Writing Through the Pain

One by one friends suggested, “You should write about your abusive upbringing.”

“Write a book.”

“Tell your story.”

“Me, write? A writer I am not.”

“And anyway, child abuse isn’t original. Who wants to hear another story about that?”

Besides, I get tense trying to understand a pretense, never mind suppositions, oppositions, I mean, prepositions, thees, thous and those. I mean thou art. Oh God, forgive me and help me at the same time.

Dad was a walking time bomb. Self-pity of his disability didn’t bode well with the bitterness and anger he mixed with Darvon and alcohol. Mom? Well she appeared absent in her presence and didn’t defend us. Me, the oldest of three, the lightening rod of his wrath, or so it seemed, was not having a fun childhood.

Growing up I had this sense of feeling stupid. Dad would call us stunods. It was funny then because backwards it spelled donuts. But comments such as those weren’t balanced with love, encouragement or support.

By junior high Dad came home drunk more frequently and would send me and my sister to bed without finishing our homework. Mom shared, “I could only come up with so many family crisis,” as she sent us to school with another excused-note explaining to the teachers why our homework was incomplete … again.

In 1992 Dad was hospitalized. We hadn’t spoken for six years so I wasn’t sure what to do with the news. In the meantime my sister had the chutzpah to make one last attempt to contact him.

This was his final answer to who I was in his eyes and who I had to overcome.

Even though I was angry at Mom for not protecting us, the last thing I wanted to do was hurt her. My challenge? To share my story authentically, be true to myself, respect my family and offer a message of hope.

After five plus years of assembling my notes into a book (I’m now in the millionth rewrite stage – really probably more like 87), I have found a new creative outlet along with my voice.

Hesitantly I revealed to Mom that I’d been writing about growing up with domestic violence. Her response, “I know we didn’t grow up June Cleaver style. I’m sorry I didn’t do things different, but I love you kids so much. I don’t know if I can ever read your book, but I support what you’re doing because people need to hear your story.”

Since then, Mom has read my book, edited aspects of it, corrected family trivia and continues to cheer me on. 

The experience has been cathartic for me. I now have my mother’s love, encouragement and support. Our family is mending at their pace. A friend told me I wrote her life story. Based on the positive feedback from my blog, I’m striking a chord with people’s hearts. I’m encouraged that my pain wasn’t wasted and perhaps my story is helping others. 

If nothing else ever happens with my book, the healing of my family’s past has already begun. My determination to ask the “why” questions of our abuse and Mom’s willingness to answer is a direct result of me writing through the pain.

In a nutshell conclusion;

When I was nineteen, I took a road trip with a friend to upper state New York. During the drive I remarked on the scenery.

“Look over there isn’t that pretty.”

“Those trees are pretty.”

“Isn’t that hill pretty.”

Everything was pretty. Randy couldn’t stand it anymore and said, “You really have to find another way to describe things besides pretty. There are other words ya know.”

I remember thinking how else does one describe pretty if not with that word? Abuse stuffed my creative voice so far down into my being that I didn’t realize how blocked I was. Little did either of us know, Randy had planted a seed, which took root many years later.

May of 2015 a new friend read my blog and commented, “You have such a way with words, they are so descriptive. You must have gone to school to learn this.”

I almost cried and laughed at the same time. Instead I hugged and thanked her for the encouraging words. If she only knew the school-of-obstacles I’ve run into and climbed over.

After a rough start, daring to write the truth of our past opened a door to conversation and forgiveness.

My father never tried to know us and he was misinformed of who we are. His heavy heart was diluted therefore he missed discovering how wonderful and smart and courageous his children really are.

Rather than drink the bitterness of his legacy, I continually strive for restoration of my soul.

Creating to create gave me the opportunity to change my view one step at a time, or in this case, one page at a time.

Do you have a negative that has been turned into a positive in your life?