21
Living Alone

After having Joel’s friends and lawyers convince me not to go through with the restraining order out of fear that my kids would suffer, the day of the court appearance I sat in my car down the street from the court and cried.

Not showing up in court was one of the worst mistakes I ever made. It looked as if I had filed a false restraining order.

One month after our separation, God encouraged me once again—in a different way. My friend from the middle school camp (also a domestic abuse survivor) and I applied for and received scholarships to hear our then-pastor speak at the Billy Graham Conference Center at the Cove in Asheville, North Carolina.

On the trip, the Lord spoke to my heart, saying it was time to start sharing my story about what happened to me when I was growing up in South Florida, especially about the abuse and sex trafficking.

Lord, what if people reject me? What if they tell me what a terrible, worthless person I am? Why would they listen to me? What if they judge me or don’t believe me, Lord?

As we drove, I silently argued with God and tried to convince myself that the Lord had not spoken. But God kept pressing on my heart that I was now free from oppression and it was time to start telling everyone my story.

At that conference center, I had a chance to speak for the first time in an environment where I knew I would be safe. I publicly shared my story about my trafficking experiences as a child. To my surprise, people responded warmly and appreciatively. Their acceptance amazed me. But their disbelief that this could happen in America stunned me. Didn’t people know how bad society could be to the vulnerable and innocent?

While I was there, God spoke to me again during a worship service: You are to start an international anti–human trafficking and domestic violence ministry.

I smile as I think about that. My ministry was born at the Cove just as I was reborn at a Billy Graham crusade when I was twelve years old. It humbled me to think that God would use my testimony to help save other twelve-year-olds.

By then I was regularly attending Church by the Glades. On my first day there, a sweet, sensitive man named Cary had taken one look at me and said, “You need divorce care. You’re a mess.”

Another thing made Church by the Glades special to me. I had applied for food stamps, and while I waited for approval we had little to eat. My neighbor told me that Church by the Glades gave away free boxes of food and all I had to do was ask. I hadn’t done anything like that before, but I was hungry. The experience was humbling. In the past I had usually been the one who gave, and now I found myself to be the one in need.

I went to Church by the Glades and talked to the man who handed out food. He gave me a huge supply. “If you ever need anything,” he said, “call Pastor Scott.”

The man also gave me Pastor Scott’s card, and I talked to him on the phone. If he was going to tell me how wicked I was, I might as well know it now and get it over with. Instead, he listened and advised me to get into a support group. “You need others to stand with you.” He prayed with me and was supportive of my action to get out of that abusive relationship.

Ever since my first Sunday at that church, the leaders and members of Church by the Glades have been nothing but supportive to me. I’m grateful to God for their compassion.

One Sunday afternoon, I went to pick up my daughter after a soccer game in Coral Springs. Joel had taken her on Friday and I was supposed to pick her up on Sunday so she could get ready for school the next day here in Broward County. “She has school tomorrow,” I reminded him when he said he wanted to keep her.

That began the fighting. He told me she was going home to Miami with him.

We argued, and Joel called the police because he was sure they would let him take her. The patrol car arrived while we were still arguing. Before I could say anything, Joel told the police officer that he was her father and he was taking her to be with his family in Miami for a barbecue.

“No, she has to go with me,” I said, “because she has school tomorrow here in Broward. He knows she’s supposed to be with me.”

In the middle of our argument, I remembered Pastor Scott’s card. I took it from my wallet, held it up, and said to the police officer, “I’ve just started going to this church. He said to call if I needed help.”

“Church by the Glades? I know Pastor Scott. He used to be on the police force.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” I answered. “But he said that if I had any trouble, I should show his card.”

“I’m a Christian, and that’s where I go to church,” the police officer said. “Don’t let this man bully you again. And tomorrow you go down to the courthouse and file a restraining order and be sure to put your daughter’s name on it, you hear?”

Anger flashed in Joel’s eyes, but he said nothing.

Diana went home with me and she was emotionally torn. She loved her father, even if he was abusive.

The next morning after I took Diana to school, I drove directly to the courthouse and filed another restraining order. This time the judge included my daughter in the restraining order. I felt that Joel was using her to get to me. The order wouldn’t allow him to see her for two weeks.

The court told me that I could get counseling for the sexual abuse, which I hadn’t known. On their advice and that of the Women’s Fund in Miami, I went to a place called Broward’s Sexual Assault Treatment Center.

After I told them about the abusive situation, they said they had a month-long waiting list. Then the woman asked me more questions. After I told her everything, she said, “I want you to come in tomorrow. I’ll find a way to squeeze you in because you need help now.”

I felt vindicated because she understood. Even though I had spoken to people for the first time at the Cove, I was now ready to talk about my sexual abuse from childhood and through nearly twenty years of marriage. (I still wasn’t ready to talk in depth about my experiences in human trafficking until my very last counseling session. That was how long it took to work through the abuse in my marriage.)

The counselor listened quietly and encouraged me to keep speaking.

“I’m numb and I can’t feel my body. It’s been like that for at least a year,” I said. “I can’t feel anything. I’m dying to my sense of self.” I was so disgusted with myself that I hated to touch my own body.

She taught me several breathing exercises that helped relax me. I also realized I didn’t have to be violated again.

The Sexual Assault Treatment Center helped me, but it still took a year of being away from any kind of sexual abuse before I started to feel my body again or even feel a little healthy.

God brought several wonderful friends into my life, especially women who had experienced abuse and had been in the same financial situation.

To my surprise, my daughter’s school counselor helped us. My daughter was still attending the same school, and some of the school staff showed great compassion toward us. My car needed repairs and one of the pastors at my daughter’s school, Mark Davis, made sure the church took care of that for me. No one had ever done anything like that before.

I still didn’t have a job. I used the financial aid I was receiving from my student loans for our living expenses. I was learning to live on very little. That was how I knew God wanted me to finish my doctoral program. No matter how discouraged I became, God made me know I shouldn’t quit school.

For the next two and a half years, I focused on healing and learning to feel again.

Joel and I separated on September 27, 2008, and in February 2009 I filed for support not connected with the divorce. I had hired a lawyer recommended by a family friend. When I approached the office door, the Lord had spoken two words to my heart: Emancipation Proclamation.

I was seeking my freedom and that of others to come. After I went to my lawyer’s office to discuss filing for divorce, one of the first things he said was, “Whoever files first gets the upper hand.”

Having a good lawyer is important, but my lawyer was incompetent. Among many mistakes, he filed the divorce papers in the wrong court. Joel’s lawyer sent a female lawyer to convince me that I should drop the divorce petition for the sake of our kids. I believed her, and at nine o’clock that morning I caved in.

Three hours later, Joel and his lawyer filed for divorce in Miami-Dade County. That meant he got there first and had the upper hand. Worse, as part of the divorce petition, Joel asked for me to give him child support, alimony, the house, the business, full custody—everything.

Then to make matters worse, Dad suddenly died of a heart attack at eighty-seven years old. He had been a millionaire but had spent it all. At the end of his life, Dad died penniless.

Even with all the legal chaos, I knew it was finally going to be over.

At the next court meeting, the judge ordered us to have family counseling, which (as I learned later) he wasn’t supposed to do in a case involving domestic violence. However, it turned out to be a good thing.

The counselor held Joel accountable for his actions. “You know this is wrong,” she said to Joel. “And even worse, you’re putting your daughter in the middle.”

At the hearing to make the second restraining order permanent, Joel brought Kipper with him. Only Mom was there for me.

When I saw that he had brought our son, I was hurt and upset, because I think Joel knew I would never say anything about the domestic violence or sexual abuse in our marriage with Kipper present.

When the judge learned that Joel had brought Kipper, he stared at Joel and said, “You are a sick man to bring your son to a restraining order hearing. What kind of parent would do that? Why would you put him through such an ordeal?”

Joel looked down at his feet, but he didn’t answer.

“We’re not going to have a hearing where kids or family are present,” the judge said. “We’re not going to bring family members in court to destroy each other.” He turned to me and asked, “Have you moved out of the house?”

“Yes, but he’s still texting and calling me,” I said. “He harasses me by showing up wherever I am, and he causes problems by trying to intimidate my daughter and me.”

The judge turned back to Joel. “You’re not allowed to contact her. I mean it. I don’t want you to contact her anymore, not by phone or text.”

That time Joel listened—I could tell by the expression on his face.

“I’m not going to make the restraining order permanent, because I don’t want your son to have to come in here. You have him listed as one of your witnesses and that’s ridiculous.”

He ordered Joel not to contact me again, and we were finished. I felt relieved and thought of it as a victory.

I was wrong.