Kristy M. Vanacore - Rewilding: A Womans Quest to Remember Her Roots, Rekindle Her Instincts, and Reclaim Her Sovereignty

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Editor: Gina Mazza

Rewilding: A Womans Quest to Remember Her Roots, Rekindle Her Instincts, and Reclaim Her Sovereignty Kristy M. Vanacore, Psy.D.

Tradepaper ISBN: 978-1-945026-88-1
Electronic ISBN: 978-1-945026-90-4

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021949782

Published by Sacred Stories Publishing, Fort Lauderdale, FL USA

For the one whom I affectionately called Ma; my heart swells with love and boundless gratitude to you for inspiring me to find my voice.

Your life blazed the trail, showing me the way when I couldnt see one. Your memory lives on in my story and in the lives of all who will find inspiration in its pages.

I always believed you, and now your truth is finally set free. You are the reason why I will always be afraid not of the wild horses, but of the people who caged them.

Contents

Declaration

I was angst, fear, jealousy, rage, depression, neurosis, confusion.
I was remnants of a protective ego lurking in the shadows of Earths elements
that kept me shamed when I wanted to shine
caged when I wanted to fly
immobile when I wanted to dance
silenced when I wanted to sing
sheltered when I wanted to share love.
It was the cold harsh armor of steel that imprisoned my heart.
It was the toxic juice that fed my overprotective brain.
It was the punitive teacher who told me to color within the lines.
It was the overprotective parent who told me not to play outside in the rain.
It was the dominating boy who told me I was unworthy and told me not to
tell anyone when he touched me.
It was the trusted friend who held me and cut me with the same knife.
They have all been my greatest teachers, and its now time to put
the lessons to the test.
Its time to become who I am truly amwho I was before
the world told me who to be.

Kristy Vanacore

I read somewhere that domesticated horses hate the wind;
it makes them incredibly anxious and chaotic.
But wild horses thrive on it.

K.V.

Part One

Remembering My Roots

The Heroine horse stands upon her pedestal after placing Best in Show. Smiling for the cameras with her shiny trophy on display, she examines her life. It is full of all that she set out to achieve, yet it has come with a price. She feels empty and devoid of purpose and passion; her inner landscape barren, her soul bereft and estranged from itself.

She hears a calling and knows she must go; yet fear is all consuming and she hides in her stall, clinging to the only life that she has known.

And then one day, she wakes up and discovers the gate has been left openand the choice is all her own

Domestication

I awake on a cold metal makeshift bed, my eyes immediately blinded by the worn fluorescent lights blaring overhead. Vague memories of the night before flood my consciousness. Im eight years old and cannot comprehend why I am in a jail cell, surrounded by rusty bars and musty block walls.

Kristy, Im Sergeant Brandon.

The shadow of a man in uniform towers over me. Im scared and confused. He hands me a Dixie cup of water. The name on his badge reminds me of the dog on my favorite TV show, Punky Brewster. I focus my mind on the image of the fiery-spirited girl Punky and her doting Golden Retriever, Brandon, who were abandoned by their mother at the grocery store and taken in by a sweet old man named Henry. Had my parent abandoned me last night? Where is Daddy?

As I sip the water, a woman sits down next to me.

Hi Kristy, Im Mary. She smiles sympathetically, brushing back my long strawberry-blonde locks. Everythings gonna be okay, honey. Well get you out of here real soon.

After a while, I hear the sound of Daddys voice down the hallway as he emerges from the room where he was being questioned by a police officer. His face looks bloody and bruised. My mind flashes back to the prior evening; some sort of fight is all I recall. Im suddenly frozen in fear.

Come on, your fathers here to get you. Mary takes my hand and tugs on me to stand up. Uh oh, she murmurs, seeing that my pants are soaked.

I had urinated on myself. The tears come. Im embarrassed and want to run and keep runningbut I cant. In the car, Daddy doesnt say a word. He just stares out the window of his old blue Oldsmobile that smells smoky from the time the engine caught fire and burned a hole through the floor panels. When that happened, he made me smile by saying we could be like the Flintstones cartoonjust put our feet through the floor and run. But today I cant find humor or any feeling. Im numb.

The day prior started out like every typical Saturday. Daddy picked me up at four oclock for his court-ordered weekend visitation. We drove to his apartment which he shared with his mother, my Grammie. I cooked in the kitchen with Grammie. Daddy stayed in his bedroom, watching TV and chain smoking.

Cmon, we gotta go! Daddy yelled to me just as I was setting the table for dinner.

Johnny, what are you talking about? Were eating now, Grammie said. Whats so important? Dont tell me its that girl again.

Lets go! I said NOW! I could see veins bulging in Daddys head. Grammie had tears in her eyes. I felt nauseous, as I had many times before, being put in the middle between wanting to stay with Grammie and watch her favorite Golden Girls TV show and wanting to please my Daddy.

I put two-and-two together as to why Daddy rushed me out of the house. He had gotten a call from his girlfriend who was in some sort of trouble. I didnt understand it then, but she was in some crack den doing drugs, and one of the men there tried to hurt her. She was on the verge of overdosing. As we drove to her rescue, Daddy mumbled and banged the steering wheel. I just stared out the window, humming songs in my head. Something didnt feel right about the situation my parent was leading me into.

We arrive at the old, dank-smelling apartment building. The hallway is dingy and reeks of oil paint as I try to keep up with Daddy, whose brisk, purposeful walk leads us to a thickly-painted brown door with Apartment 2H on it. Smoke is wafting through the gaps in the door. It smells awful, almost medicinal. I am shaking, as I know something bad is about to happen. Being a man of few words, Id gotten good at reading my fathers facial expressions and body language. In these moments, anger is seeping out of his pores as he raps on the door repeatedly.