C 2012 Angela Stanton
ISBN: 978-1-4675-6533-2
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
www.liesofarealhousewisfe.com
“The man of integrity walks securely, but he who takes the crooked path will be found out.”
PROVERBS 10:9 (NIV)
Acknowledgements
I thank my Father in heaven for His most gracious mercy. All things are possible through Christ.
To my mother, Joan Milling, your works were not in vain. My husband who is truly God sent; my brother Lee, my children, and my faith kept me while on this journey. Dr. Alveda King, Shayla Thompson, Michelle Uchiama, Paula Britt, Anthony Whyte, and Rosy Stefanatos thank you, and everyone who believed in me. I even thank those
who didn’t believe. Your hurdles only made me jump higher!
To all my special friends, the ones who stand behind the curtains, because you all have blessed me; I am now in a position to bless and touch the lives of so many others.
It’s the gift that keeps on giving.
Without you all this would have never been possible.
Angela Stanton
Introduction
Murderers, pimps, prostitutes, hustlers, drug dealers, scammers and con artists all have their place in this world. It’s not what you have done in your past if you learned from your mistakes, it’s what you’re doing to make this world a better place. I don’t have the slightest idea what you or anyone else reading this book may think of me. After reading my words, many of you may feel that people who have committed crimes don’t deserve a second chance.
I’ve got news for you. We all play our role in society. Without crime there would be no cops, no lawyers, no judges, no prisons, no police stations, and more importantly, no justice system. I think you understand where I am going with this. Like it or not, criminals employ half of the country. The sad part about all of this is that in order for someone to do right—someone has to do wrong.
Foreword
Lies of a Real Housewife is a journey, the telling of make or break life experiences, the kind that could either kill you or make you stronger.
Someone once said, “If at first you don’t succeed, give the orange a bigger squeeze.” Another said, “If life gives you a lemon, make lemonade.” Well, Angela Stanton has the courage to squeeze hard, and to sweeten the bitterness by telling the truth.
A favorite scripture asks, “Have I become your enemy because I tell you the truth?” Some may read this book and wonder how some of the many people Angela met on her journey could even dream of getting away with the acts described herein? The book may cause some to wonder, how can all of this be true? Well, the truth is in the telling.
Angela Stanton does not pretend to be perfect. She doesn’t hide her pain behind veils of celebrity glamour and make-believe, goodie-two-shoes scenarios.
Lies of a Real Housewife is the telling of a series of events, leading to the crumbling of a house of cards. The author is on a quest for inner healing. The book is also an effort to reveal that there is more to life than often meets the eye.
We all know of situations where we have been betrayed by someone close to us. Such a person may come in the guise of friend and helper. Then turns the table and becomes our worst nightmare. Many of us have suffered through this, and worse, but it’s what we chose to do about the betrayal inside us that counts.
There is another saying, “Tell the truth and shame the devil.” Angela Stanton is not out to get back at anyone. We’re all victim of our own duplicities. Actually, Angela would like to see us all become liberated from what has been crafted by Lies of a Real Housewife.
It has been said that there is good in everyone. It has also been said that everyone has the potential to do things that they wish they wouldn’t do. Angela lives in an imperfect world, where things aren’t always what they seem to be. She searches for not only a better life but also recovery in her life. This is a story of how the life of a five-year-old who was sexually abused unraveled, and what happened on her journey to find redemption.
Dr. Alveda King
Preface
I remember waking up and walking down this long hallway to go to the bathroom. When I got inside the bathroom, I closed the door then I turned on the light. To my surprise, my older cousin, Dee, was inside the bathroom hiding behind the door! I was more shocked than scared. Daddy taught me never to be afraid of anything. But what happened next frightened me. Dee was fifteen years old, and I was only five years. He pulled up my nightgown and started digging his fingers into my vagina area. While covering my mouth, my cousin tried to shove his penis between my lips. I didn’t know what he wanted me to do, so he started punching me on the side of my head. Dee let me go after he was fully satisfied. I ran out of the bathroom and down the long hallway. Then I jumped into the bed with my younger cousin. I wrapped myself tightly in the covers. I was terrified, and didn’t want him to get me again. My mind was racing, and I was crying for my daddy. He was far away and couldn’t hear me. Finally, I cried myself to sleep.
That morning when I awoke, I kept telling my grandmother, Shug, I wanted to go home. I begged her to call my daddy, but she was concerned about running up her phone bill. I was afraid.
Angela 4 years old, seven months before she got molested
Angela 5 years old, one month after her molestation took place
Betrayal can be very painful, but when the person who betrays you is a family member or someone you consider a close friend, then the pain is always on a totally different level.
Phaedra Parks was a snake I allowed to slither her way into my life. Once she got close enough to bite, she did! As she slithered away, she left me to die a slow and sure death. The heifer never even looked back.
As I replay the course of our relationship in my mind over and over again, I think of all the times she visited my mother’s and my grandmother’s home then sat down, removed her shoes, and ate a meal. I remember the times she played with my children. I’ve replayed each and every moment that I spent with her! The laughter, the heartfelt tears, the times when I was going through a beat down and stressed out from the blows thrown by life; she was my true confidante.
Phaedra Parks was even bold enough to stand in my absence at my very own mother’s funeral! I know your mind is wondering where I was, and why I was not there myself. Well, believe it or not, I was incarcerated at Pulaski State Prison serving “OUR” sentence!
So here it is– within the first six months of my incarceration, I gave birth
to my fifth child while handcuffed to a bed. My mother died suddenly of a massive heart attack, and my grandmother died as well. They always say, “God won’t put more on you than you can bear!” Well, if I may be frank… I think that was a bit much for anybody to bear.
Sometimes our world can be a very cruel place, nothing in my life had prepared me for the journey I was about to take. Looking back now I know that I only made it by the grace and mercy of my Heavenly father. Brace yourself as I take you on the ride of your life. The biggest emotional roller coaster you will have ever experienced. On this ride you will experience love, betrayal, happiness, hate, shame, guilt, defeat, fear, and last but certainly not least, VICTORY!
Phaedra Parks is very calculative. She’s a smart woman. I will give her that credit. She walked away from our treasured turned corrupt friendship with not as much as a blemish to her name. To top that, she carried her secret around long enough
for the statute of limitations to run out on any criminal or civil charges. She even married our partner in crime so that he could not ever testify against her, but have you ever heard the saying, “You’re so smart that you’re dumb?” This statement was most certainly created for Phaedra Parks. Sorry, but that good ol’ Christian girl--that southern belle is a crook.
And she’s a dumb one at that!
This is a true story of my life, and my personal relationship with renowned ‘super lawyer’ Phaedra Parks. This is the truth behind those lies.
Chapter One
The Path to Destruction
“Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it.” Matthew 7:13 (NIV)
I was born in Baltimore, Maryland, and grew up a hardhead, a real
hard-knocker in Buffalo, NY. I wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody because I was raised on the streets during the 1980’s. When I was five years old, I was sexually abused by a monster. The perverted culprit was my mother’s nephew, Anthony, who was several years older than me. This horrendous incident left me in a state of desperation. In my first book, Life Beyond These Walls, I eventually wrote an in-depth perspective of this brutal attack. and the cruelty perpetrated against me. I left an excerpt of my first book in the back
of this book.
After surviving the grisly sex abuse episode at the tender age of five, I gained the notoriety of being the black sheep of my family. My dire circumstance pushed me over the brink of early disaster, and landed me in the worst years of my childhood. It propelled me into being an angry, young girl who
was constantly in and out of trouble.
At the time, I didn’t know that the silent, inner conflict I bore would
leave me scarred for life. I found myself always fighting for, and always demanding attention from anyone. On a daily basis, my poor mother, Joan Milling, could’ve bet her life that she would receive a call from a representative of whatever school I was attending. And that was when I attended school. My mother would’ve been a millionaire if she got twenty dollars for every
call she received.
Yes, the sexual abuse I suffered pushed me into being a most disrup-
tive child. I felt that classmates and children in general were always picking on me all the time. It had partly to do with me being physically so tall. My mother was five-feet-nine inches tall, my father, Ronnie was six-feet-five
inches, and my brother, Lee Matthews, was six-feet-seven inches tall.
To make matters worse, I had allergies, and always had a runny
nose. My kindergarten teacher got mad with me one day because she felt I was disrupting her class when I asked for tissue. But I had actually sneezed, and snot was everywhere. She angrily grabbed me by my shirt, dragged me to the side of the classroom, and shouted, “You snotty-nose brat, bring your
own damn tissue next time!”
All the kids started calling me ‘snot-nose brat’. They wouldn’t stop,
so I was always in a fight. I mean, this was happening all the time! When I first told my mother that I was molested by her sister’s third son, my family chose to sweep it under the rug. This was done to maintain the strong bond of kinship. But it served only to destroy my trust, and made me a fighter. I felt if my mother would no longer protect me then who would? I had low self esteem and suffered intolerable depression. Then to top it off, I had grown an
insatiable obsession for sex.
The fact that I had been through the horrible ordeal of molestation
didn’t help me or my family any. This heinous act fueled my deviant behavior and made it difficult for my mother to maintain a decent job. I hated when
they called her to my school because I would always get yelled at.
“Angela, one day your mouth is going to write a check that your butt
can’t cash! G-i-i-r-r-l-l-l! You are going to find yourself in a world of trouble one day!” My mother used to say. I can still hear my mother’s voice replaying over and over again. Her words continue to always echo somewhere in the
back of my mind.
I attended over eleven schools before I was finally kicked out per-
manently. Then I was sent to an alternative school, and was expelled from there as well. Night school became my next stop. And guess what? The result
was the same. I was expelled from there too.
Six weeks later my mother received a letter stating I would not be
allowed to attend any schools in New York State. This was disappointing to me. I felt like yesterday’s garbage, nobody wanted me. But I was a naive child whose innocence had been taken away. I had been robbed of a pain-free childhood. As a result I would be labeled a ‘troubled child’. This was the description of my shrink, the psychiatrist, placed in charge of evaluating how troubled I really was when I was nine years old.
To others I was just rude, or disrespectful. There were some, who
saw me as a defiant, belligerent, and disorderly child. Then some people wrote me off as being uncontrollable, nasty, mean-spirited, and possessed. I was a demon, or just plain full of hate. You could call it whatever you want, but I knew that I was just always misunderstood. Deep down inside I was
mad that I wasn’t important enough for my mother to stand up for me.
Totally out of control, I was no stranger to counseling and detention
centers. I hated listening to the repetitive cycle of questioning from the counselors. Their curiosities always wound up being compounded into the shape
of the same questions.
“Angela, what’s wrong? Angela, why are you acting out? What hap-
pened to you honey? How can I help…?”
It all just sounded like blah, blah, blah to me! And I hated listen-
ing to them because I knew they really didn’t care. There was no bond. So I never had a connection with any of them, and never felt the urge to want to really open up. All I wanted to know was why were they in my face with that nonsense? I really knew they were being fake, acting like they really cared
about me.
What really bothered me the most was that everyone, including the
counselors, would always claim to know what was troubling me. If they knew what I was going through, then they should have been more sympathetic to my needs. They all should have been more understanding, but they didn’t know how it felt to have innocence stolen at such a tender age.
At five years old, I should have been enjoying my childhood, look-
ing forward to happy meals at McDonalds, and rushing home to watch Sesame Street. The only butterflies I should have felt in my stomach should have
been those of my excitement to see Santa Claus. Instead I was molested.
I was under the impression that parents were supposed to protect
their children. They should believe when their children say something bad happened. I didn’t have that luxury. The dilemma made me wish that everyone would just get out of my face! My mother did nothing because a family member was the perpetrator. Then my grandmother had told her to keep the
incident hush, hush and on the low.
My older brother, Lee, would tell you that I was a complete jerk
back then. The truth was I felt no one really cared about me. The counselors could care less what happened to me, and providing therapy was just a job to them. Once that ‘closed’ sign was hung on the door, I was back out on the mean streets by myself, struggling. The counselors would be at their homes, in their perfect world with a perfect dinner table setting, kissing, and hugging
their perfect children.
My poor mother, she didn’t know what to do with me. I remem-
bered when I was fourteen years old, and she learned that her baby-girl was pregnant. She was so disappointed and tried really hard to help me turn my life around. My mother even put me in a pregnancy crisis center for troubled
girls.
I was kicked out three days later, after I got caught trying to steal the sonogram machine. My mama refused to give up on me. She was determined that I was going to get my education. She never stopped stressing the fact that I needed to achieve more in life than being a juvenile delinquent. I was a teenage mother, and a high school dropout, but my mother stayed on my side. She always wanted what was best for me, and she was serious about that.
In 1994 she packed up everything that she could fit in the back of
her vehicle, and we headed south. We both put Buffalo, N.Y. in our rearview mirrors. I never looked back because I knew the only things I was leaving behind me were all the bad memories of my childhood. I wanted to distance
myself from that. Honestly, I was glad I made it out alive.
After driving for hours, we finally arrived at our destination. We put
our roots down in Greensboro, North Carolina. My mother wanted to move
closer to her family in Atlanta, but not too near. She was the seventh child out
of ten children, and yes, some were very dysfunctional.
The scenery was much different from what I had imagined. It was
more laid-back and peaceful. I had heard stories about the south, but there was nothing like witnessing it in person. You could actually see the beautiful greenery. To me, this was something very foreign. I would often be stunned by the comparison to the broken concrete, and abandoned buildings I’d
grown up around during my early childhood.
Everything just appeared to move so darn slow. The people of North
Carolina even talked, and moved at a slower pace. Buses and cars didn’t go flying by. Everybody there seemed to be compassionate and caring. This was amazing to me and was like a breath of fresh air. I remember thinking I could learn to really like this place. Hope suddenly returned and positive thoughts started to fill my psyche. Maybe I could go to school, get a part-time job, and take care of my baby-girl, Aleea. I put a plan together and started doing
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