"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?
Excerpt
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.
But that's not all. If you wish to post something on the newsletter, send it my way to DebraSWelch@Live.com 
