"Important in the process of healing is to get our history straight. Without the fragments of memory linked together into a full picture of our past history, we may remain helpless victims." Pia Mellody
Recovering her past history wasn't Vernetta's intention when she went into therapy to find release from her suicidal depression. But the complexity of her problem thickened when conflicted personality fragments introduced themselves; when eventually she experienced a distressing dissociated memory of someone pleasuring himself at her expense, her first incapacitating body memory. How can she recover from the many consequences of her chaotic life with Mother and her alcohol-fueled anger? With extended therapy, over time, Vernetta's personal history takes on a semblance of continuity, yielding an understanding of what has happened to her. Armed with courage and profound determination, she pursues wellness with relentless-positive actions to heal from the violent assaults of childhood. But lingering questions remained unanswered: Why was Mother so angry? Why did Mother deliberately burn down her family home at age fifteen? What is the truth of why her baby-brother Buddy was suddenly gone? A search for answers plunges Vernetta into her mother's murky past but the difficult answers bring restorative healing.
Excerpt page 173
The depression that had begun in the last days of being in Berkeley continued to cling to me in Los Angeles. Despite being an undergraduate student myself at UCLA I couldn't seem to rise above the darkness that enveloped me. I was depressed to the core of my soul. In this state I sat alone one night at our dining room table, my hair rolled to my scalp in plastic curlers.
I hate you! An internal voice screamed at me, I hate you and I hate this place! I sat as if defeated by an angry foe. Hesitating, conflicted I reached for the scissors. A dialogue started in my mind.
Don't do this, a soft voice encouraged.
Go ahead! Who cares, a hateful voice countered.
But I don't want to, the soft voice protested meekly.
I held the scissors in one hand while with the other I felt the curler to find the space between it and my scalp. Holding onto the lowest curler on the back of my head, I placed the hair coming from my scalp between the blades of the scissors.
No, no, the soft voice called out.
