Silent Warrior (eBook)

Angela Vance (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
164 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-9905952-1-7 (ISBN)

Infos

A transformative journey from pain to purpose, guiding readers through the process of overcoming deep-seated personal and family trauma. This powerful book delves into the heart of abuse and brokenness, offering a path to healing and restoration through the lens of faith.

Angela Vance, from Cincinnati, Ohio, who is a dynamic writer/career coach/actor/singer/and champion of personal growth. She has transformed adversity into fuel for empowerment. With a decade of experience in navigating the complexities of career transitions, Angela brings a fearless spirit and unwavering empathy to her career coaching efforts. Her lifelong goal has been to take what she has learned through life's storms and assist others to be able to get to the other side. Angela's journey is one of resilience and redemption. From battling trauma, anxiety and depression during her early career years, she emerged not just victorious, but driven by a newfound passion: guiding others through their own professional and personal metamorphoses. Her approach is bold yet compassionate, rooted in firsthand understanding of the hurdles individuals face in achieving their goals & aspirations while maintaining mental wellness.

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Silent Warrior is a poignant and powerful memoir that chronicles the author's courageous battle to reclaim their identity after enduring years of pain, abuse, and trauma. Through raw and honest storytelling, the reader is taken on a deeply personal journey, exploring the depths of human suffering and the resilience of the human spirit. At the heart of this memoir is the transformative power of faith. As the author navigates the turbulent waters of their past, they discover that healing is not just about overcoming pain it's about rediscovering who you are meant to be. With each chapter, readers will witness the author's growth as they confront their darkest moments, find strength in their faith, and ultimately emerge stronger, with a renewed sense of purpose and identity.

Textauszug

CHAPTER 1

THRUST ASIDE

In a dimly lit, dirty sub-basement laundry room, a young woman in her early twenties with cognitive delays was lured into the storage area behind the washers by a teenager who would whisper sweet nothings into her ear. He would make false promises about how much he liked her and wanted to spend time with her alone.

Little did she know that once she walked through that door, it would slam shut behind her. Out of the shadows, two other young men would jump out and eagerly join their friend as they took turns sexually assaulting her over and over again. Every time she cried out or attempted to escape, she would be beaten with fists and various objects for hours on end.

Just a few blocks away, Evelyn would wonder where her daughter Emily had gone. It had been a few hours, and the store was only a few minutes away. After several phone calls with neighbors who had not seen Emily, Evelyn and three of her oldest kids went out looking for her. They would eventually find her bleeding profusely, attempting to crawl up the steps to make her way back home, barely able to speak as the blood gushed from her mouth. With ripped clothes and no shoes, they got her inside their small apartment and called for an ambulance. The police arrived, a report was made, and Emily was rushed to the hospital where she would undergo immediate surgery.

Two weeks later, Emily would be allowed to return home from the hospital still battered and bruised, unable to provide a lot of useful information to the police; making it that much more difficult for an impoverished family to find justice. As the weeks turned into months, Emily would find out she was pregnant. Her brothers and sisters would not be supportive of her wanting to keep the baby, as news had spread very quickly about what had happened. As a devout Catholic, Evelyn would support her daughter and encourage her to keep the baby, trying to reassure her that as a family they would stick together to get through it. Eight months later, I would be born underweight with medical complications due to the toll the rape and pregnancy itself had on my mother.

As one could imagine, a small mixed baby girl being raised by a family that had a rural Appalachian background, dead smack in the middle of a poor mostly black neighborhood, would naturally not bode well for any of us. The only positive attribute that stuck out to me was how I looked fairly similar to a lot of the other kids in my neighborhood. Yet, I somehow still seemed to stand out like a sore thumb.

Growing up I realized that it was common for a lot of kids to attend the public school that wasn’t too far from our apartment. Early in the morning, I would see some of the kids dressed in bright clothes on their way to school. Being raised within a Catholic family, I would be forced to attend a private school with non-flattering uniforms that looked better on the store mannequin. A part of me yearned to experience public school just to feel like I was normal like the rest of the kids.

Attending a private school where no one resembled me was an unusual and unsettling experience. It was even more disheartening when we visited toy stores. I was always drawn to the beautiful dolls, but none seemed to reflect my appearance. Although I was thrilled to bring a doll home, those lingering thoughts about not seeing anyone like me at school often troubled me. I struggled to articulate these feelings, but I vividly recall how they would make my stomach twist with unease. In a peculiar way, the poverty I experienced offered a small comfort—at least racism wasn’t part of it in my community. Even though I might have been the darkest student in the lunch line, I wasn’t alone in my poverty; I shared that same experience with others who also received free meals.

Looking back, the small group of kids I hung out with after school was like a lifeline for me. I wished we could have spent all day playing tag or climbing trees, but as soon as dusk fell, we had to head home. During our playtime, the topic of race would occasionally come up. Our group of four or five kids had varying skin tones, from light to dark, but what I didn’t realize back then was that everyone identified as Black. It was never a topic of deep discussion, and I was left feeling confused, especially because I felt like a different person depending on the situation. When I asked about it at home, I was told it didn’t matter because Jesus loved me.

Living with my mom and grandma wasn’t always difficult; some days were better than others. Sometimes, one of my aunts or uncles would come by and take us out to eat or to the mall. However, I noticed they preferred places with fewer people of color. Occasionally, someone would let a racial slur slip, creating a brief moment of awkwardness before the conversation continued as if nothing had happened. I quickly learned that as long as I didn’t bring up race, ethnicity, other religions, or ask questions about my birth father, the day would go smoothly.

The one caveat depended on my mom’s mood. As a child, I didn’t understand what it meant for someone to be depressed or confused after a seizure. It felt like the good days slipped away when my mom wasn’t upset or suddenly collapsed as if her body couldn’t hold her up anymore. She’d lie limp and unresponsive until the ambulance arrived. Her hospital visits became more frequent, and I noticed she had a much shorter fuse when she returned home. The smallest thing could trigger an argument, and before I knew it, we’d be yelling and even throwing Cheetos at each other. When my grandma stepped in to help, she’d often become the target of my mom’s anger, which sometimes escalated to physical violence. As this behavior became more common, conversations about finding new living arrangements for my mom began.

A few months later, we took our first trip to Paintsville, KY, riding in Uncle Carl’s car to a small residential group home. When we arrived, it looked like a party was happening outside. People were smoking, and music blared from a boombox propped up on a cinderblock. Inside, my grandma held my hand tightly as we made our way to the ‘office.’ While my uncle retrieved my mom’s suitcase, a few people started talking to her. One positive thing I noticed was the diversity; both Black and white men and women were among the people we saw. The manager showed us my mom’s room and introduced us to her roommate, Yolonda. While my mom and I got to know her roommate, my grandma and uncle went downstairs to finalize the details. As it grew late, and my mom seemed settled into her new home, we said our goodbyes. Grandma promised we would visit every weekend and encouraged her to call every day so they could stay in touch.

During that first year, we only saw my mom once or twice a month. Without a car, it was hard to visit, and my uncle wasn’t always willing to make the trip to see his sister. The distance was another challenge. Some of her other siblings visited occasionally, but none were consistent. Over the next couple of years, our visits became more frequent as she was moved to two other group homes. There had been behavior issues, and my mom had gotten into several altercations with another resident. Between each placement, she would come back home to stay with my grandma and me. Each time, things seemed to escalate even faster, and we found ourselves walking on eggshells, never knowing which version of my mom we’d encounter.

This would prompt me to sit on the side of my bed stare outside the window and yearn for more out of life. The neighborhood wasn’t safe, especially for a naïve twelve-year-old. There were often drug deals that went wrong happening right outside of my bedroom window. The screams and gunshots that sounded like fireworks, reminded me to seek cover where I could. Feeling safe was not something that would resonate with me even within the confines of my own home.

I often dreamed of having my own car, as it felt like I was going to the store daily. On my way home, my arms burning from all of the bags lined up and down, I had a taxi pull up beside me and offer me a ride home. Once I got home and put the groceries away, I ended up meeting him later that night. What I thought would be a fun date with an older man, ended up being us going to the liquor store drive-thru and back to his apartment. The night ended with me crying when he tried to have sex with me, insisting that everything would be okay. I knew the whole ordeal was not what I thought was going to happen on this date.

He drove me home and reminded me to not tell anyone what had happened. It shattered my illusions about romantic gestures, cultivated by movies and TV shows. Feeling dirty, naive, and exploited, I realized that I didn’t want anyone to have to endure that type of abuse. Although I yearned for a knight in shining armor to rescue me, at twelve, I was unsure how to recognize such a savior. I attributed my confusion to my lack of experience with men and my uncertainty about what attracted them to women.

It wouldn’t dawn upon me until many years later, how vastly different I thought about life until I realized that I didn’t wear that same badge of honor proud of my hood like some of the other kids did. I had no interest in wearing red or blue or throwing up gang signs to show where my loyalties lay. Honestly, it was embarrassing, and I would have given anything to have access to the same resources as other students in my school.

These kids would drive new cars, and wear new clothes, shoes, and jewelry like they just came off of the runway. Yet these same kids would often imitate the same mannerisms as the kids from my neighborhood, throwing up gang...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 26.9.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte
• ISBN-13: 979-8-9905952-1-7 / 9798990595217