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    A Dime to My Name: Breaking the Silence, Healing the Brokenness, & Living the Dream
    A Dime to My Name: Breaking the Silence, Healing the Brokenness, & Living the Dream
    A Dime to My Name: Breaking the Silence, Healing the Brokenness, & Living the Dream
    Ebook131 pages1 hour

    A Dime to My Name: Breaking the Silence, Healing the Brokenness, & Living the Dream

    By Kim Harris

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    About this ebook

    Is your money story holding you hostage?

    Held hostage by a single dime wrapped in a sadistic cycle of abuse which led to a lifetime of torment, shame, and emotional trauma.

    Sexually assaulted at the age of five, innocence destroyed, a future left uncertain, and the burden of living with the pain resulted in being broken, broke, homeless, and suicidal.

    Share in the journey of replenished self-love that restored peace, purpose, and prosperity. Owning the money story that kept one women imprisoned in self-defeating thoughts brought her to a place of forgiveness and healing that transformed her life. Learn how she used the pain of her past as a footstool to live her dream.

    This book will help you...

    HEAL your money story, own it, and create a healthy relationship with money
    ACCEPT your money story as a unique gift to make an impact
    BUILD your self-worth to maximize your net-worth
    LIVE a life of abundance and peace that only owning your story can bring

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKim Harris
    Release dateOct 1, 2018
    ISBN9780692192634
    A Dime to My Name: Breaking the Silence, Healing the Brokenness, & Living the Dream
    Author

    Kim Harris

    Kim Harris, Author/Entrepreneur

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      Book preview

      A Dime to My Name - Kim Harris

      Dedications

      This book is dedicated to my mother, Betty Ann.  Your strength and courage flow through me, and for that I am grateful. 

      You made it, and so did I.

      To my father, Thomas Harris Sr., your love fills my heart and I am so honored to call you Daddy.

      To every man, woman, or child who survived the brutality of domestic violence, or sexual assault, your voice matters. 

      You matter.

      To all the angels who covered me with their wings so that I could fly and make this journey with strength and love.

      The Brokenness

      Broken

      It was like watching a slow-motion scene from a movie.  The beautiful porcelain vase tipping, then falling towards the floor surrounded by a sepia vignette frame.  There I stood, deliberating whether to take a lunge and try to save it, or watch it complete its descent into the inevitable.  By the time I made up my mind to do anything, it was too late.

      This could not be happening!, I thought.  Especially to something I held so close and dear to my heart.

      I loved fine porcelain.  It was a vice that kept me in China shops across the city every payday.  This was one of the most beautiful pieces I had invested in so far.  A creamy taupe glazed flute vase, just enough for a single rose.  Around the top rim, a glimmer of pure 24 karat gold, and around the base, double bands of the accent gave it a rich, opulent flair.  The delicate silhouette seemed to call to me when I first laid eyes upon it.  There I stood, watching it hit the tile floor with a thunderous crash, pieces shooting from one end of the room to the other.  Shocked that my beautiful heirloom was broken into what seemed a million pieces, I instantly felt the need to try and fix it.  Gathering as many of the pieces as possible, I carefully held them in my hand so as not to cut myself.  Placing them gently on the table, I tried to remember where I stored the super-glue.  After fumbling around in the kitchen junk drawer, there it was.

      This will fix it, I thought…grabbing it and rushing back to the table where the pieces lay.  As much as I loved putting puzzles together, this was not the same and it would require some creativity, skill, and patience.

      I manipulated each piece carefully to see where it would fit.  When I found a match, I glued it securely in place.  After an hour or so, it was finished.

      I stood gazing at the vase with pride but was instantly saddened by the fact that my beautiful vase was forever altered.  It was now marred.  As I picked it up and gently ran my hand across the surface, I noticed all the tiny gaps where fragments were still missing.  Probably still on the floor where they landed upon impact.

      Those pieces would never be found and put back into the whole of the vase because now, like me, it was fragmented.

      That vase is symbolic of each of us, beautiful but fragile at the same time.  One devastating experience has the potential to shatter our lives.  Time is the glue that can put it back together, and even with pieces still missing, we find ourselves less than perfect but functional.  We still possess the beauty we were born with, if only we can remember it and live off the truth rather than on the experience that broke us.

      The brokenness becomes our driving force and it then controls our mental space and pushes us into another parallel existence of our original true self creating a mock life.  A life based on the perception of our fragility instead of on the strength of our truth that came with us when we took form in this life.

      We don't live as strongly or with as much conviction when we are broken, because we realize that additional damage to a single crack can end up breaking us even more, creating new levels of diminishment.  The more we are broken, the harder it becomes to repair, because now we are dealing with fragments of fragments that never seem to get fitted into the whole quite the same.

      The goal is to preserve what remains and find new beauty in the cracks; the scars of life.  It's impossible to see a marred soul as beautiful except that it be seen through the eyes of the soul.  Through those eyes there only exists perfection and beauty.  Those eyes sometimes must come into focus to regain the sight of what the original image represented and then, build a new connection that works around the cracks and scars to bring to light the original purpose.

      This journey can take a lifetime and requires much introspection and self-love.  It forces you to relive the brokenness over and over, and over again with each iteration picking up a piece of yourself that may have gone unnoticed or missing.  With every emergence comes new strength and power.  The life you were created to live becomes clearer and the cracks become like a blurred background in an edited photograph, barely noticeable, but still there.

      Picking up the pieces of our lives is like picking up the pieces of chard glass, which means we must get down on our knees from time to time to gather up the fragments.  It puts us closer to the source of impact where we can get a closer look at where they landed.  We are better able to see what we may have missed while standing above it all.

      On my knees in prayer and supplication asking God…no, begging God to help fix me, fix this.  All of it, me, the mess I created, and the pain inside of me.  Just fix it!

      I had finally reached a point in my life where I realized there was something within me broken.  Let me restate.  I think I’d rather use the word shattered.

      None of what was happening made sense to me, and yet, the onus of discovering a solution was on my shoulders.  That burden was so heavy and weighed me down with fear, worry, anxiety, bitterness, pain, and sorrow.

      Like the vase, I was sloppily glued together with pretense and a smile.  A smile that would allow me to charm my way into just about anything I wanted.  Being sharp intelligent, and witty, made me a chameleon in any situation.  All of it only took me so far, until it would not take me any further.

      It was time to face what I had not faced for all these years.  It was time to let the dragon’s breath hit my face and disintegrate the mask I wore.

      I don’t believe that suffering and pain is a direct requisite for living, but I do believe that it is a part of the human experience.  This would explain why people believe that when you die, and return to the point of creation, there is no suffering.  How can there be?

      However, in our suffering, in whatever form it demonstrates, we gain life lessons and insights that otherwise would not become known to us.  Is it necessary to suffer, go through emotional pain or trauma to grow? Maybe.

      I wonder if there is a single person walking this earth who has never suffered or felt pain.  One who has never felt disappointment, hurt, or sorrow.  It would be interesting to hear their journey of growth and the life lessons through a painless experience.  I’m sure it would be an amazing story.

      Pretty

      Long before there was a #metoo movement, there was just me.  Alone in my suffering, ashamed, and tormented.

      I was raised in a home riddle with domestic violence, it’s no wonder I grew up thinking that my erratic behavior was normal.  It took years to connect the dots of my life and somehow bring some semblance of balance between what was in my head and what was reality.  Being ripped apart and broken by sexual assault to being financially broke, homeless, and suicidal.

      When I began to understand the magnitude of my violation, I realized that my entire life up until that point was about grieving what was lost.

      No.  No.  Not lost -- stolen.  Taken.  Ripped away with no regard for the fact that I was a child…an innocent child.

      This was done to me.  I had no control over it.  I was vulnerable and defenseless against an adult man with serious psychological problems.  It didn’t begin with him, though. 

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