect me. Instead, I want to help. The last thing I want to do with a tragic, painful life experience is to cause or focus on the harm. So, we will see through it and embrace the joy, the hope, and the possibility. Together we will walk into the light.

My hope and intention with writing this book is simply to show people that there is hope. That coming out of the shit (literally and figuratively) is possible. That the ability to overcome life’s challenges, while trying and complicated, is a possibility. No matter how old you are. In fact, the best part will more than likely come later in life, when you are able to make safe, sound decisions that lead to healing and self-care.

While I stumble

As I read, re-read, and re-read this book again, I can’t help but feel my stumbling. Writing my story is like standing in front of you all with no clothes, hoping you will not judge me. I read my words and feel my struggle. I feel the fear within them, the worry of my fifth cousin calling my parents and saying, "That is not at all how this happened! Or someone saying to my dad, When is she gonna get over it, and move on?" or the voicemails and texts from people, saying how selfish and attention-seeking I am.

I hear my conscious stream of thought as I write, and I hear my justifications or explanations, the process that my brain goes through while writing a memory. I can’t help but think, I should just scrap this whole project. Forget it. The whole thing. Stop now. You aren’t a good writer, anyway. No one wants to hear your words. Someone will say that you got it all wrong, and maybe they are right. You should just stop here.

Then, in the moment immediately afterward, I find myself knowing that this is exactly what the abusers of our world seek and look for. Staying quiet and shaming myself are the words of others, not me. I find myself remembering why I wrote in the first place—because I have a story that I know people can relate to. A story of pain, loneliness, abandonment, trauma, emotional abuse, and the long-term effects of childhood abuse, silenced along the way for the sake of those around you.

So, I ask you to bear with me as I stumble through. Know that this is simply my version of my story. I have read the court reports, the medical records, the testimony, the clinical records, the newspapers, the letters. I have heard hundreds and hundreds of personal stories about my abuse. I don’t walk into this story blindly. I will stumble with my words and my ability to share what I am trying to say, and I thank you in advance for going forward with grace. ♥

Chapter 1

The Days Before

Before age three

I was born on July 24, 1980, as a very petite, homely baby, with black hair over an inch long that stood straight up to the ceiling. My belly protruded, while my lanky legs and skinny beanpole arms flailed around as I screamed.

My beauty grew quickly, as my hair lightened and shaped into a soft wave, and I grew like a weed. My eyes softened into an everchanging blue-green, and my smile only grew with my chubby legs and cheeks. I softened out and found my way in the world.

By two years old, my long blonde hair was a sanctuary for me. I carried a brush around, climbed into laps of those I loved, and passed the brush back to have my hair brushed, often falling asleep to the soothing movement that ran from scalp to lower back, as each strand elongated through the bristles, and a hand followed, petting the hair.

My blue eyes, big smile, and chubby cheeks often got me all the things I wanted from people in my life. But being shy was my jam, hiding was my favorite game, and sleeping was my favorite hobby. Talking to people I didn’t know, being in large, loud places, and being with strangers were never my strengths, but I could liven up with excitement and grace if I was at home, in my space, and I knew the person.

I’d convince adults to play hide and seek with me, and I would find the most magical hiding places I could think of. (I still do!) I’d hide between the mattresses, against the wall- behind everything, behind the games, under the bunk bed, in the back of the closet, behind the clothes with my feet in the boots so no one would see my legs. Adults couldn’t find me if they tried, until they’d say Lori, where are you?

Then, I’d respond in my gentle, sweet voice from far off inside something: I’m in here!

I always caused a smile on the faces of those looking for me, which only forced me to think harder about a better place to hide next time.

Growing up in the Oakley neighborhood

Sheridan, Colorado. How does someone describe the town where they grew up? Most people won’t go there, others turn up their noses as they drive past on the speedy highway that cuts right against it. Yet, it’s home.

We lived in an 816 square foot, three-bedroom, one-bathroom home with a view of an apartment complex and my dad’s factory. Our sweet little home boasted a galley eat-in kitchen with a small living room for entertaining. There were about eight to thirteen houses on the street that were owned by the same man who owned my dad’s factory.

My dad always told me his life was good, filled with exploration, experience, and adventure. His curly brown hair was long and fluffy, and his round glasses often slid to the tip of his nose. To me, he was a strong, courageous man, who I only saw from a four-foot perspective, but he was pretty wonderful in my eyes.

He struggled with his dad, I suppose because all people struggle with their parents, but we both know his dad was a good man. An honest man, maybe a hard one and tough at times, but a good man, none-the-less.

My dad grew up in Lakewood, Colorado. He had a working man dad, a mousy mom, a whiny older sister, and a spoiled little brother. He states he was the only one who my grandpa put expectations on, and from the sound of it, those two rubbed each other the wrong way.

My dad wanted to do his own thing, wanted to be different from my grandpa, so he did. He grew up in the 1960s and 1970s, in a time when working, focus, dedication, and hard work were hard to come by. He partied, lived hard, played hard, ran hard. All things that my grandpa didn’t find very respectable. Yet, his reactions pushed my dad into rebelling even more, and my dad justified his life choices. But at the end of the day, he learned a lot, got where he wanted to go, and had fun doing it. It was just different than what my grandpa had expected.

My dad met my mom when he was twenty-one years old. Mom was a nineteen year old good Catholic girl, who was cute and charming and needed to be adored. He was the man for the job. They played together, ran around, lived it up, and dove in, fast and hard. My mom’s parents disapproved of my dad because he was a long-haired Baptist who wasn’t settled, focused, or interested in providing in a classy way that they expected for her. My dad’s parents weren’t super-fans of my mom, because she was a Catholic, uppity, spoiled-rotten, city girl who turned up her nose at anyone she thought was less than her.

My parents thought they were a perfect fit for each other. Three months into their courtship, my dad pulled over on the side of I-70 in the middle of a blizzard, as cars spun out all around them, ran to the passenger side of the car, opened the door to a terrified girl, and asked her to marry him. A few days later, in my maternal grandparents’ living room, my parents were married, surrounded by a handful of family members. My mom was disowned by her grandma for not having a traditional Catholic wedding, so both my parents vowed that faith would not be part of our lives. Therefore, we did not have discipline in doctrine or a faith-based community in our home. Although, I knew from as early as I can remember that I was held by something bigger than me; I was protected and safe, yet I didn’t know the words until much later.

When my dad got a job at Oakley, it came with the chance to live in one of the Oakley-owned houses on the company street. My mom worked at a bank and was doing well. She was good at organizing and numbers, and they seemed to like her. So, life for them began to settle into a comfortable state of being in the start of 1983.

The owner of the factory where my dad worked, Mr. Oakley, was an older wealthy man, with a heart the size of Texas. Mr. Oakley was a giver, a kind man who took care of people and their families. He purchased many of the homes across the street from the plant, maybe because it was security for his operation, ensuring people got to work on time, or it was because he was a good, loving man. He knew his wages couldn’t provide much, and the families who worked at Oakley were hard-working, blue-collar families, and Mr. Oakley loved families. So, he owned a bunch of the houses in our poor, rundown neighborhood, and he rented them to workers at his factory; every house was rented by an employee and his family.

As a kid, I thought the plant was a cool place. I’d walk in and see mostly machines and coils of metal. It was always loud. After being bent into shape, the metal coils were wrapped into a large circle, placed on a pallet, picked up by a forklift, and loaded into the back of a semitruck to be driven off to some unknown place I would never go.

In my dad’s area of the plant (the South section) there were between eight and ten long machines, with one man running each. Each machine had a station, a place where the man who worked it would store his cigarettes, a Mountain Dew bottle (or something like it), a coffee thermos, a toolbox, and their trash. My dad’s station was in the middle, along with seven to nine other men, who I saw and knew more than my aunts and uncles at the time. They would stand at their stations all day, ensuring their machine would pull the metal. Water poured on it midway, only to bend it into a tube and coil it up on a large round spool with wooden sides.

The bathroom at my dad’s work was the coolest: Outside of it was a fountain. A fountain! In a welding plant! As a small girl, it was pretty awesome. There was a break room, but I don’t remember anyone ever taking a break in or near it. My dad and his friends would break from their jobs at each other’s houses.

Our street was in the shape of a horseshoe, and the plant was in front of our houses. The street branched off into a Y-shape. Our next-door neighbors were Bruce and his son. Next to them was a married couple, and my babysitter, Mary. A few doors down, there was the Glen family, with tons of kids. (Mrs. Glen once had a baby and was home that afternoon, mowing the lawn!). At the split of the Y-shape was a family with a daughter, who was probably eight or ten years older than me. I watched this girl as she grew up; she seemed so mature, so cool. She was a true 1980s girl, with big hair, bright pink oversized shirt, and leg warmers that covered teal-blue spandex pants.

Oakley was a boomerang-shaped building that curved along the north side of our street and stood eight feet above Bear Creek. On the west end of the building was a multi-story apartment building, and in front of it was a bridge that took you over the creek and only a cul-de-sac behind the plant.

Right after you crossed the bridge was the house of my dad’s best friend and his wife, who was my mom’s best friend. They didn’t have kids, but they loved my brother and I. My mom’s friend was a hair stylist, and she loved to brush my hair. (Anyone who wanted to brush my hair could stay at our house for as long as they wanted). She taught me to braid hair at three years old, and I loved her for that. I loved hair, I loved my hair, and I loved anyone who loved it too.

Oakley, while a tough place to live (neighborhood-wise, poverty-wise) was a community, a village in and of itself, where everyone knew everyone. All day and night, you could walk around and not see a stranger within fifty feet. Oakley was our family. It was our home. Until that changed.

In 1983, children played outside, all day, all night, until the sun went down and Mom called out the front door, or until the smell of dinner drifted down the street. They rode bikes, they built forts, jumps, explored, toured, ran amuck—it’s simply what kids did. So many of us didn’t have television, there were no video games, so why play inside on hot days? So many parents pushed their children out of the front door after breakfast, telling them to come home at dinner.

When you lived on a horseshoe-shaped street, where you knew every neighbor north, east, south, and west of you, and your dad was home, you played outside. Our house was small. It was August, and air conditioning wasn’t something that anyone owned. When you were an explorative child who knew the difference between right and wrong, as soon as you knew how to speak up and talk back, you played outside.

I played outside on that infamous day in 1983, because I was a child of the 1980s. Because I lived in a village. Because I felt safe. Because my family felt safe. Because it was 12:35 in the afternoon. And because no one in the world could prepare for or plan for what was about to happen.

For thirty-five years, I have felt shame talking about how, at the age of three, I was playing in my front yard, in broad daylight, with peers, neighbors, and my dad around, when a stranger pulled up and took me away. For thirty-five years, I knew that every single time this story was told, my dad would feel pain, judgement, anger, and guilt. This guilt often turned into rage, and would, over thirty-five years, build on itself until it exploded.

I am mother to three amazing children, and I cannot fathom what I would do, how to survive, if something awful happened to one of my kids. I can’t imagine being a mother who has her child stolen from her. I can’t imagine the pain, the guilt, nor the worry that would come from that event. Nor can I imagine the response of being in the world with all the judgements, fears, and opinions poignantly obvious and in-my-face.

I specifically ask you not to pass judgement on my family. They did what they knew to do at that time. They did their best at being the parents they knew to be. They were loving, kind, helpful, genuine, hard-working providers. If I or anyone else in the world shames or blames them, it will accentuate their biggest fears, continue to perpetuate the pain that trauma causes.

That pain is the reason people want to stop talking, the reason my family asked me to silence myself, let it go, move on, and get over it. Shaming them, being angry at them, correcting or proving a point to them, will only cause more harm and certainly will not take away the good from this story.

Strength has prevailed. I embrace that. It is why I thrive and work so hard in this life to teach those around me about love and light.

So, please, join me in reaching within yourself to a moment in your life when something regrettable happened, and you wished you could change it, go back with foresight instead of hindsight. Think about a time you would have done just one thing slightly differently.

That is the feeling I imagine my family, specifically my dad, has lived with for more than thirty-five years. It’s the feeling that has caused my family to live in turmoil for so long. It eats away at each of us, like a cancerous pain; it prevents my family from healing. The pain of this trauma has caused some family members to leave Colorado and move to other states to start new lives. This pain has ignited rage within my family, causing so much harm and abuse that having relationships without help and