My cotton pajama top was damp around the collar and chest, a physical reminder of the horrific dream I had just endured. Groggy and anxious, I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to piece together the remnants. The images came in distorted fragments––staring down the cold, unyielding barrel of a gun, the sensation of running, heart pounding, being chased through endless shadows, and then the two attorneys I’d trusted, who had promised to help me, raping me.
Trying to clear my mind I said out loud: “Pull yourself together, you’ve got some difficult chapters for your memoir that need to be written today.”
I glanced at my cell phone. It was six o’clock. Still anxious, I walked downstairs to make a cup of green tea, no cream and no sugar, then returned to bed, cradling the warm mug while turning on the TV to catch up on the news.
“I really don’t feel like writing those chapters today,” I whispered. My mind wasn’t backing down. “But you have to face them. It needs to be done. You’ve got a call coming up with your editor to review those chapters.”
Dragging myself into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, and stared at my tired and worn reflection.
“Damn it, those chapters are going to be really hard to write.” I leaned closer to the mirror and tried to encourage myself. “Come on, pull your shit together. You can do this.”
I threw on some old clothes, but my mind kept wandering to everything that suddenly seemed like a higher priority than writing.
Oh, I’ll put a load of laundry in the washer.
I really need to change the bed sheets.
Wow, these kitchen cabinet doors need to be wiped down.
After exhausting every excuse, I pulled out my computer and propped myself up on the sofa to begin writing. It was 10:30.
As I stared at the blank screen, my mind continued to battle me.
No one is going to buy your book.
I will be helping others.
No one is going to be interested.
You’re too stupid to write a book.
People are going to judge you for marrying an abuser and getting yourself in that mess.
So what if they judge me?
Why are you wasting your time and tormenting yourself?
You need to rest your mind.
I glanced at the clock again, 10:37. Not a single word written.
“I can’t do this today,” I muttered, shutting my laptop and rubbing my hands over my face. “I have to get out of this house, now! I need a damn break.”
I decided to go to my happy place, the Dekalb Farmers Market. Cooking had become my refuge. I loved the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, listening to the sound of sizzling meat in a hot skillet, and the intoxicating aroma of fresh herbs and garlic; all of it quieted my mind. I could lose myself in the joy of crafting a new recipe.
The thought of wandering through aisles overflowing with vibrant produce brought a smile to my face. Grabbing my purse, a hat to cover my messy hair, and without a stitch of makeup, I loaded my five farmers market totes in the car and off I went.
The moment I stepped through the market doors my spirit lifted. The air was thick with the scent of fresh herbs and ripe fruit. I picked up a large bunch of basil and held it to my nose, inhaling deeply. “I’m definitely making pesto,” I said, savoring the simple pleasure of that moment.
The market was as large as a Costco warehouse, with towering displays of produce from around the world. Fishmongers stood ready to cut fresh seafood to order. Bakers lined shelves with crusty loaves. A section bursting with colorful flowers beckoned shoppers to linger.
Despite the constant hum of carts being pushed through the narrow aisles, the atmosphere remained calm. The mix of languages and shoppers added to my fascination.
I made my way to the onion section, which was stacked withpiles of red, yellow, and white onions, both large and small. I picked up one, rolling it around in my hands to make sure there were no blemishes.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said a soft voice behind me.
Turning, I saw a beautiful woman of color, smiling, trying to get my attention.
“Yes, ma’am?” I said, surprised.
“I just needed to tell you how cute you are,” she said. “I noticed you over by the fresh fruit area,” she said, raising her arm to point, “and I just had to come over and tell you how cute you are.”
My right hand flew to my chest, heat rushed to my cheeks. “Aww, thank you. You have no idea how badly I needed to hear that today. Thank you so much.”
She smiled wider. “You’re very welcome. I just felt like I needed to tell you.”
“Thank you, thank you again,” I repeated, watching her walk away.
I stood there, onion still in hand, overwhelmed. What just happened? This woman who doesn’t know me, yet she walked across this entire warehouse just to tell me I’m cute.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. My heart lightened, the weight of earlier self-doubt was lifting.
Stop and take this in. My angels must have sent her today, knowing I was battling fear and negative thoughts.
In that moment, I realized something profound. I’m not stupid.People will want to read my memoir. My memoir will help others.
That beautiful stranger will never know how deeply her simple act of kindness impacted me that day. She reminded me that I can’t let fear or shame silence me.
A few days later, while chopping onions for pesto, it struck me––onions always bring tears to your eyes when you peel back the layers. And that’s exactly what I was doing with my memoir, peeling back layers of my own pain, exposing my truth to the world. But I realized this journey isn’t just about me. It’s about all women who’ve lived through torment they never asked for.
Shame and fear trap you, suffocate your dreams, and corrode your self-worth while eating away at your soul.
We all deserve to live without shame and fear.
A wise woman once told me that angels are always around us, we just need to be still long enough to feel and hear their presence.
And sometimes, like that day at the DeKalb Farmers Market, an angel will walk right up to you and tell you just what you need to hear.
