Metamorphosis: One Woman's Journey to Find Serenity & Empowerment

by Sue Relihan

Overview

Sue spent a lifetime being invisible.

Metamorphosis is a deeply vulnerable account of Sue's journey as she attempts to find love and success. She shares how she became accustomed to paying a high price for acceptance.

Sue intertwines her pursuit of professional success and her quest for love from a Native American man who could not openly acknowledge his love for her to his closest friends and family.

When she and Michael were alone their relationship was magical, spiritual and deeply fulfilling, but ultimately it represented her invisibility and her willingness to pay for love.

In the same way at the height of her career Sue was considered a national expert on law enforcement policy, but she never completely fit in, spending most of her career hiding behind a façade she created for her own protection. When Sue got sick in 2009, all of her worlds collided and she could no longer live life in the same way. It was time to decide if she wanted to wither inside her cocoon or choose to begin to live and thrive.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504348911
Publisher:	Balboa Press
Publication date:	03/02/2016
Pages:	210
Product dimensions:	5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.48(d)

Read an Excerpt

Metamorphosis

One Woman's Journey to Find Serenity & Empowerment

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By Sue Relihan

Balboa Press

Copyright © 2016 Sue Relihan
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5043-4891-1

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CHAPTER 1

My invisibility began in vitro. In a perfect world I would have been my parents' third daughter, but a few years before my birth, my mother had experienced a stillborn delivery after a car accident. It happened during the third trimester of her pregnancy. A drunk driver hit her and killed both the baby and my mother's soul.

Later, when she found out she was pregnant with me, my mother was no longer able to form a close emotional bond to her pregnancy. She was still in the throes of the trauma from that accident.

My mom never completely recovered emotionally. Home movies show me, at nine months old, fussing and crying, and my mom passing me off to my twelve-year-old sister to be comforted.

I don't have many childhood memories of being nurtured by my mother. The agony of the miscarriage had broken her spirit.

My dad was dedicated to providing for our family, but was at times a workaholic. By the time I was five, he had been promoted to the rank of captain with the Colorado State Patrol. I was proud of him. Every week I watched as he polished his badge and shined his uniform gear. He taught me a somewhat fearful respect for the firearms he carried. No matter what happened, I knew he would keep me safe, albeit from an emotional distance.

I was a very active and energetic young child. It was always a joy for me to play outside. A lunchtime game of tetherball was a lot more fun than sitting and eating my sack lunch. I loved running around the bases when we played softball during gym; even though I wasn't always very fast, it was the wind on my face that made feel alive.

Yet, I so wanted more nurturing. I turned to members of my mother's immediate family. My favorite was my doting Aunt Irene. She was both my source of fun and of comfort. She would take me to the park and push me on the merry-go-round and let me swing high into the sky. I remember how one day she painstakingly removed cactus needles from my backside when I accidently fell into the neighbor's flower garden. She was my rock until I was eight, when she died suddenly from a blood clot to her heart. If my mother had been disconnected before, there was barely a thread tying her to motherhood after her sister's death.

My own sister went off to college the same year. Suddenly my emotional support fell back to my mom, but she struggled to handle my energy. She just didn't have the emotional capacity to be fully present.

As a result, I found my solace in food. The next few years I openly used sugary food as a substitute for love. It became a substitute for the hugs and affection I longed for from my parents. It also gave me a lot of energy, but being too active was not acceptable in our household. I knew in my heart I needed to tone down my energy.

When I turned ten, my mom took me to the doctor for a physical because I was already starting puberty. I remember the doctor's cold eyes as he examined me to see if I was about to start my period. I'll never forget the tone of judgement in his deep voice when he said, "Yeah, you'd better stock up on some feminine hygiene products."

At the same appointment he also determined I weighed more than I should have at my age. He and my mom decided I needed to get a handle on my weight before it got too out of control. He sent me home with a prescription for an amphetamine diet pill and a special 800-calorie-a-day diet designed for kids. The next few months were pure hell. Even with the high-potency diet pills, I was constantly hungry. My hormones were changing and I was missing the nurturing I received from food.

While my mom couldn't connect with me emotionally, somehow, amidst the insanity, we connected when she tried to control the size of my body. She was hell-bent on keeping me from living life as a "fat girl."

"No one likes a fat girl as much as they like a thin girl," she said one day as we were headed to the doctor's office. It was her warped incentive to keep me compliant on my diet.

It wasn't long before dieting turned into a game between my mom and me. She would take me to the doctor every two weeks to be weighed. If I had lost weight, she'd reward me with a trip to Dairy Queen. Within a couple of months I learned how to manipulate the results; by putting my finger on the side table next to the scale, I'd make it look like I weighed just a pound or two less, so I could have my reward.

I couldn't outwardly get the love I longed for, and I couldn't eat what I desired. So, instead I began to master the art of invisibility while sneaking cookies.

In the corner of our kitchen, there was a large ceramic cookie jar full of my favorite forbidden treats. Supposedly it was kept stocked for my dad. Over the next few years, I learned to walk into the kitchen in full view of my parents, sneak over to the cookie jar, open and close the ceramic lid, and saunter away with a handful of cookies. Neither of my parents noticed.

I was taught at an early age how to mask my feelings, to be quiet and pretend that everything was all right, when in reality I was living with a deep sense of pain and loss. These feelings eventually turned to shame because I could never get my weight down to a size that pleased my mother. My mask covered the pain and shame that followed me through my lonely existence in high school and college.

CHAPTER 2

After college, I tried to find a job that put my psychology degree to good use. After several months of being turned away from human-interest jobs, I was frustrated and somewhat desperate to find employment. One day my dad came home and said there was a temporary position available where he worked.

He'd retired from the State Patrol a couple of years prior and taken a position with the Arapahoe County Sheriff 's Office. He was their first Work Release Coordinator. We used to joke that he spent thirty-two years putting people in jail, and suddenly it was his job to help them get out. That particular day he'd been talking to the undersheriff and found out there was a temporary position available in the Records Section. The job was mine if I wanted it, and he thought I should take it.

Believing it was just temporary, I agreed. I literally walked in the back door the next day, still invisible, bypassing all the traditional hiring practices.

About a week later one of the big burly bosses came to the Records window, leaned in, and informed me he had just made me a full-time permanent employee.

"You're welcome," was the only comment he made as he walked off.

I asked my supervisor what had happened, and she merely shrugged and said, "You know as much as I do. Let me try to find out".

She came back a little while later and told me it was merely a paperwork formality, and the only difference was I would be able to get benefits in thirty days. Otherwise everything was the same.

I was completely confused, and asked my dad about it later. He told me not to worry — it would all work out in the end. He was right, when the Records assignment was over, I moved on and spent two years doing special projects for the administration.

I've always felt grateful to Sheriff Pat Sullivan for hiring me, literally, sight unseen. Throughout the '80s and '90s, Sullivan was an enormously popular presence in the Denver area. During the early years I worked for him, both he and our agency had outstanding reputations. To that end, he had received the Sheriff of Year Award from the National Sheriff 's Association.

In 1986, at an annual National Sheriffs' Association meeting, Sullivan was introduced to a new program that was designed to standardize law enforcement on a national level. Accreditation is better known in schools and hospitals, but the concept is relatively the same for public safety. The Commission on Accreditation for Law Enforcement Agencies (CALEA) establishes public safety performance standards.

Sheriff Sullivan decided during that convention he wanted to become the first Sheriff 's Office in the State of Colorado to become accredited.

I remember the day he called the undersheriff and me in to see him. I was shaking, and my voice was cracking as I sat down in his office. I was sure I was in deep trouble, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Instead of yelling at me, he handed me the CALEA standards manual and the CALEA application.

"Let me know what it's going to take to get this done, and how soon you can do it." I was so relieved I wasn't in trouble that I didn't bother to ask any pertinent questions.

Right after the meeting I sat down outside his office at the typewriter and filled out the application. On the bottom of the first page there was a blank for an "Accreditation Manager." I asked the Sheriff who he wanted me to put down as the manager, and his response was, "Just put your name there for now."

Unbeknownst to either one of us, he had inadvertently made me the first female, civilian (non-cop) Accreditation Manager in the country. Neither one of us had any idea the significance of putting my name down on that page.

Fortunately I'm a fast learner, because my first task was to read and understand over 900 standards and determine how many of them were covered in our agency policy manual at the time. It took about a month for us to discover that a new Policy Manual would need to be created in order to achieve compliance with the standards.

The undersheriff decided the best way to write a new policy manual was to create a working group of people from each of the different agency functions. He attended many of the meetings, but in his absence he put me in charge of the group.

Most of the members of the group were not happy being led by a twenty-five-year-old civilian female who had never had a minute of actual law enforcement experience.

On the best days, I was slightly more than tolerated at these meetings. I credit our success to my over-achieving and people-pleasing tendencies. My bosses were thrilled with my over performance, but I seldom felt accepted. For years, I strove to fit my very round self, into their very square box. I always felt like an outsider. One of my best coping mechanisms was my ability to shut down and mask my hurt feelings, using the skill of invisibility I'd refined in my childhood.

Just like in childhood, I believed if I tried just a little bit harder, worked just a little bit longer, or even lost a bunch of weight, eventually I would be accepted.

Our agency received initial accreditation in July of 1988. I felt so proud of this enormous accomplishment, but I still didn't feel like I had been seen or accepted at work.

Typically after an agency was initially accredited, a sworn Accreditation Manager was promoted or moved to another assignment. Many times the agency lost the consistency to stay accredited. In time, CEOs realized that hiring civilian managers kept that from happening. Over the next couple of years Sheriff Sullivan acquired the reputation of being a visionary when he started the trend of appointing a civilian Accreditation Manager. Over the years when I heard the topic discussed, I laughed to myself but chose to keep my mouth shut. My ego didn't like admitting that my selection really was just a fluke.

In 1991, a group of local Accreditation Managers started the Rocky Mountain Accreditation Network (RMAN) as a resource and support for agencies participating in the CALEA process. All of the other managers in the region were mid-ranking sworn officers; I was the only civilian. By that time I had developed a reputation as someone other agencies could count on to help them get accredited. Sheriff Sullivan was usually willing to lend me to other agencies for a week at a time to help guide them in policy development and/or compiling compliance. Because of my success rate no one openly questioned my gender or my non-sworn status. My mask of confidence, albeit fake, was firmly in place.

The day we decided to establish the formal RMAN group was another pivotal day in my life. I had just left the lunch meeting in which the group was officially organized and was driving back across town when I felt ill. There was tightness in my chest, and my heart raced. Instead of going back to the office, I detoured to the closest emergency room, convinced I was having a heart attack.

As it turned out it was just a panic attack, but it was my body's attempt to send me a message. Unfortunately, it was a message that would take me many more years to decipher. Instead of listening to the signal from my body, I ignored it, donned my invisibility cloak, and took a deep dive into the world that never really fit for me.

I let go of my heart's desire, which was to step into the world of the healing arts, and shut myself off from both my spirit and my physical body. I turned the "Closed" sign on my heart and began to live solely in my head. I spent years building my law-enforcement reputation, and prided myself on how well I could hide from the world in plain sight.

Because of my success as an Accreditation Manager, I was appointed as a paid part-time Assessor (consultant) for CALEA, giving me the opportunity to go around the country and inspect other law-enforcement agencies. As a CALEA Assessor, it became customary for me to team up with law-enforcement executives to determine how well another agency was being managed based on established national standards. It was a fabulous opportunity to see how the "best of the best" performed their law-enforcement responsibilities.

During this same time, I became one of a few dozen national experts regarding law-enforcement standards and had the chance to be on the task force that created the third edition of the CALEA standards manual.

It was a remarkable time in my life. No one realized I was still wearing my cloak of invisibility.

For several years during a variety of life experiences, I excelled at putting on a mask, pretending everything was all right, and making my job the primary focus of my life.

CHAPTER 3

In 2002 I had just finished an out-of-state CALEA assessment and came home to a message that my dad had the flu. He had fallen in 2000 and had spent eighteen months in a rehab/assisted living center as he rebuilt his strength and regained enough independence to move back to the house where I had grown up.

He had hated losing his self-sufficiency and living in that little one-room apartment. He'd only agreed to stay there if we hired a private physical therapist to help him work to rebuild his strength rapidly. He was very determined and proud to get stronger again. It took almost two years, but eventually he succeeded and moved home.

Later on that fateful Saturday night, he called me to tell me he'd gotten up to go to the bathroom but fell along the way, and he wanted me to come over and help him get back into bed. My dad was a very big man, 6'3" and 275 pounds, so I knew I couldn't get him back in bed by myself. I suggested we call the fire department so they could help me lift him. He wasn't happy with the idea but agreed that I was going to need the help. I called them as I headed out the door. I was scared and probably broke a few traffic laws as I drove to my dad's house, yet I was surprised when I'd managed to beat the fire department there, despite my house being twice as far as their fire station. Guess I'd had a bit of a lead foot.

The minute I walked in, my dad asked me to try to get him back up into bed. I could tell he was much weaker than he had been before I'd left town. Thankfully, the firefighters were right behind me and offered their help. Since Dad had been in law enforcement for forty years, most of which with the State Patrol covering auto accidents, a few of the older firefighters remembered him.

They touched my heart deeply in the way they treated him with respect and care.

Dad was very weak. It took four guys to lift him back into his bed. When they checked his vitals, he and I were both surprised at how low his pulse was (below 60) while his blood pressure was actually elevated. They told us he appeared to be dehydrated, and it would be a good idea to take him to the emergency room and have him checked out.

Dad wasn't thrilled about going to the hospital, but he was too weak to put up much of a fight. They talked with him for a few minutes, and the paramedic team somehow convinced him he was doing them a favor by letting them take him in to get checked out. I will be forever grateful to the guys who responded to his house that night because they knew exactly how to treat my dad. As they loaded him in the ambulance I could hear him telling them about how he'd counted on guys like them when he investigated traffic accidents during his days with the State Patrol. Dad always knew how to connect with other people.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Metamorphosis by Sue Relihan. Copyright © 2016 Sue Relihan. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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