Ruby Lee Tuesday was born to be her father's property. Trapped in an abusive home where only perfect was good enough for the devil, Ruby attempted to distract herself from his ways through her music, poetry, art, and most importantly, her faith in God. Tuesday shares a heartbreaking story of childhood trauma as she bravely pursued her dreams, despite living with parents who seemed determined to destroy her, both physically and emotionally. While providing a riveting look into the ways of an abuser, Tuesday details how her mistreatment eventually caused her to lose her faith, embark on a path of self-destruction, and succumb to panic attacks and depression. But through it all, Tuesday somehow managed to find solace and an escape in her music, ultimately leaving everything behind and bravely following her dream all the way from Norway to Nashville, Tennessee, where she would find faith once again. Better Believe is a story of determination, passion, betrayal, friendship, and hope as one woman journeys from the darkness of abuse into the light of healing where she learns to believe in herself for the first time.
Better Believe
A Story of Hope
By Ruby Lee TuesdayTrafford Publishing
Copyright © 2015 Ruby Lee Tuesday
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4907-4992-1Contents
Dear Reader, 1,
A Summary of the Memories of a Past, 3,
In Detroit Starting My Writing, 5,
About Childhood, 6,
A Child Is a New Person, 7,
The Haunted House, My Home, 9,
Starting School, 12,
The Dream., 15,
The Attic and Motherly Broken Trust, 20,
The Art of Smiling, 21,
Disappointment of "Outside People" and "Inside People", 23,
War, 25,
My Condition After the Dream and the Attic, 27,
Methods of Punishment, 29,
Handball and Victory, 33,
Hanging with the Wrong Crowd, 35,
Repeating Old Patterns, 37,
The End of Drunkenness and the Beginning of a Speed Addiction, 40,
Nausea, Sweat, and Fainting, 44,
Family Vacations, 48,
Cleansing the Air on a Study Trip to York, 52,
LadyLoveRebel, 54,
Notes and Memoirs from the Homeless Shelter in Nashville, 59,
Oktoberfest in Nashville, 60,
Surreal Surroundings in Nashville, 60,
Connecting Me to My Name and My Story, 61,
Regaining Love for My Body in the Shelter, 62,
The Courage to Heal, 63,
Connecting Myself to My Emotions, 64,
Afraid to Feel, 65,
Save Your Soul, 67,
A Change of Heart, 70,
The Blame Game, 72,
Your Own Issues, 74,
Adopting Two Children for a While, 76,
Get Through Drama Trauma, 79,
You Hurt My Feelings, 81,
Lift People Up, 82,
How Are You Today?, 84,
My Birthday and New Challenges, 86,
God Is Alive and Well, 88,
Finding God, 89,
The Dream and Standing Up for Myself in Court, 90,
A Long Road to Find Love, 92,
Talking to God, 94,
Sent Back from Death, 96,
Ball Sports and Music, 98,
Dream; Take off Nashville, 100,
One Year Drug Free, 102,
Poems and Short Writings during the Shelter, 103,
Poems and Short Writings in Time from the Shelter, 105,
Homeless Dream, 105,
I Am Grateful, Lord, 106,
Observing Myself, 106,
I Believe in Tomorrow, 107,
A Modern Slave, 108,
A Tradition to Be "Sheeple," People?, 108,
Happy Wishes, Sheeple, 109,
By the Grace of God, 112,
Devotions, 112,
Just 4 Today, 113,
Just 4 Today, Marshall, 113,
Just 4 Tonight 1, 114,
Just 4 Tonight 2, 114,
A Nightly Devotion, 115,
A Moment in Time 1, 115,
A Moment in Time 2, 116,
A Moment in Time 3, 117,
A Moment in Time 5, 118,
A Moment in Time 4, 119,
Be Aware of What You Wish For, 121,
Chapter 2, for the Rest for the Best, 122,
Contact information, 123,
CHAPTER 1
DEAR READER
Dear reader, I write to you because I would like to share my story with you. It is a story of determination, losing track, passion, betrayal, friendship, and most of all, it is a tale of hope that might help you get along better with your life or see things in a new perspective than you would before reading this book. You can achieve whatever you want in life if you only believe it. I have been looking for happiness all my life, and in order to find it, I had to start listening to my conscience and start doing the right things. Not only was it the right thing to do to others, but it also took away the bad emotions connected to not doing right and lit up the way for joy to come into my life. I just learned that all things that are keeping you doing things you don't like are sin. We may call them "addiction this" and "addiction that," but they are all sin. I would have resented hearing that at the top of my addiction, but I know now that the enemy, the devil, is the one who keeps this knowledge away from your heart. The devil does not want you to be happy, and what I found after talking to a huge number of people is that everybody just wants to be happy. So I ask, Dear God, Father in heaven, please help me write my story as honest and helpful as I can. Help it help this reader find what he or she is looking for in their lives and, most of all, find the love for themselves and be their own best friend and treat others in the same way. Be who you are, but be your best version of you. And help me try and be the best version of me. This I ask in your son Jesus Christ's name. Amen.
A SUMMARY OF THE MEMORIES OF A PAST
It was a summer day in 1979 that this baby child was born. She resisted and twisted for two weeks, and when she finally came, her forehead came first. She was nearly strangled by the cord around her neck. The doctors took her and ran out of the room. She never connected with her mother, and her mother never connected with her. Her surroundings were wild. She had a sister and, later on, got a brother. They were all raised in different parts of the house, isolated from one another. The house was haunted, and her room reminded of a prison cell. Besides a tiny window in the roof, there was no light coming into her darkness. Outside her window was the dark and starlit sky. She cried at night, wondering why — why she had to live above the deadly living room. Voices and hatred made the air stand still. She had no will of her own. She was born to be her father's property. He was full of hate. And the little girl hated his ways. She carried love within her heart. And she created art. She made a song to prove them wrong, and then what happened would not be as bad as it was good for nothing, not as long as she made a song or a poem. Those little victories she hid in her head and rarely talked about. That way no one could mess it up or take it away from her.
Day in and day out, she was living in fright, all alone in her prison cell in hell. She was destined to live to tell. In the meantime, she tried to be good in those mean times. Cold-hearted beatings from the man with the iron fist. He handed her bruises and memories of a life in risk. A living hell, she could tell that her virginity was already taken when she entered first grade — first grade and a few hours of getaway from the haunted house, her haunted home. She did her very best. Only perfect was nearly good enough for the devil. Driven by hatred, she delivered. She can remember how she lost contact with her body. Her mom and dad twisted her hands and twisted both her arms. They divided her wholeness by pressure to her joints. Being disconnected from herself, she stopped drawing, could not feel her own fingers. They were twisted away from their original position. She would turn cold, never thought she would get very old. And here she is this very day. She cried her pain away and is finally releasing all her disappointments. Post-traumatic stress disorder and panic attacks were what the devil ordered so many years ago. She is now thirty-five and stronger than ever before. And in her mind is a wish for the best for the rest.
IN DETROIT STARTING MY WRITING
I sit in a motel room in Detroit. It is quiet. This is where I start writing my story. I hear the sound of the fan; it keeps me warm. The snow outside looks pretty and innocent. I watch TV, daytime gossip; it is nice to hear someone talk when I am by myself, soothing my nerves in a city I do not know. I pray to my Father in heaven, He who has always been there in my life giving good influence in my upbringing and guidance in a tried life, my guiding conscience. I came here because M&M lives here in Detroit. I admire his determination and his strength. This is the place I chose to soothe my nerves and gain some perspective at this point in my life. It is almost Christmas, and this is my gift to myself. Without my nerves, I can't go very far in any directions. I don't like secret advice and manipulation or guiding hands from an unknown source — except from God, that is. I got my fair share of that many years ago. And so here I am in Detroit, the broke city. So am I, so we kind of go together in a way. At least this is where I will start to tell my story, from my memory and my experiences, to let it off my chest and let it go. Hopefully, by telling this story, I can help someone out there overcome their obstacles too.
ABOUT CHILDHOOD
I know that a childhood is something most people remember with joy, laughter, protection, freedom, and safety. The story can be slightly different when you grow up with a predator and his wife. The two people who put you into this world are the ones you fear the most. I would say that if God was not in my life, I would not have been here today. Because in darkness, surrounded by the enemy, the world of madness could easily be your lifelong dwelling place. But God wanted it differently for me. Why? Still I am not sure of that question. All I know is that twenty years of my life has been actively devastated by the enemy, and the rest of it I have tried to cope with my wounds. My name is Ruby Lee — the name means "a warrior in battle" and was given to me by my grandfather. He died the year that I was born, but before he died, he said, "If this is a girl, name her Ruby Lee." I grew up in Norway, born in Stavanger. I have two siblings, an older sister and a younger brother. My mother still lives in Norway and my father just recently passed away.
A CHILD IS A NEW PERSON
Every child is born with his or her own potential and its own personality. If you give the child the boundaries, correction, explain things to them, give them good routines, let them know they are loved for who they are, support their personal growth, and teach them to live, then the child will grow up to be a content version of itself. Remember, children have never before lived in this world, and they need you, their parents, to guide them in a loving way toward their own ability to stand on their own two feet in this world. They need you more than ever in these tried times we all live in. Traumas and bad experiences change you in a sick way. You may think that arguing with your husband or boyfriend loudly around the children does not affect them because they are so small. Well, it does change them. You put fear into their system. You bring nervousness and insecurity into their growth, and they carry this along their life as an unwanted bump in their trust. Everybody has disagreements, but that is different from yelling and screaming. I was born an artist. I loved to perform. I loved to write poems. I loved to paint. But most of all, I loved to sing. I loved music. I was happy, and I liked sharing my happiness with my surroundings. I started in a theater for children, took painting lessons, and started to play the piano, but I quit these activities just as fast as I started them because of a high anxiety level. Communist people don't like arts. And I most definitely grew up in a communist family. I remember losing my ability to use my hands, being terrified twenty-four hours of the day, and the silence — thin, sharp, and cold silence. I was naturally born a happy child. I liked to sing and make little performances. I had no fear connected to either. That was from the beginning. But you see, the devil doesn't like music. He doesn't like dancing either. And he doesn't like jokes and happy comments. He is ruthless and with no compassion whatsoever. He uses his physical force to get his will done. And he does whatever pleases him, with no concern of whatever happens with the people surrounding him or how it affects their emotions or perceptions of the world. They are, to him, his property and his workforce. I wrote a song, "A Child's Voice," a long time ago, and in it I say, "It is your birthright to be respected as a child." And it really is your birthright to be respected as a child!
THE HAUNTED HOUSE, MY HOME
My father was the chief of the house, and my mother his little puppet. I, my sister, and my brother were merely there to help with his needs. I had little or no contact with neither my sister nor my brother. The house we lived in was a haunted terror house, and I get a fearful feeling just by thinking of that place. The atmosphere in there sent chills down my spine, and it was as if there was a presence of something unseen in it. Unseen, always present and frightening. A friend of mine said, "Whenever I would sleep over there, I was scared to death." I did not have too many visitors there. I had to sleep there every night. Yes, it hurt. I was afraid all the time. The house was a torture building to me. I had to enter against my will. It had a nice facade and was placed in a nice area. People lived easy lives and had food and houses. I would say it was a middle-class area. The house consisted of three floors: the basement, the middle floor, and the attic. When you entered our home, you would come into a wind- catcher area with a glass door into the rest of the house. Trying to catch the wind in windy surroundings. The house had a little room right next to the entrance, my little brother's room. And straight ahead of the entrance was my parents' room facing to the back of the house with no other outlook but the sea. From my parents' room, you could enter a bathroom, both from the hallway and the room. Next to the room was the stairway up to the second floor, and around the corner was a glass wall and a glass door parting the living room from the stairs and the rest of the house. Just before you entered the glass door, you would see a stairway down to the basement. The kitchen you could enter both from the hallway and the living room. It was a tiny kitchen with windows facing the yard in front of our house. The garage and the parking lot in front kept the whole view quite sheltered from the street and other people. From our big living room windows, all you could see was the sea. I'd hide between the curtains and the sea more than once, with my eyes closed hoping to survive one of the many, many attacks. When you walked upstairs to the attic the stairs were open and your feet could be seen from the living room. At the end of these stairs, you came to a small hallway, still visible from the downstairs. To the left of the end of the stairs was my room, and to the right of the end of the stairs was my sister's room. It was impossible to walk between the rooms without having the eyes of the devil catch us, pointing us back to where we belonged, in our little prison cells. In this hallway was a tiny door leading into the attic — a place where my mother would break all my trust concerning unconditional love, leaving a big gap in the heart of a child.
Walking into my room you could see the attic on your right hand side. Straight ahead were five big closets with red fabric on them, only two of which were mine to use. The roof was angled and where the roof angled only a little triangle of air parted the closet and the ceiling. In the room were a bed and a tiny window in the roof, also with a red fabric curtain on it. The window faced the sky, and below was the sea. This must have been very convenient for a predator. No one could hear you scream from that part of the house. Under my floor was the living room. Mostly it was filled with a deadly silence or high-pitched fights. I would crawl into the hallway more than once to see if my mother was still alive after all the yelling and screaming i heard. You see, from the open stairs, through the glass wall, you could also look into the living room. The sounds from our everyday room went right into my spine and froze me in fear. My mother would fight and scream, terror it sounded like. My brother and sister stayed in their rooms, but I would sometimes crawl out into the hallway to see if she was being murdered or not. Occasionally I would just crawl out there with my covers to sleep on the orange rug floor because my room scared me just as much as the sounds from downstairs, so if they were quiet, I would lie on the floor to feel safer. There were no safe places in that house. It was like one long war zone. A hidden enemy, sometimes direct physical personal attacks, sometimes wordy faraway attacks. It all happened inside the house. This was my home. No one knew, and no one would believe it if you told them either.
From my bed in the room, all I could see was the tiny window in the roof with a little red curtain covering the stars and the clouds. Sometimes I would climb out the window onto the roof and sit next to the chimney and dream about building my own little home up there. Next to the pipe, it would be nice and warm and far away from all the violence.
STARTING SCHOOL
On my first day to school, I was in a state of shock. I didn't know what school was, and so with my lack of experience, I had no idea about what could possibly happen there. I would refuse to wear a dress. I was shameful of my own body already. I refused to let my hair grow. I refused to do anything that could lead me to look pretty, because pretty had shown to be dangerous to me. I did not want to increase the danger of being abused by predators. If I attracted them to me by being cute or pretty, they would probably abuse me, which was what life had taught me up till then. Besides, my body felt trashed and parted, dissolved in a way. It was broken from beatings and from the twisting of my arms, kicking, strangling, and sexual abuse. I was in such a shock after being molested that I would just do what I was told, and I felt frozen by fear inside. I could not sit straight, and still to this day, I have trouble sitting straight. I am soon to be thirty-five years of age and have spent five, going on my sixth year, trying to fix these damages. Each and every day, I have been in my home, working on muscle by muscle in order to release the tensions and be movable again. My shoulder was out of its position, and the pain in my back was so severe that six years ago, I was no longer able to lift the guitar off my shoulders. The pain would just knock me over completely, and I could hardly lift the arm. I had to support it with the other arm in order to write and do things with it. My whole life I had suppressed these pains, and they sure came back to haunt me later on. But school was a nice getaway for me, and at the end of the day, I resisted going home.
School is a blur, and I only remember that I liked it because people were nice there and I could get away from my home for a few hours. Now I really feel like stopping the writing, going through the house really got to my nerves, but I can't. I need to continue writing because I have to get it out. I have carried these secrets on my heart my whole life and I have to pause my writing and cry a little because it is emotionally draining going through all these memories. I refuse to quit though, because I know that in a few hours, I will be satisfied with the work I have done. Writing this book releases a huge amount of suppressed emotions, and many times during my writing have I thought about quitting. But I didn't, and now I am proud of it. So if you have traumas to work through, don't ever quit — no matter how long it takes, don't ever quit! Because you will eventually get through it. I promise, you will eventually get through it. And when you get through it, the strong immediate emotions will let go and you can continue living with the memories, not the actual incident. The work I did in school and the teaching also got my head out of the darkness that it was in. And also when I started school, I had not ever been asked "How are you?" "What would you like to do?" "Did you like this or that?" "How do you feel?" These were questions that simply did not occur in my home life. Therefore, I did not ever consider it either, and therefore, I don't know. And when anyone outside our home asked me, I found no answers for them because I felt terrible inside and I just wanted to cry, and in order to be able to cope, I could not ever talk about anything that went on behind closed doors. It took me thirty five years to get out of Norway into USA to learn to talk about these things in a sober condition.
Excerpted from Better Believe by Ruby Lee Tuesday. Copyright © 2015 Ruby Lee Tuesday. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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