Diary of a Mad First Lady
DiShan Washington
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Epilogue
Diary of a Mad First Lady - The Story of First Lady Lisa Hodges
Copyright Page
The book is dedicated to my dear grandmother
, Rosia Reese, who has gone on to be with
the Lord. I love and miss you terribly.
April 4, 1937–February 19, 2009
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Wow! Where does one begin when attempting such a feat? Being that this is my first work published by a major publishing company, one mind steers me to recognize everyone from my fifth grade teacher, who recognized my writing talent, to the first person who took a chance and bought my first self-published book back in 2004. However, I have learned that when you start thanking people, you always, always forget someone. So, with that being said, I will attempt to just name a few people who I will always be in their debt.
First, to the One who will forever be the visible force behind my success, gifts, and talents, Jesus Christ. It is in Him that I live, I move, and have my being. To Him I owe my life, and it is my vow that He will always have it.
To my king, my husband, my best friend, Myrondous A. Washington: Thank you so much for always being the light in the midst of my darkness, for being the beat of my heart, and for being the melody in the song that our love sings. In spite of all that we have been through, we have overcome. You’re the reason I go on, and I will spend my life loving you . . . all of you. Olive Juice. (Our inside joke)
To my parents, Pastor J.C. and Melinda Winters: What a journey we have all had. I want to thank both of you for giving me life. I can truly say that I admire the two of you so much. It is your dedication and faithfulness that has taught me how to persevere. Thank you for being my biggest fans and for being my cheerleaders even when I wasn’t in the game. Your unprecedented love will forever live in my heart. I love you both so very much.
To my little brother, Jerrell, and my little sister, Beth: You two are so talented, and I expect nothing from you but greatness. Let them say what they will about us Winters kids, but we are on to bigger and better things. I love you both with all of my heart.
To Detras, Frank, my nieces, and nephews: Much love to all of you.
To my grandfather, Jimmy Reese (Bigdad-dy): When MoMo died this year, I saw what manner of a man you were. You have been my strength on so many days, and I admire your courage. You both gave me my foundation in the Lord, and I’m forever grateful. I’m so glad that she had an opportunity to see this book come to fruition, and now that it has gone to the next level, I know she would be even more proud. You just keep the faith, and although our matriarch is gone, I’m the closest thing to her that you’ve got. (Smile) I love you always.
To my grandmother, Sallie Williams: What can I say about such a virtuous woman? A) You’re the sharpest dresser I know. B) You’re the sharpest dresser I know. C) You’re the sharpest dresser I know! But, on a serious note, I think about the many intimate conversations we’ve had in the past year. And as I reflect, I realize how much you mean to me. You’ve been through so much, oftentimes giving of yourself so that others can have. I’ve seen you take a back seat so that others can occupy the front. Well, Grandmama, your labor is not in vain, because the impact you’ve made in my life is unprecedented. I love you from the bottom of my heart.
To my second mom, Shirley Washington: You’re a survivor. I sit in amazement and envy your perseverance. You’ve beaten the odds and defeated every obstacle that has come your way. Thank you for being my friend and for interceding for me; because I know that if nobody else can get a prayer through, you can! I love you.
To my father-in-law, ML Washington: What a funny man you are. I know that I can always count on you for a moment of humor. Thanks for raising a good man and for accepting me as your daughter. Love you always.
To Melvin, Cornelia, and MJ Washington: You all are more than just in-laws to me. Thank you for your unwavering support of me in everything that I set out to do. I know that if no one else has my back, the both of you do. I will always be grateful for you. Love you both.
To my special cousin, Deborah Ellis: Girl, I love you. Your sweet and humble spirit is what’s missing in the world today. Thanks for the level of respect that you give me. It means more than you will ever know. Our bond is unbreakable, and just know that wherever I go, you’re going too. I love you, cuz.
To my favorite uncle, Marvin Jackson: Only we know. (smile) You’re one in a million, and I thank you for always being there when I need you. Love you forever.
To ALL of my family: It’s too many of y’all to name. I heard some of you got mad because I didn’t put your name in the other books. Well, to keep that from happening again, I will just say collectively—I love you ALL.
To my literary mother, Victoria Christopher Murray: You believed in me. You never gave up on me. You nursed me back to life in so many ways, and I could NEVER repay you. I pray that God will bless you in ways that you’ve never known for blessing me in ways that I never knew I could be. I love you so much, and I pray that when my life is over down here on Earth, somebody will be able to say that I’m half the writer that you are. I love you, Mom! (Yes, that’s an exclamation point, and I know that I’m past three. Smile.)
To Agape Global Church: You are the best church in the world. Thank you for giving me the privilege of being your first lady. I take that seriously, and while I’m not perfect, I’m striving. I hope that something I’ve done has been a blessing to you. I look forward to many years to come.
To Shanna Fountain: I miss our friendship. I’m still keeping my fingers crossed that the Iowa snow will deliver you back to the Georgia sun. (smile) Love you, girl.
To my agent, Portia Cannon: Thank you SO much for taking a chance on me when you didn’t even know me. I am forever grateful for all that you’ve done. I look forward to many years of friendship and working together.
To Dr. Bridget Hilliard and the FLN: You all are AMAZING women. Dr. B, words cannot describe the impact you’ve made in my life. You’ve been an ear, a shoulder, a confidante. Thank you for everything and for allowing God to use you. I love you.
To all my first ladies on the Network: Much obliged to you for your support and kindness. This book is for you and every first lady across America. We wi
ll reshape the way the world sees us. Though the journey gets long, we shall carry on.
To everyone that I did not mention: It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you. I just can’t write a book of acknowledgments—LOL. But, please know that I love you dearly.
To a couple of special people: Regina Crothers and Tara: You were there in a very tough season. Thank you, and I love you both.
Last, to every reader, thank you. It’s because of you that we writers have an outlet to express our creativity. I can’t speak for anyone else, but as long as you keep reading, I’ll keep writing great stories. Much love to you all.
Prologue
Michelle
Things are never what they seem. It matters not that people look at my life and think it’s perfect, or that I’m perfect—it’s not and I’m not. I’ve been married for two years and a half, and been a first lady about as long as Barack Obama has been the President, and I’m beginning to wonder if I’m cut out for this. Don’t get me wrong; I love my husband and I love our church. But, the drama that I’ve been through has been unbelievable to say the least. Sitting here in this courtroom waiting for the sentencing of Daphne Carlton, the woman who tried to wreck my life with her devious schemes of harassment, I wondered just how much more I would have to endure as the price of being the first lady.
I never cared about what being the first lady meant. I just happened to fall in love with a man who had a calling on his life to be a pastor. All these women who were wishing they had this “dream” life should take a course on what really goes on behind the scenes before they sign up for the job. The loneliness you encounter because your husband is off somewhere preaching a conference or revival. The bitterness you feel toward people when they mistreat your husband or go against what he feels God is leading him to do with the congregation. The accusations that all preachers are money hungry and only want to ride in fancy cars and live the high life. And, not to mention that it seems to be one judgmental thing after the other.
Darvin was not like that. He really did take what he did seriously, and most times he was not appreciated for it. Sometimes I wished my husband had any other job than that of a pastor—like an engineer, or a teacher. Even being a janitor would sometimes be better. Hell, he was cleaning up people’s lives anyway.
I tried to veer my thoughts to something else. Any time expletives started popping into my head, I had to stop and remind myself that I had to keep my cool—my composure. I was a first lady, now. But, the ever so present truth was that I wanted to walk out of this courtroom to the closest bar and grill and order me a shot of Patrón, followed by an Amaretto Sour.
“Will everyone please rise?” the bailiff asked. “The honorable Judge Crothers.”
We all rose at the appearance of the judge, who held a manila folder in his hands. This was our third day in court, and even having listened to all of the evidence presented against Daphne, it was still hard to believe that this was really happening to us.
“Ms. Carlton, after reviewing all of the testimony presented against you, it concerns me that a person would go to the levels that you have gone to interfere in someone else’s life. I am persuaded that a person with all of their faculties wouldn’t concoct the things that you did; which is why I’m ordering you to spend two years in a highly secure mental institution in your hometown of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. In addition to that, I’m ordering a permanent restraining order to be in place. Please take this time, ma’am, to come to your senses.” With that, he slammed the gavel.
The heifer was finally getting what she deserved. I hoped with every vengeful nerve in my body that Daphne would rot in that mental institution that the judge had just ordered her behind to for the next two years. Although it was wrong, I prayed that she would spend every minute being tortured by people just like her, in the same way that she had tortured me for the past year.
My husband, Darvin, shook hands with our attorney as I watched the guards take a crazed-looking Daphne out of the courtroom. I shook my head in hopes of shaking away the memory that this woman ever existed. All I had ever wanted since getting into my role as First Lady of Mount Zion Baptist Church was for God to send me a friend, someone I could trust. Being in ministry was not an easy thing; being the pastor’s wife was even more difficult.
It was true that I had other friends who were first ladies, but they were all so busy with their own lives that we only had time to see each other once a week.
The day I met Daphne, I had only been a first lady for a few months. I was having brunch at a quaint little diner in midtown. It was one of my favorite little spots to retreat to when I didn’t want to be recognized by anyone, be it a church member, or someone who knew me as being the wife of the highly esteemed Pastor Darvin Johnson.
Darvin had become one of the most recognized pastors on TV, with his sermons being broadcast on stations all over the country. Each broadcast began with him welcoming viewers to the show, and me standing beside him, flashing my 1000-watt smile. So, not only did people recognize him when we were out, they recognized me as well.
Sitting in the rustic restaurant that was popular for its chicken pot pie, I inhaled the fragrance of peace and serenity. I savored the sweet moments of relaxation as I prepared to delve into the lunch portion of the restaurant’s special that the maître d’ had just placed before me.
As the scent of my lunch tickled my senses, a stylish woman wearing a knee-length red sweater and black fishnet stockings, with thigh-high black patent leather boots, sauntered into the restaurant, commanding the attention of those of us in need of a makeover. Her hair was a brown shade with bronze highlights, and soft curls framed her face. Her skin was a flawless color of butterscotch, and if her makeup had been any more intact, I would have questioned whether she was real.
The hostess seated the young woman at a small table in the corner. As the woman sat down, she removed a leather portfolio from a black attaché and retrieved some papers that she immediately began to mull over. The woman looked as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.
I soon turned my attention back to my sweet delight, and within thirty minutes was paying for my check and getting ready to head back into the buzz of my reality.
I grabbed my Fendi bag, tossed my leather coat over my arm, and walked toward the front exit.
“Nice purse,” I heard a woman say.
I turned to see that it was the woman I’d been admiring earlier from a distance. Up close, she was even more perfect. “Thanks,” I said. Darvin had purchased that purse for my birthday and I wore it proudly.
“You’re the first woman with such impeccable taste that I’ve seen since moving here to Atlanta,” she continued. She picked up her glass of Pinot Noir and sipped it, leaving a shiny coat of lip gloss on the rim.
“That’s hard to believe,” I said, laughing, thinking that she had to be joking.
Atlanta was definitely a city chock full of beautiful and nicely dressed women.
“Well, honey, believe it. I’ve only been here for a few days, and from what I can tell, no one comes close to being suitable for the cover of any magazine,” she said, her voice dripping with arrogance.
Taken aback by her load of self-confidence, I said, “Maybe you haven’t gone to the right places. I know plenty of women—some being my friends—that would prick the fashion atmosphere they’re so sharp.”
That garnered a hearty laugh from the woman, who must have thought she had landed on a planet occupied by style disasters.
“Girl, that is too funny. I haven’t heard anything that hilarious in a very long time,” the woman said.
Not understanding why my words were so funny to her, I decided to move on and let the fashion queen enjoy her lunch. “You have a nice day,” I said, trying to force a smile.
She threw her hands up, and the gesture brought attention to the many black and red bracelets dangling from her wrist. “Wait. I’m sorry. But, it’s just that your statement reminded me of my family down in Alaba
ma, who I would spend summers with as a child.” She dropped her head in more laughter. “They were some extremely polished country bumpkins.”
I glared at this woman whose repulsiveness was making me forget all about the nice, peaceful moments I’d just had.
“Mmm. Well, thanks for that, ah, compliment. Enjoy your lunch,” I said, and stormed out the door before she had time to continue her insults.
Darvin’s nudging brought my mind back to the present. Now, standing in this courtroom, thinking about how much hell Daphne had caused me, I should have known that day that Daphne could have never been my friend.
A month or so later, when she had shown up at the doors of Mount Zion Baptist Church, she’d done everything she could to prove to me that she was nothing like the woman I’d met that day in the diner. She volunteered on several ministries that I was closely involved with, and had many times over proven her competency to be a hard worker. She and I had spent long hours working on church events together; and when everyone would get tired and retreat home, Daphne would always stay behind to help. She soon became the person I turned to for many things.
“Michelle?”
Once again, Darvin interrupted my thoughts. “Yes, baby?”
“Did you hear what I just said?”
“No. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about Daphne,” I admitted.
“Honey, there’s no need to think about her anymore. This time Daphne is out of our lives for good,” he said reassuringly. He put his arm around the small of my back and led me out of the courtroom.
A few reporters had gathered outside to ask a few questions, but it had been already decided that Christopher Tate, Darvin’s best friend and our attorney, would make statements on our behalf until we were ready to hold a press conference.
“Are you hungry?” Darvin asked.
“A little. I’m mainly tired. I would prefer to go home and get some rest.”
He looked at his watch. “I have a meeting with the new sound technician at the church in two hours. You want to just grab something to go and then head home?”
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