Breaking The Silence
Author
Diamante Lavendar
Author Bio
Diamante Lavendar has been in love with reading since she was a child. She spent many hours listening to her mother read to her when she was young. As she grew older, she enjoyed reading novels of all genres: horror, fantasy and some romance to name a few.
She began writing in college and published some poetry in anthologies over the years. After her kids were older, she wrote as a form of self expression and decided she wanted to share her stories with others.
Most of her writing is very personal and stems from her own experiences and those of her family and friends. She writes to encourage hope and possibility to those who read her stories.
Diamante believes that everyone should try to leave their own positive mark in the world, to make it a better place for all. Writing is the way that she is attempting to leave her mark—one story at a time.
Description
Based on a true story, a new novel from Diamante Lavendar. Joan Eastman was born like any other girl. However her life would prove to be a life of great pain… Growing up, she was treated differently by family members, powerless to defend herself against their sexual and psychological abuse. Feeling she had been dealt a wicked hand by the “powers that be”, she spiraled into substance abuse and troubled relationships. She became a victim of addiction and self-hatred. Not giving up, she becomes aware of a greater spiritual being that protects her and she begins to heal. Then she finds herself pregnant. She learns to understand nothing is hopeless; that with a changed view and self discovery, there is real hope in every situation, no matter how difficult. As she and her husband look forward to the birth of their child, she writes in her diary as a way of expelling all of the evil memories. On bed rest for the duration of her pregnancy, she endures tests and tribulations that at first she couldn’t begin to underst
and. But no matter how high the hurdles in Joan’s life are, she doesn’t look back, and pulls the pieces of her life together…for herself and her unborn child. This inspirational story speaks of Joan’s gradual self acceptance and healing of her body, mind and spirit. It speaks of the possibilities of the future and the fulfillment of the dream of love and family. And it speaks of jumping the hurdles in life without looking back, no matter how high those hurdles may be.
Book excerpt
My Story Begins…
Life has a funny way of providing winding roads for us to travel on. This
story is of my many winding roads. I decided to start here, with what
happened today. I was at the office of a new doctor, one who I had never seen
before. As I looked across the room, I stared at a picture on the far wall. It
had a blue painted sky, almost the same color as my eyes. I nervously twirled
my dark brown, shoulder length hair in between my fingers, as I waited for
the nurse to say my name.
“Joan Eastman?” the nurse called across the waiting room.
I got up quickly, apprehension gripping me. My thoughts came at me all
at once. I want a child more than anything. Please let me carry this baby to
term.
“Dr. Marx will see you in his office now,” the nurse said as I followed her
into the area where the examination rooms were. “Come with me, please.”
I followed her to his office, and when she opened the door, sitting behind
a large desk was an older man with gray hair.
“Doctor, this is Joan Eastman,” the nurse said as she ducked out of the
room, shutting the door behind her.
Dear God, I prayed, let him be able to help me.
He stood up, extending his hand. “I’m Doctor Marx. Good to meet you,”
he said with a smile. “Please have a seat.”
I sat, making myself as comfortable as I could. I feel like I’m going to
vomit. I’m so scared..
“I understand you’re a friend of one of my patients?” he asked.
“Yes…I am,” I answered. “She said you might be able to help me. I’ve lost
a child before…I was six months pregnant. She was born premature…and…
died.”
I remembered Stephanie’s tiny body wrapped in a blanket as I held her
and whispered my goodbyes right before they took her to the morgue. Tears
stung my eyes. I needed to be strong today. I can’t bear to go through that
again. I can’t survive burying another child. And here I am pregnant again. I
need to carry this child to term more than anything in life. Dear God let him
be able to help me.
“I see…” he mumbled, grabbing a file.
“I was told I have an incompetent cervix by my previous doctor,” I said
quietly. “Is there anything you can do to help me keep my baby to term?”
“Yes, there is,” he said, his eyes softened, showing his concern as a doctor.
“We can suture the cervix. It’s called a cerclage. You’ll have to be put on bed
rest for your entire pregnancy, but it should allow you to carry your baby
full term.”
Hope blossomed through me. I may be able to keep this baby in me long
enough for it to survive? Maybe I can do this! Please let it be so.
“What is the success rate for this procedure?” I asked, a guarded tone still
in my voice.
“It has a very high success rate,” Dr. Marx stood. “You should be just fine.
I’ll have the nurse make an appointment for you for next week. The sooner
we can do the procedure, the better.”
“Thank you,” I breathed gratefully, standing along with him.
“You’re very welcome. I’ll see you next week. Nice meeting you.” He
extended his hand again and I shook it.
Excitement flowed through me. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be lucky enough
to be called Mom by my child someday. I can’t wait to share the good news
with Steve. I thought of the delight I would see in his hazel eyes as he pulled
me next to his tall, lean body in a hug. I knew he would be thrilled with the
news!
—♦—
Life Lesson
I have learned parenthood is a gift, an opportunity. It’s a
beautiful thing that should never be taken for granted.
—♦—
June 16, 1985
Dear Diary,
I bought this diary on my way home from Doctor Marx’s office. Since I am
going to be on bed rest for eight months, I decided that I should keep a diary.
I’m hoping it will keep me occupied and help me sort my feelings out before
I have my baby. I love this baby so much, and I want to be a good mom more
than anything in the world to him or her.
This hasn’t been an easy journey for me, so many winding roads leading
up to this point in my life. A lot of times, it has been grueling and extremely
painful. I’ve thought a lot about how I grew up, how my parents handled
things, how they raised me, and the abuse that happened when I was a small
child.
I want to be a better parent…a different kind of parent. I want to try to fix
the mistakes my parents made with me. It’s not that I don’t love my parents.
I have always loved them. As far back as I can remember, I’ve wanted
them to be proud of me and to like who I am as a person. It seems, though
life has a funny way of trying to change people’s perspectives through
misunderstandings and misgivings. My life began in such a way.
I was told by my parents when I was very small, I was adorable. Chubby
and sweet, I was given a nickname: Joanie Petite. I was supposedly the apple
of everybody’s eye. However, from my viewpoint, just the opposite was
true. From toddlerhood on, I endured abuse from numerous extended family
members. And as child, I internalized the pain until I felt like everybody was
out to get me.
When I was two the abuse began. I don’t really want to get into the gory
details about it, except to say I was molested and it was ongoing for many
years when I was around the wrong people. Unfortunately, I saw those
people quite frequently. I suspect they made themselves readily available
to my parents when I was a child so they could victimize me frequently. I
am convinced child molesters enjoy their sick acts so much they take risks
to engage in that behavior. What they don’t ever think about is the effect it
has on their victim. They are very selfish people and only think about their
own desires. The main molester in my life chose to hurt me because he was
angry about things that were done to him. So he decided to take it out on
me—Joanie Petite. He knew what it felt like and wanted to hurt someone
else as much as he had been hurt.
Most of those memories are blurry for me thankfully. Over the years I got
really good at shutting them out until they were placed in a box at the back
of my mind. But don’t get me wrong. They were still there. Nothing like that
is ever really forgotten.
I remember many things when I was a child: some good, some bad. They
play in the front of my mind like a movie every now and then. I remember
things from every phase of my life, even now that I am in my twenties. The
memories pop into my mind at random moments, unbidden when I least
expect it.
One of my first memories happened when I lived with my parents in their
first apartment in Chicago. I was two years old and my brother hadn’t been
born yet. My mom was home with me, and she wanted to visit the neighbor
downstairs. We lived in an old house that was renovated as a multi-family
home. The upstairs was a separate apartment.
“Let’s go visit Mrs. Walker, Joanie,” my mom smiled at me as she held
out her hand.
I grinned a wide smile and took her hand, and followed her out of our
apartment.
We walked down the stairs slowly, going to the first floor where Mrs.
Walker lived. I was careful not to trip over my ankle-length dress as we
made our way down the steps.
“Come on, Joanie, you can do it!” my mom encouraged me as I held onto
the railing. “You want some of Mrs. Walker’s chocolate stars, don’t you?”
I was too small to do much talking. I knew some words. But I didn’t have
to talk to know how delicious those chocolate stars were! “Yes, Mama,” I
answered.
My mother continued to smile at me as she encouraged, holding onto
my tiny fingers with one hand as she watched me descend the steps. Almost
there…
Mrs. Walker always kept a supply of those delicious chocolate stars. She
never failed to offer me some when we visited her. Soon, we were standing in
front of Mrs. Walker’s door. When my mother knocked, we heard a shuffling
inside.
“Who’s there?” Mrs. Walker’s muffled voice asked through the door.
“It’s Joanne from upstairs,” my mother replied.
“Oh!” Mrs. Walker said, as she unlocked the door and swung it open.
“Come in! Come in!”
We went into the living room and my mother and Mrs. Walker chatted for
a while. I sat quietly gazing at her clean, sparsely decorated home.
“Hello Miss Joanie, would you like some chocolate stars?” Mrs. Walker
asked, looking down at me, her leathery face surrounded by tufts of gray
hair.
I nodded, smiling expectantly.
She handed me the candy dish and I carefully picked a couple pieces of the
sweet chocolaty stars. I ate them as my mother and Mrs. Walker continued
to talk for a while.
Even now, I feel happiness when I think of the spontaneous visits with
Mrs. Walker. They were never long, but I always left feeling happy and
satisfied. My mother probably didn’t realize it at the time, but I enjoyed
every moment I shared with her. And I still love chocolate stars!
—♦—
Life Lesson
Children are very easy to please. All they require is love.
You don’t have to give them everything.
You just have to show them you love them.
—♦—
June 18, 1985
Dear Diary,
I have been doing a lot of thinking about the past. I have been considering
what my mother must have been going through when I was small, living
in that old renovated house. It was just us and my father, and Mrs. Walker
downstairs.
Another hazy memory from that time of my young life gives me great
sadness. It is a very fleeting memory…one of just a few moments.
I was standing next to my mother’s bed calling her name. She lay there,
unresponsive. The covers were up to her chest and her arm had fallen over
the side of the bed. I didn’t understand why she didn’t wake up and answer
me.
“Mama,” I said again, a little louder this time.
Dad rushed in and took me into my bedroom. I think somebody came in to
take my mom. Or maybe Mrs. Walker was there to watch me while my dad
took her to the hospital. I’m not sure. I just remember being scared that day
and worried something was wrong with her.
Years later I asked her if she had tried to overdose when I was younger.
She admitted she had. She had battled depression most of her life and always
seemed to be on some type of medication to help with it.
I’ve been thinking about what life would’ve been like without her. It
would’ve been so hard and sad for my brother, Tommy, and me. I’m really
grateful she didn’t die that day. I love her so much despite everything that
happened. If she would have succeeded, I wouldn’t even have my brother.
What a lonely existence that would have been.
Thank you, Mom, for hanging in there for both of us. I know it hasn’t been
easy. I’ve been battling depression myself for many years as well. It’s a hard
road. I understand how you have suffered. I love you, Mom.
—♦—
Life Lesson
I have learned love requires patience and understanding.
I have found we are richer for the love we share with others,
particularly when sharing that love is difficult.
—♦—
