High Desert

by Kim Douglas

Wilmette, Illinois

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Bahá’í Publishing 415 Linden Avenue, Wilmette, Illinois 60091-2844 Copyright © 2009 by the National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States

All rights reserved. Published 2009 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper ∞ 12 11 10 09 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Douglas, Kim. High desert : a journey of survival and hope / by Kim Douglas. p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-1-931847-59-9 (alk. paper) 1. Family violence. 2. Victims of family violence—Psychology. 3. Abused children— Family relationships. 4. Bahai Faith. I. Title.

HV6626.2.D72 2009 362.82’92092—dc22 [B] 2008055042

Cover design by Robert A. Reddy Book design by Suni D. Hannan

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Contents Acknowledgments . . . 1 Note to the Reader . . . 3 Prologue: Lilacs . . . 5 Part 1: Angel in the Graveyard . . . 11 Part 2: Snapshots . . . 49 Part 3: Released Inmate . . . 97 Part 4: Breaking the Cycle . . . 145 Part 5: Grace . . . 219 Epilogue: Re·ections . . . 259

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Acknowledgments

The idea for this book was conceived decades before I was recovered and strong enough to write it. Without divine assistance and the encouragement and support of many wonderful people who have come into my life, I would not have had the courage to write with such transparency.

My intimate partner in life, David, has endured some of the fallout of my violent past. Nonetheless, he has supported and encouraged me to persevere in my healing process. He has modeled to me exceptional parenting skills, though, humble man that he is, he’d be the last to admit it. He has joined me in therapy at times so we can learn together from the marriage mechanic, as I call our therapist, how to better maintain our marriage and family. He has loved and supported me and urged me to write about overcoming the e²ects of my past.

My lovable and capable daughters—Aleah and Anisa—are gifts from God. I hope and pray that when they begin to build their adult lives they will examine their childhood and repeat the traditions and behaviors worthy of being passed down to their children and grandchildren. I give them my full permission to do better where I have fallen short, to avoid repeating my mistakes, and to strive to create peaceful and loving homes for their families.

My mom and my brothers, Mike and Chuck, deserve acknowledgment for having endured violence that no one deserves. They have willingly agreed to have our family story shared and have o²ered their emotional support throughout the writing of the book.

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Acknowledgments

Jaco and Michelle Hamman’s generosity in providing their cottage on Silver Lake enabled me to make signi³cant progress on the book. Nancy McKenzie, another angel, o²ered her cottage, which enabled me to set aside the daily challenges to focus on revising the book.

Pat Crum Lubben, Carmelita LaPorte, Robyn Afrik, and Kristen Gray were readers of the manuscript in an earlier form, and their feedback helped me in the revision process. Pat Crum, an advocate of children, an inspiration, a teacher, and a friend, continues to provide a listening ear and astute insights about parenting when I feel challenged in my role as a parent. She appears in the book, as she was one of my teachers for the Nurturing Parenting Program.

My Juice Plus business leaders and team, especially Dr. Candace Corson and Kortney Burgess, o²ered their understanding, support, and help with my growing business, especially during the ³nal stages of the editing process. Dr. Corson’s leadership is a model of integrity, vision, and health that serves me in my personal growth and in my service to others.

And I would not be here, functioning and thriving as I am, without the expertise of numerous therapists who listened, questioned, encouraged, and challenged me. I want to acknowledge the expertise of Denise Hames, Wanda Decker, Sara Shambarger, Ishwara Thomas, Dr. Roger Danchise, and Lois Khan. The workshop I attended with Marion Woodman, author of Addiction to Perfection, remains a highlight in my healing process.

Terry Cassiday and Bahhaj Taherzadeh, my editors, have o²ered their generous and astute insights and helped the manuscript reach its potential through the revision and editing processes. Their belief in the book and its potential to impact readers fuels my own hope that the story can help and inspire those who have been victimized. In this way, what I have su²ered will have greater purpose.

I am forever grateful to all of you and the many others—family members, friends, mentors, teachers, and writers—who have listened, tried to understand, and encouraged me to persevere through the challenges of healing and endeavoring to break the cycle of violence.

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The Same Cycle I reached the Arizona Inn at 5:30 a.m. and circled the inner brick walkways along with other early morning joggers attracted to the deep green and vibrant manicured lawns. I stole glances of the native plants I ran past. I loved the slender tinted green branches of the Palo Verde; the silly looking pancake of a cactus, the prickly pear; the spindly and winding ocotillo; and the stately soldier, the saguaro. The scent of creosote intoxicated me.

On my way home I focused on the dark peaks and curves of the Rincon Mountains. I preferred their mystery at this hour—silhouettes without texture, an unexamined pro³le of peaks, curves, and valleys— the beauty of the earth from a distance, like the view astronauts possess from space, the swirl of our existence. As the sun inched higher, darts of lavender and magenta, swirls of sa²ron and old gold tangled with one another. Soon the colors of the day’s early canvas would evaporate into blinding fumes of dust and light, and I would feel disappointed by what further illumination revealed: wrinkles and folds, weeds and smog.

Back home, as I styled my hair and applied makeup, I felt proud.

Another day, another three miles, part of a regimen in my quest to get thin. Both my pride and the release of endorphins—those feel-good brain chemicals—made it worth the agony of getting up before dawn.

After a few prayers, I rode my bike to campus to make an 8:30 class.

After physical geography, which frankly bored me, I raced to Modern Grammar and Usage—much more interesting for this English major. Brit Lit was next. However, this was one English class that didn’t captivate me. Where were the women writers? It seemed as if every “major” author

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High Desert pPart 1

was named John or William. I struggled to pay attention in that class.

And at times I felt guilty for struggling. I should love Lord Byron the way I love Margaret Atwood, right?

When I arrived at Bentley’s House of Co²ee and Tea, one of the most popular venues near campus, a line of customers stood all the way from the counter to the door, and every seat in the restaurant was taken. Jo, the manager, was preparing lunch orders in the back. “Hey Kim. Glad you’re here. We’re swamped,” she said. “Why don’t you help at the counter?” Jo had one eye on the crowd and one eye on the plate in front of her and still managed to sound friendly.

For the next hour and a half, I took and rang up lunch orders for professors, students, nearby storeowners and workers, stay-at-home moms with their kids, and doctors and nurses from the University Medical Center, who knew they couldn’t get co²ee as good anywhere else. Jo served the best iced and hot mocha and kept secret the prized recipe for these decadent and delicious drinks that drew in the customers.

Bentley’s was dreamed into existence by the managers, Jo and Willow.

During a vacation several years back, they felt disheartened about returning to their respective jobs. They yearned for fun and meaningful work—not the nine-to-³ve drudgery that just so happened to pay the bills. “If we could do anything, what would that be?” they asked each other. While exploring possible answers, they gave themselves permission to dream without allowing any ³nancial worries to creep in. They both imagined opening a co²eehouse, and not just any ordinary co²eehouse— the best co²eehouse in town, a co²eehouse that would showcase the art and photography of local artists and would bring in local performers and poets, a co²eehouse where the customers could study and hang out, a co²eehouse that served the best co²ees, teas, pastries, and light meals.

Excited by their vision, they returned home and started making concrete plans. Family and friends loaned them money. They secured a fabulous space near the University of Arizona’s main campus, and within several years they opened a second co²eehouse in downtown Tucson.

Their story gave me hope that perhaps I could dream. Perhaps I could achieve success. Maybe one day my fears about getting married would subside and I’d ³nd that special man, get married, and raise children

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Angel in the Graveyard

while progressing in a career involving writing. And . . . perhaps someday I would feel freed of the past.

Settled in the library, I tried my best to do what good students do— study. But I struggled to stay awake. The physical geography textbook bored me. Yes, I loved the desert and learning the names of the remarkable plant life, but I disliked reading about the causes and history of earthquakes, continental drift, and volcanoes. I skimmed the pages, nodded o², wakened, jotted a note, and wakened again. With highlighter in hand, I marked a sentence I hoped was a main point. I drifted o² again. When I forced my eyes open a few minutes later, I decided to try ³nishing “Paradise Lost.” Even though my professor boasted that this epic poem was Milton’s greatest achievement, that the language was a superb example of rhythm and rhyme, that this work inspired Keats and a writer named Joseph Hayden whom I had never heard of, I found myself drifting and feeling guilty for it. I was an English major after all.

I should love Milton. I should be able to read this work and understand what I was reading, but I felt lost. Yes, there was Satan. Yes, there was Adam and Eve. Yes, even Almighty God was present in this work, but the language was stilted and hard, and I was tired. How would I ever get an “A” in this class?

I packed up the very books I had barely absorbed and headed over to the 3HO Sikh Ashram just o² campus for my late afternoon yoga and meditation class. I slipped o² my Birkenstocks, pulled a beach towel from my backpack, and set up for the hour-long class. This room had come to feel like a kind of home to me. I liked the high ceilings, the tall open windows, the four white walls featuring a photo of Yogi Bhajan and several colorful and dramatic pictures of the gods and goddesses from Hindu scriptures (even though the photo and pictures initially felt a little strange to me). I liked that an altar was set up in front, and some days sandalwood incense burned. Hari Bal Dev sat in full lotus position on a sheepskin mat in front of the altar. Several students on sheepskins or towels, like myself, prepared for the class. Some stretched their legs and wriggled their ³ngers and toes. Others sat in half- or full-lotus, stretching their necks to the right, then down to their chest, then to the left. Some stood and reached their arms and ³ngers toward the ceiling. I

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lay down that day, listened to the doves cooing, the tick of the wind in the magnolias outside, the shrill of the crickets and cicadas.

When I ³rst started taking yoga, the exercises challenged and invigorated me and prepared me to meditate. Often during meditation Aunt Mildred and Fran Scharli—two women who had a great in·uence on me and had passed away—came to mind. I felt such grief I couldn’t hold in the tears. My instructors acknowledged and a¹rmed my process.

They let me know that it was OK to cry and show my emotions, that yoga and meditation sometimes accessed parts of ourselves we had neglected and released emotions we had held in or buried.

I left the ashram and returned to campus for a three-hour creative writing class with Steve Orlen. Though tired, I felt invigorated because of my enthusiasm for writing. The discussions, the reading of poems by well-known poets and us lesser known-wannabes, ³lled me with the same kind of feelings I had during yoga class and during my own private prayers and community devotions at the Bahá’í Center. I felt as if the very molecules in the air were charged. I was not lost in chaos, not escaping my body and the moment to fantasy, a wine-high, or worry. I was sensing a completeness in the actual moment. There was beauty to the long table cluttered with our open books, beauty to the silence after Steve read Rilke or Neruda to open the class. Though I felt nervous about sharing my poems, I valued discussions of my work and that of other students. Each word on the page became signi³cant, each sound, each rhythm. The possibilities that existed for revising our creative work fueled me. I couldn’t wait to get home and revise my poems-in-progress.

By 9:30 I steered down Lee Street past Campbell Avenue toward Tucson Boulevard, where I had a choice to make, but it didn’t feel like a choice because I didn’t pause to ponder and decide. I turned right, away from my apartment. I turned right and pedaled, pedaled hard. I didn’t think.

I didn’t allow myself to think. I just aimed straight for the 7-11. JunkieKim pedaling, parking her bike, not bothering to lock it, pulling out the six dollars and seventy-³ve cents tip money from Bentley’s. I bought ³ve pastries, a quart of chocolate-chip ice cream, and three butter³ngers. I paid. I placed the bagged items in my backpack. I thanked the cashier. I

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End of this sample.

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