She has been trained in CPR, First Aide, MAB and PMAB.  She has completed several training hours in cognitive behavioral therapy, occupational therapy, relaxation therapy, head injury and brain function, general psychology (practical thinking) and holistic medicine.

In 1991, Robyn started working at a children’s home in Lubbock, Texas. For about five years, she worked in the assessment center. As an emergency childcare specialist, she supervised many emergency intakes, participated in conferences with doctors, therapists and with Children’s Protective Services.

While taking care of abused and neglected children on daily basis, Robyn was responsible for assessing each child’s immediate and individual needs, filing daily behavioral reports, developing and implementing a behavioral plan and planning therapeutic activities.

In 1994 and 1995, Robyn had the opportunity to observe and assist in “It’s Okay to Say No” for teens and “Good Touch, Bad Touch” for children under the age of 10.  These therapeutic classes were designed to help identify and/or prevent sexual abuse.
In December 1995, her son was hit by a car on his way to school.  During the three days that he was unconscious and on a respirator, his doctors were unsure of the damage the might have been done to his brain.  The 9-year-old suffered shattered bones in his left leg, a broken bone in his upper arm, bleeding in various areas of his brain and an open wound (just larger than a silver dollar) on the back of his head.

During the month that he was in rehab, Robyn was able to use her therapeutic skills and previous nursing assistant training to help her son through this difficult struggle. However, she attributes his miraculous healing, mind-body-soul, to God’s healing power.

In 1996, She became certified and taught parenting classes for caregivers of children with brain disorders, such as depression, bipolar, post traumatic stress disorder, anorexia, bulimia, various phobias, schizophrenia, etc.

She has also worked with teens and adults with learning and cognitive disabilities, as well as those with various physical disabilities.

Robyn is proud to announce that her son is now attending a Christian college in a (relatively) nearby city. Through the grace of God, he continues to rise above obstacles and roadblocks that will someday add to his own personal testimony.

She is excited to be able to use her past experiences and training to help her little sisters whose lives, according to statistics, will be touched by sexual abuse and/or physical abuse at some point in their life.

I know first hand the many dangers of being a young lady with limited or no tools to protect myself. I know how it feels to be sent to a baby sitter’s house and feel like you’re being pushed into the lion’s den.

At age 2 or 3, I was molested by a babysitter, a young teenage boy who was watching me, my brother and sister while my mom, a recently single mother, was working to provide for our little family.  I didn’t say a word, because though I had no idea what had just happened and the impact that it would make on my life, I did know enough to be ashamed that he touched a sacred part of me with what I thought was suppose to be a sacred part of himself.  But my older brother told my mom as soon as he left.  I don’t remember what actions my mom took, but I do remember going to his house with my mother, brother and sister and there was an uncomfortable discussion. But whatever the outcome, I didn’t know what to do with that situation and I kept it down deep inside of me, hoping to never see it again.

Not long after that, my mom became very ill and had to go to the hospital for an emergency surgery.  They allowed her enough time to find us a place to stay while she was in the hospital and later recovering.  Of course, the good people of the church had various reasons why they couldn’t take us in, so she turned to the very people that those good church folk had told her to stay away from.  I’d like to say that the church folk were wrong, but they weren’t.  But my mother’s options were very limited.  During that stay we were verbally tortured by the children, as well as the mother.  She was a single mother with several children and she just had another, I think she delivered twins.  One of the things that sticks out in my mind is that they, the children and mother, use to laugh and tell us that our mom was gone for good, that she was either dead or she was just not coming back for us because she didn’t love us any more and she was tired of us.

At one point, my mom returned and we greeted her with a thousand hugs and kisses. I was determined that she was not going to leave me again, so I climbed in the back seat of our car while my mom went in the house to thank the woman for taking such good care of her babies during her time of need. I had decided to just sit there until we left to go home and sat there for so long, I fell asleep.  My mom came out and told me that I need to get out and go inside, but I refused.  She had to pick me up and take me out as I protested.  My heart broke as I helplessly watched my mom drive away.  I felt so abandoned.

One of the little boys told me, “I told you your mom was not coming back for you.” I cried as the tears came from the depth of my soul, because this time I truly believed him.  And I thought he was right the whole time.  And then she was gone.  And my mind didn’t know what to do with that information, so I buried it deep down and it began to fester – or infect my spirit – along with the other trauma.  A part of me died that day and I don’t even remember anything after that, until she came back to pick us up in another couple of weeks or so.

Eventually, I got to a point where I wasn’t eating and I wouldn’t play.  It was a while later, so I don’t think my mom associated it with the traumas, because she gave me castor oil, an enema and baby aspirin.  You know, back then we had many home remedies that were suppose to clean you out and help heal you.  I remember her pleading with me to eat.  And for the first time, she offered me desert though I refused my meal.  She use to buy us these little dolls. And she bought me a new one even though it wasn’t my birthday.  I tried to play with my little sister, but I took the dolls clothes off to put on a different outfit and I couldn’t play anymore.  I just wanted to lie down and wish the world away.  I ended up in the hospital where they ran tests and did various exams.  I was never told what the doctors said, but everyone was very nice and I felt safe there so I started eating and playing doll with the nurses.

When I was 4-years-old, we moved to Atlantic City, NJ to live with my mom’s cousin and her boyfriend or common law husband.  We called him by his last name, Blair, but his first name was Clarence.  When we first met them, Blair seemed like the funnest person in the world.  I know funnest isn’t a word, but that’s how we thought of him.  But at some point, and I don’t know exactly when that was, I began to pull away from him and he scared me.

I remember that first Christmas, he was bouncing me on his lap. We called it ‘playing horsey.’  While I was having fun and lost in the moment, he put his hand between my legs, saying that he was helping me stay steady and he laughed.  And Lord help me, I hated his laugh.  He laughed as is he had some great secret and he was about to share it with everyone.  I told him that I needed to get off and he implored me to stay, but I insisted.  Reluctantly he lifted me off of his leg, but not before a slight slip of the hand.

For the next several years, he continued to touch me in inappropriate ways.  I was very tall for my age and I developed very early.  But I was also sick with an inherited kidney disorder and lost many school days because I was in bed with a fever, nausea and pain.  My mother couldn’t afford to take those days off from school or work, so she took me to Blair's house, since he worked at night.  He would call me to his room and I would take my time getting there, but he had plenty of time to wait. After three and four years, this seemed almost normal.  And though I hated it, I came to expect it.  Yet another secret that I keep deep inside that began to fester within my soul.

During that time, I was also playing mother to my little sister - who was only a year younger than me but much smaller - while my brother was trying to be “the man of the house.” I learned to wake up, get dressed and do my own hair in the morning a and catch the public bus to school, by myself every day, when I was in kindergarten. I learned how to wash dishes, wash, dry and fold clothes, all those things that my sister – only one year younger than me – didn’t have to do for several years. My brother heated frozen dinners in the oven for our dinner, because our mom was going to school by day and working at night.  When my sister started school the next year, I started helping her dress and doing her hair for school.  Sometimes, my brother would do it if her little tender head made me mad.  But we were always on time for the bus.  Well, we might have missed our first bus a couple of times as we got older, but my sister had trouble keeping up with her only pair of school shoes. Luckily, there was a smaller bus that came more frequently, that we could take. It was a block further from home and dropped us off a block further from school, but it kept us from being late.

Soon, the stress began to build and I began to act out.  My behavior mimicked that of a child with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and that was what I was misdiagnosed with.  My mother’s doctor gave me medicine to calm me down and make me "happier"… the instant cure.  My sister proudly keeps telling me, that as a child I was hyperkinetic, which is an old term for ADHD. But the reality is, that was not my disorder.  What I had was childhood post-traumatic stress disorder.  My mind had been fed all of this information about my body being violated, my mother abandoning me, several negative comments from children and adults, assassinating my character and degrading my self image.  Most of the time, the medicine helped me to pretend that I was okay.  But, as I calmed down, I had periods when I would cry, I would feel yucky and disgusting and nauseated.  People would ask me what was wrong and I’d always say “nothing” or shrug my shoulders.  I was a fortress, keeping everyone from discovering my secrets, while I was dieing inside.

At some point, someone – probably the woman next door or the old lady upstairs from her – reported my mother to children’s services and they took us to stay at a women’s house down street…a good Jehovah’s Witness woman. She was a foster care worker for several years, and the powers that be added her to our list of abusive caretakers.  Because of the emotional issues that I was dealing with, I didn’t quite measure up to be the child that she thought I should be, so I received many spankings and not just spanking, they were beatings.  The most common reasons for the beatings were not being able to memorize the scriptures and not sitting still during company.  She covered her couches with wool blankets that she was so proud of, saying that it was fine wool.  Well, apparently I am allergic to fine wool, because it caused my skin to itch and I would develop these whelps where it touched my skin.  And we were always in these little short shorts with little tops with shoestring ties in the back, so it touched a lot of skin.  And if I began to scratch or squirm, she would spank me on top of my whelps.  I was so afraid of her that when I got sick, I still went to school, until I was too sick and they sent me home. It took me quite a while to learned how to sit still and ignore the itching and how to hold in my cries.

After a year or two, we were finally allowed to return home, but that meant going back to Blair’s when I was sick.  He continued to molest me until we moved here to Texas. I was 10-years-old.

I continued to keep all of that information inside because I was so ashamed of it all.  I was ashamed that I had been touched inappropriately.  I was ashamed that my mother had left us and I didn’t think she was coming back.  I was ashamed that the people that were suppose to take care of us had told me so many hateful things, because I thought they might have been right.  I was ashamed because the children at a predominately white school called me names and teased me because of my hair.  I was ashamed of the babysitters that beat me and mistreated me.  I was ashamed because a teacher called me stupid and compared me to better students in the class.  I was ashamed because my mom partied with her cousin and the man who abused me.  I was ashamed because my mother drank alcohol and smoked cigarettes.  I was ashamed because my body was developing so much earlier than the other children’s bodies. I had so many reasons to be ashamed, that I began to question anyone’s purpose for befriending me.

Throughout junior high and high school, I was suicidal.  When I was 13, being allergic to aspirin, I took a handful.  It made me dizzy and my nose would bleed, so I thought it would make me bleed to death on the inside.  I became very dizzy and passed out, but it didn't work.  I woke up feeling even worse than before I took the aspirin, physically and emotionally.  I tried to cut my wrist a few times, but could never get past the second layer.  However, the pain made me forget for a minute how much I was hurting inside.  So I continued to cut myself.  I still have a few scars.  People would ask me what happened, and being a tomboy, they believed my lies. Eventually, I learned how to hide them very well.

One year, our church got a new pastor –we’re part of a conference – and his wife told us about camp meeting.  That year, we went to camp meeting and it changed my life.  Though the intense bible sessions, I developed a relationship with God that I never thought possible.  My spirit was lifted and I had a new purpose and the pain began to subside.

But eventually, the pain that I had not dealt with came back to the surface after a church elder touched my chest during a late night wedding rehearsal at the church. I began to drink and party on the weekends with they guy who would become my husband.  The more I drank, the more I could pretend that I loved myself and was happy.  When I had my son, I stopped partying and focused on being a good mom.  But years later, my marriage fell apart and I left.  

There were times when things got so hard and I had no one to turn to.  I went days with only one small plate of food of rice or noodles, so I could make sure that my son had enough food to eat.  There were times when we had no electricity or running water.  Our neighbors were infested with mice and they had no reason not to come into our house.  I had no one and nothing to lean on and all I could do was lie in my bed and call out to God. It was in those hours that I first learn to depend on God.

As the years went by, I continued in this cycle – using alcohol to treat my pain -> giving up on life and wanting to die -> cutting myself to forgetting about an even greater pain -> turning to God for help, only to give up and turn to alcohol again.  There were times that I put myself in situations to be abused again, as an adult.

After my best friend died, I became obsessed with the thought of dieing.  I thought of ways that I could accidentally die.  I would lie down at night and tell God that if I didn’t breath again, it would be okay.  But He refused to let me go.

One night, when I was alone and on the verge of taking my life, I cried out to God… one of those from the depths of your heart, from one child to her Daddy, I can’t take this no more, either heal me or let me go.  I can’t do this anymore and I don’t know why You’re keeping me hear and making me go through this.  And I begged and I pleaded.  It was raw and ugly and I stood naked and humble before the Lord.  And I begged Him, either heal me or let me go.

That night I started my journey on a road that I never thought I'd travel... the road to recovery. 

Now, I want to help others who suffer from abuse and are haunted by its memories. I also want to help young ladies who are currently in abusive situations to get out of those situations. And I want to help them understand and identify potentially abusive situations and prevent being abused or further abuse.

Someone recently told me that they didn’t think it was a good idea for someone to report every time their daughter was touched inappropriately, especially if it was just a long hug or he rubbed up against her chest or pat her bottom…  But I ask, why not?  If every child molester and every verbally, physically and/or emotionally abusive guardian and child caregiver knew that every abuse was going to be reported the second that it happened, how often do you think they would act on their urge to abuse?

It’s the fear of being caught that keeps many of us from acting on certain impulses.  But the shame and stigma of being abused keeps many of us quiet. The silence only feeds the abuse. And abuse is a very hungry monster.

It’s up to us as a sisterhood to protect our little sisters, our daughters, granddaughters, nieces, cousins, students, mentees, neighbors… I am my sisters’ keeper.