Mae shares her journey of healing and hope to give a voice to women who cannot speak for themselves, inspiring them to find the confidence to share their own stories.
Don’t Quit
When things go wrong as they sometimes will;
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill;
When the funds are low, and the debts are high;
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh;
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must but don’t you quit.
Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt;
And you can never tell how close you are;
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit;
It’s when things go wrong that you mustn’t quit.
John Greenleaf Whittier
This poem gave me strength to never give up.
Growing up, life wasn’t the easiest. From a child’s perspective versus an adult’s, you see things more clearly. I am one of seven children; my parents divorced when I was five years old, and the relationship with my father was strained due to my mother, with occasional visits that ultimately were cut off. I remember his family and him always being very interactive and loving, always doing events and making memorable moments. On the opposite side, it wasn’t always the same. For a short time, yes, but as my siblings and I grew older, it was clear we were the “black sheep” and not treated the same as the other family members.
My mother was very loving and hands-on, but as time went on, she started to change. No stability, constant moving of homes and schools, poor choices in men (I even remember one incident of a man holding a loaded gun to her head and threatening to burn down the house with us in it). This landed us in a women’s shelter, escorted by police. She became more verbal in her hatred for everyone and, eventually, even her own children. She constantly reminded us how we were not wanted by our family, and bitterness surrounded her.
I remember feuds between my mother and my grandmother and how she loathed my older sister, claiming she was “the spawn of Satan.” My mother, Tammie, had a way of using her beauty to allure men and exploit them for everything they had, only to dump them and fabricate stories of “how they did her wrong.”
Around 2002, when I was nine, my mother decided to remarry Rick—the man I remembered holding a gun to her head and trying to burn the house down with us in it. We moved to YY into a secluded brick home way out in the country. Rick left, and my mother isolated herself, leaving me responsible for my little brothers. Eventually, she allowed my sister Kaci, 16, and her boyfriend Eric to move in. Mind you, my sister was not the easiest to be around due to her wicked nature and cruel tendencies.
As always, it didn’t take long before the violence started between them, which was normal. After my sister got kicked out, my mother kept Eric around, which led to their romance together. Leading up to May 29, 2003, she became obsessed with the apocalypse and the end of the world. Eventually, the lights got turned off, we were pulled from school, and as food supplies dwindled, my older brother and I found ways to cook over a campfire tripod and heat water so we could share bathwater to clean ourselves.
When we had our first visitor in months, we were scared that Mother would find out. Kaci and my grandpa were worried for us, and that’s when Sam exposed the notebook detailing plans. At the top of the page, Kaci’s and Rick’s names were written boldly, forming a triangle equaling 666. Another ritual came, and Samuel looked gray and lifeless.
The adults left to the store to grab “supplies.” That’s when Sam told me the supplies were to carry out the sacrifice of him being the risen Christ and, after three days, go out to the homes of certain people and bring them back to our home for the end of the world. The rest of us were going to be poisoned and driven off the bridge of our driveway in a sacrificial death.
As the day became dark and night fell, they never came home. Flashlights flickered under the doorframe, and men yelled as we were dragged downstairs. With lights illuminating the kitchen, CPS, cops, and EMTs arrived. I heard them say, “Your mother and Eric were arrested, and you are being placed in foster care.”
Tammie was charged with six counts of felony mental and physical harm to a child and Satanic ritual abuse, carrying a sentence of 100+ years. During the 1.5-year ordeal, she gave birth to Eric’s baby, manipulated everyone, and denied everything. The justice system failed to protect us, dropped the charges, and we were returned to our mother’s house.
The in-and-out of the foster system/home life led us to find ways to cope. I struggled with depression, panic attacks, and PTSD, to name a few. I was bullied mostly by my closest friends, but I got along to get along, which led me to abusive relationships. For reasons unknown, my siblings hated me but still would come to me for safety or to use me.
My oldest son’s dad, Ronnie, was abusive in many ways, struggling with his own childhood abuse and trauma. At first, he was a friend—fun, goofy, and caring—but had a dark side that dominated as time progressed, especially with the increase in psychedelic drug use. Psychological abuse started first, then was followed by the rest. His personal convictions increased the beatings and uncontrollable regrets, accompanied by tears of sorrow, forcing sex every time to ease his pain. He would require me to stay naked, humiliating me and keeping score with his friends, and vice versa.
Our son was born 5 weeks prematurely. The last event occurred when he slammed my head against the door until I blacked out, waking up choking on my blood. Somehow managing to call his sister, she took me to the ER. He was going to kill us all, taunting us and her family with a loaded gun. My voice was trapped, enduring whatever was going to come. Eventually, he was charged, but due to wanting to help him, I begged the judge to rehabilitate him instead. So instead of 7 years, he got 1.5.
I did end up in a relationship in between, but the red flags came as well. I left him and got back with Ronnie once he got out of prison, trying to keep the “family” together. As he hung around my brother more, it became toxic due to the influence. I started hearing voices—full-blown conversations—but couldn’t see anyone. I recognized the voices, and when Ronnie would show up, he would repeat things I was doing. I thought I was losing my mind, so I mentioned it to my mom. When I could clearly hear the conversations more and more, she said she wouldn’t be surprised if they were real. But to comprehend someone doing that seemed too far out there. When I was considering calling the police, my mom didn’t want the drama. Years later, I would link and expose the depth and truth of what my brother was doing.
At 19 years old, my inner world was in turmoil. I inflicted trauma on myself, battled anorexia, and starved myself. I was working three jobs and living off little to no sleep. I felt disgusting, worthless, and unloved. Alcohol at the bar and the chain of cigarettes and caffeine during the day kept me going. I didn’t have friends or socialize much, except when I was working, and they were always older than I was. Always believing that one day I would escape this dark reality that surrounded me, I attempted to read the Bible because God gave me hope to dream. It never lasted long, but anything I could grasp to fill the void deep within my soul kept me determined to one day have freedom and make it out alive. That’s when I met Jason, the father of my youngest.
Right before my 20th birthday, he came to the bar with his three oldest boys. He stated that his divorce, after 19 years, was finalized and had chains tattooed on his wrist that broke to symbolize it. After that day, he gradually started to come in more and more, never really talking with me as if he was shy. I changed jobs, which he followed. Finally, bluntly, I made it clear: if he wasn’t going to talk to me, he needed to stop wasting my time. Leery because of his age and the 19-year difference between us, he randomly started bringing me things of value for me and my son, even dropping off a car for me (which only added fuel with my mom).
She always looked at dollar signs. When he brought me the car, I instantly declined. This was a definite “no,” knowing it would set off my mother, as she made it hers unless… Love was conditional with her. With persistence, I finally gave in to dating him because it gave me “a future,” hope of a better life, seeing him as my “knight in shining armor,” or so I thought.
That first year was complicated. There were red flags, and the constant going out to drink didn’t help. He was double my size, and my body no longer could handle the amounts, which caused blackouts that made me lose sight. I wanted to quit, but there was no support, and he continued to put me in that scene. He was obsessed with getting me pregnant from day one, and the “love you” I found very odd, stating, “You could never leave if you had my baby.” I’d have police pulling me over, showing up at my mother’s house, warning us, and the frequent drops from his sons of how I didn’t really know their dad frightened me. I ignored the signs, trying to rationalize them.
Bringing it up to him, he always had “the right words” to twist how they were out to get him and not to believe them. But as time went on, especially when I did get pregnant, the true identity of him and his family came out. It was freaky hearing the stories he spoke of—how he had his nephew or others do “his dirty work” and vice versa—abuse, violence, and the vindictive nature of wickedness between him and his ex-wife, including the kids. There was a depth of hatred but a strange loyalty. Jason claimed his mother would do anything to destroy his happiness and any woman who came into the picture because “she” was the only one.
He was either hated by people or others had an infatuation with him. Witnessing his relationship with his mother was very inappropriate—like a marriage but without intimacy. She was in the house before daybreak and late into the evenings, going everywhere with him without me, doing job bids together, and even grooming him, like shaving his neck. She was the one he called for those things. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
After I got pregnant, at first, he was happy and treated me like gold, but as time went on, things got weirder. Right around six months, my clothes would randomly go missing, and he started verbally accusing me of having “a n****r’s baby.” He would ask me to fix food, then go out to eat. At times when we didn’t have food, we lived on cereal while they ate at restaurants. His mother would whisper lies, knowing damn well that when he sold my car, I had no transportation or income because I left my job.
I started hearing comments from outsiders, and he would repeat things I knew there was no way for him to know unless I was being watched. The comments were coming straight from his mouth. I started to fall into depression, trying to comprehend what the hell was going on. His oldest son was in love with me and would warn me to leave. I started seeing a therapist after finding a recorder connected to the house phone.
I was already on edge, suffering from PTSD and OCD because of his temper. Nothing was ever clean enough for him. I knew they were screwing with my reality, and the mental games they were playing on me kept me constantly doubting myself as if I was losing my mind. I was living in hell once again, but this time I was trapped in something more sinister than before.
The plot just thickened, and I knew it was over for me. I attempted to run away to California in hopes I could do it before the baby was born, but that failed. After our son was born, I wasn’t allowed to bathe for days due to accusations of neglect, even though I would drag a chair into the small bathroom. He refused to watch the baby so I could. Feelings of shame, disgust, and hopelessness found a home, and the psychological damage of what I experienced only darkened any life I had.
Being thrown out of the house and having all my property burned in barrels constantly, sending the clan to frighten me by revving up their truck for hours, caused me to black out windows, remove every light, and crawl into a fetal position all night with no sleep. When I’d go back, he acted as if it was all in my head after telling me he did it. He knew my brothers were drug addicts, so he claimed his neighbor got away with killing his wife and feeding her to the pigs. All he had to do was shove a needle in my arm and claim I was a junkie. Ironically, that was right before my brother Sam introduced me to meth for the first time. I stopped shortly after starting and went on medications instead, dealing with the depression.
But my mother wanted her way, and with the increased altercations between us, the police got involved. However, with their own vendetta against each other, it was a joke. I realized, even after evidence of him leaving marks on my neck with DV advocates present, when the judge bluntly told me I was the abuser and refused to grant me a restraining order (but granted one to him against me), that I was doomed. Baffled, the advocates, with 25 years of experience, rebuked her. At that point, I knew I was going to die. I willfully chose to hospitalize myself due to the extent of my despair and terror. My soul was dying, and so was my body.
Jason called me, begging me to come back. He said he loved me and promised to change, saying things would get better. His family continued to gaslight and humiliate me. Regardless of how hard I tried to block it out, it was driving me manic. CPS got involved, and all hell was unleashed between all the families. The more I listened to Jason, the worse things got. It was impossible for me to succeed. All accounts were hacked, I was being exploited across all social media platforms, and I was stalked by the community. The longer time went on, the more people joined in terrorizing me, making me the next “Truman Show.”
From Jason trying to shove fruit or his whole hand inside of me to others dipping my cigarettes in rat poison and so on, the law wasn’t going to do anything about it, so why would they stop? For years, there were highs and lows, good memories and bad. I’d self-cope, even admitting myself to a secure hospital ward in hopes of finding solitude from society, only to have Jason’s ex-mistress working there and creating her own psychological thrill of a game on me. I was on the verge of death, ingesting insane amounts of meth and prescriptions, praying for night to come so I wouldn’t wake up—or for morning to come so another day of suffering would end—because death was my only hope at that point.
But deep down, I didn’t want to die, and in the midst of all the chaotic chaos, there was a still, small voice deep within that whispered, “One more day, don’t give up.”
People taunted me everywhere and within the four walls, telling me to kill myself, then condemning me for being selfish for actually trying to do it, and how f***ing stupid I was that I couldn’t even kill myself right. I couldn’t understand how they would be willing to sabotage my car by cutting my brakes, dumping pounds of sugar in my tank, and more—regardless of whether my children were in the car. So, I figured I’d start doing the very things I was being accused of because it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t do anything right or wrong. I was a bad human being regardless, thinking it would cause them to stop.
This explains how fragmented my brain was, creating shock to those around me. Later, I found the link to my younger brother’s mastermind plan, which had been in motion for years, to bind and link this family.
I still remember the day it all led to me becoming dissociated. During sex, the voices once again degraded me as Jason tried shoving his hand inside of me. I begged God to spare me from the agony of despair, for I could no longer mentally endure the affliction being done to me. The noise became muffled, leaving only a faint but loud ringing in my ears. Every emotion, feeling, and sense of reality drained from my body, and I was numb. I was now standing at the door, watching myself lie there on the bed. It was God’s way of protecting me.
Complex post-traumatic stress disorder (CPTSD, or hyphenated C-PTSD) is a stress-related mental and behavioral disorder generally occurring in response to complex traumas (i.e., commonly prolonged or repetitive exposures to a series of traumatic events, from which one sees little or no chance to escape).
Fast-forwarding the years, I wish I could say it stopped, but that would be a lie. I had to face the ugly truth about how deep the ones I loved had gone and how evil resides in the hearts of men. Death was chasing me down, which unlocked the doors to the spiritual world more plainly than ever. After years of several failed attempts to leave, fear kept me going back. I was unloved, shamed, and humiliated with no chance of redemption. Jason and others made sure I would never have a chance at life, especially if I left him. My credibility was nil, and I was a disgrace everywhere I went, accepting my fate until I met God and surrendered my heart in Naples, FL, in 2017.
The encounters, the extraordinary miracles, and His name gave me faith to believe anything was possible. A hope that He could redeem even me when He said in Romans 5:8, “I loved you at your darkest.” The voice I heard all along keeping me alive to fight through the agony, I came to know, was HIM. When He spoke: “You must go back and fight for your boys; I will be with you,” I was terrified, but I knew death was worth trying no matter what. It’s hard to comprehend the pain, but at that point, I only knew sorrow—sorrow for my enemies, sorrow for loved ones, sorrow for the world. I wasn’t angry anymore. I had forgiveness beyond my capability and a grace I cannot explain filling me with the ultimate gift that I’ve never known: unconditional love.
Where does one begin to comprehend the capability of an individual’s choice to inflict such heinous evil towards another? Or think that it could be you instead of the one on the news or in the tabloids?
I may never see justice here for the things that were done, but I know someone who promises that if I forgive, I leave room for His vengeance, and it finally set me free from the bondage that was holding me back from truly embracing freedom. Faith in Jesus is what kept me alive; hearing His voice once again as I stood afraid of walking out of Jason’s door: “If you stay, you will lose your life, and you will lose me!” He was right, and it terrified me because I knew I couldn’t do it without HIM! It was faith in Him that empowered me to hope in a better future, starting from ground zero.
What did I have to lose? I had to walk through the darkest valleys, climb the highest mountains, and go through healing from the engraved wounds that scarred my life and left me ashamed. I would declare over myself positive qualities and begin rewiring my brain to act as if I was living and achieving the life I wanted. This started to erase the pages, memories, and scars that were stained from the past and make them white as snow.
Six-plus years later, with custody of my sons, we live an extraordinary life that overflows more and more every day. May this story give you the strength to believe that your voice matters and that it could be what saves someone.
Blessings,
Mae
Isaiah 54:4-5 in the New International Version (NIV) of the Bible says: “Do not be afraid; you will not be put to shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood.”