Children's Fund

LAUDERDALE WOMAN TURNS LIFE AROUND IN MENTORING PROGRAM

The voices came in a great, unappeasable rush.

You're no good.

Your children hate you.

You don't deserve to live.

Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

No shaking of the head, no plugging of the ears could stop the cruel,
taunting torrent.

Being "no good" had haunted Wyonia Williams ever since she was a child. "I
wasn't pretty. I never thought I was smart enough."

The voices knew. Without medication to muffle them, medication forgotten in
the endless quest for crack cocaine, they savagely clawed at the psyche.
"They had taken over my head," says the Fort Lauderdale woman.

Her 31-year-old daughter, frightened by what she was witnessing, rushed
Williams to Broward General Medical Center, where she would remain in the
psychiatric unit for nearly a month.

From there, Williams would go to Children's Diagnostic & Treatment Center
in Fort Lauderdale, and a transitional housing program for people infected
with HIV."I was like dead, emotionally disturbed, totally drained," says
the 47-year-old mother of four adult children, including a paraplegic son.

Now, a year later, in her own apartment for the first time in more than six
years, Williams remains drug-free. And she serves as mentor in the program
that rescued her from self-destruction.

"At Children's Diagnostic," says this engaging woman with the infectious
smile, "I began to live again."

Williams' salvation is a year-old CDTC program called Women's Alternative
Village of Empowerment. WAVE, as it is known, is aimed specifically at
black women who are HIV-positive and addicted to drugs or alcohol. A unique
aspect of the program is a reconnection to cultural roots, thus the
borrowed symbol of the headdress-like baskets some African women balance on
their heads.

Williams and fellow clients carry imaginary baskets on their heads, which
contain the tools to fend off the "monsters" in their lives.

"We have a theme in our program, putting the monster asleep," says
counselor Jariatu Sesay. When clients feel their monster waking, they
employ skills they've learned "to tranquilize it. They know the monster is
never going to die. But they can put it to sleep and move on with their
lives," Sesay said.

The program not only frees the women from drugs, but provides a variety of
essential services, from empowerment and mental health counseling, to
assistance with finding housing, dental and medical services, food and
clothing.

There were many days, early in her treatment, Williams concedes, "when I
wasn't spiritually plugged in enough. The only thing keeping me clean was
Jariatu. I stayed clean for her." If it took sitting with Williams for an
hour or more, Sesay did it.

Williams accepts that it's an everyday battle, but she and her counselors
think it's one she is winning.

"At Children's Diagnostic, I learned to deal with my drug addiction,"
Williams says. "I learned to call for help when I need it and not to hide.
I learned to deal with things on a daily basis."

And, she says, "I learned to love myself."

That alone is a remarkable transformation, she says. As a child, despite a
loving, supportive family, Williams had a deep ache she tried to hide, a
feeling of being inadequate and unacceptable. It didn't help that
African-American peers, when angry at her, made an issue of her complexion,
saying she was too dark, "too black."

At 16, she had her first child, a girl she named Taquita. It would have
been easy to give up then, she says, especially after the baby's father
abandoned her. But yearning for something better, Williams persevered in
her schooling and graduated high school.

A couple years later, another man entered her life. Together they had three
sons: Victor, Willie, and Godwin.

"I always got compliments on the way I took care of my children," she says
proudly.

Though it was a relationship she thought would last forever, it ended after
15 years. "I fell apart," says Williams, who by then was on medication for
bipolar disorder, or manic depression. "I started using drugs. That was my
escape."

During those bad times, the Fort Lauderdale woman acknowledges, her
children saw her drugged out, but "they never saw me use drugs."

There would be arrests "for possession, never for selling," she said,
suicide attempts, and fumbling efforts to get clean. But not until last
year and admittance to the WAVE program did she regain her life and, she
says, "her dignity. This time it was totally my choice," she says. "I felt
I deserved a better way of life."

Esther McCormick of the New Birth House of Prayer, in Fort Lauderdale,
helped nudge Williams onto a new path. "I was beating myself up about the
past," says Williams, recalling a visit McCormick paid her in the hospital.
"She told me to let go and go with God."

McCormick became Williams' mentor. "People can talk about a lot of things,
but I look for examples. Esther sets that example for me without a word."

Williams' children, proud of her recovery, have dubbed her "Lady Y," Y
being shorthand for Wyonia. "I'm a lady again," she says.

Her son, Victor, 29 and paralyzed from the waist down, says his mother's
love has been for all the children a constant, no matter her physical or
mental state. And her success beating the drugs is a source of strength and
inspiration.

"I'm so proud of her," he says, beaming at her. "She gives me a lot of
courage. She was so determined to fight that battle. I draw a lot of energy
from that."

Williams finds her days filled with purpose: attending church and support
groups, volunteering, and helping to care for Victor, who lives with her
daughter in Boynton Beach.

The trip to her daughter's home takes two hours one way and involves three
buses, the Tri-Rail and a five-block walk. But Williams is determined to
help her daughter, who has eight children, and her son.

Once a robust athlete who played baseball, football, softball, and ran
track at Ely High, Victor was permanently disabled 10 years ago after he
slammed his car into a tree. "I think he had a seizure," says Williams,
explaining that Victor is prone to them.

An electrical impulse device implanted in Victor's back enables him to sit
up and to use his hands, but he cannot walk. Williams worries constantly
about who will look after Victor if something happens to her.

Today she's concerned about a wheelchair. One bought years ago for $25 is
beyond repair. Victor is using a borrowed wheelchair, but was told he'd
soon have to return it.

"My dream," says Williams, "is that one day my son would have a motorized
wheelchair. It would make his life a lot easier."

With a disability income of $507 a month, it's a dream well beyond her reach.

Williams suffers from bipolar disorder, epilepsy, neuropathy (a nerve
condition that affects the extremities), high blood pressure and HIV. Some
days her legs ache so badly she can barely drag herself out of bed, but she
does so with a smile because no longer is she trapped in despair.

Optimistic, joyful that she is back in control of her life, she accepts
that life is rarely without struggle.

"I know every day isn't going to be a good day, even with my health," she
says. "But if I do the best I can do, everything will be OK."

Meanwhile, she's passing on the good vibes to others.

"She comes back all the time for support group," Sesay says. "Whenever a
new woman comes, she welcomes her and mentors her. She is the head of our
village. She is the oldest and they respect her."

There are times still when Williams lies in bed hurting emotionally
"because of things I did in the past."

No longer, however, does she allow the invasive thoughts to force her into
old practices. "I can't change yesterday." she says. "I just do the best I
can today."

Her ambition is eventually to become a paid consumer advocate at CDTC. Not
a far-fetched vision, it seems. "That's possible," says Sesay
enthusiastically. "Of course, that's totally possible."