My Life, Uncensored —C.A. CLARK
I can still remember, as a little girl, rushing to the movie theaters with my father on a weekend afternoon, to watch Disney fairy tale classics such as Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty. We didn’t have television, and I savored every moment of these rare, delicious treats—these journeys deep into the heart of imagination. The color, the vivid imagery, the magic… to my child’s eye, there was nothing like it. And of course, there were the villains—dark, formidable, and terrifying—and yet it was their very efforts to thwart the heroines that paved the way for destiny.
Although movie-watching was something we seldom did, my mother was an avid reader, and strongly encouraged literature through read-aloud times, and frequent trips to the library. I was told that I could take as many books as I could carry, and I made good on that score. I remember those lazy days spent out in the sun, surrounded by the piles of books I’d managed (with much sweaty labor) to carry back. And the books that were my favorites always held these things in common: elaborate drawings, capturing dazzling beauty and magic; and unrequited love triumphing against evil, despite all the dangers and harrows set against it. Because if there were two things in life that I craved, for as far back as I can remember, it was beauty, and the desire to experience this wonderful curiosity called “being in-love.”
… How ill-prepared I was for reality.
I remember (as a young woman) hungering to hear those words “I love you” spoken by the man to whom I had given all my affections. It would take years for me to learn that this phrase far too often proved as hallow as the men lip-synching it, for the benefit of capturing the hearts—and bodies—of gullible girls such as myself. I found myself travelling the world and across continents, searching in vain for the adventure and love I secretly yearned for. At age 23, I was in New York, completely disillusioned. And the wake of that prepared me for a dangerous gamble. Hassan was from Egypt—an exotic land rich with culture and history, and he spared no expense in his efforts to woo and attain me. And though I knew little of him, his personable, easy manner, gregarious smile, and apparent earnestness won over my doubts. In a few short months, a ring was on my hand.
My premature trust proved itself all too soon, following my pregnancy with our first child. In his eyes, I was now property. Childish temper tantrums quickly escalated into threats to commit violence. As an American woman, I rebelled—I was free born and independent, and knew better than to kowtow to some primitive notion of my “place” as a female. But this did not quell the fear I felt when answering back resulted in a lit cigarette being held to my eye, as my husband threatened to burn my eyeball out of its socket. Casually he informed me that he could and would kill me, if he felt my actions ever warranted such consequences. I was horrified. Day in and day out, I dealt with a constant assault upon my mental, emotional, and psychological faculties. With manipulative skill he would whiplash me, causing me to question everything I thought I knew. I began to feel confused, and found myself no longer able to remember what was occurring from one day to the next. Depression and anxiety overwhelmed me, to the point that I felt myself tipping off a precipice towards a nervous breakdown. My husband mocked me for my pathetic, emotional weakness, and advised me to have myself removed to the care and oversight of a psychological facility. My fears regarding his threats (according to him) were nothing more than hysteria, on my part. And he deemed me unfit to manage tasks such as holding a job or driving, as he demanded that I give up both my employment and my vehicle, and resign myself to the house. Despite all of this, my greatest fear was of what might become of my infant daughter. I well knew at that point that Hassan was seeking to build a case against me by making me appear to be an unfit mother, so that he could permanently wrest all custody of my child from me. And he had already spoken of his desire to return to his homeland. Conversations with his brother consisted of joking comments regarding my infant daughter’s betrothal to his young nephew. He also informed me of his wish to have her female parts mutilated by removal, to ensure her sexual chastity and obedience in future. His views and intentions left me chilled to my core. I had to find a way to escape and get my daughter away to safety.
I began to play a dangerous game. By day, I was secretly making phone calls and building connections… planning. By night, I was the dutiful wife, acting out the role of pretending to be happy in a marriage that was nothing more than a facade. I could feel my husband’s suspicions mounting, along with his hatred, as he would question and cross question me in endless interrogations. Then one afternoon, it all erupted, as he spewed vulgarity, insults, and profanity all over me. The look in his eye told me that to him, I was little more than an insect he could crush under his heel. Callously he announced that he was no longer interested in the marriage, and told me that I could walk out the door. I knew that he had no intention of actually letting me leave—at least, not with my child. With those words still ringing in my ears, he left to go to work.
I could feel panic setting in. My plane ticket was not for several weeks out—what was I to do? Frantic, I called my mother. I could feel the silent fear in her voice, even though she spoke in a steady tone: “Get off the phone NOW. Get packed. Get out!”
I scurried around our small apartment, packing. By nightfall I had everything in my car, together with my baby girl, and we were gone. It would be a few more hours before my husband would return... By then, the house was empty.
The following days were a blur of exhausted activity, preparing to fly back to my home state of Oregon. Then at last we were off, though not quite home free. Weeks turned into months, then almost a year, as I waited with bated breath for the divorce settlement--and, I prayed, sole custody of my child--so that I would never have to fear her abduction to some far-off country in the Middle East. I didn’t know then what the symptoms of post-traumatic stress were, but I was already plunged head-long into them, and sometimes it seemed as though I couldn’t get to air above the crashing waves. Fear, exhaustion, and desperation pushed me to the brink—to the point that I despaired of life. And in between were the periodic adrenaline rushes, when fight-or-flight instincts ran amuck with my thoughts and emotions. Confusion, paranoia, and rage permeated, as I lashed out at anyone I supposed posed a possible threat. Nightmares haunted my dreams, as I found myself screaming with visions of my child being ripped from my arms by my ex-husband, her sweet tiny face disappearing forever.
At last I sought psychological help through therapeutic counseling. And in those sessions, I poured out my tormented feelings of stupidity, weakness, ignorance, inefficiency, anger, and self-loathing. Intellectually and instinctively, I had known from the start every time something had felt “off”. Yet I had chosen to ignore my instincts.
More discouraging still, was the reality that there was nothing unique about my story. The number of broken female survivors of abuse were more than could be counted, and our stories, though varying, were much the same in summary. They all echoed of pain, shame, guilt, and defeat, as we struggled to carry on and affirm our own self-worth, pull double-duty as parents, and feed and shelter our children—usually with little or no child-support coming in. And then there was the constant wondering: How much has my mistake harmed my child? Will I ever be whole enough to be all that she needs me to be?
It was over the course of this journey through hurt towards healing, that I heard one of the most powerful phrases that was to change my life: “You can either be a victim, or you can be a victor. But it is impossible to be both.” I knew that I had a choice to make. I could either stay caged behind the bars of my fear, using blame as a crutch, or I could choose to embrace the lessons learned from my follies. And even more—perhaps I could help others to overcome as well.
I started spending time with and mentoring younger women and girls. And in their voiced yearnings and stories, I saw myself as an unseasoned, immature girl lacking in worldly wisdom. As I looked back over my life, I saw that the paths I had chosen had started with naivety in my formative teenage years. And while craving romance was natural, my misconception of love had led me into a web of lies, the dangers of which I had narrowly escaped. At that time, I had already been piecing together the outline of a book series and had begun writing the first book. What if I could speak to young women through the voices of my characters, and help them to avoid the pitfalls I had stumbled into? What if the central character was a young girl who embodied all of us—our desires, our fears, our immaturities, and greatest hopes and aspirations? What if I could help them escape into another world—one that offered them the brush of whimsy and weaving of magic that we all crave—all the while taking them on a journey into their very own souls, causing them to find their own inner strength and courage to face heartache and difficulty in the real world?
Writing a book series as single mother was easier said than done. I struggled through many years of great poverty (and a few more heartbreaks) as I battled to support myself, raise my daughter, and (perhaps) take another chance on love. But in writing my books, I found myself challenged. I was growing up, shedding naivety, and learning to embrace the life I had been given. I was learning to seize hold of the opportunities granted, rather than just waiting for dreams to magically come true. I was finding my own strength, my own voice, and investing in myself so that I could enrich the lives of others… To this end, my book series, The Crest of The BEAST is dedicated.
*Critically acclaimed Author C.A. Clark (“Charlie”) married her childhood crush in 2017. Her husband, Lloyd, is her greatest supporter and fan, and likes to brag that very few men get to marry their favorite author. Together they have a blended family of four children, and know that part of the secret of a happy marriage is learning to fall in-love with the same person over and over again.
Although movie-watching was something we seldom did, my mother was an avid reader, and strongly encouraged literature through read-aloud times, and frequent trips to the library. I was told that I could take as many books as I could carry, and I made good on that score. I remember those lazy days spent out in the sun, surrounded by the piles of books I’d managed (with much sweaty labor) to carry back. And the books that were my favorites always held these things in common: elaborate drawings, capturing dazzling beauty and magic; and unrequited love triumphing against evil, despite all the dangers and harrows set against it. Because if there were two things in life that I craved, for as far back as I can remember, it was beauty, and the desire to experience this wonderful curiosity called “being in-love.”
… How ill-prepared I was for reality.
I remember (as a young woman) hungering to hear those words “I love you” spoken by the man to whom I had given all my affections. It would take years for me to learn that this phrase far too often proved as hallow as the men lip-synching it, for the benefit of capturing the hearts—and bodies—of gullible girls such as myself. I found myself travelling the world and across continents, searching in vain for the adventure and love I secretly yearned for. At age 23, I was in New York, completely disillusioned. And the wake of that prepared me for a dangerous gamble. Hassan was from Egypt—an exotic land rich with culture and history, and he spared no expense in his efforts to woo and attain me. And though I knew little of him, his personable, easy manner, gregarious smile, and apparent earnestness won over my doubts. In a few short months, a ring was on my hand.
My premature trust proved itself all too soon, following my pregnancy with our first child. In his eyes, I was now property. Childish temper tantrums quickly escalated into threats to commit violence. As an American woman, I rebelled—I was free born and independent, and knew better than to kowtow to some primitive notion of my “place” as a female. But this did not quell the fear I felt when answering back resulted in a lit cigarette being held to my eye, as my husband threatened to burn my eyeball out of its socket. Casually he informed me that he could and would kill me, if he felt my actions ever warranted such consequences. I was horrified. Day in and day out, I dealt with a constant assault upon my mental, emotional, and psychological faculties. With manipulative skill he would whiplash me, causing me to question everything I thought I knew. I began to feel confused, and found myself no longer able to remember what was occurring from one day to the next. Depression and anxiety overwhelmed me, to the point that I felt myself tipping off a precipice towards a nervous breakdown. My husband mocked me for my pathetic, emotional weakness, and advised me to have myself removed to the care and oversight of a psychological facility. My fears regarding his threats (according to him) were nothing more than hysteria, on my part. And he deemed me unfit to manage tasks such as holding a job or driving, as he demanded that I give up both my employment and my vehicle, and resign myself to the house. Despite all of this, my greatest fear was of what might become of my infant daughter. I well knew at that point that Hassan was seeking to build a case against me by making me appear to be an unfit mother, so that he could permanently wrest all custody of my child from me. And he had already spoken of his desire to return to his homeland. Conversations with his brother consisted of joking comments regarding my infant daughter’s betrothal to his young nephew. He also informed me of his wish to have her female parts mutilated by removal, to ensure her sexual chastity and obedience in future. His views and intentions left me chilled to my core. I had to find a way to escape and get my daughter away to safety.
I began to play a dangerous game. By day, I was secretly making phone calls and building connections… planning. By night, I was the dutiful wife, acting out the role of pretending to be happy in a marriage that was nothing more than a facade. I could feel my husband’s suspicions mounting, along with his hatred, as he would question and cross question me in endless interrogations. Then one afternoon, it all erupted, as he spewed vulgarity, insults, and profanity all over me. The look in his eye told me that to him, I was little more than an insect he could crush under his heel. Callously he announced that he was no longer interested in the marriage, and told me that I could walk out the door. I knew that he had no intention of actually letting me leave—at least, not with my child. With those words still ringing in my ears, he left to go to work.
I could feel panic setting in. My plane ticket was not for several weeks out—what was I to do? Frantic, I called my mother. I could feel the silent fear in her voice, even though she spoke in a steady tone: “Get off the phone NOW. Get packed. Get out!”
I scurried around our small apartment, packing. By nightfall I had everything in my car, together with my baby girl, and we were gone. It would be a few more hours before my husband would return... By then, the house was empty.
The following days were a blur of exhausted activity, preparing to fly back to my home state of Oregon. Then at last we were off, though not quite home free. Weeks turned into months, then almost a year, as I waited with bated breath for the divorce settlement--and, I prayed, sole custody of my child--so that I would never have to fear her abduction to some far-off country in the Middle East. I didn’t know then what the symptoms of post-traumatic stress were, but I was already plunged head-long into them, and sometimes it seemed as though I couldn’t get to air above the crashing waves. Fear, exhaustion, and desperation pushed me to the brink—to the point that I despaired of life. And in between were the periodic adrenaline rushes, when fight-or-flight instincts ran amuck with my thoughts and emotions. Confusion, paranoia, and rage permeated, as I lashed out at anyone I supposed posed a possible threat. Nightmares haunted my dreams, as I found myself screaming with visions of my child being ripped from my arms by my ex-husband, her sweet tiny face disappearing forever.
At last I sought psychological help through therapeutic counseling. And in those sessions, I poured out my tormented feelings of stupidity, weakness, ignorance, inefficiency, anger, and self-loathing. Intellectually and instinctively, I had known from the start every time something had felt “off”. Yet I had chosen to ignore my instincts.
More discouraging still, was the reality that there was nothing unique about my story. The number of broken female survivors of abuse were more than could be counted, and our stories, though varying, were much the same in summary. They all echoed of pain, shame, guilt, and defeat, as we struggled to carry on and affirm our own self-worth, pull double-duty as parents, and feed and shelter our children—usually with little or no child-support coming in. And then there was the constant wondering: How much has my mistake harmed my child? Will I ever be whole enough to be all that she needs me to be?
It was over the course of this journey through hurt towards healing, that I heard one of the most powerful phrases that was to change my life: “You can either be a victim, or you can be a victor. But it is impossible to be both.” I knew that I had a choice to make. I could either stay caged behind the bars of my fear, using blame as a crutch, or I could choose to embrace the lessons learned from my follies. And even more—perhaps I could help others to overcome as well.
I started spending time with and mentoring younger women and girls. And in their voiced yearnings and stories, I saw myself as an unseasoned, immature girl lacking in worldly wisdom. As I looked back over my life, I saw that the paths I had chosen had started with naivety in my formative teenage years. And while craving romance was natural, my misconception of love had led me into a web of lies, the dangers of which I had narrowly escaped. At that time, I had already been piecing together the outline of a book series and had begun writing the first book. What if I could speak to young women through the voices of my characters, and help them to avoid the pitfalls I had stumbled into? What if the central character was a young girl who embodied all of us—our desires, our fears, our immaturities, and greatest hopes and aspirations? What if I could help them escape into another world—one that offered them the brush of whimsy and weaving of magic that we all crave—all the while taking them on a journey into their very own souls, causing them to find their own inner strength and courage to face heartache and difficulty in the real world?
Writing a book series as single mother was easier said than done. I struggled through many years of great poverty (and a few more heartbreaks) as I battled to support myself, raise my daughter, and (perhaps) take another chance on love. But in writing my books, I found myself challenged. I was growing up, shedding naivety, and learning to embrace the life I had been given. I was learning to seize hold of the opportunities granted, rather than just waiting for dreams to magically come true. I was finding my own strength, my own voice, and investing in myself so that I could enrich the lives of others… To this end, my book series, The Crest of The BEAST is dedicated.
*Critically acclaimed Author C.A. Clark (“Charlie”) married her childhood crush in 2017. Her husband, Lloyd, is her greatest supporter and fan, and likes to brag that very few men get to marry their favorite author. Together they have a blended family of four children, and know that part of the secret of a happy marriage is learning to fall in-love with the same person over and over again.
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Debi
(new)
Feb 04, 2020 08:57PM
This is so beautifully written! Brings back memories! I remember your mom & spending hours on our knees praying for you & E! Crying out to God for your safety & protection. The movie "Not Without My Daughter" still gives me chills as it reminds me of what you went through. I pray that God will continue to use you mightily to reach other women that have gone through what you did. If one person is saved from going through the dangers that you did, Praise God!
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