“If, when you wake up in the morning, you can think of nothing but writing . . . then you are a writer.”
~Rainer Maria Rilke~ Letters to a Young Poet
Best mental health tip I’ve EVER received: If you feel overwhelmed by your thoughts, write them down.
Maybe that’s why my former Abuser constantly ripped the pages out of my journal because he saw self-peace forming? Narcissists like to keep their victims in a state of confusion, for them to feel normalcy. They are masters of chaos. They are “sh*t stirrers.” They keep everyone beaten down and co-dependent in a complicated trauma bond. They are evil incarnate, I’m convinced and there is NO talking me out of it. They cannot be totally happy, so no one is allowed to be. Ever. Even a little bit.
I am a writer. There is no way around that. I learned to read when I was three years old. I made sure I could form my letters before kindergarten. I might be a bit of an over-achiever, but I apparently knew I wanted to be successful as early as Pre-K. As a small child, I’d draw newspapers, with me as editor-in-chief. All the neighbors received a copy. I made eight identical copies, filled with stories and hand-drawn pictures. I did this weekly. As a six-year-old. I also read more than the comics in the newspaper as an elementary school student. That is after my father and mother finished reading it. Mom would cut out the Erma Bombeck columns and hang them on the refrigerator. I adored that a woman was a popular writer and delighting the world, all while being a wife and mother. My mother would receive Erma’s books for Christmas and I would read them before she did, as she was preparing the Christmas Day meal.
I was in love with writing [as a profession] before I started dating my former Abuser. He’d try to invite me to parties, he at age 20, and me at 18 and finishing up high school. I’d respectfully decline.
“Sorry, man, I have deadlines.”
He scoffed, “For what? You’re only young once…and a hot little thing like you needs to get out more.”
I blushed, not seeing the “devil” and his temptations for what they were. I was naive, but I did know what I wanted.
“Again, I apologize,” I stated emphatically. “I have writing obligations to my newspaper and literary magazine, as well as homework essays and scholarship applications that I cannot miss.”
I felt bad for hurting him because he acted as though I shattered his heart for turning him down (which I had no idea was a true act), but I stood firm. This was important to me, which I now realize that he figured out — which I also feel helped him to later tear me down.
As we got to know one another, I confessed that I wanted to become a writer and journalist who would travel the world, so I wouldn’t have time for a formal relationship. In hindsight, I feel like this became an ultimatum to his psyche, a challenge in which he pursued me MORE. He was broke and living with his brother, so I feel as though he pursued me as a meal ticket and as a way out of his situation; however, he made me believe it was because he was in love with my kind soul and felt incomplete without me. In present-day reality, I feel that he truly missed his calling as an attorney or an actor.
Remember the Dementors in Harry Potter? I feel as though that was my Ex’s truest form. They were the skeleton-looking entities that sucked out a person’s soul, taking away all happiness, leaving behind nothing but feelings of despair and darkness. Yep, that’s him!
After we married and I gave birth to our child, I had two jobs and went back to school. As I completed my degrees and obtained a better job, I did end up returning to reading for pleasure and to writing. While our financial situation became better, our relationship became more rocky. Clarification: his control of me got “rocky.” I started writing a fictional story that I was passionate about, thinking of perhaps writing it into a book. I didn’t have a personal computer at the time, so I was writing this on my typewriter/word processor that my parents bought me to complete college with. I kept my story neatly typed, in a Manila pocket folder inside my word processor’s keyboard clip-on protector, to keep it up and out of the way. Sometimes, after getting my kiddos to bed and having a bit of free time before going to sleep (my then-husband watched TV before bed, whilst in bed), I’d work on my story. I did, however, keep my spiral notebook with all of my handwritten notes in my purse — that later turned out to be a blessing. Why? Because some of my typed pages started mysteriously disappearing! Completely gone, no where to be found. How? Why? What was happening here???
One day, I finally caught my Abuser taking my pages. I caught him when we were both home at odd times, during a workday. He was a truck driver, who allegedly stopped to use the restroom, as he was traveling by our house. I was home because I had to change my work uniform, due to a printer dumping black, toxic toner all over the front of me. My boss told me to go home and change, then go to the local office supply place for a new cartridge. She was very kind and conscientious like that.
As I walked toward our bedroom, I could hear rustling papers. I burst through the door, thinking I’d caught a strange intruder. He had several pages from my manuscript balled up in his fist. Not a random vagrant, but my husband.
“What the hell are you doing???” I shrieked. “You said you had no idea what was happening to my pages. You were taking them all along???”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah? SO? This is a stupid fantasy of yours anyway. You aren’t any good and you’ll never do anything with this anyway.”
I crossed my arms. “How would you know? Have you ever read anything I’ve written? Anything at all?”
He shrugged and turned to leave the room. I lunged forward and grabbed my crumpled manuscript pages out of his hands. Some of the pages ripped from his grasp, as I could hear them tearing. It might as well have been my heart tearing at that moment. That’s exactly the way it felt. I stuffed them and the remainder of my manila folder into my large purse. I changed my clothes and went on my way. He left without so much as an apology.
That night, my word processor mysteriously wouldn’t power up. It died a quiet death, passing suddenly as it had a mysteriously chewed-up and gnarled power cord. We had pets, but none were allowed in our bedroom, so no one would’ve chewed it as he suggested. I did take it to see if it could be repaired, but now there were laptops on the scene, so I started saving for one, even a used one, in order to keep writing. That would take me a good few years.
In 2009, as the recession hit, I was suddenly laid off from my well-paying job. I applied to be a writer for a local arts newspaper, in addition to two other part-time jobs I could find AND drawing unemployment. It still wasn’t nearly what I had previously made, as my then-husband would constantly remind me, but the writing part made it ALL worthwhile. Plus, the newspaper’s photographer also had recently quit, so I got to take photos too. I received $10 per picture and $30 per story. I usually took about 10 pictures a month and had two or three story assignments. It paid, thus turning me into a “professional writer,” and thrilled me to death. I loved interviewing people and researching things, as well as taking pictures, almost as much as the writing! My then-husband, however, was NOT pleased. Not in the least.
“This does NOT pay you for all the research and interview time you do! Just the damned story. That’s it! You need to find a full-time job and quit this nonsense!” I am pleased to say I did that job for about two years, in total.
The best part of my writing was the fact that a well-read, professional editor said I was “actually pretty good, but a tad rough.” As time went on, he had to edit my stories less and less, to the point of barely making any corrections at all. I felt as though I was growing as a writer and it was a sign of why I should’ve really done with my life… However, he persisted, so I would eventually give up my beloved position. My heart was shattered, but it was a loss I had to keep to myself. Acknowledging it would’ve made me feel selfish. As he constantly reminded me, I had children to think of, a husband, and a house to take care of. No time for “Tom Foolery,” otherwise I would be “neglectful” and a “bad mother.”
I started working inside the Indiana Department of Corrections, as an addictions counselor, so working and studying took up the majority of my professional time. It was a full-time gig, which pleased my spouse, but didn’t leave time for much else. Our relationship improved for a few short months, then went back to “rocky” status. I was reading for pleasure, while I was on break at work, and before bed, but my being inside the prison for 12 hours at a time, left a lot of unaccounted-for time for him. I was exhausted when I got home and nothing was done, so I’d have to get my kids motivated and get things caught up, as well as get them back on track to get their things done and ready for the next day. Writing at this point was next to impossible. However, I persisted…
One of the groups that I ran, in the Addictions Unit, was a “self-reflection” group, so we would journal. I decided since they were journaling, I would take my own advice and journal too…I mean, technically, that was writing, wasn’t it? Paid to write while I worked — yep, that was job-related!
I’d bring my journal home and fill it full of insight, prayers, quotes, and anything about how I was feeling. I’d take it back twice a week and share. However, after a few weeks, I noticed that pages would be torn out of it. I knew I wasn’t doing that because if I ruined a page, I’d fold it inward. There could only be one person censoring me…and I was furious! However, the only thing I could do was leave my journal at work, which I did.
Also, any book that I was reading for pleasure, would come up missing. After trying to recover from losing my job, I would check books out from the library — instead of purchasing them. I cannot tell you how many books I would have to pay the library for because they became “lost.” It got to the point that I’d only read at work and would lock my books in the trunk, so he couldn’t steal them! I’d also write their due dates on my calendar.
Reading and writing have become such a privilege and a guilty pleasure, that I try to never take them for granted. I love the fact that I’m out of abuse, but I love even more that I can do as I please and do what I love, anytime, day or night! I want all victims and survivors to feel this wonderful freedom and sense of self-accomplishment. Despite the seeds of doubt our abusers sewed, we CAN and WILL do great things! We do NOT need their toxicity!
Also, while briefly in Journalism school, another great tip: write about what you know…and BOY, do I wish I didn’t know this subject so well! Then again, I couldn’t have helped all of the people that I have, if I didn’t. I spoke up. I didn’t sugarcoat ANYTHING. I am real and raw and I like that about me! I did not and will not allow domestic abuse to be whispered about and tip-toed around EVER again.
I started this blog in December 2019, as a way to help other survivors, just as much as therapy for myself. I now can write whenever I please. If that means I have a 2 AM writing sesh, I do it! I also have been freelancing on other blogs, as well as in newspapers and magazines. I enter writing competitions. I am applying for writer’s conference scholarships. I participate in live Zoom sessions to improve my writing, through “group” writing and sharing of prompts. I read voraciously and listen to writers’ podcasts.
There truly is only one prescription for this dark and haggard mind. It’s writing. It keeps me going and quenches the drumming in my brain and the emptiness in my soul. I feel as though God has led me through what He has so I have desire and gratitude for writing. May you find your freedom in what brings you joy!
Love and light! <3
