An Old Eastern Philosophy | Lessons from Crusita

In some Eastern philosophy, it is believed that long before manifesting into the physical, each soul methodically selects the elements of its earthly voyage. This includes the intricate design of its birthplace, the era and time it wishes to be born. Even the family lineage, its mother, its father, its siblings — every detail meticulously chosen. For it knows that it is only within those set of circumstances it can experience the unfolding of destined lessons it wants to experience.

This profound belief, rooted in this teaching, underlines the idea that our souls, in their pre-physical contemplation, deliberately opt for circumstances that will shape their earthly journey. You may not share this philosophy, but it sure explains why I was born to a woman called Crusita, my mother, guardian, and lifelong coach.

Crusita’s journey into the earthly realm unfolded against the backdrop of an early life defined by uncertainty and trials. She was born in Biche, Trinidad, to immigrant parents. With an Indian mother and a Venezuelan father, her roots were a tapestry woven with threads of displacement in a diverse culture. Besides the apparent hardship that most first-generation immigrant families face, destiny had more brutal lessons in store for Crusita to learn.

At the tender age of 8, the anchors of her life were cruelly uprooted when she lost her mother. Shortly after her mother died from childbirth, she witnessed the unraveling of her father’s spirit.

He became a mere shell of the man he once was. Bereft of his partner and unable to bear the weight of grief and the responsibility of raising young children, he succumbed to the burden of a broken spirit, leaving Crusita and her six siblings to fend for themselves. Orphaned in a world that seemed increasingly unpredictable and hostile, Crusita learned self-reliance and adaptability as she navigated her early life of hardship.

In this peculiar and often harsh reality, Crusita had to grapple with the sorrow of losing her parents but also with the disintegration of the family structure she once knew. The world she knew as a child was colored by uncertainty, a place where the ground beneath her feet was constantly shifting. The absence of her parents left her adrift in a sea of challenges, with no steady schooling or permanent home. Her existence depended on transient strokes of luck, on the kind hearts of extended family and adult strangers to take her in.

As Crusita transitioned into adolescence, she yearned for a stable and loving home life. As soon as an opportunity presented itself, she embarked on a journey that promised the fulfillment of her deepest aspirations - to be in a stable loving home.

Crusita’s teenage years were interrupted when she met a man with whom she felt she could build a stable life with. However, the allure of freedom through marital bliss swiftly transformed into a nightmarish twelve-year odyssey into the pits of hell.

Her husband, instead of being a sanctuary, became a source of torment and brutality. The dreams of a harmonious union shattered against the backdrop of a relationship contaminated by daily doses of domestic violence.

Within the walls of her marital home, Crusita’s dreams continued to unravel into a dark tapestry of despair. The arrival of children, typically a source of joy and hope, became a noose around her neck as it limited her options to leave.

Living with an abusive alcoholic man, Crusita found herself trapped. He was always drunk and used these moments of drunkenness to mentally, emotionally, and physically abuse her. In an era devoid of abuse hotlines and shelters for battered women, Crusita grappled with her tumultuous reality. The societal norms of that time shackled her to a desperate marriage, and the absence of supportive structures left her with no apparent escape.

The idea of leaving, of breaking free from the chains of abuse, did not seem possible. There were no sympathetic ears to hear her plight. Crusita faced the cruel paradox of wanting to leave but being trapped in a cycle of abuse, not knowing where to turn for help. Instead of help, she was subjected to many visits to the hospital to mend the broken bones she sustained through the years of beatings.

The night that would mark Crusita’s ultimate breaking point began like so many others—with the ominous creak of the door signaling her husband’s return from drinking. But there was something different that night, an electric charge of malevolence that seemed to go way beyond the usual abuse.

She related how her husband stumbled in, more vicious than usual, his eyes glazed with the fire of alcohol and evil. The stench of alcohol clung to him like a toxic cloud, his movements erratic and menacing.

That night, he was not just looking to beat Crusita; he was out for revenge on anyone within his reach, even his young children. Crusita instinctively tried to shield the children from the impending tornado, but Crusita was no match for a drunken, determined, abusive bull.

After he was done pouncing on Crusita, his fury, unchecked, brutal, and unchallenged, he turned towards the children. The first blow landed on her eldest, a twelve-year-old boy, trying to stand tall and protect his mother and infant sisters in the face of terror.

The boy crumpled under the impact, and a primal scream tore from Crusita’s throat. She knew she had no chance of protecting her children.

At that moment, desperation fueled her movements. She grabbed the baby only a few months old, her steps shaking with adrenaline and fear. Her eldest son, though hurt, managed to scoop up his younger sister. While another child, her ten-year-old daughter, clung to Crusita’s side, eyes wide with terror.

As they bolted for the door, the night swallowed their frantic escape. The darkness outside was both a refuge and a menace, the shadows offering protection from the monster they fled.

Crusita’s mind raced as she led her children away from the only home they knew, now a place of unspeakable fear and trauma.

With nowhere to turn, Crusita’s eyes darted around in desperation, searching for any semblance of safety. Then she saw it—a large public drain that carried dirty waste water out of the city. Its gaping jaws stood ready to conceal them from their pursuer. Without a second thought, she plunged into the drain, the cold dirty water biting at her skin as she waded deeper into her temporary escape.

Holding her 3-month-old baby daughter tightly to her chest, she pressed herself against the damp, moss-covered walls. Her eldest son, despite his bruises, supported one of his sisters, his young shoulders bearing the weight of their collective fear. The eight-year-old stood in the water, the level rising to her shoulders as her small hands gripped Crusita’s skirt with a strength born of sheer terror.

The drain became their refuge. It’s cold embrace, a sanctuary from the wrath that raged just beyond its edges. Crusita’s heart hammered in her chest. Each beat a prayer for silence, for safety, for the nightmare to end.

The water flowed around them, a cold and constant reminder of their perilous situation. But it was at that moment, the birth of her resolve, never again to expose her children to this abuse, was born.

The night stretched on, each minute an eternity. As the baby whimpered softly; the sound was swallowed by the rush of water. Crusita whispered soothing words, her voice a fragile thread of comfort in the darkness. Her son’s eyes were wide, reflecting the faint light that filtered down, his face a mask of helplessness and fear. He felt rage for his father.

Crusita’s mind raced with thoughts of survival, of escape, of a future beyond the terror that had defined their lives up to that point. The cold seeped into their bones, but it was a small price to pay for the fleeting safety they found in that dark, dirty drain of refuge.

As dawn approached, the world outside stirred. Crusita knew they could not stay hidden forever. They would have to face the world and survive. As she held her children close, she realized it was now up to her to create the change she dreamed of.

In the faint light of the early morning, Crusita emerged from the drain, her children by her side. The world looked different now. Scared and alone, she remembered the days as an 8-year-old when life took away her stability. She learned then that her survival depended on her taking the reins of her life into her own hands and dealing with what was in front of her. She had no way of supporting her 4 children. But she knew she must. On that day, Crusita realized that “For things to change, you have to change!”

Although nothing in her financial situation changed since she made that mad dash out the door hours earlier, her heart and resolve changed. She had made a choice, taken a stand, and there was no turning back.

Crusita’s journey was far from over, but in that moment of emergence, she had decided never again to subject her innocent children to the trauma of living with abuse. She reclaimed her power on that day.

She knew the road ahead would be fraught with real challenges, but she was no longer the same woman who had cowered in fear. She was a warrior, a protector, and a survivor with the determation to give up her membership in “The Battered Women’s Club”.

As my life unfolded, I found myself walking eerily parallel to the tumultuous journey that marked Crusita’s early years. The echoes of her struggles resonated as I navigated through the web of a toxic, abusive relationship. Heartbreak, physical and emotional abuse, abandonment, betrayal. My reality was stitched together with lies and constant disrespect.

The parallel between our stories wasn’t merely happen-stance; it was a stark reminder that the ghosts of the past can cast their long shadows onto the present. As I faced the storms of heartbreak and the bitter taste of betrayal, Crusita’s distant whispers became a source of inspiration—a reminder that I alone could change the outcome of my story. My self-determination was the key ingredient necessary for my escape.

In those moments of anguish, the spirit of independence that Crusita had championed beckoned me forward. I found myself retracing Crusita’s footsteps, determined to stand up and face whatever uncertainty came my way. I had to learn that ultimately, I am responsible for how my life looked.

The profound insights gained from facing and understanding the dysfunction in my life are pivotal, but they also connect to broader philosophical ideas about our life’s journey and the lessons we are meant to learn.

My soul’s purpose is now to weave both Crusita’s and my story and package it for the telling to another generation of women who seek direction out of their journey of abuse.