Worthy

Worthy

Alicia Rose

ISBN 978-1-0980-7385-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-0980-8192-8 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-0980-7386-2 (digital)

Copyright © 2021 by Alicia Rose

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

To my mom, thank you for fighting for us to have a better life. To my dad, Chuck, thank you for being our north star. I love you both more than you know. To Jeremy, my rock, I love and adore you. To Jackson, without you, I would have never started this journey. You are my why. I love you, kid. And last but certainly not least, to my Mamow Lowis. Lord, have mercy. How I love you.

Introduction: Worthy

Well, hello, sisters. I am really excited that you’re holding my book right now. I know how precious your time is, and I can promise you that this book is my heart and soul in the paper. The single purpose of this book is to inspire you to realize how amazing you are, how you already have everything inside of you that you need to be happy. There will be stories that will hopefully make you laugh and possibly make you cry and realize that you’re not alone. In this world of filters and competition, I’m coming to you as myself. Now don’t get me wrong, this girl loves good mascara and hair extensions like nobody’s business, but I’m no longer putting a Band-Aid on a deeper wound. I’ve learned that we must heal from the inside out. Not the outside in. It just does not work that way. We can go around and around that issue for as long as we have to, but we can’t pass go until we learn. I needed to embrace my past, face my fears, and be really honest with myself. Anxiety, depression, feelings of not being good enough were stuffed so deeply inside me that I was starting to resemble the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. I’m certain that you can do the same thing and embrace who you are apologetically. That, my friend, is what freedom feels like. Come and be free with me! You’re worth the work. Fight for the best version of you. I hope at the end of this book; you feel as though you have always known me, like an old best friend. Hopefully, bearing the parts of my life that weren’t so pretty can inspire you to realize that the past has no hold on what the future can bring.

Chapter 1

Chasing the Mirage

Have you ever felt that you are always chasing something? For example, I’ll be happy when we buy a house. Then it turns into, I’ll be happy when we’re all moved into said house. Then it’s, I’ll be happy when the house is remodeled. Then when that’s to our satisfaction, we’re on to something else. That’s what I did. So instead of enjoying the journey with my husband, I felt constantly frustrated and overwhelmed. I wish I could have told the old me, Enjoy the journey, and eating from your old ’70s counter top will someday be a good memory in the part of your journey.

I know far more about this than I should, mainly because I’ve chased a mirage most of my life. I was trying to chase something down that would fill that sense of longing or completeness. It’s a lot easier to find a quick fix for your problems than it is to dig deep, rip off the scab, and get to work. It’s hard work, but it’s work that needs to be done. Then once it’s done, we can continue with life in its wholeness. Not always searching for the next thing to feel better temporarily. Before I began this journey of inner work, I circled the same mountain over and over again. I could not pass until I worked through my issues. I would always end up in the same spot time after time.

As a child, I had a pretty colorful childhood. It was full of love, happiness, sadness, crazy stories, loss, and restoration. Let me share my story with you. Our God is in the restoration business, and this is my story of how He restored me.

I was born in 1985 in Barbourville, Kentucky. It was a hot, muggy Southern day, I was told. My mom and dad brought me home to a little house deep in the Holler. So my story began. My mom is one of the toughest women I’ve ever known. She takes no crap and can make just about anything beautiful. My dad, who has since passed, was a fun guy. He was a friend to everyone but a terrible husband. He had issues that he never worked through, resulting in drug use and becoming an alcoholic. He was extremely abusive to my mom. His temper was so explosive it was like a volcano ready to erupt at any time. He was a pot farmer, and believe it or not, we lived in a dry county, so alcohol sales were prohibited. So he became a bootlegger. We had this cool barn, and he made one of the stalls the beer room. People would drive up and tell him if they wanted a six-pack or a twelve-pack. If they answered six-pack, he would get his X-Acto knife out and cut it in half. They would pay and be on their way. This is how he made his living. We lived on fifty acres or so of land. There was a beautiful stream that winded through.

My aunt Judy lived across the field with my cousins Michelle and David; she and mom were best friends. Mom said she was the closest thing to a sister that she ever had. She was like another parent to me as well. Her husband, which was my uncle Earl, would go out drinking with my dad. They would both come home in the same state—hungry, broke, and ready to fight. Now, my aunt Judy had some nerve pills. Those two ladies soon figured how which pill was undetectable ground inside a tuna fish sandwich. When they would pass out, they would take the money that they didn’t already blow, and they would happily craft and enjoy a day or two of quiet. When they would wake up, they wouldn’t remember much, and they would think that they spent all their money. Now those women had moxie. Moxie, I love that word. I love what it means. Moxie—the force of character, determination, or nerve. Down the road, the other direction was my uncle John, aunt Debbie, and my cousins Nikki, Trampus, Will, and Little John. Their house was always fun and filled to the brim with kids. Uncle John was so special to me. He was my father’s older brother, and he always tried to help him and give him guidance. He was a rock for the entire family; he is greatly missed as well as Aunt Judy.

My other uncle David lived a few minutes away near the Little Store; the Little Store was a tiny gas station. We frequented it so much that we had a tab, and my father would pay it off once a month. My uncle David is a good, kind man. He is a family man and always had a good head on his shoulders.

My grandma, a.k.a. Mamow, was lovely; she and I were very close. She was about 110 pounds of love and food-making fury. She was always cooking. That was her love language. My uncle John told me that his mom (Mamow) would pack him a Herman Munster lunch box filled with enough food to feed an army when he was in school. My grandpa Will had died before I was born; she loved him so much and always talked about him. She called him Big Red; he was a coal miner. Grandma worried, smoked cigarettes, and drank coffee, and then worried some more. She would often say, Lord, have mercy. I’m going to have a nervous breakdown. When I was a little girl, around five or six years, I prayed for God not to let Grandma have a nervous breakdown. She is also where I got the phrase hankering for a cookie. That went over well with my family in Indiana (Inset eye roll and sigh.)

They still call me Corn Bread.

My father would go out on drinking binges and return after a couple of days in a rage. He would beat my mom and tear apart the house. Once, he threw everything my mom owned into the creek. I would scream for him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. I can still see the look in his eyes when he would do it. His eyes would look like a scared deer. Our haven was Aunt Judy’s house; Mom would have me run out the side door and go to her house for safety. He would never hit me, but the trauma of seeing my mom beaten was hard. Mom would run out behind me as soon as she could get away. One night, in particular, I remember us running away to Aunt Judy’s house. My cousin Michelle was not home, and we got into her bed. My mom begged me to be quiet; we heard the front door open, and he came looking for us. The bedroom door was open a tiny crack, and I remember watching him. Aunt Judy convinced him that we weren’t there. He left, and we went to sleep. The next morning was a school day. Mom let me stay home because my voice was hoarse from screaming the night before; I can’t imagine how painful that was for her to see her child go through that.

Since our house wasn’t very safe for me, I spent a lot of time with my Mamow; we would eat Jack’s Pizzas and drink RC Cola; dessert would, of course, be a moon pie or four moon pies. Grandma’s love language was food, remember? I would go down to the Piggly Wiggly with her and get these little fruit pies. They were fried in lard. Why is lard so delicious? Friends, I kid you not when I tell you that she put lard in everything. Grandma could really cook; she could fry cornbread like nobody’s business. Heart problems were a common occurrence in our family. I’d have to say it’s the eating habits; clogged arteries are no joke. Nothing feels more comforting to me than a good fried meal, though, all health consciousness aside. That must be embedded deep in my psyche, in my early memories of comfort.

I would play in the creek that curled around our property; it was my little swimming pool. I would play with Barbies, and to my mother’s horror, I once caught baby copperhead snakes in her mixing bowl.

We had a sheep named Rambow. He was a major jerk. He would charge at you with his head down and knock you flat on your back. We lived in the Holler. For those of you that may not know what that is, it’s the low place between two mountains. When you would look around, all you would see are mountains. At night, it was very dark, and there were no streetlights. We didn’t have a garage, so when we would come home at night, you would hope, pray, and book it to the door as fast as you could before Rambow would come and send you flying through the night sky. My mom got the wiser of him and decided to tie a bell around his neck, so now you had a warning of Rambow’s approach. So, going into the house went more like this: open the car door, listen for the bell (Okay, no bell), get out of the car, and walk toward the house. What, what’s that? That’s a bell! Panic sets in, and you hear the bell getting louder and ringing faster and faster. You try to guess which direction it’s coming, and hopefully, you make it to the door before Rambow makes it to you. How do sheep have such good eyesight? Is that a thing? Once that I remember, probably many times, my poor mom had to get on top of the car to get away from the disgruntled sheep. Now mind you, we didn’t sheer the sheep and make mittens from the wool. We just had a big jerk of a sheep because my father brought him home one day. We also had a mean duck named Quacker Doo; we got them as a pair, and the other one drowned in his water dish. I always assumed Quacker Doo was mean because he missed his friend.

On Fridays, Mom and I would go to the dollar store, and she would tell me that I could get anything that I wanted; this would consist of a baby doll or anything of that nature. From the time I can remember, all I ever wanted to do was be a mom. I would dress up my dolls and get real bottles and real clothes. I didn’t want doll clothes. I wanted the real thing. It’s hard to believe that we only have one child. After the store, we would go to Subway and get a cold cut combo with green onions and black olives—with oil and vinegar to finish it off. To this day, that’s still what I eat.

My Dad and I would ride around in his black Silverado truck and listen to country music. As we would walk out the door, Mom would say, Mark, don’t be drinking and driving with Alicia in the car. Sadly that’s another thing that I thought was normal. We would always stop by the little store, I would get a mountain dew and Reese’s peanut butter cup. I would sign the tab. We would drive around to visit his friends. He would call it loafin’. We would drive house to house until we would find a friend that was home. They would call me boss. If I were lucky, there would be some kids to play with. He would hand out beer and drink. I would run around the countryside playing with whoever was available. When we would get hungry, we would invade the nearest woman’s kitchen and get a sandwich. When I was a kid in Kentucky, the women rarely worked, at least the ones I knew. They were homemakers and took care of the children. Always prepared to feed whatever group of children that were there, theirs or not. Southern hospitality is real; it’s deeply embedded in me, and for that, I am grateful. Come over anytime, come hungry, and let me take care of you. That is also my love language. Bring your children and let them be at home. I’ll show them where I keep the cookies. Sometimes my dad would drink too much, and I would have to help him steer his truck. I started to do this probably around age five. I thought it was fun, but for him, it was a necessity.

My mom had decided to get a night job; whatever money Dad would make, he would drink it up or spend it on who knows what. Mom always wanted a better life for me, and she fought hard for it. She thought that if she could work while we were sleeping, all would be well. One night my father decided to take me over to his friend’s house with him; they had kids there, and the wife’s name was Lorrie. I liked her so much; she was also a friend to my mom. So I had a great time playing, and as time went by, it got later and later. I can’t tell you what time it was, but my father came in and said, It’s time to go home. I had fallen asleep with the other kids, and I had woke up when I heard him. He could barely walk and was hanging on to the wall. Laurie stepped in and said, Just let her stay here and sleep. Come get her tomorrow. As a mother now, I knew what she was doing; she kept me safe and was a good friend to my mom. My father made it home. How? I don’t know. He had passed out cold. My mom comes home from work, and she can’t find me. She couldn’t wake him up; she didn’t know where I was. She took off going around to find me; now, this was before cell phones, and we didn’t have a house phone. My