Dreams of a Prodigal Spirit

My sister Anarae, Queen Spirit set free

On 9/22/2013 my spirt was set free. And, as any creature let loose after years in captivity, it had to re-learn the hunt before it could feast.

That Sunday morning over 5 & 1/2 years ago was the day my sister Anarae, age 20 at the time, was brutally murdered by Anthony Lee Nelson with the help of Ashley Conrade, both now serving time in the Minnesota prison system.

Short of an address to a group of grieving loved ones at a memorial service (see Part 1 from 12:19 to 23:18) and a 76 min 1:1 phone call with Stephan Molyneux, I haven’t spoken about Anarae’s murder. I haven’t know what to say.

Now, however, nearly 6 years on, my nights are again alive with dreams which have illuminated a truth worth telling yet otherwise lost deep inside my dark night of the soul.

My spirit, it appears, has discovered its way back home, well fed and looking to share in the bounty. He speaks in fragments, flashes & bursts, piercing sweaty sheets in the wee hours of the morning, leaving me to weave scant, small truths together in time, much like a fog inevitably lifted by the rising sun.

Continue below to discover tastes of what I have unearthed thus far, including backstory you haven’t heard before.

Sunlight

Anarae and I have a checkered past, not absent of fondness, but I wouldn’t describe our bond as close in the sense I now use the word. We were more like fellow competitors in a race for the respect and admiration of others, most notably our parents and peers.

I taught her to play chess at 6 – she taught my son at 3 and then went on to compete nationally. I was junior class officer, football captain and graduated high school with a 3.93 GPA – she went on mission trips, was first chair in band and graduated with a 3.98. I went to a top 3 engineering college and accumulated massive debt – she was accepted to NYU and opted to attend U of MN on scholarship. I taught basic computer skills to inner city Detroit youth – she tutored struggling Minneapolis teens in mathematics. I was a student of von Mises – she a disciple of Marx.

On and on like this – shooting stars, alone in the same sky.

To be fair, she was 10 & 1/2 years younger than I and, where age wasn’t enough of a barrier between us, geography filled in. At 18, I catapulted myself 750 miles from home and never really looked back; she was in 3rd grade. Even so, we had so much in common, so much to gain from a richer relationship – what really kept us apart? The haunting reality of the answer is small truth #1:

you can’t love in another what you hate in yourself

Anarae at a Twins game in 2012

In our case, we both hated how we looked in the mirror, although we coped differently. Undiagnosed, but akin to Body Dysmorphic Disorder, she fought against internal pressure to look differently where I submitted to vanity. Both approaches lacking, we couldn’t even make eye contact without facing unresolved trauma. Let me explain.

I remember crying repeatedly in elementary school after being labeled the fat kid and later wrestling with anorexia before discovering the weight room. Even after years of hard work and developing, by objective standards, a highly desirable physique, I’ve never been comfortable shirtless at the pool.

Similarly, Anarae struggled with her weight from a young age, which morphed into bouts with bulimia by her early teens. Where I escaped to the weight room she stared into the mirror – practicing positive self-talk by reciting affirming mantras to her naked reflection in the basement of our parents home. Her messy hair, minimalistic hygiene and less than inspiring levels of physical activity were, to her, acts of spiritual resilience designed to be a sort of exposure therapy. For me, there was something both inspiring and unsettling in her approach.

Looking back, our common insecurity might well have served as fodder to fuse us together, instead it detonated, forging a chasm much more disparate than geography and age.

Next question: why did it detonate? Digging on, I arrived at small truth #2:

healthy relationships are a cyclical process inclusive of self knowledge, open dialogue and shared experience

Excuse the crude graphic, I only have so much patience for detailed design

Had we rightly been able to identify the angst we saw in each other’s eyes as our own we would have stood a chance at diffusing the tension and healing historical wounds. Speaking for myself, I lacked sufficient self-knowledge; translation – I had secrets from myself and therefore struggled with open communication. Hence, we could be in the same space and feel isolated; reference the shooting star analogy.

For more on my struggles with healthy connection and how it ties back in to a childhood mostly devoid of the experience, read my previous post here.

As it pertains to Anarae, when she needed me most, I couldn’t be there for her, no matter how I hard I tried.

I don’t say that with regret – I know I employed every muscle I had available to me at the time – nor do I blame others for not picking up where her and I fell short. Rather, I offer up this perspective as a beacon for my readers, lest you avoid the rocky relational shores in your own lives.

After all, what happened to Anarae was no freak accident – it was entirely preventable. Predators like Nelson draw their victims into thick woods of deception towards a live trap with shame as the bait. Self-actualized, well connected individuals don’t enter the wood alone, or at all, and are repelled by those who degrade as a means of predation.

To bring it home, less than two months before her murder, Anarae re-engaged with Nelson possessing full knowledge that, concurrent to their first round of dating, he had concealed an ongoing marriage and pregnant girlfriend. Not to mention it ended with him going to jail for another parole violation despite self-proclaimed efforts to clean up his act. Throughout the earlier relationship, and more so afterwards, I pleaded with her, as did many others, to get away, to seek help, to never return. She couldn’t hear us, she was in the woods on a solo mission, ensnared.

The rest is in the papers but the horrific details and flowery obituaries obscure the learning. Those of us who remember Anarae, who loved her or tried, deserve more. I don’t proclaim to have the answer but I will share with you what my prodigal spirit has been recently whispering into my dreams:

honesty, like love, can hurt, but without both, we are truly alone

Anarae Schunk, Burnsville High School commencement speech June 10th, 2011

Victimized by Love?

I walked out of my therapists’ office this morning with a new mantra:

“Don’t be a victim of love”

Andre Campbell

But let’s start at the beginning.

I stride in, all black threads, fresh from a cold shower and focused by fast-induced hunger only slightly subdued by 16 ounces of nitro. Think, Dark Night vs. Bane right before Bruce wakes up in the Pit.

I was prepared; had rose early to review my journal, collect my thoughts, and was ready to offer up a condensed version of the last 6 weeks for evaluation. But that’s not quite how it works in this office.

Cooly perched in his plush arm chair, Andre patiently notates while I cover my material – my first month back at school, my new job, my writings, my text exchange with my long-estranged mom…wait, let’s pause there. ‘Tell me more,’ he says. Then the dreaded, ‘how do you feel as you’re telling this story?’

But after 5 years on the adjacent burgundy leather loveseat, I see this coming; ‘ambivalent,’ I say through my teeth.

He counters, ‘Are you being honest with yourself?’

Persistent, I think before launching into a heady regurgitation of the carefully balanced pros and cons of meeting up with my mother after 5 years apart.

‘I don’t think she’s ready and here’s why,’ I conclude, pointing to the text where she indicates she wants to give me a hug.

She hasn’t even offered an apology; this hug – in my mind – represents a covering up of historical wrong doing – a far cry from the atonement I feel I deserve. Not to mention, the last time I went through this, she bailed at the buzzer.

I’ve worked too hard and have come too far – I tell myself – to go back to that place.

But you’re still there, Andre says with a look, and then, ‘it’s as if you’ve built a beautiful house, carefully manicured the lawn, but can’t go inside.’

I’m reeling, struggling to regain composure; the words cut deep.

He continues, calmly inquiring, ‘why are you playing victim to love?’

‘I’m not playing’….I trail off, my tongue goes limp, my vocal cords dry and taught. I assume a listening position while he explains how I’ve been here before, circling but never facing my real need: self-love.

He goes on. One who loves themselves with abandon – think child running arms open wide – cannot be victimized.

I realize I have been longing for my mother to provide this love since I was a child. I am now avoiding the interaction because I am afraid she won’t live up to my expectations and I’ll be hurt, again, as a result. The ‘house’ I’ve been building has become an icy monument to perpetual victimhood.

He reminds me that only I can give myself the love I’ve been both seeking and avoiding from her.

Time’s up.

He repeats the mantra and we schedule our next session.

The theme of the mantra is simple:

internal strength built on a foundation of love and abundance can’t be compromised

– Me

To be continued…