Authors: Nikki Sex
“To achieve your dreams, sometimes you must first face your nightmares.”
—André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
This is just a dream!
I tell my sleeping self. I’m not a child anymore!
Knowing this doesn’t help. Transported back in time—I go through it all again, that cruel, frightening, bittersweet memory of the day that changed my life forever.
It’s utterly real—too real, I’m
there.
I think, hear, see and feel everything from the point of view of when I was a child. I re-live every breath of what ripped open my heart, causing it to bleed a never-ending waterfall of tears. It begins…
~~~
I jerk awake, terrified.
This is how I open my eyes every morning. It’s how I spend every day. Everything scares me.
Rain thumps loudly, echoing on our metal roof. Today’s my birthday. I’m twelve. It doesn’t feel any different than being eleven did.
I’m wearing the same clothes I wore yesterday and the day before. I sit up, pull the thin curtain back and look outside.
I frown. Crap. Some of the things I washed are out in the rain. I don’t have anything else to wear.
I turn my head, listening carefully.
Nothing.
Outside in the street, cars and trucks roar by and a dog barks in the distance. These are not scary sounds. These sounds are OK.
I hop off my bed and it hurts. My body shakes as I remember why. I rub my back. Bruises. I’m sore from the last beating my father gave me. He caught my wrist and held me.
I hate that. I hate being unable to get away.
I wasn’t fast enough.
I should have hidden the second he got home, but he was smiling. That’s not normal for my dad. Sometimes he brings me candy or a little present. Sometimes my father is nice, but not often.
Then daddy found out Mommy didn’t have any beer in the fridge and it made him mad. I can still hear what he always says to me: “Stupid little bitch! Shut up! Stop crying!”
The sound of his voice in my head cuts through me. I’m very quiet now. I don’t cry anymore. I never make a sound.
He hits me harder if I cry.
I hope mommy goes out and gets beer today. Does she have money? Maybe she won’t get out of bed. Mommy takes special pills the doctor gave her. I hope she gets better soon.
Daddy hits her, too.
If I run and hide fast enough, he doesn’t hit me—he hits her instead.
I feel really bad about that, but I’m not brave.
I’d rather he hit her.
I don’t want to hear anything. I don’t want to see anything. I don’t want to feel anything.
My eyes move up to where I usually hide, in a cardboard box in the closet. It’s safe there. My dad never finds me in there. I love the darkness in my box. I love the quiet.
Sounds are muffled while I'm in my box. I block everything out. I pretend I'm safe. Everything’s OK when I'm in there.
“Shut up or I’ll give you something to cry about!”
I flinch as I remember. I've heard him say that to me a million times. He means what he says. It's best not to make a sound… no tears, no noise at all. I try to become invisible. I try to disappear. I wish mom would do that too. I hate it when he hurts her.
I listen again until I’m sure we’re alone. Daddy’s gone to work. Mommy will be in bed.
Shush! I have to be quiet. I tip toe over to see my baby brother. He’s on the floor in the bassinet the Salvation Army people gave us. He’s still asleep. I smile when I see Timmy sucking his thumb. His baby skin is so soft. His hair is soft, too.
Soft and yellow, just like my hair.
He looks like the picture of the baby Jesus the nice Salvation Army lady gave me. I keep that picture in my school bag. It reminds me of my little brother.
I love Timmy more than anyone or anything in the whole world.
I want to grow up and have lots and lots of babies. I’m going to marry the school librarian, Mr. Brand. He doesn’t yell. I never say anything to him, but he doesn’t mind if I don’t talk.
I won’t marry anyone like my father.
Mr. Brand smiles at me a lot. He speaks really slow and low. He knows my name. He says, ‘Thank you, Renata’ if I help him put away the library books. He also says, ‘You’re a good girl, Renata.’
When he says this, I feel all tingly and happy inside. Mr. Brand is really, really nice. I love Mr. Brand.
“I… I l-l-love y-y-you t-t-too,” I say to my little brother, even though he’s asleep. My whisper is a stutter. I always stutter when I speak—but it isn’t safe to talk. It’s better to say nothing.
“Shut up! Shut up! You have a st-st-st-stutter stupid!”
I close my eyes to make it go away when I hear daddy’s voice in my head.
I’m scared at home. I’m scared at school. I’m always scared.
They tease me in class and in the playground. If I’m very quiet and hide, no one bothers me. I don’t have friends, but that’s OK. Mr. Brand likes me. He smiles when I help him.
“Stinky! Stinky! Stupid, stinky, stutter girl!”
That’s what the other kids call me. I’m stupid and I stink and I forget how to talk when anyone looks at me. I’m afraid of people, but my little brother loves me and Mr. Brand says I’m a good girl.
The best thing about school is my father is never there. I can also go to the library.
I like to read. I read all the time. Right now I’m reading, “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.” I wish I knew magic. Sometimes I imagine I’m Harry Potter, even though that’s silly, because I’m a girl.
When I marry Mr. Brand, Timmy and I will go away with him. I’ll have babies of my own and we’ll live happily ever after, just like in fairy tales.
I go to mom’s room. It’s dark, but I can tell she’s in bed.
“Mommy?” I say. I open her bedroom curtains to let in the light.
“Go away,” she says.
I go away into the kitchen. There’s only enough powdered milk for the baby. I make a bottle for Timmy. I know exactly how to do it. I shake up the powder until it’s just right.
I get down a carton of corn flakes from the cupboard and pour them into a bowl. Because I’m cold, I put hot water on them. I sit down in the only wooden chair that isn’t broken and I start to eat.
Corn flakes aren’t too bad without milk.
A girl at my school, Cindy Basset, always throws most of her lunch away so I’ll eat that later. I’m quiet and I’m sneaky. She doesn’t know I watch her. When she throws her lunch in the trash can, I take it out. I eat her food.
Cindy throws tons of stuff away—a half a sandwich, an apple and cookies. Everything’s all carefully packed up.
Cindy Basset is so lucky.
Timmy begins to wake up. He makes a sniffing noise that sounds so cute. When I hear him waking, I feel lucky too.
I take the bottle in to him. When he sees me, he smiles. I get that tingly feeling again. I’m so happy!
Timmy needs me. Timmy loves me.
I love him so much it hurts, but in a good way.
I pick him up, sit on my bed with him on my lap and I feed him his bottle. This is the best part of my day. I love to hold my little brother. I love being with him. On weekends, I get to be with Timmy all day long.
When he finishes his bottle, I pick him up, walk around and pat his back until he burps. He smiles at me and his chubby hands pull my hair. He is soft and warm and he smells so good. He has a special baby smell that only babies have.
I change his diaper, but I can’t stay. I have to go to school or the social worker lady will be mad at my mom. I take Timmy in to her because she has to wake up.
Mommy’s pulled the curtains closed, so it’s dark again. Darkness is safe, but something about this blackness scares me.
Something bad is coming. I know it. It’s coming!
I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK… I chant inside my mind.
~~~
Fear is in every beat of my heart. The sound of it thumps loud and fast in my ears. Panic and terror shoot through me. I feel the sensation of a hand grabbing me, shaking my shoulder.
My mouth opens. I want to scream! I need to scream—but I can’t.
“
Ma petite
,” a quiet French voice says. “Wake now, little one. It is only a dream. I promise you are safe.”
I jerk awake like a trapped and frightened animal. I snap back to the present and instantly orient myself. How did André get in here? He shouldn’t be here! But after the terror of the dream, I’m glad he is.
Thank God, he woke me.
Last night I slept in Mitten’s cardboard box. First, I put the box into the large wardrobe. I crawled inside the wardrobe and then inside of the box. Then I shut the wardrobe door.
I felt safe there.
André opened the door and found me. He shows no surprise, disgust or irritation from finding me in my hiding place. His smile is kind, his touch gentle. The moment I wake fully, he takes his hand away.
My skin tingles with sensation.
It’s the first time he’s touched me.
I struggle with the loss when he pulls away. I’m a tactile person. I love hugs. That’s why I love the intimacy of sex—it makes me feel needed, wanted and loved. There’s an emptiness and a hunger inside of me that’s eased by skin-to-skin contact with another person.
I’m a freak that longs to be normal.
I want love the same as everyone does in the books I read. I assume that's what real people want, since they write so much about love.
André treats me as if I’m a real person. A normal person. It’s so strange. I haven’t worked out what it means or how I should feel or act.
I crawl out of the box and jump up. The smell of bacon’s in the air.
André’s brought me breakfast. Mitten’s eating from his bowl of cat food already.
“It is well,
ma petite?”
Frozen once more to sudden stillness, I nod.
“
Tres bon
, it means very good,” he says. “You did not answer the door when I knocked and I feared you had left me in the night. Now you know I have a key to your room. I am the only one with a key. Are you very angry with me?”
I shake my head, ‘no.’
Truthfully, I’m relieved. I’m so glad he woke me up. I know what comes next in that nightmare. I never want to go there again.
“Good,” he says. “I think you have had a bad dream. Do you wish me to stay?”
I shake my head again, ‘no.’
“Bon
. I shall return for the dishes.
Adieu,
ma petite souris.
It means farewell, my little mouse. We French adore nicknames. You will learn French if you choose to stay with us, yes?”
He laughs and quietly leaves.
I love the calm patience in his voice. His laughter takes my fear away and makes me feel lighter.
This strange Frenchman is so kind and generous. He reminds me of my school librarian. The kids in school saw me as a skinny girl with dirty clothes. A weird girl who never talked.
I’m sure the other kids were right—I was ‘stinky, stutter girl.’ In the entire school, the school librarian was the only person who treated me with respect.
Mr. Brand never wanted anything from me. He was thoughtful and understanding to the frightened child that I was.
For a moment, I consider what he might be doing now. Is he still a school librarian? I find myself wondering. Does he have any idea how much his caring manner helped me? Could he know the happiness his smiles and kind words gave me?
If I can, someday I want to see him again. If I do, I’ll thank him.
For a moment, I ponder the actions of every single person in this great big world. It seems to me nothing is inconsequential. Mr. Brand changed my life and he doesn’t even know it. Does anyone understand or appreciate the difference they can make through simple acts of kindness?
If he managed to catch my eye, he always smiled. It was such a small thing that made such a big difference! Mr. Brand gave me a safe place to be and a love of reading. I lived for his encouragement, acceptance and approval.
I’m not positive, but I’m beginning to believe André may be just like him.
“A child, without toxic interference, will naturally become the person they are meant to be.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
I taught my cat, Mitten, to do tricks.
Everyone finds it unbelievable how obedient he is. Most people think it’s impossible to train a cat, but they just don’t know how.
Mitten can “sit,” “lie down,” or “stand” on his back legs and walk on my cues. Standing on back legs with his forearms outstretched, he gives “hugs.” When I pat my shoulder and say “up,” he’ll jump up onto my shoulder without clawing me. If he’s in the right mood, he’ll even follow my command to “fetch.”
It’s easy to teach a cat. All you have to do is love him and praise him whenever he does something good.
You never,
ever
punish a cat.
Instead, you must unconditionally adore him with everything you have in your heart. For a cat, you need to give them tons of special treats, cuddles and lots of love and pats all along the way.
I think that’s the best way to teach a person, too.
While I was training Mitten to do tricks, André taught
me
how to be human.
I’m pretty sure Mitten was much easier to teach.
I was a tough case, especially in the beginning. André Chevalier has to be the most patient man in the whole world. He left me alone for weeks when I first came to stay, until I finally got up the courage to come out of my bedroom and mix with others.
He took away my cardboard box and gave me a small, dark, and much more comfortable padded wooden box to hide in. It's my place to feel totally safe—no matter what’s happening.
Dark and quiet inside, the box blocks out external sounds and stimulation for those moments when I feel overwhelmed by reality. It helps me feel more in control and gives me what I need to gather my thoughts.
I spend time there every day. I relax and feel more myself when I’m alone in the snug, black silence within my box.
Whenever things began to overwhelm me, André always noticed. He'd kindly ask, “Do you wish to go to your safe place,
ma petite
?”
Going to my ‘safe place,’ my quiet box, was effective.
André never talked down to me. He spoke to me as an equal, or even at times, treating me as a superior. He warmly praised any improvement I made, no matter insignificant it seemed. Another thing I loved was he was always, always honest with me.
“You suffered neglect, which is one of the worst types of abuse,
ma petite,”
he told me. “Violence is another. You were a parental child, taking responsibly upon your young shoulders, when you should have had none.
Oui, oui,
I fear your upbringing is a very great obstacle to overcome, and yet—you
are
overcoming it.”
When I felt frustrated by not being able to speak, smile, or meet André’s gaze, he’d say, “Life is therapeutic,
ma petite souris.
Only poisonous people or poisonous situations prevent a person’s normal journey toward personal growth or healing. For many years, your natural instincts were crushed. In time—without even trying—you will return to yourself. This I swear.”
I had the run of his place—André let me do anything I liked. He never judged or admonished me. He trusted me, supported me and fully accepted everything I thought or did.
I spent many hours in the kitchen with his French chef, Pascal, and Pascal's wife, Anne. André must’ve told them to ignore me initially. When I began to get used to being around them, they finally began to approach me, but only occasionally and very carefully.
Pascal’s a very passionate man. I know he has a temper. Yet, whenever I was nearby, he always kept his voice soft and low.
In time, he and Anne taught me how to speak French… as well as how to cook. I became a decent cook—light years away from the cornflakes in warm water of my childhood.
André had a number of ‘mindfulness’ exercises he had me work through.
Mindfulness
is a tranquil state that can be achieved by focusing all of one's awareness on the present. Mindfulness allowed me to identify, tolerate and learn to master my mind and body.
At first, André had me sit with my eyes shut in a room with him while he worked at his desk. The idea was to “
be in the present,”
with him, while calmly acknowledging and accepting my feelings, thoughts and bodily sensations.
It sounds easy, but it isn’t.
My eyes shut; I rested comfortably with my feet flat on the floor. I'd focus on what I felt and heard while trying to be in the
now.
I became aware of my body, like how my feet felt resting in their shoes on the floor, the pressure of my buttocks and back against the seat cushions, the feeling of air against exposed skin. I'd listen to my breathing and feel my chest rise and fall. I’d hear my heart beat.
Even in apparent 'silence,' there's a surprisingly large amount of things to feel, smell, sense and hear. Countless details go unnoticed every day.
Once I began these exercises, I discovered that I spent almost all of my time focusing inward. Even when I observed others, my thoughts constantly ran away with me. It’s difficult to be centered here and now. Often I found myself dwelling on negative past events, or upon fears about my future.
I learned to notice the images and ideas that flitted through my mind—not with a need to change them—but just to be aware of them with interest and curiosity.
Mindfulness showed me how many disturbing events from
my past
were
in my present,
on a moment-by-moment basis. It’s a genuine talent to really
be
in the present.
It was incredibly difficult at first. I squirmed, I struggled, and I felt an urgent need to flee. I tussled with my thoughts and I fought my body. It was a battle to learn how to ‘be there’ and to become comfortable just ‘being there.’
I came to realize for most of my life, I purposely blocked things out. I didn't want to hear the scary things that happened around me. I didn't want to feel my bruises, my empty stomach and my heartache. I wanted to shut down and withdraw.
Mindfulness was the opposite of what I'd trained myself to do, in order to cope with life. Thankfully, André's presence and support helped me become brave enough to overcome these self-imposed barriers I never knew existed.
During each exercise, after fighting and battling with myself, there came a point where everything became peaceful. I was in control of my body and my mind. Quite honestly, it was a real high.
Once I got past that hurdle, he had me sit in the kitchen and do the same thing. I can’t tell you how many hours I spent with my eyes shut while learning how to ‘be there.’
Then I taught myself
to look
at people. This, I think, was the most difficult challenge to overcome. André made me spend even more hours, meeting the direct gaze of himself and his staff.
His warm encouragement over any tiny improvement, was always over-the-top, making me feel tingly, happy and warm inside.
I loved hearing André’s compliments and praise. I hungered for it, starving for warm, loving admiration and approval. I wanted to make him happy and to feel as though I did something right for once.
As a child, I didn’t hear positive things about what I did or who I was. I was insulted and teased. I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, brave enough or pretty enough…
Only my childhood crush, Mr. Brand, thanked me and said I was a good girl. He and my foster brother. I would’ve been lost without Jamie.
André never,
ever
got annoyed with me. Patient and smiling, he never lost his temper.
Once I got the concept of mindfulness down, André gave me hours of counseling. Together, we worked through the events of my childhood. Facing the demons of my past daunted me, even with Andre's help and support.
I couldn’t have done it alone.
I didn't know how to enjoy myself before André. I could never let go of my fear and pain enough to appreciate anything except close physical contact. I don't remember laughing either, except with my little brother. How sad and wrong is that for a child?
André makes me laugh and smile all the time.
If he wanted to, André could train a cat to do tricks, too.
It would be easy for him.