Excerpts from Prisoners in the Shed
-Excerpt 1-
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PREPARING THE WAY FOR CRAZY
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I wasn’t born crazy. Maybe some folks are. I am sure there is a debate out there somewhere about whether people are born nuts or if they become that way. A nature versus nurture dispute. Probably both are true.
I had multiple sessions with my trauma counselor about the subject of “crazy,” because I felt so crazy in the beginning. That’s what brainwashing will do to you.
“This is crazy! I feel crazy!”
“You aren’t crazy. You’ve just had a lot of crazy done to you.”
Clarity. I’ve had crazy done to me.
“Nobody chooses to live this way on purpose!” I wailed back.
She sat silently and listened. I guess she was giving me time to continue, or time to dwell on my own thoughts. I hated when she gave that pause because I didn’t know what to do with it.
She finally spoke.
“What’s so bad about crazy anyway? Everybody’s a little crazy.”
She would know. Her entire career was to listen to crazy. Her goal was to provoke me to question everything I had been systematically trained to believe, because that would mean ultimate freedom from the lies and deception that made my life feel like a train wreck. But right then I wasn’t interested in long-term goals. I wanted more reassurance and validation. And I wanted him to be wrong.
“If there’s anybody crazy in this world, its him, not me!”
She agreed.
One of Devlin’s main goals was to convince me I was nuts - that I didn’t remember things properly, that the things I experienced were just figments of my imagination. He wanted me to believe the abuse he perpetrated upon us was not that bad, and that I was just “exaggerating” or “blowing things out of proportion.” If I was “crazy," then it validated him.
Oh, heck no!
I knew enough by that point to know he was not okay in the head. I had enough factual knowledge of our situation - and trust in my own guts - to know that his actions were not normal and not right. But the voices were there - the voices in my head. Not audible voices; rather memories of the propaganda of people in the cult, who, in so many words, validated his idea that I must be exaggerating what had happened. The tapes played on a continual loop in my mind.
“God hates divorce.”
“God will not protect you or your children if you do something He hates.”
“We don’t believe you.”
At that time I called them my “church” and had high regard for their opinion. But this was too much. It fueled a fury within me. Thank God for that fury. It is what kept me alive.
-Excerpt 2-
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THE FLOODS
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The rain pelted against the metal roof of the shed. It had never been a sound I particularly liked - I always found it annoying, not peaceful. But now... now every time I heard it, a tight knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I am angry. So angry.
In my mind I visualize myself screaming irately, yet desperately, at my younger self.
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“What is wrong with you? Get out!! Leave! You don’t have to stay here! He doesn’t control you. Look at you, you’re going to die like this!”
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But she couldn’t hear me. She didn’t know there were other options. And, truth be told, at that time, he did control her. The strongest bonds are not chains or bars. They are the lies we believe. The false perceptions we hold as truth. Those are our true chains.
I didn’t realize how I rationalized everything. Devlin’s persistent comments to me over the years had paid off big time for him. His thoughts had gotten into my head and had become my own. His words repeated themselves in my head anytime harsh realities and pain tried to bring me to my senses; I thought his thoughts. His brainwashing had succeeded. I was his pawn and would do whatever he said without question. I had become a captive.
The rain got louder and came down harder. The air felt humid and very heavy. Time started counting down. I pulled on my mud boots and coat and tossed some toys onto the mattress for the kids.
“I’ll be right back.”
I went outside and trudged over to the creek bank. The water was rising. The currents moved rapidly, much faster than normal. That was all I needed to know.
I clomped back to the shed and up the steps, poking my head through the door.
“Mom needs to do some stuff outside. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
They were playing with plastic toy dishes.
“Ok! I am cooking eggplant!” Emma announced as she pretended to slice a plastic vegetable.
“Great.” I replied and disappeared out the door.
I had to move fast. I scanned the wood line where the creek was rushing. It was not the rain that caused the biggest flood threat. It was flash flooding from the mountain. The valley we lived in got the overflow, not only from the surrounding hills and pastures, but also whatever spilled off the mountain. We were within walking distance to the base of the mountain range. We got it all.
The creek bank had begun to overflow and water streamed across the gravel driveway. It sloshed down into the hole where the sewage bucket got dumped. Soon that would overflow. I looked away, ignoring what that meant.
The rooster!
I raced to the chicken coop near the tree line, which was just a round fence of chicken wire with a tarp covering it. I carefully pulled aside the wire and ducked inside. The rooster was panicked and raced around the pen.
“Come on, dummy, I’m trying to save you! Come here...”
He fluttered and flapped, narrowly escaping my efforts to grab him.
“You want to die today? Is that your plan?!”
I had no patience. The water was surging, and I was out of time. The muddy water was two inches deep in his pen. It took another five minutes before I was successful in catching him. Five minutes of time meant a few more inches of water to stand in; it was flooding that fast. The chicken splashed about in the water, not understanding why his usually dusty pen had become a chicken-sized swimming pool.
I was out of breath. I grasped him tightly and climbed out of the chicken wire. It caught my coat and snagged it. As I tried to pull free, clutching the chicken with both arms, the loose wires tore a small hole in my coat and the down feathers fluttered out in the wind. The water came almost halfway up my boots in the deeper sections of the yard. It flooded the road, the grass - everything. I slogged through a lake which minutes before did not exist. The water traveled fast, pushing against my legs. I had no idea it could be that strong. I waded, carefully calculating each step so that I didn’t slip. It was hard to keep standing in the currents. The rushing water was all I heard. The rain continued to beat down. I slowly inched my way back to the stairs of the shed. One step had disappeared under the flood. I climbed up, inside, and slammed the door.
“Mama, why did you bring the chicken in??”
I panted. Anxiety swelled in my chest, though the immediate danger should have seemed to be over. Water dripped to the floor creating many small puddles.
“The creek...” I gasped.
I don’t have energy to explain.
I ignored her, and deposited the rooster, wet and cranky-looking, into a wire cage and secured the door spring so he couldn’t escape. I glanced out the window at the rushing water.
God, please make it stop. I can’t get out with the kids.
The shed was completely surrounded by water.