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

only barely distinguishable results. Out of frustration, I ended up in tears after nearly every practice session.
    I finally saw the fruit of my labor when I got the lead in the school play and became Senior Class Treasurer. Dad was happy for me. Mother was mad. She continued to remind me that I was still a whore and a slut no matter how many things I did. “You’ll never amount to anything, you worthless _,” she would hiss as I left for my voice lesson.
    The next part of my plan was to earn enough money to afford college. Following graduation, we moved to a small apartment near Knott’s Berry Farm. I found work there, and so did my dad. The gas station was losing money, so he decided to try a regular nine-to-five job.
    Early one morning on my day off, I decided to clean the tiny room that my six-year-old sister and I shared. I couldn’t stand her mess any longer. Every drawer and her side of the closet and bedroom were filthy and cluttered with things that should have been trashed long ago. Suzy helped for awhile, then went outside to play. Mother entered as I was putting the finishing touches on the room. She had just awakened, and her eyes were puffy and burned with anger as she asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”
    “I’ve just finished cleaning up our room,” I said with pride.
    With teeth gritted, her steel-blue eyes burned a hole through my heart as she said, “I told you if I wanted this house clean I would clean it myself. This is not your house, it’s mine.” Then she went to the closet and pulled out all the books and toys I had so neatly organized and threw them on the floor. As she shoved everything off the shelves, then began to empty the drawers on the floor something inside of me snapped. This was too much! I began to scream—open-mouthed, nonsyllabic, hysterical, depth-of-my-being screams.
    Then I lunged at her to try and stop her. Quickly her right hand struck me hard across the ear and cheek and part of my eye. The blow stunned me, and before I had time to consider what I was doing, I struck her as hard as I could across the face, the same way she struck me.
    She was shocked and so was I. I couldn’t believe I had done that. Now my fear of getting stabbed in the middle of the night was far greater. I didn’t wait for any further reaction. I ran immediately out of the room, grabbed my purse, and left the house.
    I started to cry in the car, then stopped myself. “She’s not worth crying over,” I said out loud. “She’s just a hateful old witch and not worth the tears. It won’t be long before I’m out of there, and then I’ll never have to see her again.”

    After a few semesters at several other colleges, I wound up at UCLA, majoring in music. It was a relief to be away from home and in a somewhat normal environment. But coping wasn’t easy. My emotional needs were so intense that I frequently experienced fits of depression. That didn’t stop me from trying to find fulfillment through relationships with men. I became involved easily, yet commitment frightened me, so I refused to get too close to anyone.
    Married men were particularly attractive. I became romantically involved with a professor. I was miserable, yet I was drawn to a situation where I called the shots. Because he was married, all of our meetings were secret, and I could choose when we saw each other. It was flattering to think that someone so highly regarded and intelligent would find me attractive, yet the guilt and secrecy were overwhelming. I was glad when summer came and I went back to work at Knott’s Berry Farm.
    This time my job was acting and singing in a melodrama at the Birdcage Theater. I was the heroine, and the actor who played the hero was a handsome, talented comedian named Steve Martin. He was bright and sensitive, and what began as a relationship sharing poetry, philosophy, thoughts, and dreams turned into my first normal, head-over-heels-in-love romance. Steve made me feel beautiful,