Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing by Stormie Omartian Page A

finish cleaning this place; you go fix your face and hair.” A few minutes later he drove me back to where I was staying.
    In contrast to the last abortion, when I felt relieved to be alive, this time I felt depression, failure, and disgust. It had been so ugly.
    Two days later I flew to the East Coast to begin the singing tour. My bleeding continued for weeks, and eventually I had to enter a hospital for an operation to stop it. But the pain of the memory never stopped. Every time I saw a baby I felt it all over again. I mourned and felt an emptiness unlike any I had ever known. I wasn’t the same after that. Mentally I began to spiral downward.
    Would there ever be any end to the hopelessness I felt, or was I doomed to this kind of painful existence for as long as I lived? Where could I find the answers? Who could help me?

CHAPTER EIGHT

    MOTHER AND MENTAL ILLNESS

    “And so you see, Dr. Foreman, that’s when I began to drown myself in my work. It’s the only thing I can count on even though I can’t always depend on myself to do a good job. I thought marrying Rick would bring me some security, but I’m suffering more than ever.”
    I looked at the kindly gentleman who had listened to my story unfold over the last few months. He helped me understand much of what had happened, and now I could see where my fears came from and how they controlled me. Talking with him was a wonderful relief, for no matter what I told him he never made me feel like I was crazy.
    Neither of us, however, could understand the origin of my mother’s hatred and why she treated me the way she did. Yes, she was mentally ill, but that doesn’t necessarily result in cruelty and violence. Now that I had told my story I had an unshakable desire to find out more about her.
    “Dr. Foreman, I want to go back to Nebraska and talk with my mother’s family. I’ve got to know how she came to be this way.” He thought it was an excellent idea. Rick didn’t care what I did, since there was nothing left between us but indifference on his part and resentment on mine. My absence was a relief for both of us.
    I flew to Nebraska and talked with my mother’s father, her two sisters, Jean and Delores, plus other aunts and cousins. It was difficult putting all the pieces together because everyone remembered the past a little differently. I had been told that seven members of a family will give seven different accounts of the same event. It certainly proved true in this case. One thing that was consistent was that everyone cried as they spoke of my mother and the past. The tragedy of her life could not be overlooked.
    I didn’t tell anyone my purpose for being there. How could I add to their hurt by saying that Mother had abused me and now I was trying to rise above the scars? How could I say that my life was falling apart and I was seeing a psychiatrist to help pull it together? The words “psychiatrist” and “insane” were closely linked in some people’s minds. I knew I wasn’t crazy, but I did have serious doubts that I would ever be normal. My only hope was that I would learn to cope. Revealing my problems to the family could only be a hindrance to that end. I was determined not to let anyone learn the truth.
    After a week of questioning I was able to somewhat piece together Mother’s life. Although it was apparent that she was not abused as a child, her life was definitely scarred by trauma. She was born Virginia Faith Campbell, the middle child of three girls. Her place in the family was typical of many middle children—lost in between. She was beautiful and well-liked but also stubborn, lazy, and obstinate. Her bright and lively personality made a good impression at social gatherings, but on a one-to-one basis with certain members of the family she was cruel and cold. During the Depression people were concerned with survival and not the emotional balance of a family member, so her undesirable character traits and strong will usually went