By: Debbie Moore-Black, RN

Hi Mary and Susan and Heather and Ashley and Cathy and anyone else I’m sure I missed.
I was twenty something when I met him. He was smart and funny and different. And I desperately wanted something “different.”
I wanted to be set free from my strict Catholic upbringing. From my domineering mother and IBM executive father turned alcoholic. I wanted to shed the confessionals on Thursday, the mass on Friday and then church again on Sunday. The screams and haunts that failed to escape me of being told over and over again that I was dumb and stupid and fat. I wanted to explore and dance and sing.

And there you were.
The strangest man. 1978. With your Afro hair and long beard and beady blue eyes and a thin body as you smoked cigarette after cigarette.
We listened to the Doors and Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd as we stared into each other’s eyes.
You told me I was beautiful and smart and talented. I desperately grabbed on to this… those breadcrumbs of love.
You became my everything.
My heart and soul.
Can you imagine being this beautiful porcelain doll, and someone comes and smashes you with a hammer? Smashes you to shreds?
That was me.
I loved you. You were my everything. We had three beautiful children. I loved them even more; as I had to learn to build my life around them, and not you.
I preached to others “Women’s liberation.” Unchain yourself, I even hyphenated my last name. Strange thing though, was that I was really trapped. I didn’t know how to escape.
You were my “magic man” until I found out the truth.
And then the hammer that came down on me, also came down on my spirit.
Our children loved you. We all played fairly well… except for the screaming fights of me begging you to get a second job or a better job as I worked my 60 hours a week as a nurse. I was exhausted but I knew someone had to do it. Or of that “next time” you were unfaithful to me. Many various affairs with other women. The marriage counseling, the therapy sessions never made you stop. I was a wounded soldier, craving for this man to love me. And finally realizing it would never happen.
Breadcrumbs of love.
Everyone loved you, your folks at work, the community, even the church. You also loved their adulation towards you.

Narcissism is a strange disease. It’s a self-serving one. And you get wrapped up into yourself. And I was left behind. Forgotten.
And after 34 years of marriage, I was finally ready for a divorce…. because you had one more. One more woman to love other than me.
And I didn’t divorce because he received his death notice. Liver and pancreatic and lung cancer ravaged his body. And I just couldn’t make my children take care of him. I knew it would be hard, but I just couldn’t make them deal with this pain.

So, Mary and Susan and Heather and Ashley and Cathy and all the rest…. where were you when he lost over 40 lbs, stopped eating, skeletal and jaundiced? Where were you when he climbed out of bed, only sometimes falling to the floor or urinating on the floor? Where were you when he accidentally had a bowel movement in the bed? Where were you when he tried to flush towels down the toilet?
And even at the end, the funeral. Where were you? Did you forget to come and pay this man homage?

So whether you’re a man or woman and you’re in it for the thrill. Or in it for fun.. you all, including him, played havoc on my life. My psyche.

His ashes were scattered across the mountain top. And I swore to myself…. never again.

I trust few. But every day I heal, I hug and cuddle my dogs. I laugh with my children and grand-babies… and I carry on.

IF you are in a domestic abusive, cruel, negative, demoralizing partnership, get out! I plead with you loud and clear. Get out. No one deserves this life.
It’s never too late.

The Center for relationship abuse awareness
800.799.7233
(800.799.SAFE)

National Domestic Violence Hotline
800.799.7233
If you are in immediate danger call: 911

By: Debbie Moore-Black, RN

She was naked in her seclusion room. Padded cell. Gown on the floor. Drenched in her urine. I was her nurse. I gave her lithium. She put the pill in her mouth and than spit it at me. In my face. And then her tirade began. “I’m Jesus”. “The FBI is watching us.” “The computer chip in my head said to kill kill kill you.” “They’re watching me.” “They’re watching you.”
“I’m Jesus. Watch out.”

She spun out of control. She started to bang her head against the padded cell wall. We all gathered around her as she screamed out Satan and demons and Lucifer. I injected her with Thorazine. And finally she slept.

Exhaustion and medication took over.

She was in her 50’s and I knew her well. After a week of seclusion and scheduled medications, she got better. She graduated to the main psychiatric unit. Walking amongst the others. Chit chatting with other patients. She was better. Her gray hair was neatly combed. She wore a dress.
I was giving out medications to others.
Mrs. Mary came up to me. Two inches from my face. She said, “I know you. I know you from somewhere.”

And I told her yes, she was correct.
I let her know that 3 years ago she was my English professor while I was in college.
She apologized for her behavior, though she vaguely remembered being naked and spitting pills at me and talking of Jesus and Satan and the FBI. I told her no need to apologize. You are so much better. I’m so happy for you.

3 years ago, I had been in nursing school. English class was a requirement. I was a young depressed woman going into a profession my mother had dictated for me to go into. It was my delusional thoughts that I would escape my dysfunctional home of an alcoholic father and a domineering mother. I would become a journalist and live in New York City and work for the New York Times. I would escape my household I grew up in and go to the best liberal arts school and become famous with my writings.

I wanted to escape but I wasn’t allowed to.

Instead I was told I would stay at home and go to a local college and become a nurse. I wrote paper after paper using my creativity in this English class. I excelled at something I loved. Writing. And it was Professor Mary who asked me to stay after class. She told me I could be a journalist. That I didn’t have to go into nursing. That I could write.

She also told me that she sensed I experienced depression. I was 19 years old. 20 years old. How did she know so much about me in so little time?
Professor Mary was probably the first person in my life that had an ounce of insight into myself. Years of neglect, the screaming of mom as dad ran into the walls after he drank his daily gallon of wine.

I had never known that Professor Mary held onto a secret. She was a genius within a schizophrenic mind. With her compliance of her medication, she was a warm, tender and caring lady. I looked up to her. I cherished her. She seemed to be the first person in my life who showed she cared about me.

My confidence had lifted because of her.
I became that nurse and I first ventured into psychiatric nursing.

And there Professor Mary was. My patient.
I gave her love and kindness and encouraged her to get better.

In a twist of fate, I was able to return everything that she had given me. Hope.

Professor Mary died not too long ago. I read about her in the newspaper. She died a peaceful death. Many long years she taught.
Professor Mary lit a candle for me in my heart. She may have been the true reason why I was able to become a caring nurse to others. She’ll always be that spark in me that I thought had died at the young age of 19.

Rest peacefully Professor Mary.
You were my shining star.