by CeeCee James
It got quiet in the other room. Then Mama yelled, “CeeCee! You better not be bothering him! Go to sleep!” His head tilted at the sound of her voice, and he straightened up. Without another word he stumbled out.
I shivered and pulled the hotel blanket up to my nose. In between the laughter and beer bottles clinking came screams from the TV about pod-people. I stuffed my fingers into my ears and imagined I was at Grandma’s house.
Be quiet…
Don’t move….
It will be over soon.
~Those same words and feelings would echo through my life and into my head years later on a night when tears and rain fell in equal measure.
9
the Night of the Bus Ride
My whole life I’d trained myself to remain invisible. I tried to hide from my mom, my dad, from anyone who could hurt me. I tried to be invisible to please other people, to be a “good girl.”
It never worked.
The only time I finally achieved invisibility was the one time I wanted to be seen.
But I never really believed I would be seen. I half doubted I deserved it.
I got off the bus at the first stop in town, about two miles from the house. The cold air felt good to me, like it could blow away all the things that had happened. I dug at my wrist again, picking off the scab that had just formed from the scratches earlier. The pain was freeing too. I caused this pain, I was in control of how bad it hurt.
Each step into the dark night echoed how alone I was. No one wanted me. No one cared if I showed up at the house, or if I even lived or died. I could just lie down here, right here on the ground. People would just walk by. I was a living ghost.
Why not just lie down? Why not just give up and die?
Even as these thoughts tumbled around in my head my feet kept walking forward. It was as if I were too depressed to even give up, my body running on auto-pilot.
The house was dark when I walked up the driveway, and for a second hope sprung up that everyone inside was asleep. I opened the door. Candles were lit, the light from them flickering on the wall. I hesitated in the kitchen, not knowing if someone was having private time in the living room.
My mouth was dry, so I went to the cupboard and pulled out a cup. Carefully, I tried to wiggle the glass under the faucet among the mountains of dirty dishes in the sink. Be quiet- be very quiet, I told myself. My hand bumped a bowl, and the dishes shifted in an avalanche. I cringed inside and footsteps came from the living room.
“Oh, your back,” David said. “I thought maybe you’d take a hint and get out of here.”
I tugged down my shirt, conscious of its stretched out neck, and suddenly felt more tired than I’d been in my entire life.
“You got my rent?”
Crap, rent. I shook my head no. “I’m getting my check on Friday,” I said.
“What?” He put his hand to his ear in an obnoxious way. “I can’t here you when you mumble.
Lifting my head I looked into his eyes. They were dark, daring. “I’ll pay you on Friday.”
His eyes studied, me, giving my body a full look over. Then he smiled. “We got a game going on in there.” He jerked his thumb towards the living room. I heard a girl giggle then talk in a low voice to someone in the room. “Truth or Dare. Why don’t you come in and play.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless you want to go for another walk.”
Gently, I ran my thumb over the scratch on my wrist. “I’d rather not. Can I just sit here?”
“I thought you wanted to be friends.”
Friends. Maybe if I played this game he’d finally be nice to me. “Fine, but my clothes stay on.”
He grinned and walked into the other room. I followed, feeling dead inside.
Now I knew people saw me. They saw me with the big letters, “VICTIM” emblazoned across my forehead. Or, maybe, “Loser.” And no matter what I did I couldn’t erase the words.
After the game I walked into the bathroom. Glancing in the mirror, I saw mascara smeared under my eyes, like some zombie. I turned on the shower, and curled up on the shower floor. I lay there shaking and crying until one of the guys pounded on the door demanding to be let in. I tried to ignore him, but whoever it was enlisted David to help get me out. David had insisted he’d come in there and yank me from the shower himself if I didn’t get out, so I complied.
As I stood there hurriedly drying off and pulling the detestable clothes back on I took a minute to calm my breathing. “You’re bigger than this, CeeCee. You’ve been through way more. You can do this. You lock this night up and never, ever think of it again.”
I yanked the shirt over my head and grabbed the brush off the counter. Opening the door showed David still standing on the other side of the door like a sentinel to make sure I was leaving. I gave him a mock salute on my way out.
I never told another soul what happened. I was determined to never think of it again. I didn’t realize the poison that affects the body when keeping those types of secrets. More and more negative things began to happen, until I truly felt like there was no one in the world I could trust, and no one out there that could truly ever love me.
Little did I know what was right around the corner.
10
The Dawn Cracks
This entire book was summed up in one paragraph in Ghost No More, where I wrote-
~Through the grape-vine at school, I found a half-way-house where a few other homeless kids camped out. I stayed there for a while, struggling to combine work and going to school. Life was dark, depressing, and scary. I was surrounded by kids who felt the exact same way. Instead of being a comfort to me, being around like-minded people fed the depression roaring inside of me.~
I couldn’t face this part of the story then, but I’m so thankful I can now. Why couldn’t I just write it then, instead of that puny paragraph? It’s like the words stuck in my throat, and wouldn’t even allow me to think them, let alone put the events on paper. Shame has horrible shackles, and it took a year to build the courage to finally break them. The following chapters are the blending back into that story.
* * *
It was about a week later, while in Economics class, that I heard of someone else who was looking for a roommate. I was giddy with excitement, but sick with fear to have any hope that I could truly move out. Time after time life had jerked the rug out from under me. But I needed to try. I met with the gal that needed the roommate, and she invited me back to the apartment.
I rode home on the school bus with her that day.
She pulled the window down and the wind flipped her hair across her face. Smoothing it away, she asked, “So why aren’t you living at home?’
I thought about my answer. I was determined not to blow this opportunity. Best go with the simplest explanation. “My parents kicked me out.” And then gave her a ‘What are you going to do?’ smile.
“I get it. Same here.” She grinned back at me.
We got along great, and that night I was offered the chance to move into the apartment. They had needed a fourth roommate to be able to continue to pay the rent. It was two months shy of my eighteenth birthday when I moved into that apartment. That opportunity changed my life forever. But I was scared to death I was going to ruin it somehow.
After being accepted as the new roommate, I went back to the other house that weekend to pick up the few belongings I’d left behind. David didn’t look up from the video game he was playing as I left.
Both of the apartment bedrooms had already been claimed and there wasn’t a spare room available, so I shoved a bed against the back living room wall and jammed garbage bags filled with my clothes underneath it. In the opposite corner, beer cans had been stacked in a pyramid nearly to the ceiling. Fear flitted through me. I hope I didn’t just jump out of the frying pan and into the fire.
My first night there one of the male roommates tapped me on the shoulder.
“You hungry?”
A shank of dark hair hung low on his forehead, and he ran
his fingers threw it to push it back. I smiled and nodded, suddenly remembering who he was.
It was the guy from the library. His name was Jim, and we hit it off right away. A few weeks later we started to date.
And life went on.
But this time life had a new set of rules for me to follow. The number one being- don’t ever let the emotions inside ever show. Because those feelings were so depressed and dark, I knew that no one would be able to see them and still love me. Fake it. Fake the smile, fake that everything was okay, fake that I was strong. No matter what, never ever let the veneer crack.
I promised myself I’d wouldn’t let that happen.
But I did.
I thank God that veneer broke. Because that shield I put up to protect myself was a prison, trapping me with the one thing I wanted most freedom from- fear.
I didn’t get from prison to freedom in one day. It was a mountain to overcome.
But climbing every mountain always begins with one small step.
11
*21 years old*
The sun slanted through the car’s windshield and fell across my lap. I sat there alone in the driver’s seat with a white business card in my hand. “You can do it.” I told myself. I checked the card again to make sure of the time. “Quit stalling,” I whispered. “you’ve got this.” Then, rolled my eyes at talking to myself. “What a weirdo,” I muttered and opened the car door.
My life had changed a lot since I was seventeen. I was married now, I had my own kids. But, even with all those changes adulthood brought, there were things that stayed the same. I thought I’d locked up all the old memories and emotions, but those secrets still poisoned me. I was growing weary of trying to fake happiness amidst the ropes of shame and unworthiness. No matter what positive things my family or friends said to me, there was an echo that underscored their words and told me, “You don’t really believe they love you? If they really knew you they’d run.”
Fear was my constant companion.
I sighed as I slowly shut the car door. It was a beautiful day. The scent of freshly mowed grass swam around me. In the distance I could hear the mower going. Spring was finally here.
With a fake confidence I didn’t feel, I headed into the church building. My back was straight but my knees were shaking. I felt like a dog being taken to the vet. Every part of me wanted to run away no matter how good it was supposed to be for me.
There was a support group meeting in there today.
I took a deep breath and pushed open the front doors. Women’s voices carried from the back room to where I was, still holding the door, shaking. What the heck am I doing?Your fine! Just keep faking it. My hand stayed on the doorknob for what seemed like eternity. The tremors got worse, and I almost turned and ran.
But running wasn’t working for me anymore.
Nausea swirled in my stomach, but I walked through the entry way. On the table were programs and neat arrangements of flowers. Everything was pretty and orderly. Everywhere I looked was the the opposite of how I felt inside. It seemed to judge me and reinforce the fact that I didn’t belong.
“I’m going to do this,” I muttered. “I’ve got this. Move legs.”
Turning right at the end of the foyer I continued down the hall. From behind a closed door there was laughter. My hand froze for a second on the doorknob before I twisted it open.
Eight perfectly coiffed heads turned to look at me. I swallowed and tried to smile, my hand trailing from the door knob.
“S-sorry I’m late,” I said as I shut the door behind me.
“Not at all, CeeCee.” The leader said. “We haven’t started yet.”
There was only one empty seat at the crowded table. I ducked my head and headed over to it.
After a minute I looked up. The table was surrounded by women whom I considered to be successful. They were all well-dressed, with nice families, and got along well with their husbands.
What were they doing there? I started to sweat, even more insecure. These women were going to see my ugliness. They would never understand me.
What have I done? The urge to run zipped through my body, and my legs actually trembled. I’ve got to get out of here. This was a bad idea, very bad idea.
The leader cracked open the work book, Changes That Heal. She started to read out-loud. I zoned her out, and tried to calm my heart that felt like it was beating in my throat. Slow deep breaths. You don’t have to say anything.
Then the words caught my attention. The chapter was about pain and shame, and wanting to run away and hide. I’d never heard someone describe it before. It was as if the author knew what I was feeling. I let my hair fall over my face to cover the emotions being stirred. To my left, I heard a sniff. I immediately went wide-eyed to see women around the table nodding their heads. There were more sniffles.
One of the women lifted her hand. “I have something to say. The same thing happened to me.” As she shared her story, tears ran down her perfectly made-up face, and her voice cracked. My mouth dropped open, and I learned a very important lesson.
Everyone has a story.
I wasn’t alone.
That thought shattered my concept of how I viewed people around me. My whole life I’d thought that everyone else had it together, and I was the only one who struggled. But now, I could see for myself that no matter what their appearance was on the outside, no matter how put-together people act, everyone has something they are dealing with. No one has it all together.
There’s a saying that everyone put’s their pants on one leg at a time. It’s amazing how comparisons come in to shame us by making other people seem like they have it together. But we all have our stuff, our shame, our fears, our battles.
I couldn’t share my painful memories that day, or even at the next meeting. It took me a long while to feel safe enough to open up. I sat there, and listened, and watched other women cry. Slowly, the icy walls that I’d constructed around my own emotions melted.
And one day, in my own time, I was ready.
With a shaky breath, I began. “I’m sorry,” I cleared my throat. “I don’t know how to do this without starting at the beginning.” With a quick glance at the leader, who gave me a warm smile, I continued. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, and there was still the voice of doubt telling me not to tell. But I was determined. I was finally going to shed light on the secret that haunted me no matter how long I’d tried to deny it.
With a deep breath, I began. “One day, when I was seventeen, I met a boy named Trevor.”
* * *
It was one of the bravest things I’ve ever done. It didn’t come out in a ton of detail, but putting it into words, no matter how clumsy and stilted, was the first step in finding my voice. And it was from hearing other people say that they had been there too, and understood, that I found safety. It was the first time I heard that it wasn’t my fault. That I wasn’t ‘damaged goods.’
Slowly, the shame lifted when I saw them accept me when I showed them the ugly stuff inside, and call me brave about a situation where I felt like a coward.
And by slowly, I mean slowly.
It took a long time. Silence is a good jailer. It kept me spinning and processing the assault by the other painful experiences that had happened in during my childhood. Those experiences had twisted my understanding of the assault.
I’d grown up feeling like everything was my fault, feeling shame, living in fear. The layer of shame so entwined through my identity that I barely had it in me to look anyone in the eyes. I was constantly apologizing for ways I was afraid I’d offended people, almost for my own existence.
Hiding.
But, in hearing other women tell me why they handled what happened to them the way that they did, I tried to have mercy on myself for the way I handled the attack.
I feel like meeting those women was a gift from God. I don’t know how easily I could have recovered without listening to their stories. Their experiences helped me to understand my own. And, s
lowly, ever so slowly my shame lifted. For the first time in my life, I was on the journey of being released from fear.
12
~epilogue~
This short story details the missing six months at the end of Ghost No More, and my first steps towards recovery. When I wrote Ghost No More I was overwhelmed by tons of emotions, some good, some bad. I just couldn’t face the bus incident. In fact, I kind of gloss over the entire time I was homeless as a teenager. I’d felt incredible shame that I’d let the assault happen, that I didn’t fight the men off. That I didn’t defend myself. When I first tried to write it out, all I could remember was their laughing faces, and how, deep in my heart, I felt I’d deserved it because I had decided to ride on the back of the bus.
It took me some time, but I’m stronger today. And, in this book, I faced that moment as best as I could. It’s my heart’s cry to remind every survivor that it’s NOT your fault. No matter how you reacted. You didn’t deserve it. We react the way we do to survive the situation.
I wish I could lay out the exact steps it took for me to find healing. But, like everything in life, there was no neat path. I did go to counseling and the support group helped a lot. I felt rescued by God, and since then, I try my best to choose truth, choose to love myself, and opening up as much as possible to loving others.
It’s hard for me to say that I feel rescued by God, because I can almost hear the other side say, “But where was He when it was happening?” I get that question. I don’t have all the answers. I just have my story. I know how much I hurt inside and felt unloveable. And I know how mind-blowing it was to realize God loved me. And that, despite everything that happened He could bring beauty from those ashes.