Freedom

I spent an intense couple of months doing research into colonial New England for the book I have started writing (though it's not entirely, not even mostly, a historical book, I needed to know what I was talking about for those bits). I did all that research, knowing that February 1st would be the day. The big day. The day I actually started writing. That was my goal. It is now two weeks in.

And how is it going? Well, I've had a few frustrating days, but overall the process has been even more healing and more insightful than therapy ever was. My protagonist is me. Well, not me. But kind of. Her experiences, especially as an adult, differ greatly from mine, but her primal needs, her motivations are all me. And I've had to delve into why I do what I do. I've had to get very uncomfortable, examining me. All of the things she has done, as an adult, I can see me doing if it had not been for some divine intervention. Sometimes I wonder if I had not met my husband at 19, what would my life have looked like? And some of those imaginings are not pretty. Let's just say that if my husband had been George Bailey and he had come to see what I had become if he had never been born, he probably wouldn't recognize the woman before him. Probably would be pretty jarring, and my protagonist has done a lot of things I believe I may have done had I not met my husband at the young age that I did.

The last two weeks have been eye-opening. I've not only had to reach deep down to discover how my abuse changed the very motivations and needs that make up my life, but I've also had to imagine my family's motivations. I've had to step back from villianization, to imagining what experiences they had as children to make up their primal needs and goals. It's been like trying to open up everyone's hearts, without judgment, in order to create believable, fleshed-out characters. And although, I will never excuse what they've done to me or how badly they botched this situation (welcoming a child-molester into your family, a child-molester who abused your own child, is totally inexcusable) I'm starting to see what shaped them and, perhaps, even understand them even more.

And it took me two weeks of intense and exhausting work to suddenly have an epiphany of what my book is about. I had thought about all kinds of different themes - truth, love, validation, hope, etc. But then today it hit me, my book is about FREEDOM! It's about being free from the prison of abuse, the prison of the aftermath of abuse, which can last a lifetime. And only you can make the choice of breaking free of that prison, to release the shame by speaking your truth. I'm beginning to realize that writing this book, may just open up a prison for me too.

My plan from here on out is to post once a week on this blog, to keep track of my writing journey, to write what I am learning because, so far, this has been astonishing.

You Were Only Waiting

She was fifteen when she first heard the words -

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Paul McCartney's soft, heartbreakingly tender voice seemed to speak directly to her soul. The guitar's haunting melody would forever be etched into her heart. The words, the message of this song became so much a part of her being that even as a 35 year old woman, she could not hear the song without tears filling her eyes, and an acute feeling that she was worth something filling her chest.

But when she was a 15 year old girl, she didn't know that she would end up marrying an incredibly loving and patient man, who would make all the difference in her life. She didn't yet know that she would fly far, far away from the self-indulgent villain who stole so much more than her innocence. All that fifteen year old girl knew was a secret world of abuse and shame. She had already been at the mercy of a sexual deviant for over 6 years. She had already been naked, exposed to a grown man before she even hit pubery. She had already had groping hands mark her flesh with humilation and mark her mind with confusion, and brand her evil within her own heart.

She was that blackbird, battered and broken. She was in a constant dark black night. Her misery, her brokenness compounded every time he made her watch another porno, every time he humilated her by forcing his devouring hands, like a thief, onto her intimate, precious parts. Her soul was dying. With his callous hands and heart, he had numbed her to intimate touch, so that it meant nothing. Her self-worth had been discarded like a used up tissue.

But then she heard take these broken wings and learn to fly and her heart leapt into her throat, so that she could barely breathe. She was broken...but she could learn to fly. She may not fly like those other birds whose wings had never been broken, but the learning and the struggle might make the flight all the more sweeter and make her soul all the more stronger.

You were only waiting for this moment to arise...you were only waiting for this moment to arise...you were only waiting for this moment to arise. These were the words that pierced her heart more than any others. It was like a mantra, words her mind could get lost in during the abuse, when her spirit needed to leave her body. Her moment would come. She would fly away.

This song wouldn't take away her misery, her sorrow, or take away the times feelings of worthlessness would consume her. Those feelings would be a constant weight that sat on her shoulders, and colored her world for many years to come; the fiend that began using her as his own personal pleasure doll when she was only 9 made sure of that. But there were those stolen moments, locked in her room, with her headphones on, that she listened to McCartney sing sweetly the words that gave her a flash of hope, and made her realize her worth. And even if it only lasted for two minutes and eighteen seconds, it was the difference between life and death for her.

And a year and a half later, she did fly away. She flew away to England, so far from California. He never did touch her again.

Though she never felt his hands on her again, the stain of them was still on her spirit, and it would take years more to find another moment to arise. Another moment did arise, though, and she knew she wanted to help all those other blackbirds with sunken eyes and broken wings. She wanted them to know that there is someone else in the world that knows their secret shame, that knows their dark black night and understands. She wanted them to know that they could have their moment too. So, she wrote a blog to put her feelings and experiences out in the world, hoping to reach out to the other broken birds. She heard back from so many, and though she was trying to help them, they were helping her. They were lifting her and giving her courage to keep learning how to fly, and she realized that it's in helping others, using your pain and experiences, that you actually help yourself. And she wanted to help more.

And so, my friends, this is my way of letting you know that I am working on a book.  I've had major setbacks legally in pursuing justice with my abuse in the past 9 months since I posted on this blog, and so I feel it is time to write my book.  It is fictional, but my own experiences of abuse are the basis of the story. You have all inspired me that we are all in this together, and whatever pain we have endured can be used as motivator to reach out to others and be open and honest in sharing our stories, so that others can gain stregth from realizing they aren't the only broken bird out there.