I am not angry

It had been three years since I had first dreamed about Chipeta, a Ute woman born more than a century earlier, who had unexpectedly come to me one morning just before dawn. I had promised Chipeta and her Ute ancestors that I would write her story; it was time I committed to it. I would head down to the History Colorado Center in Denver, Colorado to begin my research. My heart and intuition had made the decision for me. I knew I had to leave the comfort of my world and learn about hers. I committed to praying and meditating in the early mornings and often in the evenings. I kept my journal next to the bed, so I could capture the messages in my dreams by recording them exactly as they came to me.

These journal entries created comfort and often conflict within me. I was being asked to examine the inside and outside of my own life. This forced me to dig below the rock-hard surface of my soul and confront my past and the experiences that had made me fearful and full of grief. I started to remember the “good, the bad, and the ugly,” and began accepting that the effects of them were part of my life’s journey.

My journals were filled with entries about wonderful events, dreams for my future, lamentations of lost opportunities, loss of identity and self, about fear of the future, fear of the past, and even fear of my present life. My twin, Veronica, said I acted angry when I talked about my past. I would smile and say, “I am not angry,” but my journal pages told the truth: I was filled with rage.

Hurtful and life-changing experiences often revealed themselves through my journals. As a child, sexual abuse by family friends. Both physical and emotional abuse from those I loved and revered. In my early adulthood, a former brother-in-law trying to beat my sister to death on that cold, gray November afternoon. I also remembered the deep, deep agony I experienced losing two babies early in my pregnancies. I never spoke of this heartache I felt. I felt it was my fault for being a failure as a woman. No one in my family talked of such things.

The memories came in a torrent. Like a flash flood, there was no stopping them, though I tried at times. I stayed busy helping everyone else, volunteering for all kinds of activities and committees at school and church. As my children grew older, I started my own businesses. I spent money at thrift shops, searched for “beautiful things” to make our home or myself more presentable. I would still feel empty. My husband and I argued over the finances, making me want to run away and leave my life behind. When my kids became more independent and started to leave home, the hole in my heart became a crater. I needed to go to counseling.

I’d been in counseling before, after my brother, and his wife, lost their twin daughters late in her pregnancy. At the twins’ funeral, thinking about losing my own babies overwhelmed me, and I wept; for the twins, for my brother and his wife, and for my unborn babies. Afterward my brother and his wife sent me a check and suggested I use it for counseling. It was one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

Counseling started me on my slow and painful path toward healing. For years, I continued to work through a lifetime of repressed memories, losses, grief, guilt, and more. Then came Chipeta’s dream.