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    You Can't Have My Pearls
    You Can't Have My Pearls
    You Can't Have My Pearls
    Ebook146 pages1 hour

    You Can't Have My Pearls

    By Nervona

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    About this ebook

    You Cant Have My Pearls recounts the abuse the author suffered at the hands of her family, foster parents, her minister husband, and his family. Nervona was born in Evanston, Illinois. She grew up in West Texas where she lived with her family. Although she has several fond memories of her childhood, years of abuse have overshadowed her recollections. When her parents negligence and abuse were discovered, the author and her siblings were placed in foster homes where they also suffered abuse. Things did not fare well even after their paternal grandparents took them in, for their grandmother was just as abusive. Nervona then found herself in a living nightmare at the hands of her husbands family, who determined to make her life an existing hell. Because of the traumas, she suffered during her younger years, Nervona struggled with personal issues before mustering the courage to free herself from her abusive hold. Once she did, she could find herself and rebuild her life.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthorHouse
    Release dateNov 8, 2012
    ISBN9781477273807
    You Can't Have My Pearls
    Author

    Nervona

    Nervona was born in Evanston, Illinois. During her childhood years, she lived in Chicago, Pennsylvania, Hawaii, and Alabama before eventually settling in West Texas with her paternal grandparents. After high-school graduation, she began her career in the oil and gas industry. She has a son and daughter who were born in West Texas, but now reside in other states. Nervona volunteers her time with animal rescue. She has also served as a director on a credit union board.

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      Book preview

      You Can't Have My Pearls - Nervona

      You Can’t Have My Pearls

      ONE%20PEARL%20FOR%20BULLETS_Transparent.tif

      Nervona

      ah_.png

      AuthorHouse™

      1663 Liberty Drive

      Bloomington, IN 47403

      www.authorhouse.com

      Phone: 1-800-839-8640

      © 2012 Nervona. All rights reserved.

      No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

      Published by AuthorHouse 11/6/12

      ISBN: 978-1-4772-7381-4 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4772-7379-1 (hc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4772-7380-7 (e)

      Library of Congress Control Number: 2012918061

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Contents

      Chapter 1   The Beginning

      Chapter 2   A Sad Awakening

      Chapter 3   Lost Hopes of a Better Place

      Chapter 4   Our Paternal Grandparents

      Chapter 5   Invited to Church

      Chapter 6   I See My Mother Again

      Chapter 7   Still Unaware of Danger

      Chapter 8   Ignoring the Red Flags

      Chapter 9   Wife of a Pentecostal Preacher

      Chapter 10   The Demonology Gets Worse

      Chapter 11   Hell on Earth

      Chapter 12   The Sermon I Will Never Forget

      Chapter 13   Right Back into the Same Abuse

      Chapter 14   I Was So Miserable

      Chapter 15   Climbing Out of Hell

      Chapter 16   False Prophecy

      Chapter 17   I Had Moved On

      Chapter 18   Pearls of Insight

      Preface

      This book is about the abuse I suffered as a child and while married to a Pentecostal preacher. I share my experiences and talk about how I overcame the abuse. If you or others you know might be suffering or have suffered abuse in his or her life, this book is for you. I have pondered about whether I should write this book, and I finally decided to do it. If nothing else, maybe I will be able to help those who find themselves in the same or similar situation. There is no reason to put up with nonsense in your life. Your life is far too important to let others have control over it or manipulate it.

      1000%20DEDICATION%20PAGE%20BLACK%20AND%20WHITE%20FINAL%20copy.jpgTITLE%20INTRODUCTION.tif

      Y our life is precious. It’s not meant to be controlled by anyone—I mean anyone. You may think that an individual or a group in your life holds your interests at heart. That may be true, but what can seem like someone having your interests at heart could be unscrupulous intentions. I want the best for my children, but I have no right to control or manipulate them. As their mother, I was responsible to raise them to adulthood. However, they are individuals and have the right to live their lives as they choose.

      I ended up controlled by individuals who claimed and led me to believe that they had good intentions toward me while their actions showed otherwise, and I ended up in a nightmare. Nightmare is the best term I can give for what I endured. Had I known my self-worth at the time, the big bad monsters never would have gotten an opportunity to put me in a fully awake and horrifying existence. I call them monsters because, even though they were human, they didn’t act humane.

      Everything I’ve written in this book is the truth. I haven’t fabricated anything to make a story. The only changes are the names of the individuals.

      1000%20TITLE%20CHAPTER%201.jpg

      I was born in Evanston, Illinois in the late ‘50s. My father was in the military and had married a woman he met in Chicago. My mother, bless her heart, had mental problems. My father told me years later, he wished he knew prior to them becoming a couple. Fourteen months later, Clint, my brother was born, and my parents divorced a few months later.

      My mother, Jen, married another man in the military, and we moved to Hawaii. There, my mother had four more children, three girls and a boy. I was so young at the time and wasn’t quite sure what was happening, but I remember my parents fighting all the time. Then the big and final fight came. I saw them arguing about papers that my stepdad kept referring to and shaking at her.

      Soon after that, they divorced, and my mother, Clint, and my baby brother, Sammy, and I moved to Alabama. My stepfather moved to Pennsylvania with the three girls. I learned in my teenage years why there had been a big fight. My youngest sister wasn’t my stepfather’s baby. Of course, you could look at her and tell she wasn’t because she had a darker complexion. I didn’t see it because, when you’re a kid, who cares about color? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if that were true for everyone? After the boy was born, my stepfather must have found out Sammy was not his child either.

      Now, we are in Alabama. My mother was not mentally capable of working, so my grandmother, who I called Gram, would send money to a priest to pay for our rent and bills. The only furniture for the house consisted of a metal kitchen table with chairs, a small two-shelf bookcase, a record player, two beds, and a baby crib. I loved living in the new house. It had all wood floors and a screened front porch. It was built into a mountain, so when you stepped out of the backdoor, there was a small patio area and a set of concrete stairs. Once you reached the top of the stairs, you were in the backyard, which was even with the rooftop. I often stepped over onto the roof and played there. Behind our backyard was a graveyard, and I used to think Abraham Lincoln and George Washington were buried there because we had learned about the presidents in school. I enjoyed the front porch and would sit outside and watch the squirrels for hours. We didn’t have much, but I didn’t give it any thought.

      That fall, I started first grade. The school was just down the street, so I would walk to school every morning. I was very shy, and it was hard to adjust to new surroundings again. While attending school in Hawaii, I had withdrawn from the other kids on the playground and would sometimes hide behind the bushes. I was definitely shy. I liked my new teacher, Ms. Appling, and I became quite attached to her. The school administrators decided to advance me to the second grade, but with my shyness and the need to adjust again to the new surroundings, they recognized that wasn’t going to work and put me back in the first grade.

      I have a fond memory from that class. One day, my teacher asked a boy named Tom and me to take something to the office. If something needed delivered to the office, she always sent pairs. As Tom and I walked down the hall, he looked over at me, and said, I love you. How sweet—he had a crush on me, and I had no clue. I didn’t react to what he told me, but I never forgot it. We did not speak of love in my home. I still think about what that redheaded boy said to me, and it makes me smile even today. He must have had a loving family.

      So things seemed to be going somewhat normal—well, normal for what I knew as normal. I know there were times we didn’t eat, but I never gave it any thought. The school administrators must have known, though, because they had me come to school early to have breakfast. I remember the cafeteria woman being surprised at how little I ate. They started having another child come to the school to eat, so I had a breakfast buddy. I think about that now and wonder what my brothers ate at home while I ate at school.

      My mother was extremely emotional about things and cried all the time. I don’t remember her being a mother to my baby brother, Sammy. He stayed in the crib all the time. I don’t remember her picking him up, feeding him, and changing him. I do remember one day her having one of her crying episodes, and this time, she screamed and yelled at God—about what, I don’t know. She seemed completely beside herself, and Sammy started to cry because of all the screaming. I went to her room to get Sammy and saw her pick him up from the crib and throw him across the room; he hit the wall and landed, thankfully, on the bed. I wanted to get him, so I bent down and started to crawl across the floor toward the bed, but she saw me and started yelling at me to get away.

      I felt terrible that my brother needed me, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I also felt awful because I had decided to change his diaper a few days earlier and by accident poked him with his diaper pin. He cried, and I never changed his diaper again because I was afraid I would hurt him. He couldn’t have been more than three or four

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