Saturday, February 26, 2011

HCC Takes Action Against Budget Cuts

By Tori Centopanti
Editor-in-Chief

On Monday, February 28, the HCC Student Senate will be sponsoring a bus trip to go to the Appropriations Committee meeting in Hartford in regards to state budget cuts to community colleges.

Anyone interested in going should contact the Student Life Office, located on the third floor of Beacon Hall, room 317. Students can make their own transportation arrangements, but those planning on taking the bus are required to meet in front of Lafayette Hall by 2:45 p.m.

The following statement was released by Student Senate President Konrad Mazurek:


Weigh in on the Multi Million Dollar Educational Budget Cuts in Connecticut

Attention: If you are currently employed in a position renumerated from federal funds (Student Labor/Work Study) make ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN to check your rights and responsibilities regarding political activism as detailed in the Hatch Act.


Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen:


The Housatonic Community College Student Senate will be providing transportation to the Appropriation Committee's Public Hearing taking place in Hartford this coming Monday, February 28, in order to give the student body an opportunity to voice their opinions on the budget cuts proposed by Governor Dannel Malloy.


A considerable part of balancing the spending in our state will be focused on cutting funding to the state-funded community colleges, whose budgets have been frozen since 2009. The planned changes mark a decrease of more than $12 million dollars in annual funding and fall $24 million short of the money requested for operating our schools.


These cuts are also to happen on the request of a governor who during his recent campaign trail emphasized the difference which education made in his life and his commitment to providing the same opportunity to others.


How does this affect you? If the budget goes live in its current state you are likely to see the following in the next 12 months.

  • Increased tuition and fees 
  • Cuts in courses, programs, and services 
  • Less student labor hours
  • Less full-time faculty
  • Less scholarship assistance availability for individuals
We will be departing from HCC around 2:45 P.M. and remain in Hartford until later that evening. Please contact me at Kmazurek@gmail.com if you would like to join us, or have any questions, comments, or concerns.

I am looking forward to hearing from and joining all of you in Hartford.

Sincerely;
Konrad Mazurek
HCC Student Senate, President

P.S. I am including the names and contact info of our local representatives. Please let them know how you feel about these funding changes. Your letters can be a page or a paragraph long, what counts is showing your opinion!


Horizons staff will continuously update as more information is released. Please check back for updates!

Malloy's Budget Elicits Ire from Community College Students

By Brandon T. Bisceglia
Editor-in-Chief Emeritus

If Governor Dan Malloy’s proposed budget for next year passes the Connecticut State Legislature, it will reduce funding for the state’s 12 community colleges from $158,282,029 to $149,130,964 – a drop of almost $10 million. His proposal for the year after that would cut another $3.5 million.

The community colleges have already seen minor reductions in funding over the past four years, at the same time that the colleges have been experiencing unprecedented increases in enrollment and pressures to expand their services.

The easiest way for the colleges to make up for lost state revenues is to increase enrollment costs and other fees that students pay.

The Student Government Association of Gateway Community College has issued the below statement urging students at all the community colleges to contact the appropriate legislators and express their dissatisfaction over these budget cuts. HCC’s Student Senate has also come out strongly against the cuts, and plans to issue its own initiatives in the coming days.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

My Balancing Act

By Charlene Cabral

Staff Writer


Me and my daughter Camille
Photo by Charlene Cabral

As challenging as being a single working mom getting an education may be, the end result is completely worth all of the sacrifices.

On September 22, 2007 at 9:58 p.m., I was blessed with the greatest gift ever known. For ten months I awaited her arrival, and like her father, she kept me waiting.

For the last two months of my agonizing wait I got to know her in such an intimate way. Never did I build a bond with anyone as I did with her in those two months. Every turn, every poke, every kick was hers and mine alone. She would let me know when she felt my hand over her, having long deep conversations with each other.

So on that warm September night when she finally blessed me with her appearance, I knew that all I wanted to do was make sure that all of Camille’s dreams could come true.

When I was twelve years old, my eighteen year old aunt was granted a full scholarship to college, the first in my family to go on to college. Three months later she found out she was pregnant.

As devastating as the news initially was, my aunt did not let it deter her. She took her year off from school to have my cousin, but the very next semester she went right back to school. I am proud to say that she went on to receive her master’s in sociology and is now a high level administrator for the Department of Children and Families here in Bridgeport. It was hard for her to do it alone, but she persevered. I know that sounds so romantic, and every word of it is true, but I live in reality. As much as I want to do everything for my daughter, I know that I need two key factors to make it all happen: money and wits.

For the past three years I have tried to figure out how to provide my daughter with the love, guidance, support, and food that she needs. I can live as a starving artist, but I don’t think my Cami can appreciate mommy’s dedication to her craft. So as of recently I have subscribed to the “single-working-mom-trying-to-get-her-degree” lifestyle. I have to admit, it is quite the challenge.

I have to say the biggest challenge that I am facing right now would be the lack of sleep. As of now I work from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., then I am at school until 10 p.m. The only time my daughter sees me is in the morning when I’m getting us ready for our day.

There are days when I wake up and I just want to sleep in and spend the rest of my day with my daughter. As much as I want to, I still get up and go through the motions because I know the end result will benefit the two of us.

“What about your social life?” My answer to that is, what social life?

I have learned that there are some sacrifices that you just have to make, and having a social life is one of them for me. Don’t get me wrong, I am not a complete hermit. I do make it out at least once a month. The rest of the time is spent either with my daughter or studying, it’s a choice that I made and one I am willing to live with. If my aunt could do it, I sure can as well.

My aunt is my inspiration. She is proof that it is possible. Don’t get me wrong, as “glamorous” as it may look on paper, to say I am a working a 40 hour job and going to school, there are times when I just want to give up. Times when I have an essay, a midterm, and a group project all due on the same day, and the night before my little princess in running a fever. Never mind the demands of a job as well.

As discouraging as it can get sometimes, and trust it has, all I have to do is look at that spunky little girl, and I remember why it is all worth it.

Wrong Way Down a One-Way Street

By Tori Centopanti

Editor-in-Chief


Image courtesy of http://www.targetprocess.com

I always understood the real dangers of drugs.

I got all the usual warnings. There was health class (yes, I actually paid attention) and my parents always believed I was better off educated than sheltered and naive. Regardless, the idea that drugs are bad, and to “just say no,” are inescapable in the media: television, movies, books, news articles, the Internet. All the facts were right at my fingertips.

I knew the repercussions of taking drugs, short-term and long-term, but I never understood why people took drugs in the first place. With so many natural ways to get “high” and feel happy, why risk your life by using drugs? What I didn’t realize in my preteen years was that I would soon learn the answer to that question firsthand.

A lot of circumstances in my life contributed to the bad decisions I made. But the real source of my issues has always been my relationship with my dad. When I was younger, I was the only kid I knew who didn’t look forward to the weekends, strictly because I was forced to see him. He was controlling and abusive, psychologically and emotionally. He was short-tempered, condescending, stubborn, and had violent tendencies in addition to being an alcoholic and a bully.

I constantly felt like I was walking on egg shells around my dad, never knowing what would set him off into a rage next, or how far it would go. His usual bit involved insulting and belittling me, usually accomplished by making me feel stupid or useless. My report cards were never up to standard, even when I got straight A’s. In fact, nothing I ever did was good enough. My younger half-sister, on the other hand, was unable to do any wrong in my dad’s eyes. He would say that he loved us both equally, but I didn’t believe him.

Even though I only saw him on weekends, my dad still tried to control every aspect of my life: my friends, my boyfriends, my attire, the way I thought. I had to ask permission for everything, including the phone, the computer, the microwave, and even to play in the backyard. My dad disapproved of most of my friends and all of my boyfriends, which meant he did everything in his power to isolate me from them while I was under his roof.

One night, when I was ten years old, my father took his bullying to a new level. In a drunken stupor, he said that my mom should have had an abortion and that he wished I had never been born. He proceeded to back me into a corner, threatening to kill me right then and there -- with a fork of all things. His bark turned out to be bigger than his bite and he backed off, but it left emotional scars that are still with me to this day.

Any chance of saving our deteriorating relationship disappeared forever in that moment. I still have not forgiven him, and I don’t think I ever will.

I spiraled into a deep depression at a young age. I stopped caring about my health, school, or anything. At thirteen I began smoking cigarettes, drinking, and cutting myself. At fourteen I attempted to take my own life. I just wanted to escape life. When I awoke the next morning I was disappointed, but not entirely shocked.

My plan had failed, but I felt deathly sick all day so I sought refuge in the nurse’s office at school. The nurse didn’t believe I was ill though and, in my frustration, I accidentally blurted out what I had done the night before. An ambulance was called to take me to the hospital. From there I was immediately, and involuntarily, placed in a psychiatric hospital.

My dad only visited me once, briefly, and refused to take part in therapy. He firmly believed that nothing was wrong with him and demanded to know what was wrong with me -- no surprise there. My mom was my only support system through the entire ordeal. She visited me every day and came to every therapy session she could. She was my rock and for that I am eternally grateful, but she wasn’t the problem.

I was discharged from the hospital after two weeks on the condition that I complete six months of out-patient therapy in addition to personal therapy. None of it “fixed” me though. My dad only came to one family therapy session, but he may as well have never showed up at all. He spent the whole time arguing and insisting that he wasn’t the problem -- I was.

Every therapist I went to wanted me to forgive my dad and try to repair our broken relationship. I refused every time, and eventually stopped taking my counseling seriously. During one particular session, my therapist made a safety plan in case I ever decided to hurt myself again. “When you feel like harming yourself, who are you going to call?” she asked me. I replied, “Ghostbusters!” and burst out laughing.

By the time I was fifteen, I had already begun experimenting with drugs. It wasn’t long before I was using everyday. Drugs provided the escape from life I was looking for, and I didn’t have to die to achieve it. I didn’t want to face my problems or talk about my feelings. I just wanted to forget everything and be happy -- a state of mind which drugs helped me achieve. Honestly, it seemed like a win-win solution at the time.

My friends at the time were not merely just people I did drugs with. It was more than that. We were a tight-knit group, almost like a family. We understood each other and bonded over the abuse we endured from our parent(s), whether it was emotional, psychological, physical, or sexual. We may have done some bad things, but we weren’t bad people. We were just a bunch of depressed teenagers seeking solace in a messed up world.

I was heading the wrong way down a one-way street though, heading straight for a dead end. I had two options: Keep going, or make a U-turn.

I shudder to think where I would be right now if my mom hadn’t intervened. I constantly lied about my drug use to her, but I couldn’t fool her forever. When I was 17 years old, two years into my drug spree, she found out. She was disappointed and angry, but worried more than anything else. We worked out a deal: I didn’t have to go to rehab and I could continue living with her, but I had to get clean and stay clean. That was over four years ago.

Quitting drugs was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The withdrawal symptoms were hell. In the beginning, I relapsed a few times to make them stop, but learned the hard way that it only started the detox and recovery process all over again. There was no easy way out or shortcuts. The saying is true: If you want the rainbow, you have to put up with the rain first. I began applying that idea to every aspect of my life.

Getting clean meant I could no longer run from my problems, specifically my relationship with my dad. I had been giving him chances over the years, hoping he would change, but he never did. I had to face the music. I could either keep trying, which was putting my recovery in jeopardy, or I could give up. Now, the only time I see him is on holidays, once or twice a year maybe. We don’t talk on the phone; we’re not even friends on Facebook. It was the best decision I ever made.

I can say, without a doubt in my mind, that if it had not been for drugs, I would be dead right now. It’s ironic but true. When things got tough, all I wanted to do was leave reality behind. To accomplish that goal, I thought I only had two options: drugs or death. In retrospect, I’m glad I chose the path I did because I’m still alive.

Most people are shocked when I first tell them I’m a recovering drug addict, and some don’t even believe me at first. People usually say that they would never expect that from me, or that they never would have known that if I hadn’t told them. I’ve heard a few times that I don’t “look” or “act” like a drug addict, which is utterly ridiculous, not to mention stereotypical. I understand why I elicit that reaction in people though.

Although I dropped out of high school, twice, I earned my G.E.D. with honors. I started attending Housatonic Community College (HCC) in 2008 and have made the Dean’s List for academic achievement a total of five times. I have a 3.54 GPA (grade point average), and I was one of the ten people chosen to receive a full scholarship for the 2010-11 academic year. This semester marks my second as Editor-in-Chief of HCC’s student newspaper, Horizons.

I don’t regret anything in my past because it helped shape the person I am. All my experiences have just made me stronger and smarter. Every mistake I made was just another step in my journey, leading me to where I am now.

Family Matters

By Bobbi Brown

Staff Writer


Brown family of Bridgeport, Conn., posing in front of their brand new home.
Photo courtesy of the Hartford Courant newspaper / Extreme Makeover Home Edition (Stephan Dunn)

Some may argue that all tears that are cried are alike, but that’s not true. People cry for many reasons, and some tears are happy and some are sad. One tear that I can relate with is that tear of sadness and a lack of family love; at the age of five I was placed into foster care with my little brother. Although we had older siblings we were all still too young to take care of each other. My parents were unable to provide us the things we needed and most of all they were not able to give us that love.

In America alone there are over 15 million children waiting to be placed into foster care. Every year this number rises because of the number of babies born that are not wanted, or the children who are placed into the system because of abuse.

There is a great need for foster care parents in the United States. Many children who are placed into foster care often feel the need to lash out at their care givers because they feel that no one loves them. They ask the question, “Why would someone do this do to me?” Like many children, I asked this very question. “Why?” I didn't understand why the family that my parents built was falling apart and why they didn’t fight hard enough to keep it together.

I blamed the world for the way life was treating my siblings and me. I am the third oldest out of nine children -- eight girls and one boy. The Department of Children and Families (DCF) separated all the children and placed each of us with at least one other sibling.

I was blessed to share my life with my little brother. Even though he is a year younger than me, he tries his best to protect me from everything. He has become my inspiration to always hold on to what you have close to your heart. We have been through everything, wishing every night that our family would one day get back together. We even joked about going on the show “The Locator” to search for our family.

Family is so very important and many people neglect to see this. We forget about family traditions and family functions, and focus on arguments and forget about the love of the family. Yes, we argue with parents and don’t agree with everything they say, but at least they are in our lives. Many children in foster care can’t say that about their lives.

Some children are not even in foster homes but in orphanages waiting for someone to come and rescue them. I have never been in an orphanage, but I have moved from home to home looking for a place to call my own. We needed a family that was not keeping us for the check that would be given at the end of each month. We needed a family who would honor holidays and family traditions, one who would be forever in our lives pushing us to achieve any goal we set our minds to. We needed a family who would chastise us when we were wrong and embrace us with love when we did something right.

We got that family in 1993. Finally we found someone who would turn around and become a parent all over again, after she had raised her own two children. We lived with my foster mom for a few years until 2001 when she officially made us her children. That was one of the happiest moments of my life.

Although she was a single mother, she made it her duty to make sure we
got everything we needed. Even when our home caught on fire in 2007, she never gave up and still encouraged us to keep believing that everything would work out. In 2008 our family was blessed to get a brand new home built from the ground up on the TV show called “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.”

This, all because one little old women believed in the value of family, and took in two little children and showed them unfailing love.

America needs real people and families to step up to the plate and make a difference in some young child’s life. Even if they never get adopted like I did, just to be in a stable home makes a difference. Children need that, since love and care will allow them to break out of their shell to share what they are going through.

Picture expresses the need for foster and adoptive parents...one step at a TIME!
Photo courtesy of The Foster Care Prevention/Family Preservation Program

There are many ways people can become a foster parent, by just simply dialing 1-888-Kid-Hero or signing up for a ten week training that will assure them of the skills needed to become a great foster or adoptive parent. Like many jobs or anything involving children, there is a mandatory background check to ensure the safety of the children.

With all that is needed to be a foster parent what matters the most is the happiness of a child, and the chance to make a dream come true. Become a foster parent and make a positive difference.

More to Love?

By Tiana Bridtter

Staff Writer


I couldn’t let obesity take my aunt from me.

Obesity is an issue affecting the human race throughout the world. There are so many people that have stories and their own personal issues that they took on in dealing with this “health plague.” I’m here to tell you how it affected me.

I’m not and have never been overweight or obese, but I have an aunt who is. The funny thing is that when you see her, her weight is not at all what stands out. She has such a beautiful personality, and you barely even notice her weight even though you know by sight its there. My aunt is the sweetest person on the planet. She is very into church and willing to help anyone and everyone in need. For as long as I’ve known her she has always been overweight, and as time went on she didn’t seem to be getting any smaller.

Whoppers, pie, cake, and pretty much anything that was edible, became catalysts for my aunt. Not for nothing, I love to eat just as much as the next human being, but she was eating a lot. She was eating herself to death -- literally. She wasn’t able to wear the clothes the average woman was able to put on, and was more subjected to dresses and other loose fitting clothing. She wasn’t even able to wear high heels for fear of breaking them, so she stuck to flats only.

She claimed her weight didn’t bother her and said her weight meant that there was a lot of her to love, but of course I knew that was a lie. Not to say someone can’t be happy with their weight no matter what size they are, but my aunt showed the signs that she wasn’t: the late night crying; the way she looked at herself in the mirror; and the way she stared at women smaller than her, almost like she wanted not so much to be like them, but be as small as them.

I stepped up and decided to help her tackle her issue firsthand, which meant she had to admit that she was overweight, that she did have an eating problem, and that she needed to take care of the problem before it became worse -- before it was too late.

Denial is always the biggest stumbling block to get over when it comes to weight loss. It’s actually more of an issue than losing the weight. For months my aunt wouldn’t admit that she had a problem. I could no longer watch her slowly kill herself. I grew frustrated and scared at the same time. I couldn’t take another minute of fearing that she’d be snatched from me, so I decided to do a family intervention and we told her head-on that it needed to stop.

I pulled up stories and facts about obese people. I had investigated the health scares about obesity and found research on people who were either the same size as her or bigger. I even went as far to find stories about people who have died from the condition. I found out that obese individuals 30 years old and up have a 50 to 100 percent increased risk of premature death from all causes, compared to individuals with a healthy weight.

Click here for great facts about obesity.

When you’re obese, there is a huge risk of having a heart attack. Congestive heart failure, sudden cardiac death and angina, or chest pain, is increased in persons who are overweight or obese. High blood pressure is twice as common in adults who are obese than in those who are at a healthy weight.

When I brought the information to my aunt’s attention, she was very upset at first, but she knew I was right. I assured her that I would help her and wouldn’t quit on her. I made a deal with her. I told her if she’d start eating right and going to the gym, I’d go back to church. I knew that was an offer she couldn’t and wouldn’t refuse. She agreed to the deal. Just as promised I went to the gym with her four times a week, twice a day. It was quite a struggle and an obstacle but I stayed true to my promise.

That was over two years ago. My aunt has since gone from 350 lbs to 167 lbs -- that’s 183 lbs! Now she is able to wear the high heels and fitted jeans she wasn’t able to wear her whole life. But more importantly, she is alive and now healthier than ever before.

A Second Chance at Life

By Elisa Byrdsong

Staff Writer


My totaled car at the impound lot after the accident on 5-3-08.
Photo by Nicole Byrdsong.

How a horrible car crash that could have taken my life ended up saving it, at the same time giving me a second chance to cherish life for all it’s worth.

“Live every day like it’s your last.” This quote is easier said than done, and what does it really mean? On May 3, 2008, just 21 days before my 19th birthday, I lived the day that could have been my last, and learned exactly what it meant.

Like most people, I have witnessed many accidents on the news and heard many different tragic, fatal stories of people -- not only teens -- who have lost their lives in motor vehicle crashes. Of course, also like most people, I never thought that I would be a victim of such an incident.

My mother would always warn me to be careful on the road but I would simply reply, “Okay!” and jump behind the wheel. I understood that the chances of an accident were somewhat possible because I was constantly driving, but I considered myself a cautious driver and always obeyed the rules of the road. Had I been aware of the U.S. statistics that motor vehicle crashes are the leading cause of death among 15-20 year olds, I may have realized that my chances were more than probable.

However, it seems there was no stopping the events that took place this one, life-changing evening:

My intent of the night was to enjoy it with friends, as I stowed three of them in the car with me. I drove the four of us down the short familiar stretch of highway, aware of my exit approaching. Driving 60 mph, I passed the big green billboard displaying three-quarters of a mile left to exit. Suddenly I felt great impact from the rear of the vehicle and I automatically knew something wasn’t right. I had been hit by something fast and hard from behind and I didn't even see it coming.

I quickly grasped the wheel in a futile attempt to control the car on the narrow highway. I could feel the vehicle spinning as if I was on an uncontrollable merry-go-round that would never cease. As I caught a glimpse of the little blue car that had hit us, my car smashed face first into the guardrail and began flipping in the air. I thought for sure this was the end.

After I was knocked unconscious from the impact of the airbag slamming into my face, I violently landed on the roof of the car, and started regaining consciousness. Yelling and screaming was the last thing I remembered as I awoke... dangling upside down from my seat belt in the dark.

“Lisa get out of the car! Come on wake up!” I could hear my friend demanding.

As I began to realize what had happened, I released my seat belt -- which was holding me, trapped upside down in the car -- and I dropped painfully on my head as it unbuckled. Once I heard the voice of my friend I knew that at least one of the passengers in my car had survived. Praying for every one’s safety, I crawled out of the overturned car in the middle on Route 8 and feared the worst.

Thankfully, the four of us survived. But realizing how close my friends and I came to death instilled the fear of driving in me. Even though I was lucky to have survived the horrible crash with minor cuts and scratches, I was scared to even sit in a car -- better yet be behind the wheel of one again.

As months went by, the swelling, back pain and nightmares of the accident went away, but I still remained petrified to get behind the wheel. I had not been to work in months and I started to get behind on bills; I knew this couldn’t last forever.

“You have been given a second chance and it wasn’t to sit around and be afraid! Make something out of your life, most people don’t live to talk about something like that! But you did,” my great-grandmother said to me, as she lay in the hospital bed sick from cancer.

Those words coming from her as she lay there helpless, knowing that her days were limited and yet still positive -- that gave me the courage I needed to work on my fears of driving and to get on with my life. It was at that moment I realized that I had a purpose in life, and that I was just beginning the journey to finding it.

How can I sit home for months feeling helpless and miserable for myself? I’m alive! A little scrapped up and scared but I’m here. And for what? To sit in the house laying in bed all day? Wasting my life on re-runs of Lilo and Stitch on Disney Channel?! This couldn’t be why I was granted the opportunity to walk away from something millions of people die from every day!

Looking at my great-grandmother laying there, hair white as snow from age, skin soft and wrinkled, facing the fear that I had just escaped -- and was now hiding from. She faced death with no fear and forceful denial while people sat around with tears in their eyes knowing that she will soon be a memory.

From that day on I promised myself that I would not hide from death. It is inevitable. Scary, dramatic things happen in life and the end comes unexpectedly, but when that day comes you should know you had the best life you could give yourself.

Locking myself inside the house did not solve anything and I still had dreams to accomplish, so I got up and got busy. It’s been almost three years since my accident and I am living my life my way: happily, with no regrets. Since then I have entered school to accomplish my dream of becoming a news anchor, and I am back on the road -- still wearing my seat belt, which I believed help save my life.

Truthfully, there’s not a day since then that goes by when I get into a car that I don’t think about that horrible day, and maybe someday it will happen again. But you can never really know what the road ahead has waiting, so stay curious to stay cautious and live everyday like it could be your last.

“Driven…” Hopes for Today or Frozen Dismay

By “M.E.”

Staff Writer


Editor’s Note: At the writer’s request, this article has been published under a pseudonym due to the personal nature of its content.

You are invited to choose your own definition of “driven.” The voice that holds us true to our dreams... or the poison that deceives us, forces us to become “driven over the edge.”

Winter winds whip frozen limbs one against another across the orchard, covered in ice above the ground... this permanence is merely temporary.

Hidden from the sun, acres of grass, green as Ireland, await to emerge, buried beneath a layer of snow and barren earth, now hopeless and empty, but with the promise of tomorrow... this too, is impermanent.

All things must be nurtured to grow… without it, for some, a quick, painless, demise, for others, a slow and self-inflicted one. The first taste of disappointment and lack of self worth may test our strength against impossibility, leading us to claw our way up toward the sun, only to be beaten down once again.

Our paths set before us are not always ones we need to take, and sometimes, we are forced to take them. They may lead us where we shouldn’t go and we become lost, yet, we cannot surrender. Not yet. Only then will we find our way. Hopelessness brings redemption.

Like the blanket of grass hidden, veiled from view, this is a story of self discovery. It involves secrets, acceptance and denial. It is a part of your life and mine, and shares the afflictions we all fear the most, testing the strength of the human spirit.

Before hiding behind the mask, I was happy and alive. Long after that, I died every day. Isolation from friends, family, even myself, brought a loneliness, a desperation, and with it, the evils of the things that take it all away, alcohol, drugs, and attempted suicide. Without help, the seed of self-destruction began to grow. Amazingly, I survived. I moved away on my own, continuing with the one thing that held me high above the world, independence and a drive to be something more.

Where this drive came from, I never knew. It is still with me to this day, the thing that doesn’t let me give up. Sometimes I want to shrug it off and surrender. Time moved on and once again, trust turned its back on me, in the form of a lying cheat of a boyfriend, forcing me back behind the mask. The mask is the thing we all wear, that hides our true selves from the person that others see.

Alcohol, drugs and an endless sea of non-substantial relationships held me in a sleep of death for three days, finally awaking to the reality that one must at least go on with the motions, even if you can’t feel anything else. I started to become driven, this time over the edge.

The heart finds its way to heal… by prayer, by poems, by writing. These are the only answers I can offer. Another chance at love, or so I thought, came in the disguise of of a marriage. That’s when I became driven not only over the edge, but began building layers of denial. Two children later, continuous moving from six or seven different locations in Connecticut to places out-of-state by no choice of my own left me exhausted, without direction, and with that… I left. The only problem was, he wouldn’t let me leave.

Physical and verbal abuse was common, and police were called. I was attacked, degraded, my clothes, belongings, and identification were stolen, and my car damaged. A line of duct tape was drawn down my entire house indicating what side I should stay on. Bolting my door day and night, and after an attack in self-defense, I was arrested. The charges were nullified, and though my son stayed with his father out of loyalty, my daughter remained with me. I never thought I would lose a son at the age of twelve. To make the suffering just a little more painful, my crazy ex-husband took my son out-of-state to live.

Repeated prayer and poems were once again what kept me moving forward. Through all the harassment, separation, and years of isolation from a normal life, I met someone who loved me. I was happy and alive like before the mask… but a deeper place I now began to tread.

Club scenes, parties, back alleys, and an alternative lifestyle lent a host of new problems. In denial, and after finally seeking counseling, I realized that the love I thought was mine these past few years was really a man’s love for drug addiction, and not what I thought.

Matters grew worse when I was laid off my job, having to maintain a house, two young adult kids, and a boyfriend living his own hell, in his own denial. Arguments grew common, and once again, withdrew behind the mask. Hopelessness sank in, the same afflictions poisoning my soul, this time, for months.

A lifeline of co-workers and friends gone, signing up for college began an occupation of thinking... and writing…every day. Not just poems, but fictional stories. They created a passion for something bigger than despair. With writing, came the hope for something more meaningful, a bigger piece of life that was missed somehow, a detour from misery that became my salvation.

Becoming “driven”… the voice that holds us to our dreams… is much like the grass awaiting to emerge with the promise of tomorrow…

Sometimes, paths lead us where we shouldn’t go and we become lost, only then will we find our way…

A video demonstrating the power of love, healing, and sacrifice for something other than one’s self, called “My Love” by Sia is my dedication....

Poet Emma Wheeler Wilcox wrote “Solitude” and I dedicate this poem to those who will appreciate its worth:

“Solitude”

Laugh, and the world laughs with you,

Weep, and you weep alone.

For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer,

Sigh, it is lost on the air.

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shrink from voicing care.


Rejoice and men will seek you,

Grieve and they turn and go.

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many

Be sad and you lose them all.

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life’s gall.


Feast, and your halls are crowded,

Fast, and the world goes by

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a long and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow isles of pain.