by Kerri Rawson
I can point to pictures in the fall at her dedication, her in a periwinkle-blue dress with a large colorful butterfly on it, sitting on my lap, Darian scrunched next to us. I can show you photos of her wearing “my first” bibs at Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
I could tell you about her first birthday at Red Robin, Em in a sparkly cone hat surrounded by our friends, and the teddy bear cake a dear friend baked and lovingly decorated for her.
I could hand you her baby book and you would know this was a happy baby, who was well taken care of and loved beyond all reason.
What you wouldn’t see, and I wouldn’t tell you about, is all the dark days.
The in-between.
There are no pictures of the long, lonely hours, and weeks, and months, of caring for a baby who needed to fall asleep on her often-struggling mom. All the baby wanted was me, and all I wanted was to sleep because sleep alleviated all worry, all pain, all suffering—it was respite from the dark drowning place inside my suffocating chest.
There’s no record of the daily phone calls and texts from Darian: “What can I bring you for lunch? What can I pick up for dinner?”
Taco Bell, no, Wendy’s—how about pizza?
I didn’t often have it in me to drive down the street to the grocery store or put together whatever had been bought when one of us actually made it there for more than diapers, formula, and tiny jars of baby food that sometimes splattered our ceiling.
There are no pictures of me propped up against the tall arm of our eggplant couch with spit-up cloths draped over my arms grown strong from holding Em, sometimes for hours, so she’d sleep. And trying ever so gingerly to lay her down in her crib, tiptoeing away, only to hear the wail that sent dread right down to the pit of my soul.
There’s no record of the middle-of-the-night feedings, praying, pleading, that she would go back to sleep, and my creeping fears I’d finally gone crazy.
The darkness had come, worse than before, because I now perceived myself as the threat. Crime, abuse, trauma—these corrupting things happened to me. They weren’t still in my home but were connected to my anxiety, depression, and PTSD. And those beasts were still festering inside me.
I tried to push it all away, far away, from myself and the baby, but it just balled up into a pit of red, angry, pulsating despair. It didn’t discriminate, and it wouldn’t leave.
I didn’t tell our family doctor at Em’s well-baby visits nor did I mention it to my OB at my own checkups. I didn’t tell the women I knew well in my small group.
We’re good, doing fine, nothing to see here.
I didn’t tell my table at MOPS in the fall. I was thankful to drop Em off in the nursery for a two-hour break, but was in no condition to handle a packed room of women in colorful T-shirts running around, excited for motherhood, with chipper music blasting.
This is not going to work.
I wouldn’t try again for four years.
I didn’t tell Darian, who begged me to let him help more, whom I answered back in anger. I just carried on—one dragging foot in front of the other, one diaper, one bottle, one day at a time.
She needs me, and I need her, and I can’t tell them—any of them—because they will think I’m a bad mother.
I don’t know when the worst of it lifted.
Maybe it was the night I sat in our dark living room, imagining frightening shapes crawling on the walls, and remembered that once before I’d fought off the darkness with bits and pieces from the Psalms. “The LORD is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?”1
And maybe it wasn’t just that I remembered it, but something within my spirit prompted me to utter it out loud. It was crazy, wasn’t it? To talk to myself?
But the darkness receded as I spoke it quietly under my breath, and I didn’t feel so crazy after that. “The LORD is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?”2
APRIL 2009
I don’t know how Em, Darian, and I got through that first year. I should have told my doctors, told my husband. Asked for help. Gone back to therapy. Taken medicine. Hired my mom to stay with us full-time. Hindsight.
In April, thirteen months after Em was born, she and I took two flights to Wichita so she could stay with my mom for a week while I took two more flights to Fort Lauderdale to meet Darian for a six-day cruise. We jokingly called it our six-year honeymoon—the one that came after Dad, after Uncle John, after the first year of having a baby.
We lounged on the quiet third deck near the rolling water, and I line-danced at night on the lido deck, drink in hand, while Darian watched and tried to steer me in the right direction—the one everyone else was facing.
Darian and I kayaked in Key West, with me in the front and him steering from behind. Later we would say that was proof our marriage could withstand anything. We went on a historical tour of Jamaica and snorkeled in the Caymans, where we visited a reef full of colorful fish and brushed up against stingrays.
We had been through so much, but the day I got to swim in the bright-blue Caribbean will always stand out as one of the best days—a day I came back to life.
CHAPTER 45
Put Your Armor On
APRIL 2010
A move to a quieter place, with large windows that let in lots of light, helped the fog to continue to lift. Around the age of two, Emilie was finally able to fall asleep on her own and usually slept through the night, granting us and our home a good deal of grace.
My prayer for a peaceful little life was being answered, but it was never far from me—who I was in regard to my father. I was the daughter of a serial killer, and I didn’t know anyone else like me.
In the spring of 2010, I took a tentative step into social media after repeatedly asking Darian if I should join Facebook. An ordinary thing for most felt like an act of courage to me.
Darian and I decided not to share family photos on Facebook, but not openly sharing photos led to more headaches. A few times, I logged on only to find myself tagged in photos from a gathering with friends. I had to email the friend, asking they remove the photo. Inevitably they would ask, “Why?”
“Go google me.”
About fifteen minutes later, I’d get a reply. “Oh.”
You’d think five years out from my dad’s arrest, I wouldn’t have to fight so hard to have a life.
* * *
SURVIVOR’S TIP
What not to say to a serial killer’s daughter:
•OMG, no way, he did what?
•Did you know you’re on Google?
•Do you think you will murder anyone?
•Do you have a serial-killer gene?
•They say traits skip a generation. Aren’t you worried about your kids?
•Please stop talking. You’re going to give me nightmares.
•Aren’t you over that yet?
•Your dad should fry.
* * *
That spring, I remember sinking down in my chair at Tuesday Bible study as a woman mentioned visiting a prison: orange jumpsuits; high, barbed-wire walls; armed guards; shuffling, shackled prisoners.
My innards tied tight, my face flushed, my hands shook. The room spun, bright white, blazing. My chest squeezed—I couldn’t breathe.
It was February 25 . . . I woke up late . . . There was a knock . . .
I stood up and fled to the bathroom before the group could see tears streaking down my panic-stricken face.
The loop was supposed to be gone—we had gotten it in therapy three years ago.
I paced back and forth in the bathroom, taking big gulps of air, trying to get control of my very out-of-control insides. I was having a PTSD-fueled panic attack.
God?
My hands in balled-up fists, I went back toward the room and ran into a couple of women in the hall who asked, “Are you okay?”
My whole body shaking, I ruptured loose. “No. Not at all.” Agitated, my mouth flying fast, I told them who I was—who my dad was, and why I was flipping out on a Tu
esday morning.
Breathe.
They listened kindly and went on their way.
“The LORD is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?”1
I picked up Em from the nursery, tucked her into her car seat, handed her a bowl of fish crackers and a spill-proof cup, kissed her forehead, sat down, and slumped onto the steering wheel.
Breathe.
“The LORD is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?”2
You’d think five years out, I wouldn’t have to fight so hard to stay alive.
I didn’t go back to my group that season; with the PTSD, it was too much to think about the room.
In 2007, not long after buying the Eagle’s BTK book, I had set it facing backward on a shelf. When we moved, I tucked it away in a tote box. Sometime after my PTSD flashback, I dug out the book and chucked it into the trash.
Gone and good riddance, Dad!
I then dug through my photo albums, removed all the photos I had of my father, placed them in a plastic bag, grabbed the litter scoop, tossed clumps on them, and threw them away in the trash.
Goodbye, Dad.
You wouldn’t think—five years out—I’d still be this angry.
MARCH 2011
“Do we have kids?” I asked this in an IV-induced haze to a bemused Darian, who was sitting in a hospital chair next to a snow-clad frozen window in March 2011.
He gave this a good comedic pause, his eyes twinkling, waiting to answer. “Yes. We have a daughter at home; she’s three.” He pointed to my massive belly. “We also have a son.”
I giggled. “Do we own an apple orchard?”
“No. Please shush and try to rest.”
“Please shush”—I was only having the man’s baby.
It had only taken a few months of Emilie sleeping through the night to desire to have another baby—and to get pregnant. I spent the first half of my second pregnancy throwing up, eating Eggo waffles by the boxful, and unsure if I should laugh or cry when Em greeted Darian in the evenings with “Mama bleh all over herself.”
In the fall, my nausea subsided and we found out we were having a boy. He was more than willing to show us the goods at his ultrasound. We shopped for shades of blue, and Darian set up the jungle swing and the bouncer with the dangling star arch and put the crib back together.
Thinking the baby would come early, my mom flew to Detroit in late February. She ended up staying with us a month as my dad’s birthday safely passed and we celebrated Em’s third birthday. Two weeks past due, the boy still refusing to come out, I waddled into the hospital for an induction and promptly was asked, “Labor and delivery?”
Five hours later, on my hands and knees in intense pain, my OB gave me the good drugs while we waited for an epidural. After the epidural kicked in, I zoned out to “Moon River,” sung by Frank Sinatra, playing on repeat for hours in my ears.
“It’s time to push.” I was woken up by my OB who was checking on my progress. Those were some good drugs.
Thirty minutes later, after pushing, letting the cuss words fly, going on oxygen, and having another episiotomy, our baby boy was out.
Why don’t I hear crying?
My heart stopped.
The doctor quickly swiped our baby’s mouth, turned him upside down, and gave him a hearty pat on the back.
“Wahh!”
It was the best sound I’ve ever heard. Our son, Ian, was born a scrapper like his mama. When they weighed him, Darian asked, “Is that nine pounds, point fifteen ounces?”
No. Can we call it ten pounds?
A few minutes later, Ian let the world know he was going to be a handful when the nurse didn’t get a diaper on him quick enough and he doused all his official paperwork in a large arc of pee.
On the night Ian was born, I was handed a large bundle with blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair who wanted to tuck as tight as he could into me and chug on a bottle for as long as anyone would let him. On the night Ian was born, another piece of my heart came back to life.
God?
Thank you and amen.
I was terrified that with Ian’s birth I’d fall back into the same pit I landed in with Emilie’s birth, even finally bringing myself to be upfront about my previous struggles. Darian steadily responded, “You’ve got to let me do more, get up at night with him.”
And my OB gently said, “We will watch you and can get you help. Medication, if we need to.”
Okay. That wasn’t so scary telling them.
Fear and panic tried to creep in the first day I was on my own with two, when Ian woke up wailing at the top of his lungs and Em tugged on my T-shirt, asking for “Cheerios, juice, and George.” But Darian had already set her breakfast out and had a bottle ready for the boy, and soon enough we were watching a curious monkey get into all sorts of trouble on Netflix.
Thank you, good, good man.
Early on, I could feel the dark weight attempting to come down on me, especially on long afternoons trying to get everyone in the house to nap. But a friend reassured me all women go through baby blues and she’d check in often to see if it lifted. She checked in, and it lifted within a few weeks.
Thank you, God.
MARCH 2012
Ian had been born to a more stable mama: instead of life ceasing with his birth, he joined right into our ongoing one. His eyes turned brown, his hair turned sandy blond, and his name might as well have been “Joy.”
He was rolling over before I blinked and flipped himself out of his swing within his first month. So we moved him to a blanket under a jungle arch that squawked and roared. He was crawling by six months and walking by ten. The crib came down and gates went up. Darian anchored the furniture, installed extra baby-proof outlet covers, and I braced for the next crash.
Please, God. Let him make it to two.
In the spring of 2012, Darian and I took another step toward normalcy, sharing pictures of ourselves and our kids on Facebook.
I returned to MOPS and led a women’s Bible study, James: Mercy Triumphs, by Beth Moore.3 I felt God nudging me through the study, asking: What good is your faith? What is your life?
Faith testifies.
That spring, I heard Priscilla Shirer speak on spiritual warfare—the Enemy. I pulled Rebecca aside; she was one of our mentors, full of warmth and laughter. I whispered to her, “Is there really something to calling out the Devil, the Enemy?”
Rebecca and I talked about how to rebuke, out loud, the fallen enemy, who “prowls around . . . looking for someone to devour.”4
“Oh,” I said. “I’ve been doing that for years. ‘The LORD is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?’”5
She smiled knowingly and gave a nod.
A month later, leaders asked for a handful of women who would stand up and give their testimony around themes. One was armor: warfare, battles.
I felt God’s nudging: You could testify to that.
No, no. My head internally shook side to side as my heart sped up.
God’s nudging grew louder. It’s time.
My heart was now about to come out of my chest, but I knew—there was no point in arguing with him. His knocking would get louder till I gave in.
A few weeks later, I nervously sat across from Rebecca at a coffeehouse.
This is gonna sting.
I quietly uttered, “My dad is a serial killer” and scrunched up my face, waiting for it.
What met me was grace upon grace. My voice grew stronger under Rebecca’s gentle prompting and I poured it all out—why I thought I had something to testify to.
Yes, dear girl, you do.
In the middle of August, I stood up in front of a room full of women at my church and shared my story. Even though my stomach rolled loops and my paper rattled in my shaking hands, my voice carried strong and the room sat still. I told them:
We live on a battlefield, in a fallen world, where bad things can happen to good people. My dad made terrible choices with lifelong generational
impacting consequences—he cost ten their lives. Where was God then?
But maybe I am letting evil win if I stay curled up in my hole, shut down in my ball of fear, hiding under my self-created armor of humor and sarcasm, walking around like nothing fazes me when sometimes it truly feels like I’m dying inside.
We live in a fallen world but we don’t have to live like fallen people. Whatever you’re going through, you can get through. The Enemy is going to try to drag as many people down with him as he can. Until Jesus returns and defeats him forever, we need to put on our God-given armor and go out into this world and fight the fight God has put before us.
“Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.”6
CHAPTER 46
Try to Forgive
SEPTEMBER 2012
In the fall, our life continued to grow busier with Em starting preschool. While Em was in school, Ian, who was one and a half, tagged along on errands and to the gym that offered free childcare while I attempted to work out.
The worst of my PTSD had been conquered, Darian and I were raising two amazing kids, I was leading at my church, and I’d stood up and testified about God, who had seen me through so much.
On the outside, I looked well. But on the inside, I was still festering. My wounds were seeping underneath the bandages I wound tightly around them. I’d figured with enough time and distance from my father, I would heal.
But I was still angry, still hurting. Anger, pain—they wouldn’t leave. I was holding on to them, keeping them tucked near me, to protect my heart from being broken again.
And holding on to them was hardening me. It was easier to be hard than to love because love hurt too much, cost too much. It was easier to push my father far away than to let him stay in my life, because letting him in my life meant loving him.
