ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE…
Sarita slid into the car with a sigh. She was just getting off the night shift at Waffle House and was looking forward to getting home. We immediately fell into a conversation about the mystique of WH, a testimony to everything good about southern living. She gave me the restaurant gossip (the cook sucks) and shared what the night shift was like. Sarita talked about the regulars and about the hordes of kids that hang out on the weekend. “I don’t mind them but you just know that when five of them are sharing ONE waffle, the tip is going to be pathetic.”
Sarita had just moved to Atlanta and didn’t really know anyone. So, I asked her why she made the change. “Well, when you live a small town and do something bad, it follows you everywhere.” I have to learn when to stop interviewing my passengers. I asked what happened and Sarita just opened up.
“I tried to commit suicide and when I was finally released, people were whispering about me everywhere I went.” Apparently, she tried to end her life because of rumors being spread about her by a guy she referred to as “The Dirt Bag.”
It was official. I was no longer in Kansas anymore. Sarita continued her story, “My ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend was cheating on him with The Dirt Bag who was cheating on me. My ex found out about it and pounded on The Dirt Bag. The Dirt Bag told everyone that I had tipped my ex off which wasn’t true. I just couldn’t handle it which is why I tried to kill myself.”
Though she was eventually vindicated, Sarita decided that she had to make a change.
“Was your family supportive?” I asked. Sarita, once again, sighed, “As a kid, I kept being traded around between my mom, dad, and grandparents.” I asked if her dad tried to step in. “No, he’s in jail for two life sentences.” Grandparents? “Too old now but I am grateful to them.” Mom? “She lives in Atlanta.”
Being an optimist, I tried to wrap this story up on a positive note by concluding, “And that’s why you moved to Atlanta.”
Sarita responded, “I only picked Atlanta because it was the closest big city.”
I prodded further and asked why that was the case. “When I was eight, I was sexually abused. It went on for two years and when I finally told my mother, she refused to believe me.”
This was officially the saddest and most depressing ride I had ever been on. Here was this 23 year old who seems all alone in this world. She works at night and sleeps during the day.
I tried to break the tension by suggesting that she submit this for a storyline on “Empire.” She laughed out loud and said she thought that people wouldn’t find it believable.
Getting serious, I put on my official UpLyfting Therapist hat and told Sarita that she had to seek support and join a group. “You can’t hide forever and you have to get help in order to heal.” I made her promise she would find a support group.
When the ride ended, I got out of the car to give her a hug. I told her she was a survivor and that she was on the right track. I also made her promise me again that she’d find a group to join. She thanked me and said she had not opened up like that in a long time. I looked at her and said, “We may have just been together for 30 minutes but it doesn’t take long to make connections when you sense that the other person is listening and cares.”
SUMMING IT UP. I am not sure that Sarita will follow up and so I began looking online for support groups. It has been a week and I am still trying to get to the right resources for survivors of suicide and for adult survivors of childhood sexual abuse. The people I contact refer me to other people. Websites have lots of information but it is not nearly as easy as I thought. I can’t imagine that Sarita would continue to search the internet if she ran into the things that I am encountering. When I have found what I need, I will drop the information at the Waffle House for her to hopefully pursue. In my last entry “A Stripper and a Felon Get into a Car,” I shared how hard it is for people whose circumstances don’t afford them access to the resources they need when they get into trouble. It just underscores how broken things are. You can see how easy it is for people to fall between the cracks. My heart goes out to the stripper, the felon, and now the suicide/child abuse survivor. This time around, I am not going to sit on the sidelines. This time, I am going to do something about it.
