SEEKING SOLACE: WiLd cAt iN a PrEsSuRe cOoKeR

By Zae Rankin and Raymond C. Alexander

SEEKING SOLACE is the debut memoir of poet Tonia Jaehn- aka Zae Rankin. It celebrates how the belated power of her self-determination defeats adversity. At age 2, she grapples with food allergies stemming partly from her mother’s stormy pregnancy and passionate cravings for sugary treats. External environmental factors causes Zae’s acute asthma, which requires several hospitalization to save her life. Thus, a dependency on prescription drugs. As an older adult, she is victimized by a hit and run crime still unsolved She sustains substantial nerve damage. No cure for fibromyalgia - just reliance on loads of other medications. After a while, they become ineffective, so she embraces vodka. Chronic abuse steers her life toward gut wrenching down falls and more near-death episodes. Worse, her crack cocaine addiction leads to eye-popping sexual depravity and botched male/female relationships. In the end, though, she digs deeper into her soul and makes a stunning reversal: self-rehabilitation that eventually brings substantial solace in her life. Her love of domesticated animals, now for her latest Chihuahua “Allison”, is a motivating factor... a priceless replacement for her departed, long-term friend and companion, Solas, a Maltipoo mix breed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369405796

Zae Rankin

The author is a lifelong Oregonian who, as a college graduate, long distance runner and row teammate, has traveled extensively throughout Europe. Her empathy for animals further developed during summer vacations working on her grandparent’s farm in Vale, Oregon. She has passion for creating abstract art, sewing clothing. She is a dedicated fan of the English classic TV series Dark Shadows. In 2013, she self-published a poetry book (a previous Amazon listing) titled Journeys of The Heart and Dedication Poems, under her real name.

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Copyright © 2023 by Zae Rankin.

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: 09/06/2023

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CONTENTS

Author’s Note

Prologue: When Friendship Terror Strikes

Chapter 1     Early Childhood Dynamics

Chapter 2     Summertimes On The Double Horseshoe Ranch

Chapter 3     Dances With Medication Cocktails

Chapter 4     A Hard Head Makes A Sore Butt

Chapter 5     Higher Education And Adventure Abroad

Chapter 6     And The Double Beat Goes On

Chapter 7     Marriage Merry-Go Round

Chapter 8     Hit And Run Crime Unsolved

Chapter 9     Aftermath And The Pains From Hell

Chapter 10   Fighting For Lasting Redemption

Chapter 11   Big Hope Arrives On Four Legs – Solas

Chapter 12   Solas’ Final Days And His Dynamic Replacement

Epilogue: Ten Collaborator Questions

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Writing this memoir was like watching myself as a private detective searching back to the past for significant clues and leads to help solve a crime that had gone cold much too long. As a preteen accustomed to participating in creative activities, I had developed a love for writing fiction stories straight from my imagination. Even that activity was a mystery because how was I able to conceive my characters and the plots and circumstances I had them face?

In contrast to those days as a young writer of fiction storytelling, my medical emergency challenges, my treatments, my seeking emotional and mental stability, my suffering from heartbreaks caused by an abusive husband and abusive lovers, and my fighting the demons caused by drug and alcohol abuse – are all true and covers a six-decade period.

Furthermore, you will discover how my fortitude helped me to survive through my own periods of madness, and how I, at last, triumphed over the destructive behavior of strangers, acquaintances, and friends who wrestled with their own vicious addictions.

What’s in a fictional replacement author name like ZAE RANKIN, and why? I had asked myself that question many times before I decided that the-out-of-the-blue Zae would represent my first birth name. With its simplistic spelling, the sound of her name intrigued me. My ancestral roots are a mixture of English, Irish, and Scottish. The surname Rankin is rooted in that mixture stemming from my great grandmother’s side of the family. For the protection of innocent/guilty family members, friends, acquaintances, and strangers I’ve befriended, I had decided that a fictional namesake was needed. The names of other real people were exchanged for fictional ones.

In conclusion, the future title of the mystery crime drama Harvest of the Ancestors could be interchangeable with the title I have chosen for my memoir. I asked for an explanation from my writer friend-collaborator Raymond Cornelius Alexander.

Why that particular title for your book, Raymond?

I hope this makes sense to you. Think of seeds and what they are designed to accomplish.

Right. But some don’t mature to produce what’s intended.

Definitely. Still, human genes/traits/other DNA factors repeat themselves throughout generations of future humans in the same family tree. A family member could acquire one or many of the following physiological characteristics: eye color and shape, hair color and texture, nose shape, body build. Included are strengths-weaknesses of hereditary diseases and other afflictions. Let’s not discount super-abilities. The same goes for talents, whether natural or to be discovered through much trial and error practice. He smiled. Imagine an adult clan of eight family members and each one is a high-powered defense attorney. What does that tell you? Not a coincidence. The so-called smart gene wins. See?

Seems so. I returned his smile.

I respected his definition and I hope you will discover for yourself that seeds of harvest were developed within me before and after I was born on January 30, 1962. (In October of that year, the Cuban Missile Crisis, overshadowed by US and Soviet Union tensions, would bring the world closer to nuclear war.)

Those early hereditary seeds survived my teen years, my young adult years, and then the much later years approaching my 60s. The unraveling of this memoir will expose a key, revolving door segment of my life, with the sincere hope that you, too, will appreciate how heredity helped me triumph as a multiple survivor of harrowing circumstances – medically, emotionally, mentally, chemically. Otherwise, you would not discover yet another determined woman who re-learned her life’s lessons and the importance of adhering to life skills. A lesser-equipped human might have succumbed sooner.

SEEKING SOLACE: A MEMOIR boils down to my ancestral traits. My unscientific mind has discovered, amongst others, four: sustaining mental focus, when sober, persistence in accomplishing goals, resilience in face of repeat adversity, genuine empathy for particular animals. I still wonder if I was pre-destined to have more than a few chances to escape a tragic death. What would the world look like if each of us had nine lives to experiment with? And why, as an odds beater, am I still alive? Miracle is the best way I can describe it.

PROLOGUE

WHEN FRIENDSHIP

TERROR STRIKES

Like a schoolyard bully knowing she can dominate a weak willed classmate, my alcoholic cravings dominated over my common sense and hunger to live an alcohol-free life. I had survived many rock bottom alcoholic episodes; one of those should have been enough. Yet, I was determined to assert myself into a larger web of negative, harmful circumstances and consequences.

I remember the day my warped brain faced a Hollywood-style splatter effect scene in the guest bedroom of a friend’s apartment. On that rainy, depressing Saturday evening, my addiction was an insatiable monster again and I was broker than a welfare recipient mother of four down to her last slice of white bread. I was without other immediate resources to quell my alcoholic pangs. My friend Johnny Rahwaye wasn’t going to sacrifice one penny; a $15 loan to buy even a cheap bottle of booze was out of the question. I couldn’t thwart what had transformed itself into a godlike entity of liquid. The more for me, the better. That’s how pernicious my appetite for the stuff had grown.

Johnny was expected to return home by six. My aggravating thirst conquered my fears, thereby allowing me to become a ghetto snoop dog in his master bedroom – a for-real garbage pit. He was a sloppy housekeeper who didn’t give a damn about other people’s negative impressions of him. Stale smelling fast food bags and grease-soiled wrappers. Mounds of smelly dirty clothes littered the old and faded shag carpet that hadn’t been pampered by a thorough shampooing in years. The bed was a tornado aftermath and smelled musky, along with the offensive smell of stale cigarette butts languishing in an ashtray. He was a chronic chain smoker.

I wanted to pinch my nostrils but my passion to drink alcohol was top priority. I was hoping to discover cash in a security hideout. First, I lifted the foot of the king size mattress… no cash awaited to be borrowed. I checked the head of the mattress... same empty results. Dang. Pissed me off and further aggravated my need of alcohol; soon wasn’t even fast enough for me.

A scarred oak dresser adjacent to the left side of a walk-in closet was my next target. Like a clumsy burglar, my trembling fingers opened the first drawer and carefully snooped through its contents. I found no cash. Got the same results for the other three drawers. Then I snooped through small containers on top the dresser: condom box, pencil/ink pen canister, New Testament Bible, empty toothpaste container. More disappointment. More heartache all the way down to my abused liver.

My little alter ego voice shouted big time in my head: CHECK INSIDE THE MESSY CLOSET, YOU FOOL!

The top shelf was lined with half a dozen fancy colored boxes featuring Nike athletic shoes with sticker shock prices. The first box was empty. The next to last box contained a virgin pair. The final box felt heavy in a different way when I slid it toward me; that’s when I realized I had discovered his surrogate piggy bank of coins… maybe $50 max.

My heart boom-boomed! A wave of sour sweat dispersed from my forehead to my chest. Would crazy Johnny suspect I had borrowed only $20? I wasn’t a genuine thief – thankfully, not a hereditary trait in me. I foresaw paying him back his nickels, dimes, and quarters.

Oh goodness gracious! I could taste the liquor already racing through my blood and spreading over me multiple sensations sex couldn’t match at times.

On foot, I rushed to a liquor store located five blocks from a traffic-congested intersection with a reputation for motorists killing pedestrians. Then I rushed back faster with a fifth of Russian Vodka.

It was close to 6 pm – Johnny Rahwaye’s expected arrival– when I marched upstairs. My perennial false hope was sealed in another booze bottle.

I was cozy naked on the guest room bed. My straight sips bathed familiar sweet spots. But would only one fifth help me survive the night? Sure was counting on that outcome because I didn’t dare raid Johnny’s coin stash again. He was a temperamental, grumpy wolf of a bastard who lacked patience and his logic about life in general was far flung into the universe.

He was no typical dummy, though. To this day, I still don’t know exactly how he found out about the tampering of his coin-filled shoebox several hours later.

He knew I was broke, didn’t have enough cash to purchase even a candy bar. I had already hidden the remaining Vodka in my puffy hooded winter coat. He would have no reason to check its left sleeve.

As a safety precaution, I crammed two sticks of spearmint chewing gum into my mouth. Chewed like an annoyed cow to get the ingredients to disperse sooner. I then covered my semi-nude body with the bed coverings. Shortly afterward, I heard his stomping approach.

I know goddamn well you been drinkin’ since I left!

Had he already detected floating Vodka molecules in the living room? Jeez. I had drank half a fifth behind my closed door. I gave the dumbest reply: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Johnny Rahwaye’s natural special effects face grew more distorted. Get ya white ass up. Dress. Let’s talk in the living room. Ain’t gone be another time like this.

I nodded like a bobble headed toy, not certain what specific topic he had in mind for discussion. But I sensed I was in deep bat shit for breaking one of his house rules, let alone a more serious infraction deserving crueler punishment.

Now we resembled mortal enemies facing each other from the ends of a swayback couch.

Zae, let’s get this matter straight. You got a bottle hidden somewhere?

I did; honest. I finished it before you returned. Johnny was born with unbecoming Husky dog-pale eyes and they weren’t buying my lie. All was left was a shot glass worth.

Yeah; right. Let me tell you something, bitch. I smell Vodka… smell it seepin‘ from your pores. I’m gonna fuck you up and kick your ass out for good.

"It won’t happen again. I promise!" My contriteness sounded phony.

Bullshit. He sprang to his full, imposing height of six feet. Face turning redder, fists on alert to attack. Fuck you, ‘ho!

Go jump in the Willamette River! I trembled as I watched him march down the hallway to his bedroom. Was this the end of me? I thought. Brains splattered.

Having borrowed coins to buy Vodka was a moral issue I should have allowed myself to feel guilty about. Well, I wasn’t. Why? Because I considered it justified revenge for all the times he verbally abused me, more so when he was drunk or sky high on a dangerous street drug. Forced sex was always his kinky desire when he wasn’t sober. Seemed as though I was his sex slave on demand.

I secretly sipped more Vodka before I turned on the VCR and slid in a classic porn movie titled Behind the Green Door. Under Vodka’s superb spell, I was feeling horny for sex but not with disgusting Johnny. I was leaning more toward pleasuring myself. As I was about to insert fingers, the bedroom door exploded open from his weight and gorilla anger.

What’s wrong with you?! I rose on elbows. I challenged with a stare.

Did you take coins outta here? He was holding the underside of the tainted shoebox.

Well, I... Did I dare tell him the truth?

Bitch, don’t lie to me!

Well, I… a small loan is all.

Fuck that, you worthless little piece of shit!

I’ll pay it back. Just $20 bucks!

I oughta blow your head off!

Johnny wrestled with the shoebox to gain proper leverage, and then he pitched hundreds of coins at my face. I scrambled to duck the shower of coin bullets; many smacked my face. I was too stunned to protest. Before I could say anything, he leaped onto the bed. Like a cowboy ready to alight on a saddle, he straddled my waist and pinned my arms to my sides.

Didn’t I warn you I was gonna fuck you up?

Funny how fear stimulated my consciousness to a weird level, triggered strong vibrations in my ears, while all kinds of death images ping ponged in my brain. And when I witnessed him aim the long barrel of a Smith & Wesson .38, I was constricted for a brief moment from swallowing saliva. I knew I was doomed to become another Portland homicide statistic.

Kill your sorry ass right now. Make it look like suicide!

"I’m sorry, Johnny. I swear, I’ll pay you back $20 before the weekend!" What he ordered me to do was a sure sign of impending homicidal rage.

Open your fucking mouth!

At the speed of light images of my parents, grandparents, and siblings flashed across my mind. Most knew my track record of abusive behavior associated with alcoholism. I hoped they wouldn’t think I had finally succeeded at a bloody demise.

Please don’t hate me! Tears rolled across my cheeks.

Keep it open!

With ruthless intent the tip of the gun barrel parted my trembling lips, forcing me to further open my mouth. The taste of old metal and preservation oil made my flesh crawl. My nerves were like disruptive bees on their beehive.

This known fool with an ugly misshaped face was going to shoot my lights out forever: a thirty-something alcoholic/drug addict loser. Incredibly – even under threat of imminent death – I still was willing to sacrifice more facets of my mental and physical health for alcohol. Without it, I couldn’t properly challenge the hurdles and curve balls of pain from hereditary sources and from a hit and run crime.

I started mentally tripping about whether or not his Smith and Wesson .38 had already killed somebody, maybe another woman boozer whose investigation was in the hands of a Cold Case Investigation Squad.

Johnny cocked the trigger. Tighten your lips around the barrel… yeah, suck on it!

I gagged several times. Nothing about my reaction was a personal turn-on. I saw myself only as a hostage victim in fear of losing her life.

He continued clowning with me until he exhausted his supply of commands. I thought that was the end of the attack. He threatened to screw me – hard and fast, as if I were a despicable prostitute punching bag. That’s exactly how he performed for what seemed like an hour’s worth.

After he finished the rape, he punched me in the jaw so hard I somehow catapulted off the bed. Urine leaked from me as my face swelled, as he shouted an ultimatum: I had only one hour to pack up all of my property and vacate his apartment.

Oh well. I thought I was the real showdown winner because I wasn’t going to repay him the loan. In spite of an achy swollen face and sore vagina, I was able to finish the remaining Vodka in peace! Calmed my jitters. Boosted