The Price of Pearls: A Woman's Journey from Bondage to Freedom

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Afterword

Appendix

My Affirmations

My New Identity

About the Author

Praise for

The Price of Pearls:

A Woman’s Journey from Bondage to Freedom

The Price of Pearls: A Woman’s Journey from Bondage to Freedom compassionately takes the reader’s hand and ushers her before a mirror to confront her own distorted view of reality, while at the same time provides comfort and hope. Patricia inspires the reader to want to come out from behind her mask and become her best self.

—Linda King

Facilitator, motivational speaker, corporate training manager

Master trainer and manager of leadership and education

development

Professional consultant: Perfecting You Enterprise

(www.perfectingyouenterprise.com)

Patricia Manns does an excellent job of captivating the reader’s attention with each page of The Price of Pearls: A Woman’s Journey from Bondage to Freedom. Patricia identifies the hidden traps that many women possess today and shines the light of truth on each misconception. The author’s transparency allows for deep processing and inner healing. It is through the author’s reflective style and restored spirit that I quickly identified with the storyline. The expression of her new identity is a heartfelt and obtainable goal for all. This book will not only bless the lives of many, but also set women free who have been bound by the demands, commands, and bondages of the world. It will make you laugh, cry, and rejoice as she shares her struggles and ultimate triumphs. This book is a must read and must tell!

—Tiaralyn Meadows

Women’s ministry group leader and motivational speaker

An ordinary woman with an extraordinary story, Patricia Manns’ artistic and detailed writing style shines in her enlightening and inspiring memoir. The Price of Pearls is a must read for any woman who is still wondering if all things really do work together for our good.

—Tonya Dorsey

Life coach, leadership development consultant

(www.tonyadorsey.com)

Author, From Crisis to Purpose: A Mother’s Memoir

To my mother, Ann, who defines the

true meaning of a godly woman; my husband Willie,

who has supported me unwaveringly throughout our marriage;

my children, Duane, Andrea, Christine, and Kevin,

who shower me with the kind of love a mother cherishes;

and in memory of my father, Big Jim,

who taught me how to laugh.

Preface

I grew up in a soup bowl. Living in a house with twenty-one family members, I found personal space totally non-existent. At its peak, my household consisted of Mama and Daddy and seven children, Daddy’s parents, two uncles and their wives, four young cousins, a middle-aged aunt and her live-in boyfriend, and oftentimes the daughter of a friend of the family. Everything belonged to everybody, from the food we ate, to the clothes we wore, to the beds in which we children slept.

To help maintain some semblance of order in the house, the adults lived by a central theme which was common in the fifties in rural Willow Town, Maryland: Children are to be seen but not heard. No one ever openly stated or wrote the rule for us to see, but we knew it existed. This rule should have been more appropriately stated, Children should neither be seen nor heard. For example, my brothers often joke today about Mama sending the flock of us outside at daybreak, calling us in for lunch, and then shooing us away to take up our daily round of games until her cry from the front porch beckoned us to dinner.

I don’t remember us kids ever being openly disrespectful to the adults in the house. However, sibling rivalry was alive and well from dawn to dusk. Such moments were usually quelled by Mama’s hardy swats with switches we retrieved from a flourishing lilac bush in our front yard. Thus, I resolved to keep my feelings to myself rather than complain out loud about my brothers’ devilish antics or what Mama or Grandma had fixed for supper or about how drafty the old house was most of the time.

Regardless of my meager surroundings and typical childhood bumps and bruises, I was happy and safe. But deep down in my subconscious, I had buried an unthinkable event which surfaced when I turned forty. One experience lay dormant yet hindered my ability to trust and set boundaries. A hurt child lived in me, hiding from anyone who tried to penetrate her protective shield.

Over the years, I became a perfectionist. I said what I thought people wanted to hear, did what I thought they wanted me to do, and lost myself in the process. Eventually I experienced utter hopelessness and fell into deep depression, literally losing my voice. This is my story but it could very well be yours. My experiences may be somewhat different but the feelings are common. You see, life is about settling the issues of your past so that you can be free to live the life God intended for you.

When you become authentic, true to yourself and others, you will find peace and purpose. I tell my story, not as one who has it all together, but as one who has found grace and hope along life’s journey. My greatest desire is that you find courage to emerge from the shadows, discover your voice, live your dreams, and inspire others to do the same.

Acknowledgments

There are so many people who contributed to this book. I give credit to memorable language arts teachers who encouraged me along my writing journey: Mrs. Jones, my seventh grade English teacher, at Bates Junior High in Annapolis, Maryland and Mrs. Reeves, my creative writing teacher at Arundel High School in Gambrills, Maryland. I also recognize my freshman English 101 professor, Dr. J. Elam, and my creative writing professor, Dr. Ward, both professors at the former Bowie State Teacher’s College during my undergraduate years. Other teachers provided lifelong lessons which helped make me the person I am today.

I wish to thank my colleagues from Crofton Middle School who heard I was writing a book and checked on my progress periodically. I especially want to recognize my two lunch buddies, Sandy Schachter and Mary Dobish, fellow counselors who inspired me with daily discussions about books they were reading and provided motivation for putting ink to my life. Thanks to Jamie Moore, a former colleague, whose paintings celebrate the accomplishments of women and who told so many colorful stories at lunch as well. You inspired me.

Thanks to those who are called to counsel others. You dedicate your lives to healing others and may never fully realize how your compassion and patience revive the hopeless.

My church family at Living Waters Worship Center was instrumental in helping me tell my story. I thank my brother, sister-in-law, and mentors, Bishops James (Buck) and Varle Rollins, from Odenton, Maryland, who provided a nurturing atmosphere where I finally felt free to share my story. Thanks so much to Varle who has walked with me through every storm and pushed me to be all I could be, even on days when I wanted to give up. You dared me to come out of hiding and use my gift to help others navigate their journey.

Much appreciation goes to my new church family, New Mercies Christian Church, in Lilburn, Georgia, most notably Pastor Jessie Curney, III, and first lady, Aleana Curney. Thanks for creating an atmosphere where lives are changed and people are encouraged to reach their full potential. Your integrity and vulnerability are priceless. When Willie and I walked in that first Sunday, we knew we were home, even in a church of seven thousand.

Many thanks to personal friends who checked on me and my writing progress through phone calls or inspirational notes since I moved: Joanne Day, Donna Embolton, Dewana Parker, and others. I hope to read Dewana’s book one day, as well. Special thanks to my women’s Bible study group, especially Denise Smith, who supported me in a strange land. I thank God for all of you.

I also thank my brothers and sisters, who still enrich my life just by being the funniest, most colorful human beings in God’s creation. I cherish the memories you helped create and cannot imagine life without you.

I especially appreciate my first readers: Michele Rollins and Kim Kridler. Without your sacrificial input, this book would not have been written. I also honor the memory of another reader, Ileana Laurendine, who passed from this life into eternity prior to my book’s publication. You never complained, even on your bad days.

Thanks to my niece, Tonya Dorsey, a life coach and wonderful writer, who dared to write her very personal story and inspired me to write mine.

And to my local Curves sisters, you provide an atmosphere where I can toss my cares aside and just have fun.

I sing praises to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ! I am eternally grateful that You love me, believe in me, and want to use my life to help others.

Chapter One

Headed for a Breakdown

My storm began brewing in 1989, a year after my oldest son graduated from high school. As dark clouds began to gather, interrupting a tranquil summer’s day, my depression started as a squall and gathering strength, grew into gale-force winds.

Lying in bed perfectly still one night, I felt an all-too-familiar fluttering sensation in my chest. At the age of forty, I began to feel out of control, plagued by guilt about choices I had made in my past and fearful of what the future might hold for me. I began to rehearse my usual worries: Am I on the verge of a heart attack? What’s going to happen next? Should I call Dr. Whitfield in the morning? Should I stay home from work tomorrow? Will I be like this forever? Moonlight seeped through window shades, casting eerie shadows across the entire room, as I tossed and turned in bed.

Imaginary voices from every corner of the room whispered. You’re headed for a breakdown. You’ll never get through this. Why don’t you just give up? Nobody knows how to fix you. Stop wasting your time. You’re such a burden to your husband. You can’t even take care of your kids anymore. Pretty soon you won’t be able to do your job. Everybody will be better off without you.

Lately I had entertained thoughts of checking myself into a treatment center and had considered a place I’d heard about on a Christian television station. That was the last place I wanted to be. But I couldn’t seem to control my compulsive thinking, and quite frankly I was completely exhausted from the energy it took to get out of bed and face each day. I couldn’t bring myself to even mention the idea to my husband, Willie. I was afraid he would think I had finally reached the point of no return. While I had desperately tried to let him know how bad I was feeling, I could never totally define the sheer torment I was experiencing.

Besides, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to admit I was a failure… a failure at living. To admit that about myself was too painful, too humiliating, too awful. I was holding on by a thread. To say what my heart already knew was to sign my death certificate. I felt as if I would totally unravel if I opened my mouth and actually said those words. That step would mean I could no longer pretend I could make it on my own.

My family needed me whole, but I had nothing left to give. I was running on fumes. I choked back tears and wondered what my children would think of me. Surely, they would never understand if I went away for an extended time to get help. Who would be there to take care of them? I couldn’t place that burden on my own mother. Mama had taken care of Daddy for many years when his health failed him, attending to his every need until his death from complications from diabetes at the age of fifty-three. After he was gone, Mama moved in with us and did most of the cooking and housework. I could see worry lines on her face whenever she asked me how I was doing. It would break her heart to know her daughter was on the verge of insanity and might be hospitalized, just like my two uncles, Daddy’s brothers.

And then there was the issue of school. Who would want their children in a class with a teacher who couldn’t even take care of her own family? I wanted peace; I craved peace. I couldn’t take one more night like this.

I lay awake beside Willie, wishing I had a magic wand to make the racing thoughts disappear. Grabbing his hand, I finally pleaded, Honey, I can’t sleep again. I know you just prayed for me, but would you go downstairs and find that bottle of champagne in the pantry? I’ve got to get some sleep and it’s already two o’clock and the alarm will still go off at five thirty. I just don’t know what else to do.

It must be pretty bad tonight, he said. "I’ve never known you to drink anything to get to sleep. Are you sure that’s what