Trova il tuo prossimo libro preferito

Abbonati oggi e leggi gratis per 30 giorni


Leggi anteprima


1/5 (3 valutazioni)
407 pagine
5 ore
Dec 16, 2020


#winning is a twenty-years-in-the-making autobiography that encompasses the life of a young woman who has sacrificed everything she has to please others. Being a giver is a wonderful quality but not when it results in being abused, stolen from, losing your family, having to claim bankruptcy, and almost losing your life. You will be able to go back in time to 1999 when this young author was twelve years old and read many of the journal entries that have taken her through the ups and downs of life. This book opens up the questions of “Why do we do what we do?” “Are we who we are because of how we were born or because of the decisions we have made?” “How can we learn to love and forgive those who have hurt us so badly?” and “How can we give to others without being taken advantage of?” If you have experienced failures, abuse, financial disasters, ugly divorces, drug and alcohol abuse, rape, isolation, and much more, than this book may offer you some comfort, understanding, and hope that any bad situation can be turned around and used for good. By the grace of God, we can all survive what this world may throw our way, and this book will prove to you that you are not alone.

Dec 16, 2020

Informazioni sull'autore

Anteprima del libro

#Winning - Anastasia Bauer


Anastasia Bauer

Copyright © 2020 Anastasia Bauer

All rights reserved

First Edition


Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-6624-0072-8 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-0073-5 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

January 31, 1987

The Garbageman’s Daughter

Mom, Dad, and Carl

The First Time I Felt Hate

Sweet and Innocent to Salty and Guilty

The Devil

The Cheat

The Divorce

The Thief

When Will I Ever Learn?

Not today Satan, Not today


Iwould like to thank my parents for loving me and giving me the greatest gift of all, which is the knowledge of God, and teaching me to put all my trust into him.

I would like to thank Jill, for having my back since second grade.

I would like to thank God for he is the greatest and his love is endless.

Chapter 1

January 31, 1987

On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross. The emblem of suffering and shame. And I love that old cross, where the dearest and best, for a world of lost sinners was slain. So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross ’til my trophies at last I lay down. I will cling to the old rugged cross and exchange it someday for a crown. Oh, that old rugged cross so despised by the world has a wondrous attraction for me. For the dear Lamb of God, left his glory above to bear it to dark Calvary. So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross, ’til my trophies at last I lay down. I will cling to the old rugged cross and exchange it someday for a crown. In the old rugged cross, stained with blood so divine, a wondrous beauty I see. For the dear Lamb of God left his glory above to pardon and sanctify me. To the old rugged cross, I will ever be true, its shame and reproach gladly bear. Then he’ll call me some day to my home far away. Where his glory forever I’ll share.

This was my life. Hymnals, bibles, prayer meetings, church every Sunday, Sunday night, Wednesday night, youth group, potlucks, and our nightly dinner talks of the end times. I learned to fear the Lord and hell rather than know God’s mercy and grace. Trust me, when you sit down for dinner at the young age of five and listen to your father talk about burning in Hell where worms and snakes writhe in your body and the rest of your life is complete pain, you do whatever you can to not go there. I’ll never forget the story my mom told me about Christians in another country who were tied up and pushed down a slide full of razor blades and left to bleed to death. The book of Revelation and the end times were the main topic of conversation at dinner where I was taught that Christians will be persecuted, giant creatures will wreak havoc, and although I may suffer and be tortured as a Christian, we must be martyrs. For in the end, there will be eternal glory with the Lord where the lions will lie with the lamb in a land of milk and honey. I would go to bed after dinner completely terrified of being tortured and knew that I would have to because I was a Christian. I would pray every night asking the Lord to not let me be tortured, but I also told him that I would endure it because I loved him.

Journal Entry

May 26, 2000, Friday


Dear Sam,

Right now, I am at my Grandma and Grandpa Bauer’s house. I’m outdoors listening to my Grandpa mow the garden. I’m so excited to see what the future is going to bring. I just hope not war, death, or persecution to Christians. If those bad things are going to happen, then I just want God to come and take me away. I was going to write inside, but it is such a wonderfully beautiful day out today. I might be getting another guinea pig because I think Harry needs someone to play with all day. I like—no, I love having pets. I can’t wait to see what new pets I will receive in the future. Oh, and my contacts are coming today—well, at least they’re supposed to come anyhow. This time we are getting clear disposable contacts. The kind that you only wear for about two weeks. I hope they work better than the ones I had. Well, see ya later. Bye!

I was born January 31, 1987, in Traverse City, Michigan, and was brought home to an old stone house on M-88 between Alden and Mancelona. Down the road on the left was Swain’s junkyard where I was told unregistered children lived. On the right were the wealthy theater owners, who later were sent to prison for embezzlement. My mother, Joy, was twenty-five when she had me, and my father, Mitchell, was twenty-eight. I had a brother, Carlisle, who was three when I was born, and he resented me from day one. My mom was a cosmetologist who cut hair out of our house, and my dad worked in a tool and die shop. We lived in the stone house until I was four, and the time spent there was pretty typical. There was a creek down a trail behind our house where my dad would store his minnows in a metal cage and where my brother and I would swim on hot days. My brother and I would sneak into our parents’ bedroom and jump on their waterbed and cut my Barbie’s hair off and put it in a vase. My mom said that one day the house became very quiet, which means something is up when you have children. She found my brother and I sitting on the kitchen floor with scissors and a mouse in a mousetrap. We had cut off its feet and tail with the scissors and were having the best of time. We shared a bedroom which he hated, and I didn’t mind, because nothing much bothered me. I was an easygoing girl—just ask my mom; she says I was the perfect child. The chimney came up through our closet, and one night, the house filled with thick black smoke. My dad rushed in and grabbed us both out of bed and took us outside. The fire department came and, thankfully, saved our house. I used to tell everyone that I almost died in a chimney fire, which I don’t think was entirely true, but it sounded exciting.

We all went to church every Sunday, Sunday night, and Wednesday night, no exceptions. I didn’t mind, but sometimes it was boring. I enjoyed seeing my church family on a regular basis and knew that I would be able to sit in the pews next to my friends and pass notes about boys we liked and seeing if we could convince our parents to let us have sleepovers. All the kids would say hi to Minnie Matton and get a piece of candy from her huge purse. After morning worship, the children were sent to the basement for Sunday school. The basement had a long hall with fluorescent lights where several rooms lined both sides of the hall. The nursery was at the end on the left, and beyond that were stairs leading to the back of the stage, and even further was another set of stairs that led to the back part of the church, where the members met and where the offering was counted. All of us children would be able to run complete circles through the church, pound on the organ, and play hide-and-seek. My Sunday school teacher’s name was Sally Lynn, and she loved the color yellow, peanut butter, raisins, and teddy bears. She was also my Girl Scout leader, who taught me, A circle is round, it has no end, that is how long I want to be your friend. My parents were the youth group leaders, and I think they were pretty good at it. I was always intimidated by the youth group because they were older and were all my brother’s friends who teased me and called me fat. The boys did anyway, not the girls. My parents would host youth nights at our house where they would all play capture the flag in the pine trees, stir the mush, and catchphrase. Years later I found out that one of the boys in the youth group tried to touch my brother, but I don’t know the details except that he is gay now.

Journal Entry

August 18, 2000, Friday, 6:00 p.m.

Dear Sam,

I’m very close to God. We have a wonderful relationship, and I am very thankful for that. My summer job is great, scooping ice cream in Alden. The money is really good. We have a tip cup, and people (most) are really generous. And we get paid under the table, which means taxes are not taken out. Most of the time I ride my bike to Alden. Good exercise. If I haven’t told you, Oscar is my best friend in the whole world and my mom. He listens better to me than anyone. He sleeps with me most every night and keeps me warm. I love him so much! I just had fish, but they all died. I’m getting more, though. I have, however, four tomato worms. Three are real big. One is only a baby. They are going to, I think, turn into hawk moths. They resemble the hummingbird. This is Bernnedette, Cookie, and Duke’s third summer with me. And Meshia’s second. And Buttons the baby’s first.

October 14, 2001, Sunday

We bombed Afghanistan. We’re thinking that they might bomb us any time now. A lot of people think that it’s near the end times, but I’m not sure. If it is, I know I’m ready. I have a lot to write, but it’s stuff I really don’t want anyone to read. So hopefully, I’ll never forget. talk to ya later.


When I was four years old, we moved to our new house that my dad and his friends were building at 9109 Harmony Lane in Alden. My dad’s dad purchased 300 acres after coming back from WWII and then gave 150 acres to my parents. The new house sat atop a hill looking over a beautiful valley where you could see Lake Alden in the distance. Maple trees surrounded the house and to the south was a Christmas tree farm that my grandpa had planted. I have the fondest memories tapping maple trees with nails and hanging tin cans to collect the sticky sap that dripped from the trees. My grandpa had a large cauldron that sat in the maple syrup woods where the sap would boil into delicious maple syrup. Smoke would fill the woods, and the smell of syrup was one you’d never forget.

My dad’s parents lived down a trail from our new house, where I would get to spend the night almost every Saturday night. My grandpa was a WWII veteran who never talked about the war and spent most of his time in his garden tending to his beautiful roses and sugar snap peas. My grandma was the administrator of Willow Creek, which started as a poor farm for the elderly and still stands to this day, housing over 120 residents. In the harsh winters, my grandpa would snowmobile her to work on a Monday and pick her up on Friday. They had a nanny that took care of their three small children. They had a son named Chuck who was born eight years before my dad, but he died in a motorcycle accident. I was told that he committed suicide because he had been molested by a Boy Scout leader and then thought he was gay. I suppose back then, it was harder to be gay than it is now, and Chuck just didn’t know how to deal with it.

Eight years after Chuck, my grandma had three children in three years. She always told my dad that they were her miracle babies because she had a hysterectomy and thought she wouldn’t be able to have children. My dad thinks he is adopted, which I agree because it is virtually impossible to have children after a hysterectomy. Nonetheless, she was their mother, and a good one at that. I would say she was my favorite family member and spoiled me rotten. Her daughter Sally was mentally handicapped but not severely. She and I would have the best times together. I called her Toot, and she called me Tate. I would go to their house on Saturday. My grandparents would take us to Traverse City, where I would get to pick out any Barbie I wanted, and Sally would buy a movie for us to watch later that night. We always ate lunch at Burger King, and after, my grandpa would have to take a Tum for his heartburn.

When we got back to Grandma’s house, Sally and I would blow bubbles from her bubble gun and eat ice cream drumsticks from the freezer. Grandma would make dinner, then grandpa would make popcorn, and we would all play bunco. I always let Sally win because she would pout if she lost. Sometimes I was mean to Sally and would tell her that I was going to tell Grandma on her. She would start to cry and beg me not to tell on her. I would walk away as if I was going to tell Grandma but would quickly turn around and tell her I was kidding. She always yelled at people who said the word retarded, as if she secretly knew she was. I never called her retarded; I loved my aunt Sally.

After dinner, my grandma would watch the Golden Girls, where I would listen to Blanche talk about all her promiscuous activities. My grandma would laugh and laugh. She thought the Golden Girls were so funny. I always thought I would grow up and live in a house in Florida with some of my greatest friends and have the best of times. Sally and I would go to the basement, where I would look at all the WWII memorabilia that lined the wall going downstairs. The grenade always caught my eye and I would imagine what it was like to go to war. My grandpa was a medic in the war and though I wish he would have told me stories I understood why he didn’t. In fact, I really don’t remember him talking at all. He would take me fishing on his little fishing boat, and we would sit there for hours without saying a word. He would pee in his urinal, and I would turn around and cast my line. He was the gentlest of souls, and I miss him dearly.

Every day, our dog Elliot would walk the trail down to grandpas and stay there all day until my grandparents called and said, Come get your dog. When we went to get him, he was always sitting on Grandpa’s lap, and when he saw us, he would growl. I know Grandpa was his favorite, and I don’t blame him. Grandpa was admitted to the hospital with a stroke that day Elliot barked for help. My Aunt Sally heard Elliot barking in the pole barn. When she went out there, she found Grandpa lying on the floor. I remember going to the hospital where he was sleeping. I grabbed his hand and whispered in his ear, Grandpa, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. I love you. I waited a minute, and then he squeezed. He passed away later that night. Every time I see a rose or eat a sugar snap pea, I am reminded of my gentle grandpa who passed on his green thumb and love of birds to me and taught me how to be a silent observer. I will see you someday in heaven, Grandpa.

Journal Entry

December 14, 2003, Sunday

I cannot explain the effect death has on one’s self. For some reason, I can’t come to the realization that my grandpa has left the earth today; 5:15 p.m. was the tragic time. Wednesday was the day it all started. He had a major stroke, and my Aunt Sally found him in the pole barn. They were about ready to have spaghetti, and Grandma had Sally go and get Grandpa. And there he was, asking Sally to help him up. He was rushed to the emergency room, followed by his loved ones, the ones that knew. I spent many hours at the hospital, having no idea when God was going to take him home. What doesn’t seem right is that my grandma never left his side but twice. She was there night and day. The second time she left to go change is when God decided it was time.

I went to decorate my Grandma’s tree on Wednesday night, I think it was, and thousands of thoughts were running through my head. And none of them make sense. I don’t think I’ve known a gentler man in all my life. The impact that my grandpa has had on my life is indescribable. I can just imagine the celebration they are having right now in heaven. But why, why my Grandpa, and why now? It hardly seems fair.

I got a tattoo on Friday, and I’m quite pleased with it. It kind of reminds me of Grandpa. I remember a shirt that Grandpa used to wear. It was gray with several different animal prints on it. My favorite prints were the wolf ones, and that’s what my tattoo is. Four wolf prints. I pity everyone who never knew my grandpa. I am most definite that you would have loved him. It was impossible not to. Even Elliot loved him. Maybe I should rephrase that: Grandpa was the only man that Elliot loved. I mean he was in love. What a wonderful man.

It’s amazing how you hardly say much of anything about someone until they die. I surely bragged my grandpa up all the time for I was very proud and had the right to be. I just hope that Grandpa is up in heaven looking down and knowing how much I loved him and how much I’m going to miss him. I know he’s in heaven though. What would be nice is if someday he could give me a sign to let me know he can see and hear me. I could definitely use the reassurance.

I think that’s all for now. I’m quite tired and, unfortunately, have school tomorrow. I really don’t want to face it, but I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and things will be the same. To whoever you are, good night.


My grandma, Cecilia Katherine Delle Bauer, was a strong, independent woman who loved the elderly people she cared for as much as her own family. She was born and raised in Chicago, and I know very little about her family. I know that she met my grandpa while in nursing school in Chicago where my grandpa was at the navy pier. They met and fell in love instantly. My grandma told my grandpa that she would see him when he came back from the war, then they would wed. That is exactly what happened. They moved to Alden, Michigan, in 1946 where my grandma found it hard to adjust to the darkness. Growing up, she would always tell me how much she loved Chicago and how it was never dark from all the city lights. She said the darkness was the hardest thing about moving to the country. Of course, she adapted and flourished as one of the best administrators Willow Creek Medical Care Facility has ever seen. Willow Creek was a nursing home and, for a while, a labor and delivery center, founded in 1869 and once called the county poor farm. My grandma was the administrator from 1949 to 1990, and in that time, she set the standard for excellence in nursing care.

When I turned twenty-five, I was employed at Willow Creek as a registered nurse and was able to hear stories about my grandma from some of the employees that worked under her. One gentleman told me that Cecilia could smell urine from down the hall and she would find the source immediately, either through a torn mattress pad or a patient not clean enough. He said she didn’t need to tell the staff what to do; they just knew to take care of it right away, and they did. He said all Cecilia had to do was give the look to the staff and they moved. If Grandma couldn’t bounce a quarter on the bedsheets, she would take them off and make the staff redo it until that quarter bounced. She was strict but fair. She expected the best care to be given to her patients in the most cleanliness of atmospheres.

Halloween was always a fun time at Willow Creek, both for the children in the community and the patients. I remember my proud grandma walking me down the halls to go trick-or-treating, taking a piece of candy from each old lady or old man. I was told once that an old man was found unwrapping the suckers in his bowl, sucking on them then rewrapping them to give to the children. I hope I didn’t take from that bowl.

I would have to say that my Grandma Bauer was my favorite family member. I respected her and still do. At this time, she is ninety-four years old and lives in her home where she and Sally take care of each other. I go down there and clean or give her a bath. She looks at me with her beautiful blue eyes and asks me who I am. It’s sad, but she is quite remarkable for her age and I have been around enough dementia to understand the disease. My brother and I were her only grandchildren for the majority of our childhood, which is why we were so spoiled. We were given cards for every holiday, even Halloween, with at least twenty dollars in them. Birthdays and Christmases were even better with at least one-hundred dollars and tons of gifts. She never yelled, scolded, or spanked us (of course I never needed it). She always kept drumsticks and personal pizzas in the freezer, a container of gummy worms for my brother, a container of walnuts for my grandpa, and a container of Snickers for the rest of us. I loved it at Grandma’s. The best gift she gave me though throughout my life was the constant reminder of writing in my journal. She told me at the age of twelve that I needed to start a journal and how I would be so thankful one day that I did. This is my first journal entry:

December 23, 1999

Dear Sam,

Today I finally got my rabbit cage done. It is so beautiful. It is so big, and my rabbits love it. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and the next day is Christmas. Oh, I can’t wait. I got this journal and pen from Brianne. It’s so cute. I got so many hugs yesterday because it was my last day of school there. The first of the year I start home schooling. I can’t wait. Josie Atrina even cried—I guess because she didn’t know I was not going to be going to school anymore. Well, I have to finish cleaning my pink room. See ya!

Thank you, Grandma, for always encouraging to write in my journal. You were right—I am so thankful that I did.

Christmases were always the highlight of the year, even though both sides of my family were somewhat dysfunctional. I guess as a kid, you really just care about the gifts. Christmas Eve was always spent at my Grandma Lynn’s and Grandpa Tim’s (my mom’s parents). They lived about a half a mile from our house on Lynn road in a cute blue house. My grandpa Tim wasn’t very nice, and when I think back on my memories of him, they are filled with yelling, laughing at other people’s hurt, loving his television more than his grandchildren, and his Playboy calendar that hung in his workshop in the back of his pole barn. My cousin Franky and I would always sneak out there and look through the months of naked girls with their big bushes. We always hurried because if we got caught, we would be in big trouble. One time, I was smelling his flowers and a bee landed to gather some pollen. I swatted at it so it wouldn’t sting my nose. Don’t hit my flowers! he yelled at me through the screen door.

My grandpa and grandma met when they were fourteen. They both dropped out of high school at the age of fifteen. They had my aunt Madonna when they were seventeen, my aunt Zella at age nineteen, and my mom at age twenty-one. My grandpa worked in a tool and die shop, and my grandma drove the school bus and cleaned condos. I didn’t mind my grandma, but she wasn’t my favorite. I remember once telling my mom when I was about ten that I wouldn’t cry if Grandma died. What I remember most about her is her soap operas, chocolate chip cookies, Marlboro cigarettes in the freezer, cough drops, and Pepsi. She was a submissive wife who somehow had survived my grandpa’s disposition all these years. I started cleaning condos at Pinebrook with her when I was thirteen, which was okay. My mom’s side of the family has a cleaning gene; most of us girls have spotless houses and we like it that way.

One day, I went to work with her and grabbed a piece of her gum from her car. I said, Grandma, this gum does not taste very good.

She looked where I grabbed it, and she started laughing hysterically. That’s my Nicorette gum! I didn’t think it was funny and couldn’t understand why she thought it was. But those were my grandparents. I didn’t understand much about my mom’s side of the family, and if you were to meet my mom and then see the family she was born into, you would question if she really belonged.

Her sister Madonna was married to a man named Nick Strohs, and they had my cousins Hannah, Beau, Sam, and Josh. They later divorced where she met Lloyd, and they had my cousin Toby. She breastfed Toby until he was five years old. We would all be sitting around my grandma’s kitchen table, and Toby would walk up to her and say, I want your booby. So weird. Her sister Zella was married to my Uncle Rick, and they had my cousins Ravana and Franky.

Franky and I were six days apart. My uncle Rick was the life of the party at our Christmases, and besides my Grandma and Grandpa Bauer, he was my favorite. Come here, baby doll, give me a kiss. He’d sit me on his lap, give me a kiss and hug, and then tell a joke. He made everyone laugh. He and my aunt Zella were bikers and, one Christmas, walked into my grandma’s house with shaved heads. Uncle Rick was known for his honesty and love for his family. He was a great mechanic and a wonderful friend. Everyone remembers him saying Trust me, and they did. I always asked God why he had to take one of the greatest members of our family. When I was fourteen, my mom woke me up from my sleep to tell me that Uncle Rick had been in a motorcycle accident and was no longer with us. I never was a crier, but I cried that day. Our family never celebrated Christmases the same or went camping at Barnes Park after Uncle Rick passed away. He was probably the glue of our family and the only reason we all got together in the first place.

Journal Entry

April 23, 2001, Monday

Dear Sam,

Well, the worst news, Uncle Rick died. He was riding his motorcycle. He was riding behind this one care, let me draw you a picture. So car 2 was waiting for car 1 to pass the store so it could turn. When car 1 passed, car 2 pulled into the store, and Rick ran into

Hai raggiunto la fine di questa anteprima. Registrati per continuare a leggere!
Pagina 1 di 1


Cosa pensano gli utenti di #Winning

3 valutazioni / 2 Recensioni
Cosa ne pensi?
Valutazione: 0 su 5 stelle

Recensioni dei lettori

  • (1/5)

    3 persone l'hanno trovata utile

    Poorly written. Like a child wrote it. What’s the winning part? Does she even know the word no? Seems she got herself in a lot of these messes, too bad.

    3 persone l'hanno trovata utile

  • (1/5)

    2 persone l'hanno trovata utile

    1 star is too many. It’s unforgettable, but not in a good way. Poorly written. An autobiography from the perspective of person with a grandiose sense of self importance . Clearly has no ability to feel remorse for her own behavior and is unable to accept responsibility for her own poor life choices. Author is caught in a childish fantasy of elevated self worth. Shameful and lacking any integrity.

    2 persone l'hanno trovata utile