Month: January 2024

Reflection

A Glimpse of Resilience: Overcoming Violent Beatings from a Damaged Teen Mom

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

I’ve shared moments from my past when life appeared blissful and uncomplicated. However, the elation I felt in those instances was soon shattered by the horrors of violence. This is my personal story, distinct from my mother’s, and it’s essential to remember that there are always two sides to every narrative. It wasn’t until later in life that I came to realize the undeniable inaccuracy of my own perspectives and the distorted lenses through which I viewed the world. My memories had been shaped by fabricated tales, constructed to avoid shouldering any responsibility for my actions during my youth. My mother, too, battled her own personal demons, frequently succumbing to their influence.

In reconsidering my past, I approach it with caution, understanding the need to carefully evaluate the validity of my own recollections. It is a vital lesson I have learned on my journey towards self-discovery and awareness. By acknowledging the complexity of our individual stories, we begin to comprehend the fragmented nature of truth.

My mother’s story and mine are intertwined, yet divergent. Through introspection, I now understand the necessity of appreciating her struggles, her mistakes, and the battles she fought silently. We are all imperfect beings molded by the circumstances that surround us. Recognizing this truth has allowed me to discern the flawed nature of my own perspectives and narratives.

A Childhood Marred by Turmoil:

Growing up in the shadow of an emotionally damaged teen mother was fraught with difficulties. As a young child, I endured physical abuse, experiencing frequent, violent beatings that left both physical and emotional scars. Most of what I recall was fits of what I call blood rage. An uncontrollable urge to control a situation that one feels pain or loss or unfairness. This immature reaction was the status quo. The consequences of that torment was the removal of any sense of security. Her unreasonable explosions at any given time robbed me of safety. A battle I continue to struggle with today. Eventually, the English language became an escape from this painful reality, offering solace through literature, poetry, and stories that transported me to worlds far removed from my own.

Seeking Understanding and Empathy:

As I navigated my teenage years, a desire to comprehend my mother’s emotional turmoil drove me to explore psychology and self-help books. Through extensive reading and introspection, I began understanding the impact of trauma and emotional instability on individuals. Writing provided me with a platform to communicate my discoveries, fostering empathy and understanding among peers, educators, and eventually, even with my mother.

Discovering Inner Strength:

While the beatings continued, I discovered my own reservoir of inner strength, often rebelling and thereby increasing the frequency. I heard words of love from her tough detached lips only when guilt had consumed her. To hear them I would suffer the brutal force of her rage. I would egg her on. That was my culpability in our dysfunctional dynamic.

Breaking the Cycle:

Armed with newfound self-awareness and a thirst for personal growth, I vowed to break the cycle of violence that had plagued my family for generations. Drawing inspiration from my mother’s strength in overcoming her emotional demons, I sought therapy and professional guidance to heal my own wounds. The English language provided a safe space to verbalize my pain, explore healing techniques, and share my journey of personal transformation.

Embracing Forgiveness and Empathy:

Unbeknownst to me, my ability to forgive and empathize played a pivotal role in my journey towards healing. Recognizing that my mother’s actions stemmed from her own unresolved trauma and emotional instability allowed me to see her not just as my abuser, but as a vulnerable human being. I penned heartfelt letters to my mother, expressing my understanding and offering forgiveness, fostering a path to reconciliation and healing.

Engaging in creative writing, I poured my emotions onto paper, forming a narrative that empowered me to rise above my circumstances. With my communication, skills, honed, it offered me the means to articulate my pain, frustration, and resilience, transforming my experiences into a tangible testament of my journey.

Conclusion:

My path of overcoming violent beatings inflicted by my emotionally damaged teen mother has been one of resilience, self-discovery, and forgiveness. My prayer is to transcend my painful experiences, heal through writing, and ultimately find empathy and understanding. I hope to inspire others who have faced similar challenges to tap into their inner resilience, embracing the power of forgiveness and self-growth, and finding solace in the healing power of words.

Please Note: when I say, beatings or abuse, I am specifically talking about bruises that are able to be seen, muscles that are torn, and bones that are broken. The last occurrence at the age of 14. However, with all that revealed, my mother and I became best friends because when 2 people choose healing & forgiving, change happens. I live in a glass house and will throw no stone.

Revelations

Timeless Charade – The Dance Through Generations

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

Well, isn’t it just absolutely delightful how people can be so wonderfully inconsistent? I mean, it’s truly puzzling how fairness seems to be a concept lost on some individuals. Take my lifetime of experience, for instance (not that anyone asked for it). I’ve come to realize that being a “safe” person, you know, someone who doesn’t judge and can handle a few offenses without losing their mind, apparently gives others the right to give me all sorts of unsolicited advice. They will kindly inform me of what I should do, how to think, and even how to live my life. Oh, the joy!

However, let’s not forget that these same people, who are far from being paragons of safety, have an astonishing aversion to receiving any form of criticism or suggestions from anyone, including yours truly. Heaven forbid anyone dares to approach them in an authoritative manner. The mere thought of it sends them into a fit of rage, causing them to either explode, abandon me, yell, shame me, or act like spoiled children denying any wrongdoing. Apparently, reality checks are simply not on their menu.

Yet, the moment I dare to set my own boundaries and stand up for myself, I am faced with the burdensome responsibility of waging an emotional war. Isn’t that special? It’s positively maddening! I mean, wouldn’t it be just fabulous if people could simply say, “Oh, well, fair enough, I won’t do that again”? You know, like I do! But alas, it seems I am surrounded by a tribe of individuals who prefer to dance to their own tune, heedless of fairness or accountability.

Ah, the joys of dealing with such inconsistencies. It truly is a remarkable experience that I wouldn’t trade for the world. Who needs fairness and logical discourse anyway? It’s much more exciting to navigate the treacherous waters of emotional turmoil and one-sided expectations. Really, it’s the stuff dreams are made of. Not!

To the emotionally stunted high schoolers, it’s time for a reality check! We’ve long skipped the melodramatic halls of high school. And guess what? It’s a revelation that took me a stunning 60 years to grasp. Brace yourselves, because here it is: you don’t have to like me, and I don’t have to like you. Mind-blowing, isn’t it?

I used to think there was something fundamentally wrong with me if I didn’t fancy someone’s company. I mean, come on, if the whole world adored them, surely I was missing something, right? But no, it finally clicked that maybe they see something entirely different. And you know what? That’s not my problem. Some individuals, bless their hearts, are experts in deliberate nastiness. They grant themselves the golden ticket to act horribly with zero remorse. Accountability? Psh, they don’t even know what that means. Your unwavering, non-judgmental response to their outrageously selfish ways won’t put a dent in their behavior.

Oh, and let’s not forget the covert masters of the game, especially the women. They’ve perfected the art of dispelling backhanded compliments, all cleverly masked with plausible deniability. It’s a timeless charade passed down through generations. But let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, I’m utterly fed up with this tiresome song and dance.

Reflection

Absent Dad Title: Reflections on the Absent Father: The Quest for Identity

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

In the depth of my being, a chapter of my past lies shrouded in darkness, its pages filled with unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. It is a story of abandonment, deception, and the relentless search for identity. This is my narrative – the tale of a young adult whose longing for a father’s love was overshadowed by the painful truth of his deceit.

Imagine growing up with a perpetual void in your heart, a constant reminder of the absence of a man whom society claims should have been there. The mere thought of the man I believed to be my biological father filled my mind with a myriad of emotions – longing, resentment, confusion, and ultimately, contemplation.

I yearned for a connection, an unbreakable bond that could bridge the gap between my incomplete sense of self and an unknown heritage. But little did I know that the one who had abandoned me held a secret so profound that it would shatter my fragile perception of family and forever change the course of my existence.

As the truth unraveled, I discovered that the man I thought was my paternal beacon had known all along that he was not the biological connection to me. He carried within him the knowledge that blood did not bind us, that the shared DNA that defines parentage lay elsewhere. In his abandonment, i’d like to think he sought to protect me from a truth that would shake the very foundations of my being. But his absence in my life spoke volumes.

Contemplation became my companion in quiet moments, as I grappled with the gravity of his decision. Questions echoed through the corridors of my mind – how could he have chosen to disappear rather than face the consequences? What could have compelled him to leave behind a child? And, most importantly, who was I without his presence? He certainly did not abandon my elder sister, nor my younger sister. Maybe because they were his biological children.

In the depths of my contemplation, I realized that identity is not solely defined by bloodlines or shared genetics. It is a complex tapestry woven not only by the presence of those who raised us but also by the absence of those who should have been there. It is through the absence of this man, whom I once thought of as my father, that I discovered the strength to redefine my own sense of self.

As young adults, we are confronted with the bittersweet realization that life does not always grant us the answers we seek. It is during these moments of reflection that we find ourselves standing at the crossroads of forgiveness and understanding. We can choose to carry the burden of resentment or embark on a journey of introspection and growth.

So, to all the young adults out there who have felt the sting of parental absence or who have grappled with questions of identity, know that you are not alone. Our stories intertwine in a collective tapestry of resilience and self-discovery. May we find solace in the contemplation of our own narratives and the wisdom to shape them into stories that define who we truly are.

The death of the man I thought was my biological father is not an end but a catalyst for my personal growth. I carry his legacy of abandonment, but I am not defined by it. With a heart filled with contemplation, I forge ahead, embracing the uncertainty of life’s journey, and uncovering the truths that lie within my own soul.

Uncategorized

Beyond the Bullet: Triumph Over Prejudice

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

Age 21 – In a world often marred by prejudice and ignorance, a single moment can alter lives indefinitely. Such was the case when a bullet punctured my existence, yet again, forever changing the course of my life.

I found myself tired. Tired of the discontent, tired of the fight, tired of the prejudice, tired of the meanness in the world. The weight of it all seemed unbearable, suffocating any glimmers of hope that once flickered within me.

At that point in time, I had been through so many traumatic events that I couldn’t justify why a human being would want to take my life, simply because of how they believed. It perplexed me, shattered me, and left me wondering how a twisted opinion of truth could hold more value than my right to exist.

Within the depths of serenity, where calm waters once flowed, a tempest brewed, unseen and unyielding. Blissfully unaware, I traversed my community, basking in a sense of belonging, blissfully ignorant of the prejudice lurking beneath the surface. Our neighborhood, awash with the vibrant hues of diversity, became our sanctuary, promising harmony. Little did I know, the tranquility was but a deceptive haze, concealing the impending storm.

It happened innocently enough – a simple outing, a shared journey to an event. Bubba and his truck, seemingly ordinary, came to a halt beside us at the red light. Yet, as I glanced out of the corner of my eye, a sight caught my attention – a shotgun in his grasp. Panic surged through my veins, and with a voice strangled by fear, I screamed, “Go!” In an instant, the deafening explosion broke the silence, its impact resonating as if fired from a cannon. The screech of metal, the reverberating blast shattered the tranquility that held my ordinary life together. In a twisted dance of ignorance, a prejudiced man had sought to silence the very beauty of diversity that eluded his grasp. The bullet, guided by hate’s twisted motives, found its fated target, tearing through my flesh, lodging itself within my physical being. Pain, confusion, and an avalanche of disbelief entwined, as the world around me descended into shadow.

In the aftermath, a palpable hopelessness enveloped me. I questioned the very nature of our existence, shaken to the core by the recognition that prejudice and hatred still hold sway, lurking within the hearts of those we once deemed neighbors. As the tendrils of agony reached deeper, piercing my soul, I found myself adrift in a desolate sea of despair.

Navigating the abyss in the aftermath of the shooting proved to be an arduous journey, one where the scars etched onto my body paled in comparison to the soul-deep wounds inflicted upon my being. The malicious act of a single soul had shattered the foundations of my trust, leaving me precariously perched upon the precipice of hopelessness. Yet, even within the unfathomable darkness, a faint ember of resilience flickered within.

Through therapy, self-reflection, and unwavering perseverance, I emerged from the shadows of prejudice as a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. The bullet that once sought to eradicate my existence inadvertently fueled a fire within me, igniting a passion for dismantling prejudice in all its forms. I channeled my pain into advocacy, standing tall as a voice for those silenced by prejudice, striving to foster understanding and acceptance within society.

While the bullet may have torn through my physical being, it failed to inhibit the indomitable spirit within me. The journey from victim to advocate has been arduous, littered with obstacles and moments of doubt. Yet, it has also been marked by profound growth, illuminating the strength of the human capacity for resilience. By sharing my story and standing against prejudice, I hope to inspire others to rise above their own adversities and reshape the world with compassion and understanding. Prejudice may have pulled the trigger, but it was the force of love and acceptance that triumphed in the end, proving that even the darkest moments can give birth to immense light.

As the venomous tendrils of bubba’s prejudice wormed their way into the very core of our relationship, the damage inflicted ran deep, beyond any possibility of repair. It was I who suffered the wounds, yet I understood the all-consuming hatred that had taken root in both our cultures. In his world, I became an outcast, scorned and shunned by the women who saw my presence as a threat to their established norms. On the other hand, within my own circles, my family greeted him warmly, offering open arms, but my friends and colleagues showed no such appreciation. Acutely aware of the shift in perception, I knew that every step I took alone on the street would not be met with judgment and disdain, vastly different from the demeanor I witnessed when he was by my side. The weight of prejudice and loathing would forever loom over us, casting a shadow that inevitably tore us apart.

This is not just the tale of one tragic encounter, but a stark reminder of the relentless storm that brews within society. It is a call to our collective consciousness, urging us to confront the demons that plague our souls and embrace the diversity that fortifies our existence. The path ahead may seem treacherous, shrouded in the dour cloak of hopelessness, but it is through our resilient spirit that we may yet find solace.

Human Interest

Shenanigans – Chaos and a Mother-in-Law

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

Age 50’s – Oh boy, let me tell you about the adventure I had with my dear mother-in-law and her colonoscopy. I knew it was going to be a challenge, but I had no clue what I was getting myself into! Picture this – a sedentary woman in need of a colonoscopy, and me, her trusty and oh-so-willing daughter-in-law.

The night before the big day was hardly a walk in the park. Oh no, it was more like a never-ending nightmare. You see, the poor thing had to go through this brutal prep that left her throwing up and feeling sick all night long. And who was there to witness it all? Yours truly, of course.

So, the day arrives, and my mission is to get her to the hospital by 7:30 am. Simple enough, you might think. Well, hold on tight, because the fun has just begun. I pick her up, ready to conquer the day, and ask for the address. And what do I do? I drive us to the wrong darn hospital! Time is ticking, my friend. We have mere minutes to reach the correct hospital, which is a solid 20 minutes away. Panic mode activated!

We arrive at the overcrowded hospital, and I have to think on my feet. I drop her off in a hurry and sprint back to find a parking spot down the street. Running like my life depends on it, I grab a wheelchair and dash back to the chaos. We manage to check her in after standing in line for what feels like an eternity.

Once in the room, they start undressing her and hooking her up to leads. Then comes the great IV adventure. Here’s the kicker – her dehydrated arm is playing hide-and-seek with the veins. They poke, they prod, and they try like absolute maniacs to find a vein. It’s like a twisted game show, “Where’s the vein?!” I swear, I thought we were competing for a grand prize of frustration.

And just when we think things couldn’t get any more absurd, they casually ask if she’s on oxygen. Of course, I confirm that she is. And guess what? They drop the bombshell – they don’t have oxygen available for her procedure! Seriously? You couldn’t have mentioned this little detail beforehand? Unbelievable!

After getting kicked out, she let out a scream that could shatter glass. “I am not enduring that prep again!” she hollered, determined to rebel. Meanwhile, I dashed off to fetch the car, but ended up sprinting down the street yet again. Suddenly, my clumsy nature got the best of me, and I tumbled to the ground. Lights out! Was it because I skipped breakfast? Or maybe my blood pressure was feeling a little low? Perhaps I just needed a good ol’ cup of joe. In the midst of my stride, I fainted like a true champ. Lights out, indeed!

When I finally came to, I discovered a symphony of injuries. Bleeding hands that tried to save me, a banged-up noggin from kissing the pavement, and oh, let’s not forget the dignified blood trail trickling from my pant leg where my knees took their hard-earned beating. I mustered up the courage to declare, “I’m fine, I swear!” I wiped away the blood, braved the pain, and limped my way back to the car. Mission: completed!

With the car safely parked, I dashed back inside to collect her, ready to whisk her off to a new and hopefully less chaotic hospital. By this point, lunchtime had long come and gone, and our growling stomachs reminded us of our unfulfilled cravings. Fasting can be a real bummer, especially when you’re hurrying to make it to your destination by 2 o’clock. We hadn’t eaten or drunk a thing, and boy, were we paying the price for it.

It felt like an eternity, but finally, at 4pm, the doctor made his grand entrance. Bless his heart, he had to be dragged away from the comfort of his office just to squeeze us in after dealing with the other patients. Poor mother-in-law was throwing a massive fit, and I couldn’t really blame her. She had gone through a night of poop prep, for heaven’s sake.

Eventually, they whisked her away, and I was left there with dried, sticky blood from my fall. A nurse finally noticed me and kindly asked, “Are you okay?” I wanted to reply with a sarcastic, “Do I look okay?”, but instead, I just pleaded for a bathroom to clean up while my dear mother-in-law underwent her procedure.

Curiosity got the better of those nurses, and they inquired about the chaotic events that led us here. You won’t believe it, but they said I was a saint! Ha! More like a saint with a pounding headache!

As soon as we were done, I called for some steaks to pick up. Ah, the joys of being able to eat after a day that started at 7am and ended at freaking 7pm! We sat there silently, but our eyes met, and we couldn’t help but burst into laughter as we devoured our meals like ravenous animals.

So there you have it, folks. My wild and wacky adventure with my mother-in-law’s colonoscopy. If this story doesn’t make you chuckle, I don’t know what will. Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs at you, especially when you least expect it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a strong cup of coffee and a moment to recover from this comical ordeal. Cheers to the unexpected twists and turns that make life oh-so-entertaining!

Reflection

The Cowboy – The Epiphany

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

Age 24 – Once upon a time, amidst the vastness of life’s adventures, I found myself entranced by a singular moment. It was as if time itself had paused, allowing me to truly see him for the first time. With his piercing blue eyes and chiseled jawline, he ignited a spark within me that I never knew existed. This Southern cowboy, tall and lanky, had effortlessly stolen my heart from the very first words he spoke.

There was a magnetic attraction that bound us together, his radiant smile reflecting the mutual connection we shared. In his presence, I discovered a newfound sense of patience and an understanding of unconditional love. He embraced my anger, holding it gently, and replaced it with a perpetual sense of joy. Each day felt like a vibrant symphony, bursting with laughter, celebrations, and unforgettable friendships. It was a whirlwind of excitement, as if life itself had pressed the accelerator and we were speeding through each precious moment.

But as life often does, things changed in the blink of an eye. In a mere three years, the world we had built became fractured. He never imagined that I would walk away, and yet, he made choices that shattered our once-solid foundation. He brought his ex-wife back into our lives and reconnected with an old flame. Perhaps fear had clouded his judgment, but he had always been clear that marriage and children were not part of his plans. And at 25 years old, I felt as if my journey had not yet begun. The path we once walked together veered off course.

He held my respect, my adoration, and the love we once shared, and yet he grew complacent. He never truly appreciated it; he took it all for granted. Perhaps he believed that my love for him was so boundless, I would never walk away. But that fateful night, as I stepped into our kitchen where we used to share cherished meals, I saw his ex-wife and ex-girlfriend sitting there. Something inside of me shattered, deep and irreparable.

In the depths of my soul, I had already learned the painful lesson that one should never live solely for another. I understood that if I stayed, he would manipulate me with his words and pleas, capitalizing on the love I still held. He would convince me to give him one more chance, then another, and another beyond that. I knew that time would slip away from me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being trapped in his web any longer.

And so, with a single tear cascading down my cheek, I made the tough decision to leave. It was a pain unlike any I had experienced before, for it threatened to break me completely. This loss, however, carried a different weight. It held a different understanding, a revelation of my worth and the knowledge that I deserved better.

I clutched my purse tightly and cast my eyes across the expanse of our once-beautiful apartment. I slowly made my way to the bathroom and then my closet, packing only a small bag. In truth, I didn’t want any reminders of what we had shared.

Then I walked back into the kitchen. With a single glimpse into those piercing azure eyes, I found myself entranced, caught in a moment frozen in time. But as I dared to speak, his response carried a contemptuous undertone, leaving me wounded and shattered. It was in that instant that I realized I no longer desired anything from him, forever.

As I walked away that day, I left behind the remnants of a life we once shared. All those possessions we had collected over the course of three years—furniture, dishes, the tangible pieces of our union—held no value for me anymore. They only served as painful reminders of a love lost. And in that definitive moment, I knew I would never return to the dance of life as I knew it. The mere thought of it shattered my spirit.

No longer would I be an object to be paraded around, a symbol of validation for men. It was time for me to reclaim my life, on my own terms, free from the fetters that had bound me. This choice marked the beginning of a profound transformation, a life no longer defined by the expectations of others.

In the wake of that shattered love, a newfound strength stirred within me. The fragments of my heart, though broken, were infused with resilience and determination to forge a different path. For I sought solace in the knowledge that my worth extended far beyond the confines of the roles I had once played, the trophies I had been perceived as.

And so, I vowed to live a life of authenticity, guided solely by my own desires and aspirations. This choice was not one of selfishness, but rather an act of self-love, an acknowledgment of my inherent worth. With this newfound clarity, my horizons expanded, and my former identity crumbled away, making room for a rebirth that held the promise of liberation.

Therefore, hear the echoes of my shattered heart, as they reverberate with resilience and newfound purpose. Aware of the pain and loss that accompanies the end of one chapter, I embolden myself to step into a future where my own happiness takes precedence.

For it is in our darkest moments of heartache and despair that we find the strength to redefine ourselves, to rewrite the narratives that have held us captive. And as I embark on this journey of self-discovery, I extend an invitation to all who have endured similar heartbreaks, to join me in embracing the beauty that emerges from the ruins.

Reflection

Blind Faith – A Dance With the Devil

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

Age 20 – He promised to share his secrets, to lead me down a path where hunger would no longer consume me. I was a naive girl, tainted by the hardships of life, longing for a taste of success. Little did I know, this journey would transform me into a mere doll, stripped of my identity.

My matted, dirty blonde hair became meticulously styled, my awkward posture gracefully molded through his guidance. It was more than just dance lessons; he taught me to decipher the unspoken language of micro expressions, a skill I never knew existed. I believed it was the key to unlocking a higher income, a way to fulfill my most basic needs. However, unbeknownst to me, his true intentions were far more sinister.

He had concealed his nefarious plans beneath a veil of mentorship. He yearned for a lavish recording studio, and I, in my desperation to satiate my hunger, had unwittingly become a pawn in his game. We struck a deal, but I had unknowingly made a pact with the devil himself.

I placed unwavering faith in him, trusting him in ways I had never connected with another soul. Little did I realize that my hard-earned money, earned through a life of sorrow, was being spent on the very women I called friends within the industry. Deception lurked within the shadows, secrets intertwined with manipulation, and in the end, it was I who fell prey to his treachery.

The crushing weight of betrayal weighed heavily upon me, so much so that I felt compelled to swallow pills, to succumb to an abyss of despair. It was in that moment, standing on the precipice of oblivion, that I finally recognized the truth: it was over.

The next morning, as the sunlight streamed through my window, I was met with an overwhelming sense of disbelief. How did I let myself become so entangled in a toxic web of dependency? It was a wake-up call, a harsh reminder that my life shouldn’t revolve around someone else.

In the beginning, I truly believed that this person held the key to my survival. Their mentorship seemed essential, but it had morphed into an unhealthy codependency. I had been deceived, hurt, and left so broken that I found myself on the verge of ending it all. It was only in that moment, standing up and feeling the warmth of the sun on my face for the first time in what felt like an eternity, that I realized I had a choice.

A sense of fear and uncertainty washed over me as I contemplated whether I would ever be able to achieve the level of success his mentorship promised. Yet, with each passing day, fragments of my soul began to mend, and my humanity slowly returned. The betrayal I felt was profound, but I had to acknowledge that I had played a role in my own downfall. I had willingly placed myself in harm’s way, and the consequences were mine alone to bear.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that every decision had led me to that moment on the bathroom floor. But with this newfound clarity, came a surge of courage. I refused to let this setback define me any longer. I vowed to reclaim my life, to make better choices, and to never lose sight of my own worth again.

This journey of healing and self-discovery would not be easy, but I was willing to embrace the challenges ahead. I refused to be held captive by my past mistakes or the actions of others. From that day forward, I would be the author of my own story, a story of resilience, growth, and the unwavering pursuit of my dreams.

So to anyone who finds themselves in a similar predicament, remember this: there is strength within you that you never thought possible. No matter the hardships you face or the betrayals you endure, you have the power to rise above it all. Embrace your courage, acknowledge your mistakes, and reclaim your life. It’s time to write a new chapter, one filled with self-love, empowerment, and the unwavering belief that you are capable of anything.

Reflection

Disastrous Encounters – Life of a Dancer

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

Let me set the stage for you. There’s this super “inspiring” story about a young woman in her early 20s, growing up in an environment filled with violence, poverty, and utter lack of education. Oh, and let’s not forget her “wonderful” attitude problem.

Now, this girl has been on her own since she was a mere 14 years old, and boy, did she fail spectacularly. I mean, who wouldn’t when you have no one to guide you, right? So at the ripe old age of 23, she’s sitting there, staring at her sad excuse for a cupboard, which consists of one lonely can of chicken with stars from Campbell’s chicken soup. Yep, that’s the highlight of her culinary collection.

Not only is she struggling to feed herself, but she’s also drowning in a pile of bills she can’t pay. Oh, and did I mention that she recently experienced some sort of traumatic event that left her unable to work long hours? Life just keeps hitting her with the good stuff.

But guess what? Just when things couldn’t get any worse, she loses her baby, and the cherry on top? Her own lovely mother swoops in and snatches away her last $600. Family, right? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.

And then, out of the blue, this mysterious, dark, and oh-so-handsome man saunters into her life. He throws her a bone, claiming he can teach her how to never be hungry again. Who can resist an offer like that? So, this woman with an already hardened heart decides to give up on humanity altogether and becomes the “best” female dancer in Houston, Texas. Bravo.

But hey, who needs a real job, stability, or emotional support when you can dance your way to success, right? What a fantastic story of perseverance and sarcasm in the face of adversity.

Ah, the elusive nature of courage, forever intertwined with our old pal, fear. You see, I once had a deep-rooted fear that I would become a spitting image of my mother. A life of poverty, perpetual anger, endless hunger – you get the charming picture. But hey, guess what? I defied all odds and emerged as a confident, stunning woman who could stand on her own two feet. A true masterpiece in the making, if I do say so myself.

But hold onto your hats, folks, because life loves throwing curveballs. In walks this dashing, charming man, offering to whisk me away to a life better than my wildest dreams. Oh, how foolish I was. Little did I know that behind that charming façade lurked the ultimate scoundrel, the master of deception.

Yep, ladies and gents, I won the jackpot when it comes to disastrous encounters. This so-called savior turned out to be a walking, talking example of everything despicable. Ah, the irony. Trust me, I’ve met my fair share of scoundrels, but this one took the cake. And trust me, that cake tasted a little too much like betrayal and heartache.

So there you have it, folks. Life likes to throw us punches just when we gather the courage to face our fears. But fear not, for in our journey of self-discovery, we uncover the beauty in our strength and resilience. And as for those debonair charlatans? Well, they make for one heck of a story to tell.

Courage, fear, scoundrels – the grand tapestry of life’s little surprises. Keep following the blog for the sequel to this where I reveal just what this louse did. Make no mistake, I was culpable…

Reflection

Dissociative Amnesia – A Defense Mechanism

Reba Nietert

Copyright 2024 – Rebecca Nietert

When I was a toddler, my mother bought me the most adorable little green dress paired with cute white bloomers. It was the early 60s, a time when children were encouraged to go outside and play. It was a more innocent time, and neighbors looked out for one another’s children.

One day, I found myself at my grandparents’ house, where my great grandparents were staying as well. As I tiptoed outside through the swinging screen door, the sound of it banging shut echoed through the yard and sidewalk. It was then that one of my great grandfather Sam’s friends called me over to his front porch. Filled with curiosity, I eagerly climbed up the stairs, taking each step with my tiny body, and settled down next to the man.

He engaged in conversation with me, our exchange filled with the simple joy of connecting generations. After a little while, he kindly invited me inside his home for a cookie. If you can imagine the unthinkable, that’s what happened. I was a toddler growing into a child. What he did damaged me not only physically, but profoundly as the years went on. What I am not going to do is list the details of this event, because to do so would give credence to any pedophile who might read this book and I will not engage. What he did was fundamentally wrong he changed the course of my life forever.

As I made my way back to my great grandmother’s room, blood trickled down my legs. A heavy sadness weighed on her face. It was a different time back then, where tragedies and traumas were kept tightly locked away within the confines of one’s heart. Seeking help from psychiatrists was unheard of, and even if they were available, people rarely sought their aid. Family matters were held close, secrets hidden beneath calm facades. She took my panties off, cleaned me up, put new clothes on and tossed the bloody mess in the trash can, along with any voice I might ever have.

In the aftermath of what had happened to me, silence prevailed. The incident was never spoken of, never acknowledged. Its impact on my mind, however, was profound. That day marked the birth of my dissociative amnesia, a defense mechanism that allowed me to detach from the memories that haunted me. It became my means of survival, a coping mechanism I would carry with me for the rest of my life.

In a world where support was scarce and talking about personal struggles was frowned upon, I found solace in the ability to dissociate myself from the trauma I endured. It became my shield, guarding me from the overwhelming weight of my experiences.

Though those times have changed, the impact of my dissociative amnesia remains. It is a testament to the lengths we go to protect ourselves in a world that may not always offer the understanding and support we need.