Free Stormie: A Story of Forgiveness and Healing by Stormie Omartian Page A

problem? I had seen enough families now to realize that my mother was not normal. Something was desperately wrong with her. Lately she had started talking about people watching her through the TV or following her when she left the house. When Dad or I had tried to dissuade her, she became hysterical, and the force of her hysteria overwhelmed us. The number of people trying to “kill” her was constantly increasing—communists, Catholics, blacks, whites, the rich, the poor, Baptists, Armenians, the Kennedys, and on and on until the list eventually included everyone we knew.
    When I finally got up late that afternoon, Mother didn’t say a word, not even to acknowledge my presence or find out how I was feeling. And I said nothing to her. It was as if we had silently agreed to never mention the incident to anyone.
    Two days later I returned to school. “Flu” was the explanation on the note from home. I wasn’t sure why I was alive, but the crisis was over and for some reason I didn’t feel like dying anymore. Maybe it was because I knew Mother realized she had gone beyond the bounds of decency. However, I entertained no hope that she would ever change. Telling Dad was out of the question. I knew that if I ever mentioned anything to him, Mother would accuse me of lying and I would get punished. He always believed her.
    Mother, of course, still didn’t extend herself to me in any way, but she stopped going for the throat. We went back to doing what our whole family did best—pretending that nothing was wrong. The only solution for my life was to finish high school and then leave home as quickly as possible. All of my activities became geared toward that goal.

CHAPTER SIX

    ABIDING HATRED

    My strategy for escape had several elements. First, after we moved again before my junior year in high school, I revised my ways of gaining attention at my new school. I traded dirty language and loose actions for more respectable methods, such as running for school office and acting in school dramas. I found that if I practiced my lines long enough, I could speak in a way that no one would suspect I had a speech problem.
    In spite of the improvement, I knew I needed professional speech therapy. So as soon as I turned 16, I began working in a department store in order to earn enough money to buy a car and pay for voice lessons. When I had earned 200 dollars I told Dad about my plan, and one evening he said he’d seen an ad for a little old Ford. “Let’s go check it out,” he said. I was thrilled with Dad’s interest. He could relate to me well when it came to cars.
    The car wasn’t much to look at, but Dad said it had a good engine and that with a few minor adjustments in his gas station it would be in good running condition.
    “What color do you want to paint it?” Dad asked.
    “Blue. But I can’t afford it.”
    “Isn’t it your birthday next week?” I couldn’t believe what he was saying. But sure enough, on my birthday, Dad drove the car into the driveway. It was purring, and it was painted my favorite shade of blue. Mother watched me through the window as I gave Dad a big hug and took the car for a spin.
    Mother glared at me when I finally got home. “I didn’t have a car when I was a teenager,” she sneered. “Why should you have one? Think you’re something special, don’t you?” I silently walked past her to my room and slammed the door. Through the closed door she shouted, “And what makes you think you’re going to take voice lessons? I never had singing lessons. You’re not going to have them either.”
    In spite of her opposition, I started studying with a voice teacher. Even with professional help I soon discovered that overcoming my speech problems was going to be hard work. The tension in my throat was so great that it took time just to get my jaw unlocked and the throat open. I spoke so rapidly that slowing my speech and making it more intelligible took hours of boring practice and then yielded