So let’s get something straight right now – because I am a direct person, all my friends know that, and I prefer to be clear. This is not a book about a person’s journey from harm to forgiveness. If you are looking for a tome on the blessings of forgiving your abuser or how to achieve it, I recommend you look elsewhere.
My journey is about healing…restoring my soul from a lifetime of trauma and pain that was inflicted on me, and that I have carried way too long. And just to be clear, to me, forgiveness and healing are not the same things. They may both come about, or not, but they are not the same thing, and for me, both are not required. So first and foremost, I write to heal.
If I am to be totally honest, I don’t give a shit about forgiveness anymore…about whether it comes or not. In fact, the next person who tells me that I must forgive because it is the only way to happiness, or repeats that all-too-often quoted trope, that withholding forgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die, I will tell you to just keep on walking. Unless I am in a bad mood, in which case I may say it slightly differently.
“The point in a conversation that is an impasse – both love each other very much. Both want desperately to make each other happy. One doesn’t want to hurt the other with his opinion but feels compelled to say it. The other wants desperately to agree, to be able to agree so all can be happy again, but can’t.
Both search to say something that would make it better…want to find those magic words. And “I love you,” may be true, but isn’t enough – it doesn’t dispel the present problem. The love is there, but so is the problem – each looks to the other to back down – to say the one thing they long to hear just to make the problem go away – but can’t, and each knows the other can’t but just hoped they would…and at this point no one knows what to say – all you can do is just walk away – confused – emotionally drained – completely mystified as to a solution.”
The missing link
How do you go from being a submissive, beaten-down child in an abusive family system to a healthy adult who stands up for herself? When does that miraculously happen? It’s not like you leave that house, flip a switch, and suddenly you’re an independent, healthy, assertive human being. In there somewhere is a missing link in the maturation process — years of trial-and-error efforts to heal and learn how to become that adult.
Painting by author – Author as an infant on hood of her father’s car
Driven to paint
Before I share below a sampling of the visual elements I am using in my book, I thought I would share the “WHY” I not only used them, but HAD to use them.
Rebuilding my life
The book incorporates the story not only of the abuse I endured, but also of my journey from my parents’ house—the depression and despair—to my rebuilding, and my creating of a meaningful life.
Even after the initial crises of my escape and recovery with the help of good therapists and friends, I would return for rounds of therapy off and on throughout adulthood. Given all of the life lessons I had missed out on during my early phases of life, I looked at it as “preventive maintenance.” Why “wing something” when I wasn’t sure how to handle it and risk messing it up, then have to fix it? Better to learn as I went along.
The traumas of life
This approach worked well, and I thought I had finally put the past to rest…until midlife. Menopause hit. My husband almost died. The dog did die. My son left for college. All at once. But even worse, those new traumas blasted open a well of trapped emotions I never realized were even there. Like opening Pandora’s box, it unleashed a flood of unresolved depression, anxiety, flashbacks, nightmares…severe PTSD. At the time, I had no idea what was going on. Desperate and having major anxiety, I began working with a skilled trauma specialist who was and remains a godsend in my life.
This was fortunate because, in addition to everything that I was dealing with, I also began navigating the last chapters of my parents’ lives and their deaths. It was then that I realized just how much work I still had to do.
The past comes calling to claim its due
Those first decades of adulthood had been about building a life. Now, it was about returning to the past to address the well of unfinished business and unresolved pain that had come forward to claim its due. It had patiently waited a lifetime…my son came first all those years. But now, it was time for me…and that long-suffering child.
However, I had no tools to reach the pain, to know how much was there, or to express it. I only knew its presence through the agony of body memories and nightmares. That was when I made the discovery that art heals.
The “ancient history look” of 1950s black-and-white photos
It’s one of those typical 1950s black-and-white photos found in family albums — those of the era of the late Baby Boomers but before the 1960s when you could more easily obtain color film. It has that dated look and these days, it could simply be viewed as “back then, ancient history.” Only the car gives a clue as to the time period. The bottom line is that this picture comes across more as something found in a history book than a real moment out of a real life. So, while I’ll use some photos in this book, for a large part I am going to use paintings.
The details of a photo…
Why? First, check out the difference when viewing that same moment in full color:
In one respect, I wish I could go back in time to 1955-1957 and be a fly on the wall in this apartment. But maybe it’s better I can’t. Whatever went on at 57 xxxx Avenue is something I will never know because I can’t remember…consciously. But boy my body does.
Throughout my life, as is true for many of us, there are difficult days when the weariness of spirit becomes like a hand shoving us down against the mattress as we try to get up. The body struggles and the mind asks: Why bother? Why try?
Moments of “respite”
Decades ago, through years of childhood abuse, I found a way to survive — not a “dissociation” thing, but by living “Moment to Moment.” There would be the bad things and at that moment you just did whatever you must to get through it. Later though, when alone, I took comfort…escape…in a moment here, a quick experience there, but essentially in some small “detail” that I could lose myself in even for a little while. In those breaks, I could eke out sustenance where none seemed possible. And that let me keep going. At the time, I didn’t recognize consciously what I was doing–I just did it intuitively I guess– but it was my survival. Now I call them my “Moments of Respite.”
When autumn is in full color, I am reminded of one of the Moments of Respite from my late 20s — during a lonely day full of despair and a sense of abandonment.
Nature’s abundance
I grew up in New England, where the cold of fall harvest days conjures up images of steely gray skies and bare orchard trees. Even now, remembering that day gives me a reprieve from current problems…
Pulling into the dirt driveway of the farm I parked near the barn, the only car in the lot. Dried leaves crunched underfoot as I approached the building, and the air was heavy with that sweet smell of damp earth and composting plant matter. The sun hung low in the sky as the late afternoons were already taking up the appearance of night sooner than I wanted.
Inside the dimly lit barn, my breath visible in front of my face, bushel baskets of nature’s bounty were arrayed in rows before me. Grease pencil writing on cardboard signs listed the varieties there: Early McIntosh. Golden Delicious. Baldwins and Cortlands. Empires and Granny Smiths. So many to choose from thanks to nature’s gift to us of abundance… of flavors and textures, colors and sensations.
Questions, questions, questions
That gift though, presented the dilemma — which one or ones to choose? Even the questions came in abundance: Sweet apples or tart? Crunchy or soft? All? How much money was in my wallet? (Farmers then didn’t take credit cards and there was no Venmo or Squarespace.)
More questions followed. Would it be pies for the freezer? Or applesauce? Caramel or candy-apples, or baked ones? The type of apples makes a difference, of course, depending on how you are going to use them. And then there was just that simplest of delights, eat them fresh and raw before they made it into anything!
I walked the rows of baskets, gravel of the barn floor grinding against my boot soles. Back and forth, assessing the red ones, the green-red stippled. The sizes. The shapes. You look for the best ones with the fewest bruises…unless, of course you waited too long and there aren’t many left to choose from.
Even before I finished shopping, I couldn’t wait any longer to sample one. I was buying the basket anyway so I grabbed the largest one off the top, rubbed it against my jacket and tore into it.
The joy of a fresh apple
When you eat apples that are fresh off the tree, the sensations come all at once: the aroma of sweet and spice mixed together; the snap of crisp skin giving way under your teeth; a flash of tanginess as the soft flesh hits your tongue, and the syrupy juice that sprays out and runs down your chin. It is an overload of delight. In that moment, that “Moment of Respite” — the despair temporarily evaporated. In the raw air of a fall evening, drowned in the sensations of a fresh apple, I felt the totality of an autumn miracle right in the palm of my hand. And refreshed, I could go on.
It’s all in the details…
So many times in my life, those Moments of Respite saved me, fed me, gave me the energy to try again. For all the times when your world may be torn apart, life is sustained in the small details. It is those precious details that preserve the life-blood of our souls. You can draw a circle and color it in with a red crayon and call it an apple. Or you can underpaint it with burnt umber to put in the shadows, then layer in increasingly bright pigments of cadmium red, cinnabar green, lemon yellow, and titanium white. You can vary the intensity of the colors and the depth of the layers. Whatever you choose, the details make it all the richer for the moment. And it is in seeing the details that we are reminded there is more to life than just the pain we are struggling with at the moment.
Finding the calm
Moments of Respite provide the reminder that life still offers little worlds of richness and sensory escapes where our overwrought nervous system can retreat to find calm…where we can bind our wounds, restore our minds, and then return, ready for another round of the battle.
I no longer live in New England, and my life is much happier and serene. But even now, whether I am holding a crisp fresh apple from the store or the leaves hint at shades of crimson and burnt sienna, the evenings get a chill and the light departs sooner than I want, that moment comes flooding back. And I remember that Moments of Respite can make any chaos seems a little less daunting.
What lives in the heart of another, what REALLY goes on behind closed doors, and who do you believe?
Painting done by author
Before I get started, let me first say this piece is not about the average failings we all have where we wish we had done better. We all have dark places in our hearts that we try to overcome with our better sides. And most of the time we actually do. There is not a one of us out there that is perfect. But there are those who carry much darker sides, inflicting harm on others without caring and often taking pride in their ability to fool others.
Why can’t people just leave it alone?
Domestic abuse, child abuse, incest….these are messy topics, uncomfortable topics, topics many would rather avoid than deal with. For many people it comes down to, “he said, she said,” and how do you prove it? And if you know the person accused personally or through their fame, who do you believe? Do you even want to believe it might be true? Why can’t it just be simple and why do people have to bring this stuff up?
(Published on Pure d’esprit as: How to Love Yourself-Even if it Takes a Lifetime)
Painting by the author
NOTE: While I work on that list of reasons to write a memoir, let me share this recent post of mine from the Medium platform publication, Pure d’esprit. I will follow-up later with posts that get into the origin of why I felt this way, the shame carried, and lifelong self-hate that had to be recognized and confronted.
So what am I if you don’t love me…and I don’t either?
At the end of the day it really comes down to this question. In life, sometimes the only one we can count on at times to be in our corner IS ourselves. Parents may fail or abuse. Spouses may walk. Friends disappoint. At the end of the day, if we measure ourselves by those around and outside of us…and they fail us, does that mean we have failed?
That answer took me 69 years. I had almost 30 years of childhood abuse to rebuild from. For a lifetime I hated that younger person I was. Viewed her as weak, stupid, a victim. And I was never going to be a victim again. So, of course I shunned a whole part of me…the part that actually saved me.
About that younger part of me…
That younger part of me had struggled through some of the worst years of my life and kept going. She had trudged through all kinds of abuse, through no or few friends. Through suicidal times. Circumstances crushed me and challenged me to ask myself: “Why should I stick around?”
She instead listened to a small voice inside that kept telling me: “Just hang on. You can always choose to ‘leave’ tomorrow. But just hang on, even one more day. You might miss something.” That small voice wouldn’t relent and she kept listening. “You can hate yourself. But, just hang on anyway, even a little while longer.” I don’t know why she listened, but she did.
Over the next several years I slowly rebuilt me. Got strong, fierce, determined. No one was going to ever do that to me again…a good thing for sure, though I think the pendulum swung a little too far with that tough side of me.
Never be weak again…and then…
Eventually, though, life got better. I even found love with a true soul-mate. And while I continued to soften emotionally, to myself I was not very kind. I had learned to “value” me in some things, in that present moment. I valued being strong, not that “weak stupid younger part.” Her, I despised. I sealed her off and tried to forget her. She was dead to me. Besides, I was too busy raising a son, having a life, to think about her anymore
Then 2006 came along. My husband almost died. My son left for college. The dog died. Menopause hit. And I could no longer face doing the medical research work I had done for a decade. I was in a total spiral. Lost. And it was then, brought to my knees and realizing I was no longer that “tough strong” person anymore, that I began the rest of the journey to healing. And she, who I had hated for a lifetime and abandoned, was the key to my healing.
The return
It has taken a lifetime to return to her…to me actually…that younger part of me. It took me a lifetime to recognize just how brave she was, how much courage she showed. And that the only reason I survived and grew was because of the strength she showed. I finally realized what a truly amazing and special person my younger self was, and what a debt of gratitude…what a debt, period, I owed her…as well as an apology. But even there, strong, loving, gracious — that younger part of me showed me love. Reminded me that at any point we are all just doing the best we can. And she welcomed me back with full love, reminding me also, that is is “better late, than never.”
It is never too late to start loving yourself. And whether it takes a lifetime, whether it is a messy imperfect process, it only matters that you finally reach across the table and reconnect, and truly LOVE yourself. Just start. Even a little. The rest can follow later…even if it’s a lot later.
(Published on Medium Pure d’esprit as: Difficult Stories: Considerations of Risk and Courage When Writing About Sexual Abuse…or Anything)
Painting by the author
Difficult stories
Difficult stories… Well, maybe every story is difficult in its own way because no matter the topic, every writer must take a risk to write, and then find the courage to share that part of their soul.
To me, the bottom line is: To write is to be brave, period. And it is a topic I have wrestled with for years, so I will speak from my own experience.
Trying to write about sexual abuse – childrens’ books
I have contemplated writing my story for a long time…in fact, I tried–magazine articles, children’s picture book, middle-grade chapter book, another magazine article…but none of them seemed to work out.
My first thought was to write fiction–thus I could convey “something” about sexual abuse that might be helpful to someone, yet avoid speaking about me directly…and publicly.
I thought I should write for children — because maybe I could offer them some help on how to avoid being abused, or how to get help in abusive situations. But …what could I say?
For one, I am not a mental health professional so I could not give them current or professional advice. Second, the childrens’ books I saw out there on the subject made it sound like all the child had to do was go to a helpful adult, tell them what was happening, and the adult would make it all better. To me that seemed like REAL fiction, a betrayal of the reality, which might offer no change or a situation that was even worse.
For one thing, often in abusive situations there are no safe adults to go to. And even if outside agencies get involved it doesn’t necessarily make things better. Families may be broken up and kids may get put into the same sitution elsewhere. Even if the family stays together, the abuser may have gotten just minimal help so they might not be “that” safe. And maybe there would be repercussions to the child for “speaking,” from the abuser or other family members. So I just felt I could offer little to help kids.
Trying to write about sexual abuse – magazines
I tried magazine articles hoping to bring more awareness of just how prevalent sexual abuse is and how damaging it is. And while editors were sympathetic, none offered to publish them.
But maybe that was for the best. Frankly, at the time I wasn’t sure how best to write it or exactly what I needed to say that would be a useful and universal message. And I still had a lot of work to do on me. So it was not time.
The message and “giving witness”
Now, decades later, and after years of work with a trauma specialist, I am writing to adults. While someone needs to write to children, I accept I don’t have the talent, voice, or message, at least not at this point. But I can speak to adults. Memoir is my strong suit, and….this time, I know my message:
“In spite of what you did to me, despite how I still struggle, I THRIVE.”
I can give witness not only for myself but for all the others who were harmed and might not be able to speak…or who didn’t survive to be able to speak. As novelist Pat Conroy said:
“I write for the people who can’t speak”
Maybe my story might give someone hope to find their own answers for healing.
Questions that must be answered first
But there are some issues I needed to face to do this, and I think it is true for most writers there are questions each must consider before writing. Because no matter how valid, important, or useful any writing might be, the writer has to make it through the process. Some questions to consider:
What are the risks of writing? Physically, emotionally, relationship-wise….
What, if any, are compelling reasons to do it despite the risks?
And…should I take on that battle?
To the last question — “Should I”? For myself, after seven decades of silence, THAT ONE IS A DEFINITE YES…I am writing. And I will use my own name, not a pen name. But it has taken me a lifetime, and I have thought long and hard. And as to exploring the risks and benefits, I will share my findings in a separate post, and simply leave it that is was a rich, illuminating, and gratifying exercise to do.
The real nature of writing: Courage, honesty, power
But for now, my reason for bringing up the subject of difficult writing is because #1 we are all writers. And in the end, it is not about the subject matter. It is about courage and honesty. It is a supreme act of courage just to put your words on a page even if you share them with no one. Because if you write honestly, you must still face them yourself. It is another level of courage to share them with another.
So the topic of “courage to write” is something I have been exploring a great deal and will write more about. I imagine it is a subject many of us can relate to. One thing I can say about the times I have taken a risk, dug deep for courage, and did the thing I believed was right, I could feel my soul soar.
For now, a gift of inspiration — two quotes I came across and share here for all:
“A word after a word after a word is power.”―Margaret Atwood
‘’You too are driven by the desire to understand…Beneath your desire for knowledge writhes the hunger to understand and love yourself.” — Gloria Anzaldua
The battle-scarred lioness thrives with quiet confidence
Painted by the author
Have I said that I love being older? And no, I am not being facetious. I truly DO love being older. No, I am not fond of arthritis, pre-diabetes, or fatigue. But I have received some “gifts” from life that may at first seem not so “gift-like.” And while I can’t say I wished for or enjoyed the experiences, I AM grateful for the strength they gave me.
Quiet power
Friends of mine traveled to Africa not long ago. As they shared pictures of savannah landscapes, giraffes nibbling on tree leaves, spectacular sunsets, one picture jumped out at me and I knew immediately that it was “mine.”
There in the photo, on the side of the road some distance from their vehicle, lay a lioness. She was not young — her face testified to the fact she had fought and survived a number of battles in life. “Experienced” is a good way to describe her — not old, but not a novice.
Her demeanor as she rested in the twilight, seemed one of perfect ease. Not oblivious, she was certainly scanning and vigilant. But there was no evidence of fear or anxiety. In fact, to me she seemed almost …bored is not the right word, but maybe “unimpressed.” As if to say “is this the best you can throw at me for a challenge?”
What I saw, looking at her in that photo, was quiet power — the sense that she could be there alone, apparently at ease, not because there were no possible threats in the bushes, but because in spite of whatever might come at her, she would meet it as she always did. Because she had done it before. She emanted this sense that she knew what to do, knew her own power, and thus, she would meet the challenge.
A kindred spirit
When I saw the picture, before I could even speak it, my gut almost yelled “YES!” And I knew I needed to paint her. Like that lioness, I bear the scars of many battles over a lifetime. I have been broken and brought to my knees many times by the twists and turns of life. And I won’t say I am “grateful” for those battles. No one happily seeks out fear, wounds, threats, or pain. But the one thing the battles did give me was the awareness of my own capabilities and power.
In my early years I was prevented from fighting back, and had to step back out of fear. But gradually, I grew stronger and rose to the challenge. I didn’t always win the battles. Sometimes they were a bloody, messy draw at best. But…I showed up. I stood up for what I felt was right. I learned to trust my gut, dig down deep, and find I really did have courage even in the midst of terror. Being tested, forced to choose between running or standing firm, I learned I could sustain and do whatever I thought was the honorable thing in that moment. I learned that I “could take it,” and what my capabilities were, so that became a gift even if I wouldn’t have chosen it.
Scars
Many of us have scars from life. We are no longer the pristine version of ourselves when we first arrived in this world. But the scars possess a power, bestow a beauty upon us that can only come from meeting a challenge and emerge maybe on our knees, maybe still standing, but unbowed. And the fact we are still here means we got back up and met the next challenge. And the next. And thus, we also have the ability to stop now and then, take our ease, and survey our path to our current moment.
As to those scars, many of us carry them on the inside, invisible to others. But it doesn’t matter. They are real, we earned them, and we know what they have knighted us with. Even if life or others were to strip us of everything we have, they cannot strip us of the power of that hard-earned wisdom and the honor that comes with it. That power is ours to keep, and it is that power that allows us to take our rest at moments, even as we know more challenges will come.
To know yourself…and your power
So now, in a twilight moment, no longer young, but still very much alive and aware of my abilities, I take a rest now and then. And I know that whatever the future holds, I will stand…or kneel… to meet it, but meet it I will, because I’ve done it before. Like that lioness…I know what to do, I know I can take it, and win, lose, or draw, I will do it.
The Roman philosopher and leader, Seneca, captured the gift of adversity perfectly when he said to those who had never been tested:
“I judge you unfortunate because you have never lived through misfortune. You have passed through life without an opponent — no one can ever know what you are capable of, not even you.”
Soul Mosaic 