This blog shares excerpts of my draft memoir — working title: “I Thrive.” While not graphic, it will discuss aspects of the sexual, physical, and emotional abuse I endured and my journey back to healing…and thriving.These entries start in June, 2025 and continue into the present. Prior entries cover other topics
Photo by author, circa 1959-1960
To be the illustration
Memoir expert and author Marion Roach Smith described the genre of memoir this way:
“Memoir is not about you. It’s about something and you are its illustration.”
Another author, Trish Lockard, added that this genre is not just a recounting of things that happened to you because, after all — “Stuff happens to everybody.” Instead, memoir captures one’s reflections about an event when enough time has passed for a change, a transformation, to take place. Those insights gained over time through effort are the gift to the reader—the takeaway.
To only write a list of everything done to you in life without the reflections is like dumping a pile of ingredients on the counter and calling it a cake. It is only a cake when that pile of ingredients has gone through the crucible of a hot oven and been transformed into the real takeaway — dessert. Only then does it have “purpose and meaning.”
I loved how one author, whose name I cannot find, summed it up:
“Don’t just confess. Digest.”
Digestion is change and makes something useful…nutritious. It gives back. And digestion is the unfinished business of my life.
After seven decades of silence, it is time for me to look back, digest the raw material of my life, and obtain the nutrition— the insights that give it meaning. It is not: “Look at what was done to me” so much as the answers to the questions: “Because of what was done, what am I doing with it? What does it mean?” So, my life will be the illustration of that “something” that might have meaning and nutrition for all.
28 years of abuse…and building a “beautiful mosaic”
As an unexpected gift, our son will be visiting for the week. So I am going to take a break to fully enjoy his company. Our visits are always lovely, but too short and too rare.
It is also a good moment for a short “respite” after the intensity of the post on Triggers and Flashbacks. So before I dive into the deep emotional turbulence of this darker “Nigredo” period, I will let this break recharge my energy.
In the meantime, I will do what I did last Thanksgiving and Christmas – leave inspirational “Gift Posts.”
I will be back here by Saturday, July 18, 2026, with fresh energy, and the next post – Emotions, Part I.
Thank you for your patience, and for walking with me on this journey.
Monday, July 13, 2026 “The Four Agreements” – Don Miguel Ruiz
As an unexpected gift, our son will be visiting for the week. So I am going to take a break to fully enjoy his company. Our visits are always lovely, but too short and too rare.
It is also a good moment for a short “respite” after the intensity of the post on Triggers and Flashbacks. So before I dive into the deep emotional turbulence of this darker “Nigredo” period, I will let this break recharge my energy.
In the meantime, I will do what I did last Thanksgiving and Christmas – leave inspirational “Gift Posts.”
I will be back here by Saturday, July 18, 2026, with fresh energy, and the next post – Emotions, Part I.
Thank you for your patience, and for walking with me on this journey.
Sunday, July 12, 2026 “Every next level of your life will demand a different version of you.” Power of Philosophy
As an unexpected gift, our son will be visiting for the week. So I am going to take a break to fully enjoy his company. Our visits are always lovely, but too short and too rare.
It is also a good moment for a short “respite” after the intensity of the post on Triggers and Flashbacks. So before I dive into the deep emotional turbulence of this darker “Nigredo” period, I will let this break recharge my energy.
In the meantime, I will do what I did last Thanksgiving and Christmas – leave inspirational “Gift Posts.”
I will be back here by Saturday, July 18, 2026, with fresh energy, and the next post – Emotions, Part I.
Thank you for your patience, and for walking with me on this journey.
Saturday, July 11, 2026 “I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become.” Carl Jung
There are things left within that remain still totally alive today, buried alive, even though you don’t know it. They lurk…in your psyche. Your nervous system. Your memories. Waiting.
Something happens in the moment – a loud noise, a smell, a touch- and you are suddenly spiraling backwards in time, to a place of total emotional chaos and terror. It doesn’t matter how old you are now, or how long ago that memory was buried.
They are happening again…right now.
Triggers and Flashbacks
There are so many instances that I will be having a pleasant day, absorbed in something fun, and then, when I least expect it, it overwhelms me.
A knob on the kitchen cabinet catches my shirt, and I react with fear and rage at “being pulled.” Someone starts up a loud motorcycle unexpectedly, and I jump out of my skin because the loud noise was like the noise of Dad coming into my room ready to grab me. Body and sensory memories.
Then there are the emotional ones. I have hated weekends most of my life. Except for when I worked in the hospital lab. At least on those weekends, I wasn’t home and was doing something useful. When I was at home, he was at me. Either sexually, or physically if I refused. It took me years to realize that my weekend “dread” was a powerful emotional flashback to “those weekends.”
These days the weekends still haunt me. I will be cleaning the house, then I sit down to rest for a moment and look over my to-do list. Immediately, from out of nowhere, I am filled with intense anxiety and the sense I am “bad.” I feel afraid. I feel like I’d better not be “caught” sitting down. I am in danger…or I am a “bad person” because he has made that clear to me.
Then, there is the “3:00 p.m. sense of dread” every day because “Dad will be home soon,” even though he is long-dead and I am in my seventies.
Or every year in July, on the anniversary of the first moon landing. I hate that day, feel anxious, and full of dread. I just want to sleep. That’s because it was one of the worst days of my life then. I had “avoided him,” and so he was at me all day verbally and emotionally. He didn’t hit me that day – he might have had to explain why to my mother. But he would shoot me “The Look” – that intense glare of pure hatred and rage that kept reminding me I was unloved and in deep trouble. When he wasn’t doing that, he was totally ignoring me. If I talked to him, he looked right past me.
So there is no question but that those memories are totally alive yet within me. I experience them all the time.
“The Look”
We all know those family photo albums full of pictures, especially those candid ones that can range from fun to outright silly because the camera caught the person off-guard in a hilarious position.
And then there are those posed family shots too, the ones everyone gathered for and smiled in unison.
My father’s posed photos sometimes captured a smile. But, especially back then, they usually looked more like his work badge. Sour. Unsmiling. “Tough guy.” Even when we were celebrating.
This was the photo from the celebration of my First Holy Communion when I was seven. In the Catholic Church, it’s a joyous time. Grandparents, cousins, aunts, everyone’s together laughing, smiling, eating. And photos. Lots of photos.
The smiling “posed ones” would always be taken outside by the flowering bush in the backyard. Here is Dad’s posed, “celebratory” face. Could he have been any happier that day??
Whether I call this period of my life the Nigredo phase, the Dark Night of the Soul, or an existential crisis, the name doesn’t matter. It was just bleak.
I had chosen this – unleashing all the emotions that had been waiting a lifetime for me to face them. And looking back, I would still make that same choice. It has been worth it.
But at the same time, I won’t deny that the years from 2018 until about 2023 were truly daunting. My safety net came from my therapist’s skill and her carefully paced processes, my husband’s and friends’ support, and my strength from the previous years of work.
From 2018 to the end of 2019 alone, I had thirteen sessions of EMDR. So much came up all at once, all of it urgent and intense, that we just needed to keep doing them to manage all the “hot” emotions.
2021 would be another intense year with five more EMDR sessions, followed by my mother’s death shortly before that Christmas. And while 2023 only needed three, the fury of a two-hour-long explosive session that March made up in intensity what the rest of the year lacked in numbers. It was a game-changer, and I’ll write more about that soon.
For now, I will simply say that there were many times I felt like I was walking through the fog-shrouded swamp. To look anywhere held the same view — bleak, gray, and limited, as if the swamp had always been my reality and had no beginning or end.
Each step only guaranteed it would be deep, squishy, and uncomfortable. I felt like at any moment I could be sucked under the muck or struck by the sharp fangs of a hidden viper. And I was blind to what lay ahead, or behind me.
But at that point, I learned the best thing was to just keep stepping. There was no point in turning back because that was swamp too. No matter where I turned, it was just more swamp. So I might as well just keep going forward, trust the process, and believe there was an end to it somewhere.
First…The Process…
What was the process of marching through the swamp of this dark time? And what was in that swamp?
We used to watch a show called “This Old House” on PBS. They’d start with a structure that had been functioning well for decades and looked like it was in decent enough shape. They figured they would just need to do some alterations here and there, and the house would have that fresh, updated look they wanted.
Yet, most of the time, they pull one part of the wall or cabinet apart and discover more damage than expected. Sometimes there would be so much it threatened the integrity of the structure itself. So their choice was to either rip everything out and start over from the rafters and frame…or condemn the structure. There was no way to “remodel” without “ripping it all open.”
The period of 2018-2019 was that decisive moment for me. I’d done a lot of emotion work over the decades of my life. And even the last year I had done a tremendous number of EMDR sessions. So while it wasn’t perfect, it was decent. If you didn’t dig too deep. So I could have stopped there.
Yet, underneath the surface, I sensed a bigger problem. The question was, do I “open the wall” or just slap on a coat of paint and call it done?
It was that moment in life where I had to look at it all and ask, “Is it good enough? Have I gotten what I wanted out of my work?…essentially, “Am I done?”
Dreams are a weird mix of things from the past and present, wrapped up as metaphors that are weapons against ugliness and that give truth…then…healing…if you can endure them.
The nocturnal performances
One thing I have learned is that many of my dreams are about my psyche trying to process something I either can’t remember or can’t handle consciously. I have learned that very early abuse experiences are often not remembered as a “movie narrative” but as uncomfortable body feelings and flashes of an image or metaphor.
I think there are those dreams that are not coincidental. I’ve had a lifetime of those. Instead, they put on a nocturnal drama that’s a riff on something from my life. The plots and characters are formed around unresolved issues, trapped emotions, and terrors from things done but not consciously remembered. And some of those “performances” have been stuck on replay for literally years, either trying to tell me something, release something…or process it.
There are many familiar ones that have been regular occurrences going back decades — to at least to my twenties. Maybe earlier. I can’t remember when they started, but do I remember what’s in them? Oh, my, yes. My journals are filled with their details. And many circle the same disturbing themes.
Most of the time when I’m having nightmares, I don’t think I wake my husband. But he has told me that there are nights he hears me tossing and turning, or muttering in my sleep. And occasionally I have yelled out. So, it is a fair thing to say that, for me, sleep is often not a respite from my traumas. Just a different theater for their performances.
As I return to writing about the deep work I was going through as I struggled to understand my past, it’s easy to question if anything is getting any better. If I had any doubt of progress, though, a recent incident in a doctor’s office showed that I am growing in self-caring and empowerment.
That most “inappropriate” appointment
The medications I take can have an adverse effect on my metabolism. That can work against me for healthy blood sugar levels and weight management. I have been following a diet and exercise regimen that is helping, but I wanted to see a specialist in this area to see if he felt my progress was on track.
At the office, we waited a long time, but eventually, we were called in and taken to a small examination room, where the nurse took my vitals and the usual other things they do before the doctor arrives. She was pleasant, finished up her work, and said that the doctor would be with us shortly. We waited a fair bit longer, but finally, there was a knock on the door, and the doctor strode in. He was followed by a young woman.
Right from the start, the energy seemed off. He quickly introduced himself and started to brush past me. Trying to observe the usual “niceties” when meeting a new caregiver, I reached out my hand to shake his, and introduced myself. He seemed distracted, almost put off by this. I handed him the clipboard of forms his nurse asked me to fill out, but he tossed it on the counter without even so much as a glance.
He started to begin the appointment, then caught himself. Waving his hand at the woman with him, he rattled off her name and said she was an “observer,” but gave no explanation as to why she was there. He just asked if it was okay with me.
I found it odd. In seventy years of doctor appointments, and over thirty-five of those as a medical professional, I’d never had a doctor behave like he was.
For one thing, I knew it was customary for him to provide some amount of explanation for the person, such as she’s a medical student, or a college student, or whatever. But he gave nothing. I didn’t care, but was put off by his attitude, which seemed to imply my consent would of course be given, and he was doing me a favor asking.
He stared at me, then at my husband who was with me, and with a surly attitude, asked, “Who’s this guy? And is it okay for him to be here?” It was not a polite or professional request, but almost an irritated one.
I was irritated at how he referred to my husband, and was a bit confounded by his attitude. But tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. I introduced my husband and noted that, of course, it was fine and I wanted him there. At this point, I felt somewhat on the defensive, but assumed I was reading it all wrong.
For me, if I need to get up to speed on anything, my first stop is books. I am a book person. It’s how I learn best. I even taught myself to downhill ski using a book. Successfully even. I had no money for lessons, and it was a book that saved me (and anyone around me) on the steep ski slopes. Give me a book, and I can learn almost anything…except calculus. That one is a lost cause.
My writing process has been no different. I have two bookshelves full of tomes just on how to write essays and memoirs. More shelves OF memoirs. And none of those include the MANY shelves on character, plot, pacing, premise, mythology, hero journeys, and the power of story. Yes, just a few.
But there are a select few that have been truly amazing…my constant companions on this journey, for various reasons. Because of them, I risked believing I could write this story, and found my way to delve into it. So I will share those here in case anyone else would find them a good resource.
Photo by author
My top “ten or so” books that are always by my side
For starters, there were four books that not only got me started, but I loved because they offered writing prompts and questions to reflect on at the ends of their chapters:
Your Life is a Book: How to Craft & Publish Your Memoir, by Brenda Peterson & Sarah Jane Freymann. Aside from the reflective questions posed, the book was a wealth of information on how to approach this intimidating process. It also included chapters on the various types of memoirs as well as the challenges to navigate for publishing.
This book also gave me the biggest first gift when I began this process, and I even jotted a note down at the time and stuck it in the book:
Photo by author
HOPE…This book truly made me hopeful that I could do this somehow.
The other three books, with both great information and writing prompts, were:
The Story You Need to Tell: Writing to Heal From Trauma, Illness, or Loss, by Sandra Marinella, MA, MEd.
Writing Ourselves Whole: Using the Power of Your Own Creativity to Recover and Heal From Sexual Trauma, by Jen Cross
A Midwinter God: Encountering the Divine in Seasons of Darkness, by Christine Valters Paintner. This one could also fit into the next category – food for the soul.
These two, along with the above, Midwinter God, fed my soul because they spoke to my love of mythical approaches and my soul’s spiritual journey at this stage of life:
The Heroine’s Journey: Woman’s Quest for Wholeness, 30th Anniversary Edition, by Maureen Murdock
Deep Memoir: An Archetypal Approach to Deepen Your Story and Broaden Its Appeal, by Jennifer Leigh Selig, PhD
There were two that I related to on a very personal level because the experiences of both authors mirrored many things in my life:
The first is a repeat mention – Jen Cross’ Writing Ourselves Whole. Like Midwinter God, this book wins in two categories also.
Of My Own Making, A Memoir, by Daria Burke – Just an incredibly well-written book with not only great factual information, but such a heartfelt telling of what she lived through.
And for helping me find my way in how to deal with truth in memoir writing:
Dear Writer: Pep Talks & Practical Advice for the Creative Life, by Maggie Smith
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, by Stephen King
A “primed” mind doesn’t stop
Once I turn on the “spigot of my mind,” it can be impossible to stop its flow. Not a bad thing, just overwhelming at times. Primed by all the books and questions and writing prompts, my brain just kept on going long after I finished reading something. Idea after idea after idea would just come pouring out, and each idea would trigger two or three or more related ones.
This happens to me especially first thing in the morning when I’m in the shower. I’m sleepy, not focused on any particular thing other than how good the warm water feels, and that’s like the trigger for my subconscious to start speaking. My subconscious, unlike me, is a “morning person.”
I could ignore everything, but I have found that my best ideas come up then. So I can’t afford to lose them. AND at this stage of life, I CANNOT and have learned that I SHOULD NOT trust my memory.
So write them down, right? Absolutely. But in the shower? Well, that’s where my nature museum teaching experience came in handy – use waterproof field notepads and the waterproof pen.
Every time something pops up in my head, I write it down, rip it out of the pad, and toss it out on the bathroom floor next to the shower. When I’m done, I collect them all and start my writing day with them. My husband, noting a particularly fruitful day with many notes on the floor, asked if this is considered a “congestion of thoughts?”
I liked that – a congestion of thoughts. Because when my head is flooding with ideas to remember, it literally does feel congested. And seven decades of silence have yielded MANY days of “thought congestion.”
But no matter. The important thing is to simply not lose them. Later I can write them all down on a large sheet of paper and make a mind map. Then I can start to see how all the stray thoughts connect to many others.
Don’t get blocked seeking perfection
Once I have a topic, or a plan for a series of topics, then it’s just a matter of getting on the keyboard. I try not to let my brain trip me up with things like “Well, which idea should I write about first?” That’s a prescription for paralysis. I have found that the best thing I can do for me is just “pick one.” Pick something, any one of them. And just start. I can always rearrange them later. But don’t get blocked in writing trying to pick the perfect topic first.
Just a few last reminders for me
I have just a few short notes I jotted down for me one day that help me not to worry about perfection. I’ll share those for anyone who would like them:
Style is the servant of content and soul. It will vary to suit the telling.
Write staccato…in bullet points if necessary, but just throw it up on the page, get it out quick and unvarnished, like ripping off a bandaid. Let the soul lead the way.
LOCK UP THE LEFT BRAIN until later drafts.
The memories and thoughts that should be here will present themselves. If it’s important, the right things will show up.
What appears in the process is meant to be there, even if it gets cut later. Often it’s not what I planned, but just write what shows up and leave the rest to a Higher Power…and a later editor.
And last and most importantly:
Humble myself in the telling. Be willing to look the fool for love of other victims. Show the shame. The ineptness. The ignorance and mistakes as I struggled to learn and catch up with life.
Up next
This is all I have to say at this point about the tools I’ve needed to navigate my soul searching, writing, and healing processes. If I think of anything else important, it will come at the end of the book.
Now, back to “The Nigredo” – Part II, the rest of my “Dark Night of the Soul,” and nightmares, rage, and the journey through EMDR.
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and make a visit to my home state for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
Please like, comment, and share this post to help spread the word. The link for my fundraiser is on GoFundMe. Thank you for your support.
So, after all these posts on the “Tools” I use to heal, tools which drove my decision to write, the final question to answer was: “What “form” of writing to use?
For me, it was a simple choice – STORY.
It is a method as old as humans themselves, the method used around the campfires of ancient hunters and warriors, the tool heard from caves, to feudal halls, to family hearths. Story.
Story, in all its ugliness, joy, failure, and success. Story, not as “happily ever after,” Story, not as journalistic objective news reporting because that is never possible. Story, not as seen by others, but Story, as what happened to me.
And when you write your own story you need to put it ALL out there on the table, see all the bits and scraps, pain and mess, mistakes and breakthroughs, spread out before you. Only then can you start the long hard work of examining each piece, and then putting the pieces all back together. Only then can you see the whole picture, and what it can teach you.
What is “story?”
Because my academic background is science, not literature, I went looking to people steeped in both writing and psychology for the answer to this question. These were my favorite and most helpful answers:
Soul Mosaic 