Some Dreams are Worth Keeping

PROLOGUE

My friend Grace and I had been planning a three-day trip on a cruise ship, and we had begged our parents to let us go without any adult supervision. It was the weekend of my nineteenth birthday in nineteen ninety five, and the two of us had just graduated from high school. Our parents not only let us go, but they also paid for our trip.

Grace and I had anxiously awaited our Carnival cruise since the spring. We would be just like Thelma and Louise but without a car. Instead, we would have complete freedom on a large luxury cruise ship. No parents, no rules, simply our way. The next few days were going to be paradise.

We packed our bags full of teenage essentials: crop tops, short denim skirts, tons of tacky blue and green Maybelline eye makeup and White Musk perfume. Surely we could attract the attention of some major hot guys and hang out with those we liked.

We were dropped off in Long Beach at the docks and there it was: the Red and White cruise ship in all her majesty and glory. We lugged our suitcases up the long ramp and had our picture taken with the life preserver.

We toured the floating paradise where there were so many things to explore. We could lie by the pool and sun our buns, play bingo and watch ice sculptures being made. The crystal-blue swimming pool had an inviting orange waterslide. There was a dance studio with a silver glitter ball and a large exercise room. Our new-found freedom presented endless possibilities.

The one thing we could not do on the ship was drink. That was fine by us because that’s what our trip to Tijuana was for. On the first day of our trip, we made our way into Tijuana. Kidnappers probably roamed the streets that day, searching for prey the way a vulture scavenges for food.

Grace was a stunning American redhead who could turn a man’s head easily. I was feeling extra-confident that day wearing a red-and- white-striped crop top. It was the kind that revealed my belly button. My golden blonde sun-kissed hair lay long and free-flowing on my back. We could hear the song I Am Every Woman by Chaka Khan playing in our young minds.

The two of us American beauties had no idea how vulnerable we were that day as we passed many senors on the way to the bar Senor Frogs.

We made it to the bar and went hog-wild. With extra-large strawberry margaritas in hand, we forgot the cares of nineteen year olds. With cold drinks we shook our moneymakers back and forth on top of the round wooden tables several feet above the floor.

On the way back to the ship, we did not notice the mischievous and lustful eyes of barbaric men glaring at us with every step we took. The men wore black-and-white cowboy hats and Levi blue jeans, along with cowboy boots with spurs. They also wore tan leather belts, the kind that are so common in Tijuana.

The smell of danger filled the air. These men wanted to attack us and tempt us to do immoral things we would have never dreamed of doing with them. We wanted to return to the ship alive.

If things had taken a turn for the worse, we might have appeared on the NBC Nightly News. The story would read Girls on a Graduation Cruise to Tijuana Vanished with No Trace. After being shot and hacked to pieces, their bodies were recently discovered in the back of an old Chevy truck with balding tires.

Even though we could not walk back to the ship in a straight line, angels guarded us safely back to the boat.

After I returned to the ship, strange things started happening to me. It was almost like having an out-of-body experience, like I traded places with a wild girl.

I became intoxicated. I decided that I was an expert dancer and that I should teach a guy how to dance one night under the sparkling silver disco ball. I requested the song Red Red Wine by UB40 to be played by banging hard on the Plexiglas and trying to open the door to the DJ’s booth. I got no reaction from him so I kept banging harder and even tried to open the door to the booth. The DJ just ignored me and dismissed me as some drunken girl. The thing was, I had not taken a sip of alcohol in hours.

I experienced a severe case of insomnia the entire weekend. I tried to lie down to sleep, but sleep never came. My thoughts were racing a million miles a minute. My brain was telling me to write my thoughts down. So I took my Mickey Mouse journal and headed to the lobby while Grace was sleeping. I quickly began having the strangest thoughts that came out of nowhere at 2 a.m. as I watched the cleaning crew vacuum away.

My thoughts and ideas were grandiose; I felt I had a special gift to save the world and to somehow counsel abused children. Before the cruise, my dream had been to be an elementary teacher.

As these thoughts were going through my head, I kept hearing random songs being sung. One in particular was Summer Rain by Belinda Carlyle. Many of the words I wrote down were cuss words, and that was not like me at all.

I recall feeling a sense of paranoia as well, like people were staring at me as they walked by. It was as if they were accusing me of committing a crime.

I was running on empty, but I could not sit down long enough to enjoy the buffet on the cruise. I had no appetite whatsoever.

I looked in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes and did not recognize the reflection staring back at me. I felt like Michael J. Fox in the old movie Teen Wolf. In the movie he turns into a werewolf at night. I felt panicked and paralyzed with fear.

There was another major problem: Grace had become my enemy. I hated her more and more with each breath I took. I hated her with every fiber in my body. I was deceived and a fool for thinking she was my best friend. She had turned on me. Grace had made me look like a fool in front of others. I was no fool! I became enraged straight down to my inner core.

If it had come down to a fist fight by the railings on board the ship that weekend, it would have been me pushing her overboard. I was never a violent girl, but something inside me had been set off and I was spiraling out of control.

When the weekend had ended, there was a nasty storm brewing within me. There was no telling what my future would hold when I returned home. Perhaps that was for the best.

CHAPTER ONE

Iwas brought into the world on July 21, 1976 around 6 p.m. in Bakersfield, California. Maybe that explains why I am more of a night owl than a morning bird. Mornings are made for sleeping, not getting up at the crack of dawn.

My father insisted I was going to be a boy. My mother’s instincts told her she was going to have a girl. She was ecstatic to find out that her instincts were right. I was the girl my mom had always prayed for.

My parents named me Susan after my mother’s dear sister. My middle name, Armene, came from my grandma. I have received nothing but love, kindness and compassion since leaving my mother’s womb. I am the baby in the family and have one brother who is three years older.

I am not sure how the adjustment was for my brother when I came home from the hospital. What I do know is one that time while we were in a department store, my brother took me for a joy ride in my stroller. My mother looked up, and her two children had disappeared. It was too late. We were racing around the store having a blast. My mother blew a gasket trying to find us. She frantically searched the store and alerted the security. Finally we were discovered somewhere around the old ladies’ clothes section. I would bet my brother got in trouble for that one.

Shortly after I was born, my mother had a case of the blues. She felt alone, and life seemed to have no joy, even with a new baby girl. She began to shake the depression when her neighbor invited her to a Christian bible study. There she was reminded of the love God had for her. With her faith and new friendships, the clouds began to lift and the depression ended.

When I was two years old, my parents uprooted us and moved to a beautiful, peaceful and safe suburb named Thousand Oaks located in Southern California. It was known as a low-crime community and was on the list for one of the safest cities in the nation.

Our first home was at the top of a humongous hill in a cul-de-sac. The houses were quaint and had beautiful green grass and pink, red and purple rose bushes in the front yard. It was the perfect place to raise young children. On a crystal clear day, you could see the shiny blue ocean glisten many miles in the distance. Our family planted baby birch trees in our backyard. Throughout the years we watched them grow and double in size.

My brother and I put our hands in the wet cement near the driveway, leaving our prints there; that was the only way to freeze our innocent childhood days. My parents bought us a white swing set with a teeter-totter. We spent many hours playing in our backyard and watching the vivid yellow-and-pink sunsets fade among the majestic mountains.

We traveled as a family quite a bit. My brother and I were fortunate to go to Disneyland many times. We had a great time wearing our purple Mickey Mouse hats with our names monogrammed on them. We went from ride to ride without a care in the world. The smell of cinnamon churros filled the air as we made our way down Main Street in the park.  

My father grew up in a tiny town in Iowa. His father was an ophthalmologist and unfortunately had two vices: drinking and smoking cigars. He was still a good man and belonged to the Masons. My father loved the small town in Iowa and attended both elementary and high school in the sleepy town. My dad’s mom was a nurse but stayed home to raise the children. My father has one older brother.

I only saw my uncle a few times growing up when he would come for visits and attend conventions in Anaheim. They were always visits filled with lots of laughter. Once my uncle brought a plastic-eye magnet into our house. My uncle and father said it belonged to their dead sister Cynthia. They warned us not to mention the whole thing to my grandparents because it was too painful for them to remember her. I was naive and believed the whole story. My mom told me it was all a load of baloney.

I have several cousins on my father’s side of the family also, but unfortunately I never was around them much growing up. I do have a few good memories with them. One of my favorite memories was when we gathered for my grandpa’s funeral. My grandparents had lived in a semi-assisted retirement community. We were enjoying playing in the game room that had a dart board and a pool table. My oldest cousin threw a dart high up in the air and hit a fire sprinkler hanging from the ceiling. The sprinkler immediately came on, and black rain started coming down from it. The room began to fill with water; meanwhile, the fire alarm was set off, ringing loudly through the entire building. My cousins and I began to run for dear life. In a panic we tried to take an elevator, but it would not work because the fire alarm was going off. The alarm terrified many residents and caused complete pandemonium. This event could have easily killed some elderly residents by giving them a heart attack. I never did hear if my uncle had to pick up the bill for the damaged game room.

I was the first granddaughter on my father’s side of the family and had a special bond with my grandparents. My brother and I spent many scorching hot summers in Mesa, Arizona, visiting them.

My grandpa would take me to the Safeway supermarket in his white Cadillac with warm fuzzy seat covers. It looked similar to the one used in the television show Dukes of Hazzard driven by the character Boss Hogg.

My grandparents had the greatest sense of humor. My grandpa was always playing tricks on people. He would give my brother and me fake plastic snakes to put out in my room. Then Grandma would come step on the snake and scream bloody murder.

I loved my grandparents to the moon and back, and I never doubted the love they had for me. Having them as my grandparents was a true blessing in my life.

After high school, my dad went to college out of state and was a prankster. There are still marks on the walls of the dorm rooms where he dropped water balloons off the balcony.

In college he struggled with statistics and math. After he graduated, he went on to grad school in the Midwest. After graduation, he became a hospital administrator at a hospital in Santa Monica where he met my mother.

My mother’s childhood was quite the opposite of my father’s. She was raised in Pennsylvania and had six brothers and sisters. She grew up on a farm and was poor. The first restaurant she ever ate at was McDonald’s on a date in high school. After high school, she ended up going to Pittsburg for nurses’ training. 

Every summer I would look forward to our visits to see my grandma on my mother’s side of the family at her farm in Pennsylvania. I loved spending time with cousins, aunts and uncles. The driveway that led to my grandma’s farm was dusty, muddy and brown. There was an old brown fence where green sweet peas grew. This was all foreign to me since all I had known were paved roads in my hometown.

Grandma lived in a tiny, white, metal-sided, cozy three-bedroom house. There was just one bathroom, which seemed unbelievable in my little kid world. You mean to tell me you have to wait your turn to go pee or number two! Are you joking? The boys would make a beeline for a bush outside when they couldn’t wait to pee.

My grandmother did not have it easy raising her children on the farm. My grandfather was an immigrant from Russia who spoke broken English. After having one of her children, she ended up with a mental breakdown and had to be hospitalized. From what I gathered, this was not something that the family spoke about much. They just somehow got through it.

When my mom was in her twenties, my grandpa passed away. Their relationship had always been distant since he did not speak English as a first language. My grandma was left raising two children single-handedly.

My grandma suffered from depression that even I could notice as a child. With grandma the glass always seemed half-empty rather than half-full. I do have some fond and joyful memories from my childhood with her, especially on the farm.

My favorite part of the farm was my grandmother’s magical humongous garden. It looked like how I imagined the garden of Eden must have looked. There were so many different flowers there from pink-and-yellow thorny roses to brown-eyed Susans. I was surrounded by sweet flowery fragrances that I wish I could have placed in a bottle of perfume.

The farm had pigs as well. It made me so happy to see a large pink pig nursing its piglets. It was a scene similar to those in Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White.

My grandma also had a mutt named Snoopy who was scrappy and white. My mom would not let us have a dog until I was twelve so I spent hours outside with Snoopy and fed him raw hotdogs.

I have always had a large heart for animals. I loved how they loved unconditionally and were always non-judgmental and trustworthy.

I spent many days with my brother and cousins playing hide-and -go-seek among the straight rows of giant corn. We would go put pennies on the train track near the house to flatten them. There was a creek we played in and attempted to dig up gray clay. I got all scratched up picking blackberries that I refused to eat because I did not like the crunch of the tiny seeds in my mouth. I treasured my childhood days on the farm and feel blessed for the summers I spent there.

My mother was raised Catholic, and she encouraged my father to convert to the same religion. She had strong feelings about her children being Catholic and felt it was essential. Her mother was a devout Catholic who prayed the rosary every day.

I was baptized as a baby. I wore a long, snow-white, lace-ruffled dress. My parents had asked my father’s secretary to be my godmother and her husband to be my godfather since the two were also Catholic.

Even though I was too young to remember it, my baptism was a special day. The moment when the priest dunked my head in the wet holy water was a powerful one. It was the beginning of my spiritual life with God. When my parents baptized me, it was the most important thing they would ever do in my entire life because that day they gave me the gift of faith.

I was now transformed into a new creation in Christ. No one could have predicted how much I would need Christ to walk with me through the ups and downs of the life I would live.

Growing up, I was an overly-sensitive child. If my brother would tease me, I would run to the safety of my mother’s arms. This happened constantly, and I am not sure how my mom survived with her sanity intact. I was a tattletale drama queen. I wore my feelings on my sleeve.

My mother worked part-time at the hospital as a nurse on the weekends. This meant my father was in charge. When the garage door closed, it never failed that I was in my room throwing a hissy fit. I cried and screamed Mommy! My dad did his best to entertain my brother and me with bike rides around the neighborhood. We were thrilled to end up eating charbroiled burgers for lunch at the brand-new Burger King down the street. We went home full, wearing golden paper crowns feeling like kings and queens.

My father was not as patient as my mom. If I accidentally spilled my milk at the table when we were eating, he snapped at me. This made me feel inadequate and sad. I know he didn’t mean to make me feel that way and that I was still his beautiful blue-eyed bombshell. That is what he called me when he tucked me in at night.

CHAPTER TWO

My parents put me in preschool to try to socialize me. They wanted school to be easier for me in the future. The only recollection I have is crying while sitting on a grey little cot; meanwhile all the other children were attempting to sleep during nap time.

Then another issue arose when it came to sleeping through the night. It became a nightly ritual that in the wee hours of the night, I would pass the bathroom in the hall and head to my parents’ room at the end of the hall. Then I would wake up my mother and insist she take me to the bathroom.

My mother grew exhausted from the interruption of her sleep. She took me to the doctor. Everything checked out normal; there was no urinary tract infection. Was this anxiety caused by bipolar disorder or did I have a small bladder? It was difficult to say which one. It was dismissed as a small bladder. I finally outgrew the ritual with time, and once again my mother could sleep.

The separation from my mother was killing me. All of this sensitivity had to be bipolar manic-depression beginning to show its nasty head. I have had bipolar disorder in my life since day one. There was no escaping it. My parents didn’t think much of it at the time. It was way too premature to even think about the nightmare of that disorder.

Soon it was time for me to start school at an elementary school near our house. Those were marvelous days filled with playing at recess in the green blades of grass. The boys had cooties, and the girls could not chase them fast enough.

I had a fabulous kindergarten teacher. She cared so much for her students and put her heart and soul into her job. Academics did not come easy for me. I gave 150%, but it did not make a difference. I struggled mostly with math.

For first grade my mom wanted both of her children in a Catholic school, which cost a small fortune. I managed to get by academically by the skin of my teeth.

I was involved in an active girl scout Brownie troop. We did so much more than sell thin mint cookies. I learned the importance of community service at the age of seven. During the Christmas season, we went to a convalescent home and sang Christmas carols. This was terrifying and emotionally scary for me. It all started with the smell of disinfectant lingering in the air. Then I saw hospital beds with people lying in them, moaning. They sounded like the monsters from the cartoon Scooby Doo. Luckily my mother was with me because she had volunteered to take us on the trip. I ran into her arms to find a safe haven.

Second grade was memorable for two reasons: I received my first Holy Communion, and my best friend forever moved in down the street. First Holy Communion in the Catholic Church is when someone, typically a young person at or above the age of reason (seven years old), receives the consecrated bread and wine for the first time. The bread is truly Jesus in his glorified state and the same for the wine.

On the day of my first Holy Communion, I was excited. I wore an adorable pure-white lace dress. I wore a small veil and had white patent-leather shoes. My parents threw a party for me. I was so excited to eat my white cake with strawberry filling with a cross on top. I received gifts too; I was given a gold heart necklace and a statue of a little girl wearing her communion dress. It was a special time because now I could go up in the communion line with the adults and receive