PRAISE FOR
The Girl in the Treehouse
“The Girl in the Treehouse will rip your heart open as you walk through the thorns of Jennifer’s childhood, then sew it back together with threads of forgiveness and love. A powerful literary journey flowing with wit, humor, heartache, and inspiration.”
—Pamela Cangioli, Literary reviewer
“Author Jennifer Asbenson is a brave women. This book is amazing, and I recommend to anyone that is suffering from PTSD. After everything she went through, here she stands—a true warrior.”
—Stacey Mullens, Psychiatric RN
“I stayed up all night reading this book. Amazing! I wanted to hug the author through it all. Such evil, but Jennifer endured with bright resilience. I felt like she was staring into my soul with love and hope.”
—Jan Sportswood-Sumner, Bipolar
“Inspirational and emotive storytelling at its finest! The Girl in the Treehouse is a raw, poignant, and powerful read. Jennifer’s story bears testimony to the strength, courage, and determination of the human spirit. Though heartbreaking at times, it acts as a reminder that it is possible to overcome trauma and embrace the warrior within.”
—Rebecca Millar, Bestselling mental health author
“Gripping and emotional, and leaves you wanting to keep reading more and more. Heartbreaking and amazing. A must read.”
—Charles Erwin, PTSD survivor
Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Asbenson
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, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the author at [email protected].
First Edition
Softcover ISBN: 978-1727802245
Book Consultant and Designer: Patricia Bacall
Editor: Jennifer McGrath
Proofreader: Proofed to Perfection
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.
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Contents
Praise for The Girl in the Treehouse
Dedication
A Few Words from the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One: Wind and Wine
Chapter Two: Through the Lens of a Smoke-Filled Treehouse
Chapter Three: Boots, Beer, and A.1. Sauce
Chapter Four: Munchausen, Miracles, and Me
Chapter Five: Church, Buttermilk, and Responsibility
Chapter Six: Love, Hate, and the Hollow State
Chapter Seven: Where the Grass Is Greener
Chapter Eight: Two Weeks and Twenty-Eight Minutes
Chapter Nine: Geodesic Psychedelics
Chapter Ten: Angels with Tiny Heads
Chapter Eleven: Talking Telephone Poles
Chapter Twelve: Lit
Chapter Thirteen: That’s What You Get for Hitchhiking
Chapter Fourteen: 5150
Chapter Fifteen: The Beauty of Blood
Chapter Sixteen: The Fascinating Freaks
Chapter Seventeen: A Beautiful Believer
Chapter Eighteen: It’s Raining Nickels
Chapter Nineteen: Bottommost
Chapter Twenty: The Black Angel
Chapter Twenty-One: Augusta
Chapter Twenty-Two: Eight Girls
Chapter Twenty-Three: Lost and Found
Chapter Twenty-Four: There’s No Escaping You
Chapter Twenty-Five: My Mind
About the Author
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the eight angels in heaven whom I’ve never met but know very well.
A Few Words from the Author
Over the years, I have received numerous letters through social media, postal mail, and other outlets. Many people have referred to me as a warrior in these letters. The term is gladly accepted. As a warrior, I promise to encourage you and to inspire you to follow your dreams. I also promise to remind you that you, too, are a warrior.
My Dear Warriors,
It gives me great pleasure to know you’re willing to fight for your dreams, regardless of the disappointments and scars that you’ve had to live with. I’m glad you’ve come to seek out the things that really matter in life. So, despite the distractions and the misinformation bombarding you, you are still able to hold your head high and maintain your focus and perspective.
I can imagine the many twists and turns that have happened to you and how you’ve made it through each one of them, notching various badges of honor on your way through. It thrills me to announce that whatever your brilliant mind can imagine can one day be your reality.
Our ability to maintain an imaginative frame of mind amid the circumstances surrounding us is the most powerful weapon we have to fight against the harmful behavior of negative and manipulative people around us. If you can remove yourself from these people, please do so. If you are trapped, you must love yourself enough to free your mind from the situation.
You have the power to be your own storyteller; don’t let anyone tell your story for you. You are not obliged to give in to people who try to impose their own interpretation of things on you. You must be strong, forgive, and forge ahead. Do not allow others to get behind the wheel of your life.
Think of where you would have been today if you had allowed many of the people in the past—who wanted to walk all over you and run your life—to have their way. But for the most part, you are here today because of the choices you’ve willfully made. That highlights how crucial your will has been to your journey on this mortal planet.
When there’s a will, there’s a weapon, and your will is the magic wand that can turn your dreams into reality. You hold the magic.
That assertion is applicable to any circumstance in which you might find yourself, including sexual abuse, child abuse, mental illness, and even life-threatening situations. So, even when your mental faculties aren’t functioning the way they should, you still have all the internal resources needed to turn things around.
History is replete with countless people who overcame huge odds against them and achieved things that others thought were impossible. Their remarkable turnaround was mostly due to their resolution and perseverance to wrestle the odds to the ground. You, too, can confront your circumstances with a similar resolve, in order to bolster your chances of coming out on top.
The day you find the faith I have in you, within yourself, is the day you will conquer the world.
Acknowledgments
To Gregg, I thank you for your unyielding faith in me and your generous and relentless support.
I wish to thank all the people who joined forces with me to turn my abstract book idea into a full-fledged book. I’m sending the warmest regards to my brilliant editor, Jennifer McGrath, my phenomenal book consultant and designer, Patricia Bacall, and my diligent proofreader, Pamela Cangioli, all of whom helped me refine and polish my work. Each of you provided my work with inputs from the “sixth sense,” which I’m yet to possess. You are the turners of dreams into realities.
I also wish to give special thanks to my friends and family who have encouraged my book to the moon and back. You’ve helped fuel the fire in my bones that inspired me to write every single page of this book. I am grateful that you have all invested tremend
ous amounts of positive energy and empowering vibes into my life.
And to you, my lion-hearted warrior, I want you to know that I can feel your energy right here inside my soul, even if you are light-years away from my location. All I can see are blessings, blessings, and more blessings surrounding you. I see the universe dealing you a favorable hand as you go up against the odds. And for what it’s worth, I completely and totally know that you have the strength to overcome the forces you think might be working against your best interests right now. It only takes one person’s belief to change things around, and I have faith in you. Be the warrior you were destined to be. If I did it, you can too.
Prologue
My name is Jennifer Asbenson. I am forty-three years old, and I live in a treehouse.
My life has been a roller-coaster ride. This treehouse feels like a safe place to be completely vulnerable, so let me start by telling you something that shocks most people. When I was nineteen, I escaped from a serial killer who murdered eight women. I am the only one who got away. But the kidnapping and escape are just a small part of my life.
I grew up in an abusive household with no electricity or water. As a child, I was given responsibility for my handicapped brother. I kept him on a rope so that he couldn’t get away. I was shy, innocent, and naive. I have been through a great deal in life and survived most of it with the help of God, humor, and my imagination. It has been a tough road, but out of everything I’ve been through, loving myself was the most difficult feat.
I am in the treehouse because one night, not too long ago, my heart was broken by the man in the house. I retreated to the guest room with a full bottle of wine, my cell phone, my laptop, and my earphones. Tears flowed fast and hard until I hyperventilated. Kenny Rogers sang to me while I watched Christmas cartoons on mute.
The experience of the entire situation was a beautiful mess. I cried, I laughed, I drank wine, and, screw it—I’ll be honest—I smoked some pot as well. That same night and half-a-bottle of wine later, I decided I would write a book and finally tell my story. For some reason, I am most creative when I am enveloped by emotional turmoil. I decided I couldn’t live in the house anymore and determined the treehouse in the backyard would be sufficient.
The next morning, I woke with swollen eyes and an empty wine bottle beside me. I also had a horrific headache. Before I got out of bed, the man in the house knocked on my barricaded door.
He gently pried the door open and asked, “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, of course.” I was grateful for his kindness.
“I am going to move into the treehouse and write a book,” I said. Even with a throbbing head and a tear-streaked face, my words were spoken with resolution and confidence.
I don’t think he took me seriously.
I NOW LIVE IN THE treehouse in his backyard, about twenty feet away from the house.
Now, I must tell you that the man in the house is not a bad person at all. There are just some things in a relationship I no longer tolerate. I am codependent with a tendency toward relationship addiction. And I have had my share of unhealthy relationships. But I am not disabled; I chose to end this cycle by not accepting any form of disrespect. I made a conscious decision some years ago to end relationships that cause me pain in any way, big or small, because they are unhealthy and not spiritually satisfying. It is very hard to leave these relationships. Some unhealthy relationships in my past took acts of God to end.
I don’t know what will become of the man in the house and me. All I do know is that I feel safest by myself. And maybe, if I stay in this treehouse long enough, I’ll find and fall in love with the person who has always helped me through turbulent times—myself.
CHAPTER ONE
Wind and Wine
Last night I peed into a bucket. It wasn’t all that strange. The alternative to the bucket had been to climb down a cold, wobbly ladder, in the dark, and tiptoe through wet grass. The grass was an absolute minefield of dog poop, concealed by the night, and still grotesquely wet. As bad as the bucket may have seemed at the outset, I’ll bet it sounds pretty good now. It did to me. In fact, I considered the bucket to be a luxury.
The perfect choice was a medium-sized, metal bucket with the words Huge Balls written on the side. At our last Christmas party, I had filled the bucket with fake snowballs. We had a snowball fight that I will never forget. But don’t worry; I will not use it again at future parties for any reason, unless somebody needs to urinate and the bathrooms are all occupied.
I’m no stranger to life off the grid. For most of my childhood, my dad worked hard to build us a home in the desert. It was a geodesic house—an igloo-shaped structure made from wood—that took him years to develop. Life was primitive. For the most part, I grew up with no electricity or reliable water sources.
We had a double-seater outhouse. Why my dad made it with two seats, I cannot imagine. Not once did two people go in together and do their business as they chatted away about their day, and I’m almost certain no one would ever want to. The outhouse was my last resort for typical restroom use. As a child, I would usually go into the desert and find a private spot behind a bush instead. Unless the day was hot, then I was afraid a hidden snake might bite my bottom. To this day, I disapprove of outhouses. Intense toilet phobia is brought on by the thought that some animal would try to climb up on me after I squat.
Without electricity, there was no heater to keep us warm, no air conditioner to keep us cool, no TV to watch, and no washer and dryer to keep our clothes clean. We weren’t left with much. Jackets and blankets were great, if they were clean. Pillows disappeared more than teeth—we never went to the dentist or brushed our teeth, so we lost a lot of them.
We also had no water. No water meant no showers, no baths, no clean clothes, not much of anything that required the liquid commodity.
We lived out in the middle of nowhere. In school, I felt like an outcast. I spoke very little in order to avoid attention from others. When I had something to say, I would stifle myself with a quick reminder of my reality—that I had nothing worth saying.
If I did speak, it would be to dream: “Imagine if …” or “Pretend that …” I always imagined and pretended. In a way, this was how I dealt with my living situation. And eventually, I began to see things that were not there. My eyes would turn shacks into castles. Everything had potential and beauty. Although I wore the same dress to school every day, I pretended to be wealthy. I kept my imaginary status to myself at school; the other kids would have seen through the make-believe anyway.
We went a few weeks without water until the day we discovered a waterspout on the back of a local convenience store. We would haul buckets and jugs, sneak behind the store, and fill them. If I ever saw anyone walk near the store, I would hide. I was too embarrassed to be seen, one of several nightmare situations for me during my childhood. But at least we had water.
Surely, after I had a bath I’d be instantly popular, one of the cool kids. Life would be golden. Sadly, this never came true.
Washing your body and hair outside in cold weather isn’t much fun, so I would pretend in this situation too. I would put my mind anywhere else to trick it. I would bathe maybe once a month, but I was never referred to as smelly. Well, I never personally referred to myself as smelly!
One day, my mom came home excited; she had found a random waterspout on the side of a road. We had a light blue, flatbed truck with wooden rails. My dad took off the rails and put a large, square tank on the back. My mom would use pliers and a hose to fill the tank. We always needed tools to turn the spigot on because someone removed the knob for some reason, probably to stop people from doing what we did.
One of my worst fears manifested when I was in middle school. My mom decided to fill the truck with water after school while she waited to pick me up at the bus stop. The spout was at the bus stop, in full view of all the kids on my bus. If I wanted a ride from my mom the two miles back home, I had to get off at that bus stop. I w
as sure the kids would say, “Hey, Jennifer, your mom’s stealing water again.” I was so embarrassed that I would purposely skip my bus stop, get off at the next stop, and walk the four or five blocks back to where my mom was stealing water.
My dad was brilliant at invention and construction. He constructed a shower near our half-built house and placed a fifty-gallon drum on top of the structure, with a spout that released the water. My dad parked the truck up the hill on what we called the top pad—a flat, cleared space, higher on the mountain, above our house. A long hose snaked from the water tank downhill to the drum and—bam! We had an instant shower. It was like winning a jackpot.
Nothing motivates speed in the shower better than cold water. The frigid drops forced me to dance, and my imagination helped me through it. My coping method started as the simple image of a shower at the beach. As the images grew more elaborate, I would close my eyes, sing in a high-pitched voice, and imagine the dolphins, the heat of the sun, and the rhythmic ocean waves. The scene soon developed into my own special world. The ice-cold water had diamonds in it, too tiny to see. It was a cleansing reserved for the super-rich, the people like me. The rejuvenating effects of the diamonds meant that the colder you got, the more beautiful you would become. From my earlier jumping and shaking to stay warm, a sacred dance evolved. I moved my feet rapidly, without lifting my toes off the ground, and flapped my hands up and down, side to side, with my elbows fixed to my hips. This was a weekly, sometimes bi-weekly, routine that would last through my teen years.
We had animals out there in the desert, too: a goat named, Dolly, and her baby, Alphie. I witnessed his birth. The experience was beautiful but bloody. He was so cute, and his ears were so soft. Sometimes he slept with me. The milk we drank came from Dolly. To milk her, we tied her to a tree so she could not run. I would put cereal in whatever I could find that resembled a bowl and squirt Dolly’s milk from her goat boobies straight into the bowl. I would pretend to be rich. So rich, in fact, I drank hot goat milk with my Cheerios. There was severe imagination going on here, as the actual taste took some stomaching. My vomit reflex was always on high alert during Cheerios time.
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