THE NEED TO NURTURE: BROKEN BY HEARTS OF STEEL, REBUILT BY METAL AND IRON

By Laura Louise

She was a latch key kid learning to protect herself by any method necessary. Her need to nurture manifested as she mended her broken spirit by achieving goals she was told were out of her reach.

A true memoir about childhood trauma, abandonment, and abuse. The Need to Nurture is a truly gut wrenching tale of Laura's experiences with trauma and abuse, but offers respite to readers by finding inspiration in the pain to show that life's difficulties only make us stronger and as we overcome our struggles, we may truly find solace in success

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665742146

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Copyright © 2023 Laura Louise.

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.

Archway Publishing

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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.

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.

Scripture quotations are taken from The Living Bible copyright © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4213-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4212-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4214-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023906473

Archway Publishing rev. date: 02/29/2024

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Childhood Dreams

Chapter 1     The Need to Nurture

Chapter 2     And Action!

Chapter 3     Soiled Again

Chapter 4     You can Run, but you can’t Hide

Chapter 5     Hell is made of Concrete

Chapter 6     Are you there, God? It’s me, Laura.

Chapter 7     Doctored Lies

Reaching

Chapter 8     Hate me, but love my Children

Chapter 9     Hungry for Death

My Secret Garden

Chapter 10     If You Judge a Book by its Cover, Take a Look at its Mother

Chapter 11     Through the Eyes of a Child

Chapter 12     To Serve and Protect

Chapter 13     The Law of Attraction

Chapter 14     The Nakedness I Feel

Footprints of a Tiny Fairy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The need to nurture is based on the child’s perspective and not the abuser’s. More often than not, the child becomes the parent and carries the burden of his parent’s toxic behavior as well as guilt. This is not always the case, and many come out strong. This memoir has been written with no malice intended to hurt or point out names. It’s my story of what I’ve experienced and have had to work through. It is by the grace of God that I am here today to write it.

I have left out the name of the characters and places I’ve lived for many reasons, one being that I wish to respect the privacy of all involved as well as leave an open window for anyone who can relate to this book. I pray that my book will somehow show that we can grow from anything if we choose. We can rewrite our story with a little love and encouragement.

I want to thank my loving husband, who has seen my child inside from the day we met. He has held me through all the ups and downs, and even though we have never had a perfect marriage, we have beaten the odds against us by loving and praying for one another. Together we have four amazing children whom I also want to thank for their patience and love, as their mama made many mistakes by trying too hard sometimes. There are so many people I want to thank for their constant love and guiding words of encouragement.

Grandma, I love you. Thank you for showing love to my children. Mother Mary, thank you for seeing me for who I am. Mother Hedwig, you were the living child who loved everyone with a tender heart. Amy, you came into my life for healing, and together we became sisters of steel.

Thank you to Wendy for your friendship and unbiased opinions. Your love for Milo and my dogs makes us family.

Thank you to Bracken, for encouraging me to write this book. His kind direction and support as made a stranger into a friend.

PROLOGUE

When I was 19, I was in my second year away from home. I worked in a hospital as a dietary aid. Although I was considered casual, I worked more hours than a set job schedule. The hours were long, and I could be called in at virtually anytime the hospital needed me. There was not much time for social activities, so I concentrated on getting my online fitness and nutrition courses done between shifts.

During the break, the kitchen staff would all sit down together in the cafeteria. Most of them smoked and talked about the next union meetings. I was so grateful for my wage as I made a lot of money, but the staff never seemed quite happy about their current rate per hour.

During one of our breaks, one of my colleagues mentioned her breast reduction and how painful it had been before the surgery. I, having little to no breast tissue, perked up and asked her the question: How did you know that you needed surgery?

She looked at me, Laura, I asked my doctor at my last physical.

Physical? What’s that? I whispered.

My friend could tell that I was naive and gently placed her hand on my knee. Laura, have you not had a physical? she asked.

No, I muttered. I was embarrassed, and later on, during the next break, I asked more about it. I didn’t have a family doctor, so I made an appointment with our local clinic.

A few weeks later, I arrived at my appointment with ambivalence. I was afraid of the unknown, but since my friend said it was very routine, I leaned on those words and told myself it was going to be just fine.

I was escorted into a small room that smelled of rubbing alcohol. The nurse sat me down and told me the doctor would be in soon.

I sat for just a few minutes, and then the doctor arrived. He was in his mid-forties, about five-foot-eight inches tall, with creamy brown skin and an accent. In his hand was a chart board, and while he was looking down at it, he told me to strip down, including all undergarments, and wait for his return. I asked him for a robe or gown.

Use the paper towel next to you, he instructed before leaving.

The door closed behind him, and I looked down to find the brown piece of paper that was folded into four pieces. As I unfolded it, I realized that this was not going to be enough to cover my body in any way, shape, or form. I proceeded to remove my clothes. As I undressed, my bottom lip quivered as I was alone in a strange room. I had never shown my body to anyone and felt completely vulnerable and terrified. I took the piece of brown paper and placed it over my hunched body as I sat on the cold metal examining table.

With a sudden jerk, the door opened, and the stout little man walked back into the room alone. I asked where the nurse was, and he claimed she had phone duties. I had no idea how it went. I just remembered the ladies at work complaining about their upcoming physical and how cold the tools were. I looked around for any devices that he may use on me.

The sound of the door latching with a firm click rattled me. The hair on my arms stood up as if my body had recognized this feeling before. I didn’t understand these feelings, and with the unknown that I was facing, I felt like I was five again. With one hand on the paper, I grabbed the end of my hair with the other to pull it down. My hair was too short to cover my breasts, but I tried anyway.

I want you to stand up and face the wall, he said directly with a soft voice.

I tried to hold onto the brown piece of paper, but it was no use after his next instruction.

Bend over and touch your toes, he announced.

My heart jumped two beats, and my throat tightened as I placed my hands on the floor. It was cold in the room and especially cold now that I was in the most horrific position. The room became painfully quiet, and my legs started to shake. After a minute or longer, I gathered enough strength of mind to ask how long I was to stay in this embarrassing position.

Just a few minutes more, he projected. I need to see if your hips align.

I felt sick as my eyes became blinded by the pool of tears slowly collecting around them. Swallowing harder, I tried to contain them. My hands appeared blurry, and with one single drop, I found that my tears no longer belonged to me. They had escaped and made themselves visible to demonstrate my weakness. My hands were soaked with evidence that I was just a young girl with no power.

Just before I was permitted to stand up, the doctor placed his hands on my hips and said, There now, your hips are just fine.

I could feel his hairy knuckles as his hands cascaded up and down my sides. This feeling I was having was all too familiar, but I could not pinpoint it to any certain time.

Ok, get up and lie down on the table, the doctor commanded.

I covered my privates with my hands as I often did as I slept. It felt more secure to have my hands there. I lay down on the table, shaking and trembling. My bottom lip quivered as I was cold and very, very naked.

Open your legs and drop your knees to the side, he said. With force, as my knees would not drop, he gently pushed my legs apart, coaxing me to relax. It was then that my body became paralyzed from fear. My teeth were chattering from nerves, and with one hand on my thigh, the doctor started to speak.

You are very tiny down here. Perhaps a virgin? I couldn’t answer him as my voice was gone. I’m going to have to use my pinky to get inside now, ok?

He began to move his finger inside, fishing around and probing. My body quickly straightened as if in shock from an electrical current surging through me. It was horrible. I did not feel good. I felt small and young again. I was powerless, and although he was just performing an internal exam, it felt much worse.

Roll over onto your side and face the wall, he said.

By now, I could barely move from fear. I wanted to throw up. Something was terribly wrong, but I had no power to sit up or ask questions. I was a timid little mouse caught in a trap—an innocent creature awaiting my fate. I could not speak. I could not move. I was frozen in shock and fear. There was an eerie familiarity to the situation—like I had been here before. Moments of time passed before me in small images that didn’t make sense. Certain sounds, the way he spoke, but mostly the feelings that were stirring around in my body. I had felt these haunting emotions before, and they left me motionless.

With great force, my forehead was pushed up against the wall. My knees had been bent by his invasive—malicious—brown hairy hands. A sharp pain went up and into my core. There was a large pressure that left me limp as my innocence escaped my body. As he relieved himself from my body, I defecated onto the floor. I was hollow now. Any form of virtue that I had managed to hold onto from past events had now left me. I lay there, unable to move from the experience.

This man, a doctor, had just sodomized me.

It’s okay. This happens sometimes, he replied as my tears came rushing out. I was sobbing by then, wanting to die. He began to wipe me down as I lay there frozen still. At this point, I had no care about what may or may not happen as I just wanted to die.

Sit up, Laura, he directed.

He reached for my hands and gently pulled me up into a sitting position. My face felt drawn as I could feel the blood leaving my cheeks. My head felt light and heavy at the same time. My brain was trying to process what had just happened and why to me.

He sat down in front of me as I sat there undressed and feeling violated. As he grabbed his prescription pad, he mentioned nonchalantly about his daughter, who was about my age, and his lovely wife. You have some acne that needs attention, he stated. I’m giving you a prescription for tetracycline to clear it up. You will feel much better about your complexion after that, he added.

As I watched him write, I noticed the long curly hair which wrapped around each of his knuckles. Those hands had touched me. Those hands had violated me. He would go home to his daughter and wife and touch them with those hands. Those hands would never leave my mind again, and they never have.

I was never the same after that. This shame was added to the collection of others before them. Each painful event of mistreatment found a home in my mind and body, leaving invisible scars that only I could see and feel. Perversion seemed to be all around me. There was literally a target on my forehead. When I think back to the times I was sexually violated, it was mostly people of authority who used their power to take mine away. My lack of trust brought on crippling paranoia. I made sure I was never alone in a room with a man or woman I didn’t know. My own mother made me uncomfortable a number of times. She would talk about her female lovers and liaisons in her wilder years, bragging about how many lovers she had. Occasionally she would look at me and comment on my body in a crude manner. Her comments made me feel dirty as they were not things a mother should say to her daughter. I was too afraid to share about my visit to the doctor for fear that my mother would blame me or call me stupid.

Whenever I was uptight about something or seemed to be having a difficult day, my mother would pipe up and say, You know what you need, Laura? A good lay!

I was about sixteen when she started coming up with that line. Everything my mother was, I was not. I was a constant failure to her. She was a wild beatnik in her youth, exploring all things sexual and indignant. She rode with bikers and loved to party. She was rough around the edges and mostly hung out with men—fearless in her own element. I had none of that. In retrospect, I think not having siblings probably didn’t help my mother when it came to my brother and me. It made sense to me why she could only show affection to only one of us.

CHILDHOOD DREAMS

Running down the banister stairs, plump barefoot toes meet each step with anticipation.

Moon rays shine through window panes. Incandescent ornaments sparkle from each fairy light weaving in and out of the pungent pine. The golden star sits proudly.

Gasps of excitement escape peppermint-stained lips as the children kneel before their giving tree.

Fingers tousle through ribbons and large fabric bows, shaking boxes gently for hints of what’s inside.

It’s a magical time full of love and splendor. Christmas classics with songs of historic tales delight the ears of young and old.

The fragrance of cranberry and ginger spice comes from the kitchen while hot apple cider brews on the stove.

Trays of small cookies and chocolates are arranged in delicate colored paper cups for a royal breakfast feast.

Fresh snow caps the rooftops while the fireplaces burn their embers. Rosy cheeks from the fanning warmth of its flickering flames blush with gratitude. The gift of Christ has come.

Ice skates scratch the pond etching their swirling patterns into figure eights. Hoarfrost feathers along each standing tree and bush showcasing winter’s portrait.

Cool misty air brings out red-tipped noses. Hot chocolate warms the soul with its delightful aroma and comfort. A doe and her fawns are seen in the distance amongst the snowy brush, nibbling forage. One single hare darts toward its nest, where her babies await.

Sleigh rides through decorated streets filled with festive lights and holiday cheer. Thick blankets lay upon laps; homemade fleece-lined mittens with matching hats keep away the frosty chill. Windows with orange wicks flicker their warm light to welcome the season. Holiday wreaths of pinecones and bows decorate each door. Carols are sung Oh Holy Night, divine is this day to remember.

Toboggan hills are filled with enthusiastic children taking position on their wooden sleds. Bountifully dressed in snowsuits and colorful hats, pinned mittens, and thick handmade scarves, the children push their sleds off to start their winter race. Misty cool fog escapes each nostril as the temperature drops. Joyful cries of elation echo through the forest’s trees. Soft white powder sprays up against the sled as it speeds through the snow-packed trail. Wide-eyed and full of excitement, hearty laughs, and unrestrained shrieks can be heard in the neighboring village. Grandparents sitting on the benches chuckle while memories of younger days broaden their smiles. They once played on the hills with carefree minds.

Lapping against an old wooden boat, gentle waves move with each turning paddle. The loon calls out her evening cry. As the sun starts to set, she casts her reddened rays onto the calming waters. Crickets can be heard in the distance, chirping in an organized melody. The world is silent except for the soft whispers of father and son. Casting lines only to reel in memories of perfect timeless moments such as these. His strong hand guides the rod as it bends toward the water and the thrashing rainbow trout. The boy looks up into his hero’s twinkling eyes. A net full of love.

As granny pulls out her freshly baked bread, the aroma infuses the house by adding another dimension to her love.

Pot barley and bay leaf simmer slowly in rich bone broth. A fresh warm slice of buttered bread is the perfect accompaniment for a cold winter’s day.

Her rocking chair sits near the window, where natural sunlight aids her aging eyes as she knits.

Crafting scarves and blankets, granny knits one, pearls two with needles tapping to the beat of her humming.

Nat King Cole plays softly on the turntable revealing crackling pops of authenticity from the good old days.

Floral drapes and handmade petit points garnish the walls. Ceramic figurines set upon glass shelves. Fine cracks web through the porcelain glaze as each generation passes by.

The mantle clock ticks with the steady sway of its pendulum,

The hypnotic rhythms woo granny as she sits and waits for her grandchildren.

Sprinklers stutter as cool water sprays into the air forming mosaic rainbows. Children dance in and out of the falling water as their toes press into the dampened grass. Tiny palms open as they brace the cool mist, shrieking with delight.

Running in turns, wet hair slaps the shoulders as each child jumps through ribbons of water with outstretched arms performing the ceremony of summer. Cold popsicles paint the tongues blue and red with bursts of flavor. Summer dreams are made of simple things. A child’s imagination mixed with the simplicity of nature’s playground.

CHAPTER   55952.png ONE

THE NEED TO NURTURE

Tears pooled and soaked my cotton sheets as I lay on my bed with clenched toes and tightly pressed palms. I was six but felt aged with grief and could only do what I knew at this point: pray to God. He was the only father I could really talk to. I had no voice. I could talk and sing, but my thoughts and feelings were never verbally allowed without consequence. This was a moment that I would never forget, as God had kept His promise. I see and hear this child’s voice in my head almost daily. My conversation is as fresh now as it ever was. During my childhood and well into adolescence, I talked earnestly to God. He was my comfort, and even though I could not see Him, or sometimes even feel His presence, I asked for His protection since I could never understand the "why’’ of the things that happened—to me or around me. I often felt dirty and unlovable. The morning always showed itself to be the same without any positive change, and so I just remained faithful to my prayers, hoping that one day, God would hear me and step in.

When I think of the obedience and diligence I put into my nightly routine of prayers as a young girl, it’s hard to fathom the tenacity. I was relentless and faithful. I’m not sure exactly when that faith faded or how it all started to unfold into the lie of abandonment, but it was then that I started to believe that my life was not just a bad role in a movie that would one day culminate into a happy-ending before the credits rolled. It became more fortified than ever that this was indeed my reality that would never change. The prayers thinned out and sometimes stopped completely because, in my mind, even to God, I was not worthy. My earthly father was a reflection of how I believed my heavenly father felt about me. Over the years, the violence and head games persisted, leaving one painful scar after another. Wishing for calluses would be hypocritical to the cause of my prayer when I was six. I had asked never to forget, and God had made it so. This would be my gift, so to speak.

Countless times enraged spankings and harsh words were inflicted on me—spared by none, not even my brother at times. Both our parents worked and lost any sense of connection with us—the children. They would usually be frustrated and easily angered from the day and had zero tolerance for anything out of line at home.