Secret Chambers within a Creative Mind

By Christine Dianne Steinert

I hope to inspire others to find strength and hope in recovering from trauma caused by physical, sexual, or emotional abuse. What I have endured in my lifetime has been an uphill battle in conquering my fears and dealing with the painful memories of my past to make a better life for myself. My hope for the readers is to show them that they are not alone.

I was lost in my own mind for the majority of my life, but thankfully, I finally found my true self. I was fortunate enough to seek the help of a trustworthy therapist for guidance throughout my long painstaking journey toward wellness. By revealing the fearful secret chambers I had walled off in my brain one by one, I am proud to say that I am a survivor. I hope my readers can find some useful knowledge for surviving even the most hopeless of situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798886545401

Book preview

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Secret Chambers within a Creative Mind

Christine Dianne Steinert

Copyright © 2023 Christine Dianne Steinert

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-539-5 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-540-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

About the Author

In loving memory of

My mother—Doris Evelyn Miller—who sacrificed her own needs for mine, who encouraged me, not just with my artistic abilities but with my creativity, but most of all, for her unwavering love and support toward me. She is truly my angel here on earth.

Thomas Landers, thanks for sharing your life with me and for loving me in your own special way. You will always have a place in my heart. We had some of the best times together in my whole life. You were the only man who ever understood me. We will meet again someday, sitting side by side in our green wooden chairs, placed where we can both gaze out to where the blue ocean meets the blue sky.

Mr. Jimmy Rupert, my high school English teacher, who taught me to reach down deep inside my inner soul to find confidence, not just in reading and writing but to use my imagination to learn, observe my surroundings, and to pay attention!

In loving memory,

My special friend, Corrine Sem

Acknowledgments

To Courtney Stankiewicz, thanks for always being there, for listening and laughing, and everything else in between. Thanks for your continued support and encouragement along the way, especially during the dark times.

To Drew Miele, thanks for your honesty, trust, and patience and for listening to my trials and tribulations, twice a week for five years. You set me free. Thanks for helping me climb the illusive spiritual stairway one baby step at a time. Even as I fell—time and time again—you gently picked me up and gave me the will to survive.

To Laurie Wagaman, thanks for riding the storm with me, as I stumbled and fell along the way. Thanks for your heartfelt empathy and support during our lifelong friendship.

Chapter 1

Running…running…always running, my heart pounded as it sent pulses throughout my skull. All other sounds were muffled by the steady rhythmical hammering of each foot thundering against the hard, dry earth. My chest felt as though it were clamped in a vice, growing painfully tighter with each gasp for air.

Running has always been a source of inner strength for me. A surge of delightful feelings fills my entire being. The gentle force of the cool breeze upon my face gives a refreshing and invigorating feeling to my soul.

There is something wonderful about this enlightening effect, as the heart pumps special chemicals throughout the bloodstream. The senses become keener, more alert. The mind was more logical and focused—my whole outlook on life increased in positivity and rejuvenation.

This state of clarity was what my body yearned for on this bleak autumn day of 1969. Swollen and burning, my eyes overflowed with tears streaming down wind-burned cheeks, stinging with their saltiness.

I would frequently find myself struggling to find a single tangible reason for being brought into this puzzling world. The failure to fathom a logical answer left me feeling wrenched and frightfully alone. I felt small, like an insect, a mere speck, surrounded by a forest of towering blades of grasses swaying about—lost and helpless in an enormously cruel world full of predators.

I felt drained and exhausted by now and could go no further. Collapsing in despair on the unforgiving ground, I hugged my body tightly and rocked back and forth, like a toddler finding comfort in its mother's arms. Even though I'm not a toddler anymore, Mother has always tried her best to make my life easier. She has always been kind and loving to me, but she did not know the extent of torment and anguish I held deep inside. I cleverly hid that from her. I did not want her to ever find out the dark truth. I had to protect her from finding out about the damage done to me by members of my own family. She must never find out who the perpetrators were for the rest of her life. I promised myself I would spare Mother from any emotional trauma that I knew would devastate her. She was a strong woman in many ways but fragile when it came to facing frightening, unpleasant events.

Mother worked full-time as a nurse while raising five children. She did the best she could under circumstances that were beyond her control. I observed at a young age that when these overwhelming events occurred in the family, Mother would lower her head, blocking out these memories, until it was safe for her to conveniently raise her head and carry on like normal. Her actions were a result of her desperation to cope. I somehow understood at an early age why she did this, and I didn't blame her. I also had developed my own way of blocking out bad things but in my own mind-bending way.

Struggling to my feet, I headed toward the forest. It was late afternoon when I reached a familiar large rock with winding cracks and crevices, half filled with stagnant rainwater.

Picturing as if it were yesterday, I smiled as I reflected on when I was a young child gathering a menagerie of bark, twigs, acorns, etc., to build an imaginary city. The cracks turned into rivers, crossed with twig bridges. The acorns mimicked people with and without hats, depending on if the tops were intact. The rest of the forest garnish resembled houses, roads, cars, and many other imagined objects.

Lying back on my rock, I gazed dreamily toward the sky through a maze of sassafras, oak, maple, and birch trees. Their crisscross patterns, ever-changing as a gentle breeze, sent a small leaf fluttering down. I reached out and captured it, studying its vibrant colors of muted crimson, yellow, and hues of green as I twirled the stem of this miniature piece of art from its grand masterpiece, the mighty oak. I relished in the delight of nature's splendor.

I was well-rested now, so I ran toward the banks of a small, spring-fed stream that lay just beyond the edge of the woods. The velvety-soft moss was so inviting. I dangled one arm lazily over the edge of the clay bank as my fingertips gently stroked the soothing crystal-clear water, sending pleasant sensations throughout my body.

Here in this isolated spot by the creek was a minute part of the world that I loved. I felt safe and secure here. This is a place I refer to as my secret island although it isn't an island at all. It resembled one to me because of the way the stream curved around, almost an island, with a little imagination! This is where I disappeared to when overwhelmed by fear and life's cruelty. No one knew about my secret refuge or the secrets I held deep within my soul.

As a result, I constructed an imaginary underground tunnel in my own special spot. Deep inside were heavy metal containers that only I had the key. The containers are not real, of course, and neither are the locks, but my brain had devised a way to keep these often traumatic memories from harming me—by building walls around them, separating, sorting, and tucking each one in its own place, deep, safe, and secure.

It would not be easy for anyone to find their way through this complicated maze. Even I would struggle and possibly lose my way, maybe never finding a way out.

I was just four years of age the first time I ran here as fast as my little legs could carry me. My brain was shrieking no, no, no! Stop, stop, stop it! I ended up here, finding comfort and peace in the quiet solitude, knowing no one could hurt me here. This was my safe place. Ever since then, I came here often to dream away all the chaos in my life, what I saw, what I felt, what I heard, what I feared. It all melted away like a delicate snowflake and magically disappeared.

Inhaling deeply, I filled my lungs, amazed at how clean and fresh the air smelled, mixed with the pungent fragrances of Queen Ann's lace and the aroma of many other wildflowers. With a new sense of confidence, I headed light-footed and carefree for home. As I approached our pond midway down the hill, I circled its banks while the hungry bluegills heard my footsteps and followed along in hopes of feasting on stale bread from a nearby bakery that gave us all the stale bread we wanted.

As I sat along the banks of the pond, I spread my fingers and thumbs wide apart on each hand, then joined them together to form a square. I looked through this makeshift frame toward the valley below and observed a breathtakingly beautiful view. I gazed upon the golden fields of wheat, the copper fields of corn, and the green-gray fields of Timothy hay, all laid out in neat, tidy strips like a patchwork quilt that glowed with flaming autumn colors.

As a self-taught artist, I marveled at this glory. The pale aqua sky contained billowing clouds tinted with soft lavender and smoky gray as the sun cast its supple rays of warmth upon my face. Heat penetrated through me as though, magically, a curtain had just opened on a bright sunny morning, warming me as I awakened in my cozy bed.

The home was down in the valley, just below me. I could see the old white farmhouse with its red tin roof surrounded by giant maple trees. Father would tap them early every spring to make maple syrup.

From up here, high above the flatlands, I could see a bit of the village and a few farms on the outskirts. Uncle Jack's dairy farm lay diagonal to the left of our chicken farm. His wife, Aunt Bev, and their six children spent a lot of time in the barn doing chores but still found time to play with my siblings and me.

I can still recall their wonderful corn roast over an open fire on many a cool summer evening. We would indulge in the tender cobs draped with wet burlap sacks, allowing them to steam to perfection. Many times, neighbors would join us. The reminiscing, the laughter, and the young and old gathering together, all made for great memories to recall year after year.

Above their farm on the next hill over lay Emment Moyer's farm. Poor Emment died of cancer just last year. He would give us kids a glass of cider from a big keg in the barn when we helped load hay onto the wagon driven by his fourteen-year-old daughter Joanne. I reflected on how the hardworking farmers pulled together, sharing their time, effort, and farm equipment to harvest crops until each farmer had completed not only the harvesting but filling the barns and silos for each family before the coldest season of the year had arrived.

Straight out ahead of our farm, near the main highway, was Harry William's small chicken farm. His wife, Winifred, would call us out of the cold in the winter while we waited for the school bus. Since I suffered from a rare allergy to the cold, my exposed skin would swell and burn like fire by the time I arrived at school. I was grateful to chat with Winterfred and her daughter Linda, who was my age, as she watched out the window for the bus.

Still at the pond, I suddenly realized I had better get home before dark. My appreciation of the wide outdoors during the daytime was quite different during the darkness. My imagination took over, causing me to fear bobcats, bears, and other wild animals seldom seen in these parts.

Just as I crossed over the footbridge at the bottom of the hill, a huge growling bear (actually, a ruffled grouse taking off) gave me quite a scare!

Once on the dirt road, I would be home in a matter of minutes. Taking a shortcut through the pasture, I ducked under the electric fence without touching it. When I was younger, I would play a trick on my friends by grabbing ahold of the live wire without grimacing, ensuring them it was not turned on. Innocently, he or she would grab ahold of the live wire and receive a shocking little surprise!

As I passed the spot where our old barn used to be, I was saddened by the memory of it burning down last year. Luckily, our pony Mustang and all nine cows had fled to the far end of the pasture, where they were safe. Father was forced to take a big loss, as it was a productive year for crops, and the barn was filled to capacity.

At last, I reached the front porch and hurled up the three rickety old steps in one bound. I slipped inside the comfortable old house with its flowery-papered walls and hardwood floors. The family was about to eat supper. I took my assigned seat at the table. Father took the first helping of a massive bowl of mashed potatoes, enough to feed our family of seven, then passed it, and the rest of the food around to us until it ended up with Mother last. Sometimes, there wasn't much left by that time, but Mother never complained.

After we devoured every last bit of food, I helped Mother clear the table and do the dishes. After excusing myself, I headed upstairs to the seclusion of my drafty, plank-walled bedroom, collapsing upon the same little bed my petite frame had occupied since outgrowing the crib.

I fondly recalled when Father and his brother, Uncle Gilly, had crafted this practical little bed, using two-by-fours and a type of black metal band, woven in a fashion to support a mattress. It may have lacked elegance, but it was comfortable and warm with the wool army blanket that Father had brought home from World War II. Mother was fearful that I would catch pneumonia like I did when I was three years old. She told me I was in intensive care for two weeks and almost died.

I can remember being taken away in the ambulance at that young age. The loud blaring sound of the siren was forever etched in my mind. The aftereffect of that hospitalization lingered. I began to have reoccurring nightmares starting around age five. Mother would hear me screaming during the night and come to my room. She would ask me each time if it was the same nightmare again. I had described it to her the best I could at that age. There was a big roll of blankets, unrolling one by one over, and over, piling on top of my face, getting heavier and heavier until I couldn't breathe. It was terrifying! The nightmares continued until around age seven, then abruptly stopped when Mother had figured out that it was a result of pneumonia. I felt as though I were being smothered. Once she explained her theory to me, my little brain accepted the explanation. It made sense. The fretful nightmares never reoccurred.

My parents were as poor as church mice in those days, but they were creative with what they had on hand. Such is the story of Suzie, a lovely, precious doll hand-knit by Mother. At three years of age, my eager brown eyes watched impatiently as she meticulously knit Suzie's body, legs, arms, and head while I pestered her to hurry so I could play with her.

Mother, who had the patience of a saint, quietly explained, as she put Suzie away each evening that she must wait until Father came home from working in the carpet mill in hopes his pockets contained a few more scraps of yarn to contribute to the final makings of Suzie.

At last, Suzie was lovingly assembled into a beautiful, huggable doll with bright flamingo-rose arms, pearly-white legs, strapped black shoes, beige ruffled socks, and a pale pink face with large, embroidered bright-blue eyes. She was clothed in a very thick, scratchy green-gray ruffled dress, tied at the waist with a pink grosgrain ribbon into a big bow. Her hair was looped through her head with fiery-red yarn. She was absolutely beautiful to me!

Suzie has been in my possession for sixty-five years now and has held up remarkably well, probably due to the thick quality of the rug yarn. I've had to replace her hair a few times. She currently has long brown braids tied with pink ribbons. She's still beautiful to me!

Thanks to the ingenuity of our parents, my three brothers, Danny, David, and Delbert, and my sister Debbie, and I had little realization of just how hard times were. We had many other handmade toys. Father made us wooden handguns that sprung rubber bands to be aimed at targets. Occasionally, though, we mistook someone's behind as an appropriate target!

Once Father made us a rocking horse from an old nail keg that we rocked until its demise. Father loved to perform captivating magic tricks he learned as a kid, growing up in the streets of Philadelphia. One very alluring one was the genie-in-the-bottle trick that would hold us spellbound as he sprinkled wiffle dust inside the red-painted maple syrup bottle to wake up the sleeping genie. Our undivided attention was captured when Father turned the glass jar upside down. Genie would grab ahold of the rope and not let go. When we tried to get her to grab ahold of the rope, she wouldn't do it! It was fascinating to our little minds.

Mother would craft a strange little toy for us, using a wooden spool of thread. She first melted a thin layer of paraffin wax in a pan, then as it cooled, she cut it into small squares and whittled a small hole in the center. Next, she cut notches around both edges of an empty wooden spool of thread with a paring knife. Next, she threaded a rubber band through the spool. Next, she broke a toothpick in half, attaching it to the loop of the rubber band on one side. On the other side, she attached a whole toothpick in the loop of the rubber band. It was finished! She called this toy a caterpillar. We would twist the whole toothpick attached to the band until it was tight, then place it on the floor and watch it take off across the kitchen linoleum! We held races to see whose toy was the fastest. We played for hours when we were small, thus giving Mother time to do other things.

Now up in the seclusion of my bedroom, after a brief nap, my mind began to filter through many flowing thoughts and ideas. Acting impulsively, I dashed over to a jam-packed cupboard in my bedroom and pulled out paints, brushes, and canvas that Mother had bought for my birthday.

Drawing and painting had long been a favorite pastime of mine. It was my way of pushing away any sadness or turmoil in my life by creating something of beauty. Painting was my therapy—my escape from reality.

At age five, creativity had begun to develop in art and sewing. Mother had shown me how to thread a needle. With scraps of fabric, I fashioned and hand-sewed apparel for my barbie doll. The results weren't always the best, but Mother was pleased with my feeble attempts. She encouraged me to use my imagination at a young age to draw and color.

Now at age sixteen, with so much of nature's beauty surrounding me, subjects of interest were innumerable. The challenge of capturing small bits of the countryside, expressions, and personalities of people and animals on paper was well worth all the time and effort in front of an easel placing colors onto an opaque canvas.

Aspirations of the end result would hopefully be a small part of myself was revealed in each and every painting. The first oil painting I did was the covered bridge viewed from Grandma Ribble's backyard, where I set up an easel to do my painting. Once finished, I entered it in the Bloomsburg fair nearby and won first place for my Columbia County original historical painting. I later sold it for $50. That was a lot of money back then. I put it right in my savings account, planning for the day I envisioned leaving home and venturing out on my own.

Tonight, I was feeling enthusiastic. It only took a few minutes to choose a subject matter. Some time ago, Grandma Ribble had loaned me an old black-and-white photo of my great-great-grandmother, Christina Albeck, and asked me to do a painting of her.

As I studied her rather plain but attractive pale face, her dark somber eyes showed a life of hardship. Grandma told me that this humble Pennsylvania Dutch woman had nine children. She was dressed in a plain white pinafore worn over a black dress with a big bow attached at the neckline. Her dark hair was parted in the middle and pulled back into a bun. Her cheekbones were set high on her face. Her mouth just a hint of a smile. I resembled her in a way, with my dark hair, and high cheekbones. My middle name was Christine, also similar to her name, Christina.

It was 3:00 a.m. when I finally finished. I was pleased with the results. I had captured my impression of this fine, noble woman so long ago. Her inner beauty was now visible. I hoped Grandma would be pleased with the results.

I finally surrendered to sleep, only to be awakened by the dreadful alarm clock at 6:30 a.m. Hastily gulping down a light breakfast, my sister Debbie, brother Delbert, and I set out to catch the school bus. Having a good distance to the main highway, we would sometimes take a shortcut through a cow pasture if we were running late, watching our step, of course, to avoid the cow patties!

This morning, however, we were on schedule, so we stuck to the winding lane. We walked past the cemetery, located on a tiny segment of the hillside above, and across from our property. Most of the neighboring children were afraid to venture near it, even in broad daylight.

We, on the other hand, had always enjoyed playing there. We would roll down the steep grassy slope, or play hide-and-go-seek behind the grave markers. We were not frightened by the ghostly spirits, for we made a point to be on good terms with the souls of the dead, by gathering lots of dandelion and other wildflowers, and occasionally distributing them to each plot.

The old yellow school bus slowed to a stop. I chose a seat toward the front to avoid the chattering children in the back of the bus. I opened my math book because I didn't do my homework last night. I hastily jotted down some answers, not knowing if they were right or wrong. I was very poor at solving math problems but was at least getting a passing grade. It was important for me to graduate high school. Unfortunately, my two older brothers had dropped out of high school for various reasons. I would be the first to finish. It was important to me to be the first to graduate even though I didn't really like school. I was bored and had trouble concentrating. I would doodle or sketch until the bell rang. I hadn't heard a thing. Time just evaporated into nowhere. I was barely passing some of my classes with C or D average at the most. I had to do something about it. I didn't want to be held back. That would be devastating.

A few subjects I did well with were art, English, and gymnastics, but I was failing history. The teacher was boring. I never did my homework or took the book home. I hated history, but I didn't want to be held back, so I forced myself, for once, to take the book home. That evening, I decided to actually read the assignment and study it. As I read the assigned chapter, I took notes and memorized important dates. It paid off. The next day, we were given a test. I not only passed but received an A!

That gave me some encouragement, so I studied and paid attention in class from then on, even raising my hand when I knew the correct answer. After class one day, the teacher called me to his desk. He told me he couldn't figure out how I was cheating. I just shrugged my shoulders and slowly sauntered out the door. I felt it much more amusing to let him ponder it over in his mind.

Of all the classes I attended, gymnastics was my favorite. Mrs. Patrick was a new teacher this year. She was young, energetic, and knowledgeable. It wasn't very long until she noticed my athletic ability and my desire to learn new things. I diligently exercised and built up my strength. I was learning to master skills on the balance beam and the other gymnasium equipment.

There was an unfortunate incident, however, when I was knocked out cold after hitting the back of my head on the hard wooden gym floor. Penelope, a heavyset girl, took the notion to climb up on the trampoline while I was using it. I quickly tried to scamper out of her way and sat down on the edge, thinking if I held on tight, I would be fine, but no, with one powerful hike high into the air, she landed heavily and bounced so hard I lost my grip and fell over backward. My head hit the wooden floor with a loud thump. I still remember the colorful race cars that were whizzing around and around inside my head with incredible speed. When I came to, about five minutes later, Mrs. Patrick was bent over me, looking very concerned, telling me not to move. She worried I had possibly broken my neck. I was stunned but recovered enough to know I was all right. I looked around and was surprised to see all my classmates gathered around, staring at me. The look on their faces was grim and solemn.

As I sat up, Mrs. Patrick looked into my eyes and remarked, You don't have a concussion. She helped me to my feet and let me sit out for the rest of the class. This was the last period of the day, so I sat against the wall with incredible head pain until it was time to go home. I rode home on the noisy school bus as it bounced over every single bump in the road. All the while, my head was splitting. As soon as I arrived home, I lay down on the couch. When Mother came home, she asked me why I was lying down instead of making supper. (That had been my responsibility for years, to help lessen Mother's stress so she could rest for a while when she got home from work.) I explained what happened to me in gym class and that my head is splitting. She immediately took me back to the hospital where she worked as a nurse. I was diagnosed with a concussion. She was angry that the teacher let me go home on the bus while I was in all that pain and didn't recognize I had a severe concussion. This was my second concussion at age sixteen. I would write about the other one later but now was not the time to open that can of worms.

*****

Mrs. Patrick told me about a contest being held in the city of Williamsport, Pennsylvania (about an hour away). The event will be three weeks from now. She told me she felt I was the most qualified in the whole class. She went on to say, There will be forty other schools sending two girls from each.

She explained what she would like me to accomplish for the tournament. Your strength and coordination are your best qualities. I would like you to blend a variety of gymnastic moves, so it all flows together. You'll need to space your moves precisely to the length of a row of mats and back again. I'll show you how to arrange the proper length of the mats later. Would you like to take on this challenge? I know it's short notice, but I just found out about it. I know you can do it, Dianne. I have complete confidence in you.

I was surprised and quickly replied, Yes, I will be honored to represent our school [Benton Junior-Senior High]. Thank you so much, Mrs. Patrick! I'll work hard. You can count on me.

She further explained, There will be a younger girl, Janice, in the tenth grade, who will also be training with you. She's going to perform a dance to music with her blend of gymnastic skills. You'll like her. You can meet in the gym with her three times a week, plus you have your regular gym class twice a week to practice. I can get you excused from one of your classes for extra practice if you would like. I practically jumped for joy at this rare opportunity and excitedly replied, "I like that idea! I'd gladly skip math class if I could arrange that!

Janice and I met and got along well. We helped and encouraged each other by sharing ideas and performances toward our goals. We both practiced diligently, perfecting our memorized acrobatics acutely until we had our routines memorized.

Today, Mrs. Patrick got me excused from study hall to meet her in the gym. I thought it odd that no one else was in the gym except the two of us. I was puzzled and wondered why, but I didn't ask any questions. I helped Mrs. Patrick spread out the blue mats in one continuous line. As I was finishing up with the mats, to my bewilderment, my entire eleventh-grade classmates came filing in one by one and took their seats in the bleachers directly across me. I had no clue why they were there until Mrs. Patrick made the announcement, Dianne will now perform her gymnastics routine for you. Down the length of the mat and back.

She didn't warn me she was planning this. My first reaction was shock. My next was fear. She placed me at the beginning of the mat and nudged me forward. My hands were sweaty. My heart raced. I was trembling. I felt the penetrating eyes of everyone staring at me. There was complete silence. But I had to comply, so I ventured into action, moving tentatively down the mat, then abruptly turning around, maneuvering precariously toward the end of the mat. Midway, however, I came to an abrupt stop. I had forgotten what should have been etched in my mind forever. I was frozen with fear. My anxiety had twined my stomach into a tangled mess. I sat there, dumbfounded, as if all the contents were sucked out of my head. I couldn't focus. I just wanted to disappear down into a deep, dark empty well. My torrid face filled with embarrassment. Some of the students were laughing. I was horrified and ran toward the locker room as fast as I could. Once inside, I kicked the wall repeatedly, cursing myself with self-loathing. I had let Mrs. Patrick and my whole class down. What an idiot I am. I wished I could wither up and die like a lone withering plant in a drought.

Mrs. Patrick appeared in the doorway, asking if I was all right.

Pathetically hanging my head down, I muttered, "I'm sorry. I just panicked. Everyone was staring at me. I don't like to be stared at. I was petrified! I'm sorry, but I won't be able to go to the tournament. I changed my mind. I just can't do it."

Mrs. Patrick remarked in a soft, consoling voice, Sometimes good things fall apart so good things can come together. You know you're not the only one to face fear. Amelia Earhart was the first female pilot to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean. She once said, ‘When you face fear, you find the place where you store your courage.'

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Dianne Christine Miller, age seventeen, 1970

Chapter 2

Time will save me. Time will save me. Time will save me goes repeatedly through my thoughts. These words only make sense to me. I've been using these three words to help me cope with issues in time when I could somehow magically jump over the space in time I dreaded and appear successfully on the other side.

This time, it was the gymnastic tournament. If I could place myself in the future by jumping ahead of the dreaded event, I reasoned it would be all over with and then be placed in the past. In a weird way, sometimes uttering my three repetitive words over and over in my mind really does work for me, but how it works may remain a mystery forever.

Tomorrow is the tournament. Throughout the day, I sat listlessly through dull, monotonous classes, scarcely hearing a word as my mind carried me into the wonderful world of fantasy. I imagined diamond drops quivering on the tips of flowers as they reach skyward for pieces of sunlight.

After most of the day spent uselessly idly, I returned home and practiced my routine outside on the lawn until suppertime. Afterward, I joined the family in a quick game of rummy, then headed up to my bedroom, where I had been designing a new dress. My sewing and designing abilities were mostly self-taught (with Mother's guidance, of course) out of necessity. My cousin Dixie from New Jersey often mailed me her hand-me-down clothes. She was my age but very much heavier than me.

The fabrics and colors of her discarded garments were of good quality and textures. Her parents were able to provide her with expensive store-bought clothes. They were a blessing to me, for our family, with sparse finances, got by with secondhand clothing at the rummage sale held in the church basement each year.

My determination to wear my cousin's garments motivated me to rip out all the seams and recut them down to my small, thin frame. I wore the colorful recycled outfits to school and received many compliments from students, as well as teachers, on my originality.

I completed the dress I had been working on in my bedroom around midnight. I was pleased with the final results as I admired my new creation in the mirror.

I awoke the next morning at 6:00 a.m. This was the day of the tournament. Time vanished into nowhere. Soon, I was on my way to Williamsport. The bus was filled with students who had signed up to go along. Oddly, I was not my usual shy self, but instead, I was bubbly, unable to sit still, talkative, and laughing nonstop.

When we arrived, I excitedly gathered my belongings and followed Mrs. Patrick and the others to the locker room, where we changed into our gymnastic outfits. I had purchased a black one-piece garment, worn over black tights, to wear instead of the horrid green bloomers we all had to wear in gym class. After dressing, I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. I was in awe at how unusually slim and attractive I appeared. My long dark hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, adorned with a bright pink bow. I looked and felt electrified!

While I was detained in the mirror, glamorizing myself, the other girls had gone out. I tore myself away, rushed out the door, and down the hall to the gym to join the other girls, who were already limbering up. I found a vacant spot and joined them. As I peered at some of them, I was struck with a daunting thought. Surely, they were much more skilled than I was.

I glanced around at the bleachers, filling up with spectators. Then I lost time. The next thing I knew, the girl behind me in line nudged me forward. It was my turn. I felt instant fear—my brain was empty, no memory, no thoughts, nothing. I knew my body moved forward, but it felt as though I were watching from a distance. My body maneuvered up and down the mat with ease as though it were effortless. My performance was graceful and fluent. It was a strange phenomenon with no explanation, but I was grateful it was all over with, and my three words, Time will save me, served me well, just as I had hoped it would! I had escaped fear! The performance was in the past! What a relief. I felt as though a heavy stone, filled with doubt, was placed upon my shoulder, then in an instant, got knocked off, hitting the floor with a thud, then silently rolling away out of sight.

The next category of the competition to perform was Janice with her dance routine. As the music played, I hoped she would win. She had worked so hard toward her goal. She appeared to me to perform with flawless grace.

She was the last contestant in the competition. The scores were being announced over the intercom, but I wasn't paying attention. My thoughts had drifted away as I sat on the bench next to Mrs. Patrick. She nudged me, pulling me back into the present. She congratulated me and informed me that I had just won first place with a 9.9 average! I felt as if an electric shock had traveled through me from the top of my head down to my toes. I had won? How could that be? I couldn't believe what I heard. Surely, it was a mistake, but the sound of people applauding reverberated around the gymnasium walls. A woman came up to me exclaiming, You should be a ballerina. You're so graceful!

Looking back on my life before this memorable day, there were many other instances of missing time. I seemed to simply just venture away into a world of my own. I had always been aloof and disconnected from most people. I was socially awkward, so I avoided conversations with most people.

Most of the girls in the eleventh grade had boyfriends already. I wasn't interested in any of the boys in my class, but out of desperation to have a date for the prom, I accepted an offer from one of the boys. I really didn't care for him. He was overweight, and I wasn't attracted to him at all, but I was excited to be asked and looked forward to designing my own gown for the special occasion.

I attended the prom wearing the delicate pink-flowered gown I had designed. I enjoyed the prom; when it was over, my date drove me home. He stopped the car in front of my house, then proceeded to pull my face up to his. He stuck his sinister tongue inside my mouth as his hand attempted to grope me. I was instantly horrified and felt appalling nausea. I pulled away and ran as fast as I could into the house and threw up in the toilet! Needless to say, he didn't ask me out again. I had never been kissed by a boy before and didn't know why anyone would thrust a wet, gross, dirty part of their mouth, full of germs, into a female's mouth. Surely, this boy was perverted. I avoided him after that, but I did notice people were whispery and staring at me as I passed them in the hallway. I didn't really care. They weren't my friends anyway.

*****

Most of the school year was just about over when a twelfth-grade boy came into my life. David Hess was smart, handsome, and popular. What could he possibly see in me? One day, he just came up behind me in the hall between classes and put his arm around me. I was startled and had no clue why this older boy would touch me like this. What did it mean? Absurdly, he must have me confused with some other girl.

Normally, I don't like being touched by anyone, but I soon made an exception to my strict rule. As he pursued me with his charm, I was curious to get to know him. The more I learned, the more he intrigued me. We would meet up at noon in the park across from the school each day, lounging under a giant maple tree, munching on our packed lunches as we observed nature, making comments on what we each spied that was interesting.

I slowly allowed David into my humble, quiet existence. He, in return, allured me with his deep, meaningful thoughts and beliefs. I felt a special connection with him that I had never felt with anyone else. He became my best friend and my first boyfriend. We had many fantastic times together, such as the time we stayed up most of the night as we lay on the living room floor of my family's home after they had all gone upstairs to bed. We confided in each other our lifelong dreams and plans for the future. Time went quickly. When we realized the time, it was 3:00 a.m.

I hoped I wouldn't be in trouble. Father would have a fit. We quickly said our goodbyes. I climbed up the stairs as quietly and carefully as I could, then slipped into my bedroom. I lay my head down on the pillow and drifted off to sleep with sweet dreams of my David.

Mother was not too happy with me when I came home from school the next day. It seemed Aunt Bev, who lived on the farm adjacent to us, squealed on me, telling Mother she saw David's car go by in the wee hours of the morning.

Mother asked me, Is that true?

I confessed, Yes, it's true, but all we did was talk. We just lost track of time. Sorry, it won't happen again.

She accepted my response and didn't question me further. I asked her to please not tell Father. She promised she wouldn't.

I was getting more and more involved with David. He invited me to his grandparents' home on a lazy Saturday afternoon. We meandered through the knee-high grass when he spotted a little green snake.

I bent down and carefully picked it up, remarking to David, Isn't it cute? I had no fear. I knew it was a common garden snake.

David was impressed and commented, Not many girls would do that. They would screech and run away.

I was not an ordinary girl, though, when it came to handling wild critters. I once caught a huge blacksnake when I was about eight years old. I didn't know what to do with it, so I put it in the bathtub. Excitedly, I ran upstairs, calling Mother to follow me, for I had a big surprise to show her. Needless to say, it didn't go over very well. She about had cardiac arrest! She firmly scolded me, Don't ever do that again. I shamefully took the poor thing outside and set it free.

Another childhood memory of mine was when I went up to our pond by myself and fed the hungry bluegill fish with half a bag of stale bread. They greedily gobbled it down with their lips sucking and smacking. Then I spied a big catfish in the middle of the feeding frenzy and came to the surface. Quickly reaching down, I carefully scooped it up, avoiding the long barbs sticking precariously out of its slippery body, and placed it in the empty bread sack that I filled with water. I brought it home, and surprisingly, it was still alive. I didn't want it to die, so I filled a bucket of water out by the barn and deposited my new pet Whiskers in it. I was in the second grade and loved all animals.

When I came home from school the next day, I came upon the bucket I had put Whiskers in the evening before. Shockingly, the bucket was on its side. All the water had spilled out, and Whiskers lay there in the dirt, dead, baking in the hot sun. I ran into the house and tearfully asked Mother if she knew how the bucket with my precious pet Whiskers in it was tipped over, and my poor fish was dead.

She made a scowling face. I picked up that bucket and screamed! There was a big, creepy fish in it. I dropped the bucket, and it spilled.

I fretfully asked her why she didn't pick up my poor fish and put it back in some water.

She looked disgusted and exclaimed, "I couldn't touch that ugly, slimy thing!"

At the time, I didn't realize it had traumatized her, but looking back, I would have liked to see her face when she saw that big catfish inside that bucket of water! They really are ugly-looking fish.

While I'm on the subject of capturing wild critters and scaring the bejesus out of people (unintentionally, of course.) I once quietly lured a chipmunk into my brown paper lunch bag by leaving a trail of breadcrumbs that led to the inside of the bag, then I gently folded the bag so it couldn't escape. It took place in the park across the high school while my oldest brother was taking his piano lesson. He came out of the teacher's house across the road and called me in, as it was my turn to go in for my lesson. I carefully carried my lunch bag into the house and held it up to the teacher, telling her that I had a surprise for her. I opened the bag a little as she peeked inside.

Mrs. Harrington jumped back a few feet with a look of horror on her face and yelped, Get that thing out of here!

She obviously did not think my critter was as cute as I did.

There is a very special pet of mine. I found near death when I was about fourteen years old. Our farm had a massive three-story cinder block building, containing around six thousand chickens. Yes, that's a lot of chickens and a lot of work for my four siblings and me to have hours of chores to do every evening after supper, but we had no choice. Father had big ideas! He thought he was going to make a lot of money selling all the eggs.

One evening, as I was gathering a basket of eggs from the second floor, I found this poor hen lying on its side. The other hens had gathered around, pecking at its head, trying to kill it, and put it out of its misery. There was a big bloody lump on its head, but worse of all, one of her legs had been severed. It had obviously gotten one of its legs caught in the electric feeder. I carefully scooped up her limp body. She was barely alive. I carried her gingerly in my arms