the struggle to survive. You wonder if it is worth the effort. It is for those who are strong enough to
endure the abuse of a loved one, the stigma of having HIV and the demands the
two place on them. However, my
resources, depleted, by the demands of a rough life. The inner strength that once enabled me to
conquer obstacles, go around roadblocks and reach unimaginable heights,
drained. Weakened by years of abuse and neglect, I resign. The will to live has faded like the flame of
a flickering candle, and in the darkness of despair, I make the choice to fade
from existence. Do not waste precious
time mourning the death of a woman battered into submission, but
understand the reason I’ve reach this
moment and make an effort to save those who walk a similar path. In addition,
let the last words that embrace the pages of this book, season your
hearts.
Love did not rob me of my self-esteem. My
poor choice of a mate did. Love is not responsible for the black and blue
discoloration of my skin, or the numerous fractures that have left me with a
leg and an arm, that is much shorter than the other. My failure to recognize an
abusive man is. Love’s words never
humiliated me, or caused me to fear for my life. Neither did they create an atmosphere of
terror, moments of extreme mental and emotional anguish, and a distressful
feeling of total worthlessness. My sorry excuse of a husband did. Love has
never victimized me or treated me like a discarded piece of trash it picked up
off the street. My careless and reckless way of choosing someone to spend the
rest of my life with, has. Therefore, I leave you with this thought to
ponder. If someone has thrown it away
because it is broken. Leave it in the
dam thrash you cannot fix him. So many
have fooled themselves into believing that they can, only to find that they are
the ones now broken and beyond repair. Do your homework and one day you will
graduate to celebrate a golden anniversary with the same guardian of your
heart. Until we meet on the dirt road
of death, remember, above all things, love yourself. Cause if you don’t, nobody
else will.” Francis Eugene Bobbie
Jackson
The
pen fell from between her slender fingers, Francis leaned forward, placed her
head on a fluffy velvet pillow and at 9:45 p.m. the thirty-one year old, former
beauty queen, mother of two, faithful housewife to a husband that was an
abuser, succumbed to a fatal overdose of prescription pain killers. She died
with a picture of her two children, April and Justin, clutched to her
chest.
The End
