Birds with Broken Wings Still Fly: Overcoming Trauma

By Joanne Chestnut

Embark on an intimate journey through the pages of my book, a cathartic odyssey born from the crucible of my most vulnerable moments. As life hurled rocks my way, I didn't just survive; I meticulously fashioned those fragments into a road of restoration and resilience. In these pages, I lay bare my painful and traumatic past, not as a tale of sorrow, but as a testament to the unwavering strength within us all. It's a guide for fellow women to unearth their inner fortitude, turning the echoes of their pain into a resonant power and that power into a profound purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: May 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9781662945014

Book preview

The Nest

Iwill start by saying that I am no stranger to pain, suffering, and adversity. I have faced less than optimal, or should I say, downright crappy situations all my life. To start with, out of all my eleven siblings, I was the only one born out of wedlock with a different father. That alone set the stage for a tumultuous childhood. Somehow, knowing that each of my siblings shared the same blood from both parents made me feel disconnected from them. It didn’t help that my father was never around, but my siblings regularly saw their dad because he and my mom were married. I have six sisters and four brothers. I am the second-to-last child. My baby sister also has the same dad as my other siblings because my mom left her husband, met my dad, got pregnant with me, and then went back to her husband and had her last child. There was also a noticeable difference in how I looked compared to my siblings. Also, at a young age, it was evident to me that I did not think in the same way my siblings did. I had an inquisitive mind and craved a better life, while they seemed to be very comfortable with the status quo. In addition to everything else, my eldest sister despised my father. She made me pay for her disdain for him by constantly pairing my face with her fist. She was more than ten years older than me, so fighting back was not an option. She was treacherous, so I was petrified of her, and my other siblings were also afraid of her. My mom was absent from the house a lot, so there was no one to protect me from her. At times, my sister who was just one year younger than her, would try to stop her from beating on me, but none of my other sisters would dare to try. They were all afraid of her. As I got older, the beatings got worse. At times, I was sure she was trying to kill me, but I was so angry that I refused to die so I could live to pay her back. I ran away from home several times to escape her fury, but I would ultimately end up right back at home. When I look back at those times now, I don’t remember ever feeling like a child because I was doing and exposed to so many adult things. I started stealing clothes to wear when I was seven years old. In fact, it was my very first time being arrested and actually taken to the police station and booked, I was only ten years old. I was in the local jail with a bunch of older girls, some were grown women who were arrested for selling drugs and prostitution. I was victimized in so many ways. When I was eight years old, I started getting fondled by an old man that my mom let stay with us. He was a blatant alcoholic, but he would cook food and give me money, so I ignored it for a long time until the day he tried to pull my underwear down. I finally told my mom what he was doing. She did actually make him leave, but it didn’t stop there. There was a neighbor who lived next door to us in one of the apartments in the project. He liked to cook, and the smell of his food would fill the first-floor hallway where we lived. He knew that my mom was gone a lot so he would offer to feed me. I was only eleven years old, so it seemed like a kind gesture. That turned into him giving me sweet-tasting alcohol that inebriated me and ultimately led to him molesting me to the point of penetration. He hurt me and made me bleed, but I kept going back. My hunger and despair kept me going back, but my shame kept me quiet. My mom moved around a lot, and we didn’t stay in one place for too long. It seemed that every place we moved, there was a predator there, waiting to devour me. It was a never-ending saga that became normal to me. This was the trauma-filled nest in which I resided. It’s weird to say that although there was pain there, there was also love—the love that I had for my baby sister and other siblings, and my love for my mom.

Out on My Own

At thirteen years old, I was taken from my mom and put into state custody for missing school and stealing food and clothes. I was labeled as being emotionally disturbed and sent to live in a group home, and that was the start of a life out on my own. I was there until I was sixteen years old, and then they let me go home. However, home was not back with my mom, since the State of Massachusetts had already declared her to be unfit to care for me.

My mom had lived through a lot of childhood trauma as well. She was taken from her mom and