For the Love of Writing.... (English Essay, Literacy Narrative)

Reading and writing have been a part of my life since I was first introduced to oversized black pencils and large spaced brown recycled paper. The first story I wrote was called the, “The Yes and No Hill.” One hill always said yes and the other always said no. The plot of the five lined story culminated to both hills having a piece of chocolate cake. My mother still has this story in her collection of childhood memorabilia. The illustrations were not terrible for a first grader. Putting pen to paper is my therapy, my release, and my tool for reaching others.

Before I could attempt to reach the mass population of survivors of child and sexual abuse, I had to walk through my own healing process. What I learned on relationships stemmed directly from each abuser. My father taught me that family came first, and never to step outside of that circle. Each time his fist met my face this lesson wan ingrained deeper. My mother showed me silence; the virtue needed to handle any situation. My uncle schooled me in sex equaling love, per his terms. These lessons partnered with my reading repertoire provided a system of survival. I read mythology, classic literature like the Iliad, and Aesop’s Fables to live in another world. I was Thor in the stories; I carried a hammer and commanded thunder. A child’s need to feel empowered and strong improved my reading ability My father is a born litigator. Though becoming a lawyer did not appeal to him professionally; he practiced his arguing skills daily. Phrases like “I don’t know” infuriated him. The inevitable flying fist coupled with the agonizing sentence, “Are you stupid? You must be stupid. Why would you do that?” brought on another favorite book. Encyclopedia Brown was known for his brain, he stored infinite amounts of data on various subjects. Brains were prized in his neighborhood, as in my father’s house. Every volume of the series I swallowed greedily. Picturing myself the dorky kid with brains enough to best my father and avoid the next wave of physical brutality. These books fueled my appetite for reading; aiding in my escape from the hell I lived in every day.

I stopped reading and writing for ten years, trading my coping skills for the military. In that time span I learned about physical strength, intimidation, drinking, sex, and family. A new phase began in my life; I was no longer the prey. The fear of walking into my house melted away; the fantasy of overpowering my tormentor fueled the desire to succeed in the Navy. I acquired new tools, no longer weak I became the predator. Utilizing the lessons of my childhood, the military and my mental library I sought people that would ensure my emotional and physical needs. I kept them at arm’s length to avoid the retaliation that always follows this vicious cycle. Unrealistic expectations and my demanding personality offered short lived results. In the end people turned away from me bored or hurt. Not willing to see my part in this cycle, I played the role of victim. The fear of abandonment triggered another coping skill. Run like hell, taking everyone down in my path. A tornado, I ripped through the lives of many people destroying some, others I left bleeding and scared.

During this hiatus from reading and writing I found love. Rachel thought differently, acted opposite of what I knew and lived a lifestyle of humility. I rode the merry go round of life and love I watched in my home. Reasons unbeknownst to me, Rachel saw past my façade and offered me a hand down from the carousel. I learned new tools: honesty, faith, communication and how to fight fair. Fighting stories of my youth, alcoholism and drug addiction we came to a cross roads at nine years. The loss of her mother and the family struggles over inheritance left Misha a shell of her former self. Two years I spent reaching out to the woman who gave me a chance, her grief overpowered her reason. The surface of which had only been scratched by the time I realized I could no more save her than myself. Truths of the family began to surface, old wounds cut again and the secrets of Rachel and her sister’s childhood manifested in my living room. Meth parties at Marcie’s home for the high school students led to drug dealers holding hostage material possessions. Morphine patches for faking cancer, prescription pills for her children which she took placed her and her two daughters in our spare bedroom. Just as in my family of origin the honeymoon phase faded away. I came home from work one evening to find a couple in my home. The man was standing near the entertainment center, his wife sitting on the couch and my wife, Rachel adjacent to the sofa loveseat. A matter of twenty seconds to absorb the scene and I knew something was wrong. Rachel said not to worry, everything is fine. The man held his head down, unsure of what to say. His wife smiled limply, nodding her head. I refused their passive comments and demanded to know what was happening. The oldest daughter, 17, had offered a little boy age 10, aspirin for a headache and a blowjob. The little boy, belonging to the parents standing before me, went home scared and told his mother. I stood there shocked, not at the information but at them. My wife, who played the role of diplomat, the mother who sat there passively, and the husband who barely looked me in the eye; they were right in front of me creating a white elephant.

Ignoring the protests of my wife and the half hearted attempts of the mother to not approach my niece, I opened the door to Megan’s shared bedroom. The fear of my anger pushing me into violence was Rachel’s concern. I stared at Megan, the pain and anger from own childhood fueling my rant. Then something happened as I looked at this seventeen year old woman. I watched her life play like a movie, born to a mother who ran away from a physically and sexually abusive grandfather. Grew up to multiple males in and out of her mother’s life, eventually landing back in the same home her mother grew up. There she met the women, her grandmother, great-grandmother, and aunt, who lived in silence out of fear and relief that they were no longer on the chopping block. Raped and tortured at the hands of her grandfather, Megan now sought out others that she felt equal to; to make friends, the only way she knew how.

My anger gave way to understanding. The words that came out of my mouth floated with compassion and love. “How dare you.” I said. “How dare you become the predator, you of all people know what it is like. You have no right…” I breathed, “No right to hurt another human being because you were abused.” Meagan looked at me, her shields and excuses melted away. I walked out of the room. Standing in the living room, all three of the adults staring at me, I noticed that the lighting was dim. I walked over to the wall and flipped the switch. As light flooded the space I watched the white elephant dissolve. Discussion gave way to laughter and a friendship took root.

Nearly two years later my relationship had ended, the sister moved three thousand miles away taking her daughters in the hopes of leaving the wreckage of the storm. Spiritually my soul was bankrupt, emotionally the reservoir was dry. Twenty-nine years old, I felt nothing. Everything I held close slipped right through my fingers. The new tools I learned seemed unfit to handle this new wrinkle. Darkness wrapped me in the familiar blanket of fear and distrust. On my knees in the second bedroom of our two bedroom apartment I thought out my plan for death. The desperation of not being able to breathe overwhelmed me as the tears spilled down my cheeks. I lowered my head onto clasped hands and sighed in surrender. “God, if you want me here, do something with me.” I whispered.

Over the next three years I spent healing my mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual self. I began to journal again, writing blogs on the internet. The more I wrote, the less crazy I felt. In the back of my mind the dream of writing a book still lurked. Attached to its tattered edges were the words of my family. “Writing is not a career, nor is it what you should do. Get a business or computer degree, you can always write poetry later.”

Refusal to believe their ideals fueled by my own feelings of freedom kept me typing every night at the computer. I cast out old thought patterns and tried on new ones. Books on emotional displacement, breathing, diseases of the mind and the body, death, mental disorders, and spiritual development filled my bookshelves. The lesson I learned from the confrontation with Megan helped me to pick up my pen. I told her what the parents and her own aunt refused to approach. I spoke for the members of my family that sought to make every instance disappear into silence. Standing in the darkness I saw myself, the girl, the victim and the predator. I did what the ten year old boy had the courage to do; I told the truth. There is a quote I heard once, “Where Angels fear to tread” (Forster,EM). Its meaning eluded me for years as I thought it preposterous that Angels had fear.

Books became my salvation again, reading instead for answers to God, love, and relationships. In one such book I found an answer that made sense. Natural emotions are often misconstrued as “bad” or not acceptable in society. Fear is considered a natural emotion, a cautionary tool, one of five given to us by the divine creator. The purpose of these natural emotions are to help us navigate through life.(Walsch,pg187) Though Encyclopedia Brown solved mysteries of stolen goods he gave no clues to the mystery of faith, darkness and growth. Brains offered little hope in these matters but, the heart or soul opened doors of truth. Angels, by most accounts, are beings not of human body. Celestial beings that offer help guidance and other universe duties to which I am not privy. Angels having fear seemed absurd before lending them some human characteristics. If Angels are not human then it is not that they ‘fear’ to go anywhere, for they do not have this natural human emotion. Those that reference angels often describe light, heavenly gates, and the grace of some God. The quote implies go where angels fear to go, that place can only be, by default, a place of darkness. If Angels have no concept of fear and only existence in the light of heaven, then who has the ability to step into the darkness?

Mortals, humans, we possess the five natural emotions as described by Walsch, N.D. Further he describes how fear suppressed becomes panic, to which the author attributes death, war, and murder. Standing in the living room facing the parents, my wife I witnessed death of a small boy’s fear. There is not always blood involved when death occurs. I stood in front of Megan glimpsing not only her life but my own. The cycle of sexual abuse, physical abuse continues through generations because it happens in darkness. Perpetuated by other members that cover up the details, hoping that by ignoring or not speaking about the feelings will kill its existence. The idea that pretending abuse does not happen only allows it to continue unchecked. This gift to walk into shadows and darkness no longer served as a yoke. I found protection in the sword, not of warriors who fought monsters, but in the pen. Writing the truth about my own childhood, the relationships I lived in and the redemption of forgiveness gave me freedom from those chains of bondage. The dream of publishing my first book did not center on the fame and fortune ideas of my youth. Instead, I dreamed that I had the courage to tread where others dared not perhaps there was one woman, somewhere, that might need a light turned on in the darkness.

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