WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS DO YOUR NAILS

There have been times in my past when removing old, chipped nail polish and replacing it with a fresh, new vibrant color seemed like the only thing I had any control over.  “When all else fails do your nails” was practically a mantra playing through my mind in an endless loop when I found myself in a shelter for abused women nearly 1,600 miles from home.

          I moved from Houston, Texas to Syracuse, New York with my new husband.  Never in my life had I been treated so good – before the marriage.  Then within a few months never had I been treated so badly.  The fact that abuse was a new experience for me was my saving grace.  Unlike most of the other women at the shelter, I didn’t have a pattern of past abuse to overcome.  That made it much quicker and easier for me to go from victim to survivor, and on into making a clean break from a toxic situation.

          It also made it, I’m ashamed to say, difficult for me to understand the mindset of the women who repeatedly returned to abusive situations.  For some of them it was their second, third, or fourth stay in the shelter.  Why they would go back to abusive husbands made no sense to me.

Sister Marci, the Catholic nun in charge of the shelter, explained to me what they had been through and why they made some of the decisions they had made.    She said that most of the women there had grown up in abusive families where physical, and sometimes sexual abuse was a common occurrence.  It became what they expected, what was “normal” to them, and in some cases, even what they thought they deserved.  Being treated nice put them on edge, thinking the other shoe would fall at any time.  Nice to them was nothing more than a prelude to pain, sometimes leading to trips to the hospital.  Abuse was bad, but at least it was normal in their minds.  Even now, nearly 45 years later, I still grapple with such a foreign concept where abuse can seem normal, and my heart goes out to anyone who experiences abuse mentally or physically.

What did fall into my concept of normal was Sister Marci’s unconditional love which she showed to me along with everyone else in the shelter.  It was a grounding force that kept me hanging on through those darkest hours.  At the same time Sister Marci was a no-nonsense mighty force to be reckoned with when necessary.

When a woman would decide she’d had enough and was serious about leaving her husband for good, Sister Marci would marshal together a group of us, arming us with large trash bags. Marci would drive us to the woman’s home when the woman knew her husband would be at work, and we’d charge through like a dozen tornados, grabbing up all her things, and tossing them into the plastic bags.  We’d be in and out in less than half an hour.  I must admit, that was kind of exciting.

I was only in the shelter for a few weeks before I found a job and moved into an efficiency apartment.  But in that short time friendships were formed, and we kept in touch with each other. 

          On the first Thanksgiving in my new home, I had about a dozen women who were currently living in the shelter, over to my apartment for dinner.  The apartment was so small that the kitchen consisted of a small oven, camper size sink, half-size refrigerator, and one cabinet – all fitting behind louvered doors that closed.  It was basically a closet kitchen.  Instead of a walk-in closet I had a walk-through closet.  I had to walk through the closet to get to the bathroom.   The small sofa in the living room was my bed.  It was quite a change from my three-bedroom house, a few blocks off a golf course in Houston, but it was a good place to heal.

          Because the sofa was my only piece of furniture, most of us sat on the floor, eating off paper plates.  Yet, there was so much love, laughter, celebration, and sincere appreciation for what we all had, that to this day, that has remained one of my best Thanksgivings ever. 

          Sister Marci was Catholic through and through, but every other Sunday she’d alternate between attending her Catholic Mass and attending Unity of Syracuse.  Marci introduced me to Unity.  Unlike the stuffy Episcopal Church, I grew up in, Unity was much like that Thanksgiving celebration.  It was filled with hugs, laughter and positive energy.

          As Marci had introduced me to one of her favorite places, Unity Church, I introduced her to one of mine – Coleman’s Authentic Irish Pub.  Like Unity, Coleman’s was filled with laughter and an abundance of positive energy.  Plus, it had the added benefit of free-flowing green beer on St. Patrick’s Day, and good Irish whiskey and live Irish music the rest of the year.  Marci and I fell into a routine of every other week going to Coleman’s on Saturday followed by Unity on Sunday.  We did that for years until Marci moved away.  She went to work at a homeless shelter in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

          There are still times that I have to say to myself, “when all else fails, do your nails” as I focus my attention on replacing old nail polish.  But I do so, knowing that I won’t be stuck for long in whatever negative situation I find myself. 

Even now, during challenging times when I need to fall back on those words, good memories of Sister Marci come to mind, calming me and bringing a smile to my face.  Marci will always be a sister to me in more ways than one.

Oh, and by the way, this isn’t the only time I redo my nail polish.