Married Thrice

People always called me mature for my age.

And I’d say they were right. By 16 years old I had already been two men’s wives.

I thought my first husband was the best.

I didn’t have to say what I wanted in order for him to give it to me. He knew that I wanted affection. He knew that I wanted attention. He knew that I wanted love. He knew exactly what to give me to make it easier to trust him. He knew how to validate me and make me feel significant. Seen. By the time I was 7 years old I was already having secret getaways and staycations that women even four times my age weren’t seeing.

He was 16. An older man. And when he was ready to get what he wanted from me, he summoned me.

Things didn’t work out with him though.

While he was giving me this and that I failed to see that he was robbing me of my innocence. It’s not even fair to myself to say that I failed but at 7 years old something failed in me.

For years after that, childlike joys were not so enticing. Daydreaming about marriage and frilly dresses lacked luster and even believing lies that little boys would tell me was just silly.

I knew better. I was more mature than that. By 12, I knew that things change and they hardly stay the same.

By my mid-teens I had already learned that there is far more protection in wisdom than there might be in hope... which brings me to my second husband.

He wasn’t really my husband, but he dumped his burdens on me like I stood across from him at the front of a church and vowed for better or worst in a room full of witnesses. Unlike my first husband I owed him everything.

I owed him obedience, servant hood, loyalty and excellence. No mistakes tolerated.

He gave me affection when he was in the mood for it and shunned me to pieces when he wasn’t happy with his own life.

He spent hours of high quality Louisiana sunlight drudging down dark hallways collecting narratives that pitted him against the world.

And then he was ready for vengeance, he summoned me.

He didn’t see me.

He saw his mother.. his father.. his ex wives.. the children that were no longer speaking to him and the friends, colleagues and peers that didn’t respect him like he thought they should have.

He didn’t see me.

But he always told me that he loved me.

After 25 years of ups and downs, death did us part.

I wish someone would tell them, “that’s why she’s so mature for her age.”

But the secret is that I’m really still that 7 year old girl.

That’s what I had to explain to my third husband.

My real husband… the redeeming kind.

The only man that had actually made any vows to me.

The only man whose primary connection to me wasn’t centered around power and domination.

The only man who told me and I quote, “I want you for advocate for yourself.”

I had to explain to him that this type of relationship, I’m just not used to - one where I don’t pardon my needs to make sure yours are met - one where I’m not expected to carry your burdens and keep secrets about your sin.

In all these years I had never used my voice in the way that you challenge me to use it so forgive me if I still act like a child. Waiting for you to summon me so that I might feel wanted. Waiting for you to respond to pleas and desires that I don't have the language to communicate to you right now.

Forgive me for being angry with you and for assuming that if you really loved me, you would just know.

Forgive me for filling the voids of your silence with fear that I have not lived up to your expectations.

I’ve been trained and tied to a feeling that I owe you something, but you don’t owe me anything. It leads to me going out of my way to relieve you of your responsibility to love me. And then it makes me feel unloved when I have to live in the world I created.

If this is what you want though. To love me. Then I realize that first I have to be so audacious as to love myself.

If I love myself, know that this means that I will have to say what feels good to my soul and what doesn't,

Know that I will be open about how important it is to me to feel love/d

Know that I will feel no shame in getting or asking for reciprocity after shedding actual blood, sweat, tears and my very insides to build this family.

Know that I will move differently. Are you ready for that?

Or is it just me who is afraid.

Afraid to behave as though I’m worthy enough or deserving to experience the things that I need and dare I say it: have them upon request and on demand.

I’m mature for my age, but I think it’s all catching up to me now. I’m just a few months shy of thirty with two sons relying on me to live.

So, I think it’s time I act my age.

Yeah, Me Too.

Trigger Warning: This content includes references around topics such as sexual assault, molestation and child abuse. I acknowledge that this content may be difficult. I also encourage you to care for your safety and well-being.

In every significant friendship I've ever had, there has always been a moment where I had to go, "Oh. This relationship isn't what I thought it was."

The very first friendship where I had that moment was before the various memories I have from 5th and 6th grade where friends suddenly changed.

I must have been somewhere between 5 and 7 years old.

I don't remember even being 5 years old.

I don't want to think "5 years old". So, I must have been around 6 or 7.

7 makes more sense to me.

7 is 1st grade.

7 is old enough to reason.

7 is old enough to understand friendship, relationship, and well - I thought it was old enough to understand intimacy as well.

I don't remember much from my childhood before I told my parents that my cousin "touched" me. That's what my mom asked me half a dozen times before: Has somebody been touching you?

In hindsight, I guess she saw the signs. I mean, well maybe she didn't see "the signs", but a 6 or 7-year-old girl shouldn't have so much consistent vaginal burning and itching, so I know she saw that sign.

She asked me all the time and every time, I said "no".

I didn't want to mess up my very best, very first real, deep friendship.

I don't remember much before then.

The sounds of sirens and the reflection of red and blue lights were like a reset button on my childhood. It felt like I actually started meeting and playing with new people after that.

I don't remember my grandmother not believing me.

I don't remember doing flips in the backyard with him.

I don't remember the first time or even the second.

I don't remember feeling scared.

I don't remember being confused.

I can barely remember being that young.

I just remember the last two times before everything about that friendship, relationship, whatever it was, changed. I remember when I realized that none of it was what I thought it was. He was my cousin, but beyond that, he was my friend; and I loved him. I trusted him. I had fun with him. About as much as any 7 year old can adore a person, I adored him.

I don't remember why I trusted him. He was about 8 or 9 years older than me, so maybe I felt safe around him. Maybe I felt seen. Maybe I felt loved. Maybe I felt warm.

I remember one night inside my grandmother's home. We were in the living room, just the two of us. I don't know where everyone else was, but I remember sitting on the sticky black leather couch in the living room, not far from at least three windows, waiting for what I knew was about to happen.

I remember occupying my hands with a small toy or something and sitting back on the couch far enough to recline my legs comfortably and wait.

He was setting the mood, adjusting the lights, and setting the stereo to play "some Ginuwine", a popular artist at the time.

I remember being fully clothed, sitting on the couch, cognizant of the fact that he was about to approach me. I remember...

Only now, 20+ years later do I realize that by then, I was groomed.

But back then I thought it was pure.

I was beyond fear of anyone finding us. I was beyond whatever pain I must have felt the first time. I was beyond confused about what was happening to me.

In my mind, I agreed.

7 years old with the assumption that I was in a place to be in a consenting sexual relationship with a grown man... or a 16-year old I guess.

In hindsight, I wonder if that could be why I never thought much of birthdays. By the time I was 12, I felt like I had already been there. So, it was for 13, 14, 15, and so on. The only age that took me by surprise was 30, and that shock came about three months after I turned 29.

But anyway.

That was the second to last time.. or at least the only other occasion that I remember.

The last time, I remember very clearly.

That was the time that I realized that the situation wasn't what I thought it was.

This time, it was during the day.

My grandmother was in the kitchen and I was there with her and my younger sister.

He was in the second bedroom in her home and all I remember is him calling my name.

He needed me for something. He called my name like he knew me and knew what he wanted to get from me. It wasn't a sing-song voice as you might imagine. It was just a casual calling out of my name like everything was normal. Casual enough to not alert anyone.

Casual enough to proceed with it being broad daylight outside.

When I entered his room, his sheets were on the floor.

I had forgotten his scent for a long time until recently I switched to a new deodorant. I remember the scent now.

It was a new scenario, but I knew the drill.

I was groomed. and when he told me to, I took off my pants. I knew the drill.

And I got down on the floor palette that he made for us.

My body must have adapted because it didn't hurt. I remember both his hands being on the floor on either side of my head. I remember wondering if my grandmother was ever going to call my name or walk in on us.

Then again, why would she? She trusted him about as much as I did.

I was distracted from the fear of being found after a few minutes lying on the floor because suddenly he decided to stand up.

I mean... he wanted to "do it" standing up.

I guess I enjoyed it. I felt a connection. I felt the intention. and I wanted to reciprocate.

So I tried to kiss him; just like they do in the movies.

But, of course.

I was, what? - 7?

and he was 16.

He wasn't interested in a relationship or reciprocation of affection. of course not.

I was a child.

That would have been disgusting to kiss a child.

So he turned his head away.

He continued to use me though.

He kept his head turned to the right and

continued to take what he called me in his room for.

and when he was done, he put me down.

I put on my clothes and went back into the kitchen with my grandmother and sister.

I don't think I felt anything extremely strong or profound in my emotions, just a stark contrast in my perception.

I didn't know what it was anymore except that it wasn't what I thought it was... and that it would probably never be what I thought it was.

At 7 years old, I lost a certain hope.

- a certain kind of innocence.

- a certain capacity to trust.

- a certain understanding of love.

There was no longer anything there for me to protect.

That night, or the next one, both my parents sat in our living room - in the two-bedroom one-bath shotgun house next door to my grandmother's house.

My mother tended to my complaints of itching and once again, she asked me, "Has somebody been touching you?"

By then, I had nothing to lose. So I said, "yes... Steven."

---------

20+ years later, my eyes are open to two things:

1. No matter how long ago it was or how much has been forgotten, roots of rejection, broken trust, lack of safety, require attention. "It was a long time ago", but it is still important today.

2. Through continued counseling, continued pursuit of deliverance, and trust in God's sovereign word and plan for redemption, I am on a healing journey.

So, I appreciate every prayer said under God's will, but do not feel sorry for me. God is faithful to me even in this small part of my very big story.

While I grieve the absence of emotional wholeness for so many years since the abuse, I still see God. I forgive myself for everything that I did in pursuit of a feeling that I was prematurely exposed to. This is my Egypt.

At first, Egypt represented my bondage, but now I see it as a place where I gain authority.

“So then, it was not you who sent me here, but God. He made me a father to Pharaoh, lord of his entire household and ruler of all Egypt.

Genesis 45:8

If you have ever experienced sexual abuse, molestation, misconduct, whether violent or non-aggressive, you deserve to know how it impacted you and heal. Please get into some form of counseling to start or continue your process.

Flamingo Trauma Recovery is on a mission to make that available to as many that desire it, but in this season, I, myself, am drinking from the well.

To Steven, Genesis 45:5

My Birth Story | Part 1: Home-birth, Breech, and C-Sections

2100 Words

Trigger Warning: This blog has lots of references and perspectives concerning birth and c-section. If you have any sensitive experiences with birth or c-sections, please remember to take care of yourself as you read and stop reading if you need to.

Home Birth

Choosing home birth was one of the biggest acts of self-care that I have ever given myself up to this point. It was the best thing that I could have done for myself for so many reasons.

It’s important to note that “natural” birth isn’t what I was going for - whatever that means. All birth brings natural life - some welcoming (or requiring) more intervention than others.

What I wanted more than anything was holistic care and to not be railroaded into procedures that are rationalized by fear, partiality, or misinformation. I especially did not want to participate as a casualty in an industry that ultimately creates solutions that are most lucrative even if compromise my quality of life.

I didn’t fear for my life, but I did make my choice with a consciousness of the maternal mortality rate among black women in America.

Choosing home birth changed my perspective of birth, entirely. I was introduced to childbirth with the saying, “When a woman is in labor, she’s got one foot in the labor room and one foot in the grave.”

From then on, birth has always appeared to me as something dangerous, sorrowful, and wild. I have since learned that it doesn’t have to be any of those things, but what else is there to believe with such limited information on physiological birth?

I mean, birth is wild (no matter how you slice it), but it doesn't have to be traumatic and I welcome that truth into my life.

The obstetric care industry performs well when there is a need for life-saving surgery or heavy human intervention. It's a blessing to our society that we get to have options when it comes to birth.

However, the same industry makes an enormous amount of money off of the ignorance of the expecting families who think that birth can rarely be done without vacuums, knives, high-risk medications, and heavy machinery.

Receiving midwifery care meant that I went through the entire process knowing what my options were, both in and outside of mainstream obstetric care, and it meant that I got to choose my own path with the guidance of my midwife.

This being said: There was just as much, if not more, precaution taken when we observed that my baby was breech. It was my personal decision to learn as much as I could about vaginal breech birth, including the risks and facts associated with those risks.

The first order of business, though, was to try to get him to turn.

My midwife let me know all of my options. The most mainstream options included C-Section and external cephalic version (with or without epidural). She also informed me of treatments and routines that could encourage turning included chiropractic care, moxibustion, acupuncture, Spinning Babies, and good old fashion walking.

In three weeks' time, I had been to a total of about twelve appointments that were specifically centered around getting my baby to turn.

The plan was that, in the event that the baby did not turn and it was safe, she would have other midwives working alongside her for healthy vaginal breech birth.

I could see that I had more work cut out for me than I was prepared for with the realities of entrepreneurship, toddler-mom stuff, and managing third-trimester fatigue and hormones.

In the past year or two, I’ve learned not to just accept what I’m given as fate, but after weeks of effort, my soul questioned, "Why do I even try?"

Ultimately, I wanted to not feel forsaken by God in the event that I found myself in an operation room at New York-Presbyterian for a planned cesarean due to a breech baby.

I wanted to be okay with it.

In the middle of my trying to nestle into acceptance through prayer and meditation, I heard the Lord whisper something that stopped my thoughts in their tracks. That word was, “Wait”.

It was so quick and quiet that I might have missed it, but it brought an abrupt end to my thoughts which made it hard to ignore.

A couple of days later, my husband and I were in prayer about what to do, and as I write this, I can recall that part of my prayer was that the Lord “show us how to tell the story” when it was all said and done.

Throughout the entire process, I had kept notes about the experience documented on my phone.

• At 36 Weeks (give or take): Doctors who did my sonograms told me that my fluid was "very, very, very, very very" low, suggesting that I would need to be induced or immediately taken in for c-section. For the record, I found the repeated use of the word "very" to be both obnoxious and insulting.

Needless to say, my fluid levels had doubled by the next week and I was later informed that fluid levels can measure differently depending on where the scan is taken.

• At 37 Weeks (give or take): Doctors who did my ECV had strong recommendations against home birth due to their unsuccessful attempt at turning my baby into the head-down position.

• At 38 Weeks (give or take): I heard of many fears and concerns about the baby becoming too big, getting stuck, or something else going terribly wrong due to his breech position.

Time would tell.

Breech Birth

In both my children’s births, I saw the merciful hand of God. Both of them were born about two weeks past their original due date, but completely healthy both during my pregnancy and after delivery.

In my second experience with birth, though, there was a unique element of time, trust, doubt, and power that still leaves me shocked, stunned, amazed, and grateful all at the same time.

“Breech birth is a variation of normal.”

...but when you live in Manhattan, where the rate for c-section operations is as high as 39.6%, having a breech baby vaginally is unheard of - perhaps even frowned upon.

In Manhattan, there are about five midwives who practice vaginal breech delivery at home. The midwife that I hired was not one of them (at the time), so her role in preparation for delivery was to get one or more of them to assist in my home birth in the event that my baby didn’t flip to a head-down position by the time of delivery.

There were lots of options for how to approach the circumstance of having a baby that was in a breech position, but it all became compromised and complicated after my first appointment for an ECV to have him manually turned.

My midwife recommended that I see an OBGYN who had previously done vaginal breech deliveries but now worked at New York-Presbyterian in a pretty political environment. She referred me to him because he often presented as an ally to the home birth community and had first-hand experience with vaginal breech births.

In my pre-consultation with him, he asked the question, “What do you plan to do if the ECV is unsuccessful?” To which, I shared the plan to have a vaginal breech birth at home with my midwife. During the consultation, he shared all that I needed to know about what an ECV entailed and the risks of needing an emergency c-section if the baby didn’t respond well.

What he didn’t share was that his allyship with the home birthing community was actually quite shallow.

I was at the hospital for about 5 hours before the actual procedure began with the preparation and monitoring that took place as protocol. The actual attempt to turn my baby took about 5 minutes before he declared the turning unsuccessful.

His last words to me were that, because I had an uncomplicated first birth, I would be a good candidate for a c-section with this baby and then a "vaginal birth after c-section" (VBAC) for any subsequent pregnancies.

He didn’t mention how once a woman has had a c-section, they are much more likely to be railroaded into another c-section for all subsequent births.

And he didn't mention that babies are statistically more likely to be breech in subsequent births.

Empty words, they were.

Furthermore, he said that if I wanted to pursue a vaginal breech birth, he would recommend that I at least do it in a hospital.

Again, he didn’t mention that the likelihood of being able to deliver a breech baby in any nearby hospital was extremely low unless I was already so far progressed in labor that it there was no time to prepare for the c-section.

Finally, he had the unmitigated gall to reason me into a c-section by saying, “I know that you love your midwife, but…[blah blah blah]”; As if my decision to give birth at home was based on limited knowledge and superfluous emotions of love and admiration.

Later, I learned that he documented the outcome of the ECV procedure but not without explicitly stating that he did not recommend a home birth for my breech baby. As a result, the few midwives that were willing and able to birth my baby with my midwife backed out so as to avoid a liability issue.

I don’t blame them. I get it.

But, for the first time since learning that my baby was breech, I felt pigeonholed into a decision that seemed to have been made for me.

Several times over the weeks to come, I agonized over what to do.

I have made many decisions that were rebellious to the culture before without qualms. I have no issue with defying made-up rules, but I felt stuck.

Not having options did not sit well with me.

In my mind, I went from, "I guess I should just schedule the c-section now" to "but, I don't just want a good birth. I want my baby to have a good experience being born."

If a c-section was best for my baby, then I was willing to believe that it was right for me. However, it didn’t make sense to me that I would be forced to undergo an unnecessary surgery all because the professionals qualified to advise me weren’t skilled in the full scope of what they have been empowered to do.

I can do hard things. I am comfortable with a change in plans. I don’t mind sacrificing my own desires for a more safe and logical approach.

I don’t do well with being forced to do unnecessary things “just because” that’s how it’s done. I get offended when partial information is presented to me as a method to manipulate me into a decision.

I let people assume that I don’t know whatever it is that they think I don’t know, but by this point in my pregnancy, I knew too much. Two out of three OBGYN’s looked me in my eyes and tried to convince me that I was in danger of needing a c-section due to my fluid levels and the position of my baby.

The fact of the matter though, is those reasons were all they had (and barely that).

I didn’t need a c-section. The industry was only prepared for c-section. The industry was designed to benefit financially from the thousands of c-sections performed in a year.

The industry was not designed for me - a black woman who was still early (sort of) in her childbearing years.

A decision had to be made and though I felt like I only had one option, the Lord reminded me that I actually have two.

Option 1: Prepare for a C-Section

Option 2: Wait.

Read Part 2: D-Day

Support

To support our family in this time of healing and adjustment, click here.

Check out our registry with Amazon.

To support with monetary gifts, we have:

• Zelle: coorevalues@gmail.com

• Cashapp: ConsciousCoore

• Venmo: thecoores