Jane left rehab and did what she was told. She made amends. She talked as if she believed she was an alcoholic. She promised to work a program of recovery.
But inside, that monster was growing at a rate that she had left him when she stopped drinking. Only Jane didn’t know it or understand.
Within six weeks’ time Jane was back hiding and drinking bottles of booze, hitting it harder than she had before going into rehab.
“All it took was one drink and I was off and running.”
This time, though, Jane felt she was much smarter and far more educated within the parameters of alcoholism. She felt she could control her drinking. Hell, why not—she’d just come from classes on how to deal with it all.
“I also knew I could die from this disease, if I didn’t stop drinking,” Jane said.
But she still continued.
As Jane went about life, now having figured out how to drink responsibly, she focused on the obsession she had with alcohol. Man, oh man, was it there every single day! And here she was back again feeding that obsession, falling victim to it all over again, believing that she could tame the dragon, which was much bigger and much smarter than it had ever been.
I can go into remission and stay there anytime I want to—if I choose, Jane would tell herself, generally on the way to the liquor store, or while unscrewing the cap to a bottle of gin.
That damn revolving door. Jane was caught up in the circle. Spinning around. Dropping the bottle and then picking it back up.
The cycle had begun.
CHAPTER 31
OBSESSION
The alcoholic never knows when the drink she is taking will bring her to her ultimate bottom. Every alcoholic’s bottom is different. For some, skid row, or losing your entire family, is that definitive wake-up call. For others, a car accident, a DUI, a fight inside a bar, a night of blackout drinking and not recalling how you drove home. There is no one definition of “bottom.” Yet, every recovering alcoholic has experienced his or her own.
That obsession over the booze was, for Jane, something she could not erase from her mind. She just could not stop thinking about drinking. Even when she put together a few days of not drinking, she was thinking about the next time. It was her only thought: the drink. The clear gin in the glass. The drive to pick it up. The clanking of ice cubes. The sweat beads on the side of the glass. The burn as it hit her throat. The warm, fuzzy buzz that came after swallowing that first mouthful of the day.
“More than anything in this world,” Jane explained, “I wanted the obsession to be lifted. I wanted my life back.”
There was one morning—which would ultimately define Jane’s life—when she awoke with a terrible hangover. Her head throbbed. Her stomach felt twisted and torn. She was nauseous. Her body ached.
All because of the drinking, of course.
Going back to what had worked in her life previously,and on that morning when she heard the voice of God, Jane fell out of bed and got down on her knees. She didn’t know what else to do. She had hit her bottom, effectively. She was desperate—totally ready to give her entire self over to something larger than herself in hopes of being able to put the bottle down.
Today Jane has made peace with her past. She is a retired Air Force Colonel; her last job was at the Pentagon.
(Photo courtesy of Roger Sandler)
Jane’s son, Paul, is an Iraq War veteran. He does not recall the intruder’s attack.
(Photo courtesy of Roger Sandler)
I prayed and I prayed and I prayed. . . . I asked Him to help me. With all seriousness, I begged Him to end this compulsion and help me stop drinking. I begged and I cried, and I begged and I cried, until my body had no tears left to give up. I had never wanted anything as badly as I had wanted this addiction, this obsession with alcohol, to be lifted at that moment. I think God knew that I finally was ready.
Total submission. Jane came away from that prayer exhausted: emotionally, spiritually, physically.
So she went and took a nap.
And when I woke up from that nap, my desire for a drink was gone. Instantly. I cannot explain it. It was truly another miracle performed by God. We had dinner with friends that evening and I ordered ice tea.
Jane never picked up a drink again. July 12, 2013, marked her tenth year of sobriety. From that moment forward, Jane later said, “I became a Christian and had a spiritual relationship with God.”
EPILOGUE
I asked Jane to talk about surviving rape victims. What can she share about her life story and what she does now to help other survivors?
“Well, the first thing I want to tell them is that they’re going be okay. They definitely don’t want to give the rapist any more control over them. They need to get rid of their guilt and have to realize it was not their fault—that rape is about power and control. They need to get rid of their shame—and believe that they can get rid of all this baggage. They have survived. They are going to recover, and they are going to thrive, and they are going to be all right.”
Jane went on to get a master’s degree and achieved the rank of colonel in the air force—after she was raped. That, in itself, was a testament to the advice she has shared.
Equally important to Jane are these words of encouragement: “Don’t let the experience define you. Don’t let that experience control you or destroy you in any way. Put your focus on your healing, and while you’re healing, enjoy your life. Enjoy your family. Enjoy your friends and don’t get stuck there. Today is a new day and you are never going to forget the experience, but you don’t have to get stuck there in it, either.”
Jane also feels strongly about getting help from the rape crisis center in your area. Don’t be afraid to reach out and ask for help.
“That was my saving grace. I waited three months to go to the rape crisis center in Sacramento because I thought, ‘Hey, I’m a nurse. I can control this.’ But I couldn’t. I was really becoming physically and emotionally sick. I had started gaining weight. I had started to drink more as time went on. I was depressed and, you know, I’m going to school at this time, so I put all of my energy into my schoolwork because I had to. But I really felt when I got to the rape crisis center and I met other women that had been raped, I realized for the first time that I wasn’t going crazy, that these women had the same feelings. They went through the same emotions. Then I was okay. It was really important to me to know that I wasn’t losing it.”
Jane then talked about how important it is that husbands or significant others of those who are raped also get help.
“Because,” Jane said smartly, “we know nothing about rape until we’re raped, and our family members and our husbands don’t know anything about dealing with us or the crisis. So it’s really important that we all get counseling.”
Jane wrote a pamphlet for rape victims to help them survive.
“I was able to interview fourteen of the EAR’s victims—and that was also part of my healing.”
But I need to say, too, that I’m still healing thirty-eight years later. And there’s one last thing I’d like to mention—and this can be a very controversial subject. It is to forgive. I know by my saying that you’re probably thinking, “How could I ever forgive that SOB that raped me? That violated me? How could I ever forgive him?”
And certainly in the beginning, I couldn’t forgive. It took a lot of time for me to forgive. It took a lot of prayer for me to forgive, but for years I was carrying that backpack on my back that had been full of hatred, full of bitterness, full of anger, and full of feelings of revenge. And that wasn’t hurting him, it was hurting me.
When I was able to lay that down, I felt an amazing burden lifted. It was total freedom. And that doesn’t mean that I’m forgetting what he did to me. No. We’ll all have the scars. We’re not forgetting, but just to forgive. Well, there is certainly a freedom in that. My rapist doesn’t live rent-free in my head anymore.
Jane would like readers to know that she is a volunteer at Hope Ha
ven Children’s Advocacy and Rape Crisis Center in Beaufort, South Carolina. Jane also answers crisis calls and assists rape victims in the emergency room. If you would like to contact Hope Haven and need assistance or want someone to talk to about an incident, please call the crisis hotline at 800-637-7273. All calls are kept confidential.
If you’d like to make a much-needed donation to Hope Haven, please send to: Hope Haven of the Lowcountry, PO Box 2502, Beaufort, SC 29901. Make sure to tell them you were introduced to Hope Haven through this book.
Jane also facilitates a weekly group for women who have been victims of rape or incest. She was the team trainer for the Society of Anglican Missionaries and Senders (SAMS) and has participated in three medical missions to the Dominican Republic and Costa Rica. On top of that, Jane established the Military Care Ministry at her church, a group that adopts deployed soldiers by sending them letters and care packages. She often volunteers for speaking engagements inside local prisons, churches, and women’s groups. She now attends a weekly Bible study and is part of the homeless ministry associated with her church.
Lastly, Jane would like to thank her husband, Warren, for his steadfast love and support. Jane has written a self-published book about her life: Frozen in Fear: A True Story of Surviving the Shadows of Death.
AFTERWORD
During the fall of 2013, there has been an inspiring development in the EAR/ONS cases. Law enforcement linked three paint chips found at three separate crime scenes (two rapes and one murder) to paint found inside a drugstore and an attached strip mall, the Calle Real Center, in Goleta, close to where the murders took place. I have read that this is a “significant new lead.” The big break came when investigators realized that a specific strip mall section at 5801 Calle Real in Goleta, along with that drugstore located at 5875 Calle Real, initially had a building permit issued to a developer from Sacramento during the early part of 1979.
Since then, retired investigator Larry Pool has released evidence that has never been made public: the suspect’s interpretation of a housing development with the word “punishment” written across the back. Pool did not say where the drawing came from, but a profile of a scorned construction worker/painter seemed to be shaping up.
What is happening with it all currently is unclear, yet the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Office is working it steadily, likely trying to track down anyone who worked at the sites during those years. The SBCSO asks that anyone with information about employees working on that specific construction site at Calle Real in 1979 to call its Criminal Investigations Bureau at (805) 681-4150. If you wish to remain anonymous, call the sheriff’s anonymous tip line at (805) 681-4171.
Thank you for purchasing this book. It has been an exciting series for me to work on with Kensington Publishing Corp. and the survivors involved. It has also been a tremendous honor, really, to be able to bring these courageous, albeit terrifying and violent, stories to readers. I love the idea that goodness overcomes evil every time in these stories, and victims have the last word. Violent criminals end up with their stories on the evening news, while their victims are allowed to sit back and watch. Criminals, as it is, become the stars of crime shows, books, movies, and generally receive all the newspaper headlines. Here, at least, I have given the victim of a violent crime the chance to share her remarkable story and how she managed to live through the entire ordeal. Essentially, the victim has the final say. She has taken that power back from the perpetrator.
I want to thank Jane Carson-Sandler for her raw honesty, her integrity, her inspirational story of overcoming many great evils in her life. I should note that if while reading this book you had a sense that I know a little too much about alcoholism, well, your senses are all firing on high, because I am twenty years sober as I write this. So for me to write a story such as Jane’s is incredibly uplifting and, of course, humbling.
—M. William Phelps
Special bonus for true-crime fans . . .
Don’t miss the next real-life thriller by New York Times best-selling author M. William Phelps
I’D KILL FOR YOU
Coming from Pinnacle in 2015 (print and eBook)
Turn the page to read an exciting preview excerpt . . .
CHAPTER 1
To feel that sun on his back for the first time as a free man: Oh, how warm and liberating.
He took a breath. A deep one.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Life on the outside. It had a ring to it.
On September 4, 2001, a glorious Tuesday afternoon, exactly one week before terrorists would attack New York and the world would change forever, eighteen-year-old Kyle Hulbert found himself standing in court. Not the criminal kind, but probate. Today Kyle was set to be released.
“He’s turned eighteen,” Kyle’s social worker explained to the judge.
Kyle sat quietly, listening; his eyes, like his mind, darted back and forth, a million miles a second. “He’s not showing any signs of psychosis. We want to have him released. Declare him an adult.”
Emancipation.
Kyle said the word to himself.
Emancipation.
It sounded so historical and unassociated with his life. Yet here he was.
The state spoke, claiming its position was that they didn’t think Kyle was well enough to leave the facility just yet.
The judge heard the evidence and sat back to think about it.
Kyle stood and thought, Come on . . . let me go.
“Release him,” the judge uttered.
Kyle had been a ward of the state.
Not anymore.
Funny, he didn’t feel that much different when the doors of the courthouse closed behind him and Kyle found himself exiting the courthouse now his own “man,” breathing that fresh Virginia air into his lungs as a free young adult for the first time. It was a day he had looked forward to over the past year, especially. With all of the problems Kyle had gotten himself into at the foster homes where he’d lived, school, and within his community, Kyle viewed this day as a new beginning. Here he was now walking out the door an independent man, dependent upon nobody but himself.
“They gave me a bus ticket,” Kyle said of the court, “and cut me loose.”
Stepping onto the concrete outside the courthouse, looking back one last time, Kyle considered what was in front of him. This was it. He was on his own. He’d have to fend for himself from this point forward. Think for himself. Feed and clothe himself.
Survive.
More important (or maybe most important), he’d have to medicate himself. It was up to Kyle now. No one would be asking if he had taken his meds. Or handing him a little paper cup with the day’s rations inside, making sure he swallowed every last bit. It would be Kyle’s decision. His alone. The state had given him a three-month supply of the psychiatric prescriptions he needed to feel right; yet it was going to be up to Kyle to go to the pharmacy, actually pick up the drugs and then ingest each pill.
Every. Single. Day.
“I didn’t stay on them very long,” Kyle explained. “It’s a bad cycle. A minor manic phase will set in and I’ll forget to take the medication.”
And then the catch-22 effect would occur: Because Kyle was not on his meds, he didn’t feel he needed them.
Kyle didn’t realize, but he was a boy in a man’s body. Truly. The state of Virginia, however, under its coveted laws, claimed he was old enough (and well enough) now to make adult decisions on his own. Tall, skinny—“lanky and scrawny” is what they’d call him. Dark black hair, silken and slick, like oil. Kyle had a gaunt look to him. Chiseled and bulimic-like weight-loss facial features: pointed cheekbones, sunken eyes, and the somewhat terribly transparent, cerebral wiriness of a hyped-up meth addict—although Kyle claimed he never dabbled in the drug. He didn’t need to. Kyle was amped-up enough already by what were voices and characters stirring in his head like a thousand whispers. This, mind you, even with a dozen years of psychiatric treatment and medication
s behind him.
Kyle had what some may view as a strange look on life. His birthday, for example, was not a day like most: cake and ice cream and feeling special. Kyle never did feel special—not in the traditional sense that a kid wearing a pointed cardboard birthday hat tethered by a too-tight rubber band pinching his neckline, ready to blow out candles with his family and friends surrounding him, did. Kyle called it—the day he was born, that is—his “hatching day,” as if he had emerged from a cocoon, slimy and gooey and ready to take on the world, born out of some sort of metamorphosis. And yet, as he thought about it walking toward the bus stop on that emancipation day, on his own for this first time—no counselor over his shoulder, no psychiatrist telling him what he should do or how he should think anymore—this was Kyle’s true hatching day. His rebirth. A time for Kyle to take on life by himself and make decisions based on the tools he had been given.
“I am constantly struggling with a question,” Kyle observed. “Psychology teaches us that a person’s personality and psychological makeup is a composite of past experiences . . . and I am suffering from a complex network of fantastical memories of things that never actually happened.”
Despite his often volatile and strange behavior while in mental hospitals and in both group and foster homes, along with Kyle’s biological father’s request that he be continually detained and treated, the state had to cut Kyle loose. In fact, Kyle’s father, who had given up custody of Kyle when Kyle was twelve (“I was too much to handle . . .”), had always kept in contact. As Kyle said, “He kept tabs on me and my entire life, and he knew about my behavioral problems. And he knew, which is why he fought against me being emancipated, that letting me off the leash was not a good idea at the time, because it was not going to end well. In fact, he told them, ‘You let Kyle out and he is going to kill somebody.’ ”
She Survived: Jane Page 9