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Friday, February 12, 2016

"Spirit Woman" builds off of my past and includes the true stories of three other women who suffered from domestic abuse. Wrapped into one, heart-rending story, "Spirit Woman" tells the tale of Nickie Bahiti (buy-a-tie - ghost or spirit) Greene. Desperate for love, she grabs it when she can and finds herself in a living hell.
As the story unfolds, we are witness to Nickie's bravery and the loyalty and courage of her friend Beau. Does she escape and does Beau manage to save her, or will she ride the wing of Wakinyan Zitka (Wah-keen-yahn-zheet-kah – The Thunderbird) to the edge of the universe where she would walk the five steps to the Spirit Path and into the Spirit World? 
Sequel to Cedar Woman, Spirit Woman is available on Amazon.  http://goo.gl/w4R9Xi


Jay gave a mock bow and gestured for Nickie to enter the apartment first. Looking up, she smiled trustingly. He’d been so different tonight: fun, jovial, the life of the party really. Was this a new Jay? Was their marriage finally transitioning into a more loving, caring relationship? They’d had a few rough spots the last few months, but she was sure that this was a new start for them as husband and wife.
        She stepped over the threshold. Jay followed, shut the door, and placing his hand upon her shoulder, spun her around and back-handed her with so great a force that she fell to the floor.

From the Author

I could throw down statistic after statistic regarding abuse.  The numbers are heartbreaking.  But, I’m not going to do so.  I am not a statistic.  I have a name.  I have a face.  I have a soul.  I am a veteran of abuse.

At the time of my travail, most people refused to help.  They didn’t want to get involved, and there was the silent command, “Thou shalt not interfere with a family.” As I entered adulthood, and broke away from my torment, I began to ask questions, many questions, heartrending questions, and to confront the terrible conclusion I had reached that somehow, I was not worthy to be saved.
As a mother, I find myself perplexed as to how anyone could harm a child: God’s greatest gift.  I wonder why my love was thrown away, and I think of my compatriots who are enduring abuse now.  Men, women and children without a voice, longing for love and deeply, deeply ashamed of what is happening to them.
Yes, ashamed. Somehow we internalize that we are defective in some way: no one can love us; no one cares about us.  We take the blows, the neglect and the abuse as our due: “It’s my fault.  If I could just behave better, be prettier, smarter, faster, if I could, if I could…if I could.”  Nothing you do is good enough, so it must be your fault.
I used to walk at night in the hopes of avoiding the violence that was the makeup of my home.  Peering into windows as I walked past, I’d see families sitting around a table, laughing, talking; a father lifting his little girl high above him as she squealed with delight; father and son in a tickling match, with Mother watching and laughing, holding her sides, face glowing.  A clean house, a warm house, a house full of laughter, all underscoring the fact that mine was a dark, dirty, vicious hell.  It was my fault.  It had to be my fault, my shame, and so the hopes and dreams within me slowly died.
Our life’s experiences, kindnesses and even cruelties are like a set of dominoes, stood on end, waiting for the catalyst that will set them to falling into the pattern they will finally form as one touches the other, touches the other, touches the other. So my life was touched by an incredible woman who showed me that I was worthy, that I was intelligent, that I could have a life beyond the torment that could be clean, healthy, and satisfying. Had it not been for Mother Aquinas, I think that I may have been lost.  But she cared, she helped, she saved me:  me – not a statistic, not a number – me.  Years later I adopted a little boy born with cleft lip and palate and was able to give him the love and support I didn’t have.  I’m not sure that I would be the mother I am today had it not been for Mother Aquinas, now Sister Helen Marie.  She helped me break the cycle of abuse by helping me.  Helping me, the individual, the battle torn.
I am not a statistic.  I have a name.  I have a face.  I have a soul.  I am a veteran of abuse.