I have been abused since I was six months old. I had a psychotic father who was so dangerous I eventually had to change my full name as an adult to protect myself. My mother was abusive as well, although she calmed down a lot once she got remarried nearly ten years after leaving my father. I was molested by two cousins; one from each side of the family. I was also raped three times. Once as a teen and twice as an adult. I am biracial and my mother’s family is racist. In addition, I was married for six years to a man who was emotionally abusive to me as well as our children. Lastly, I have been struggling to establish professional stability despite my multifaceted skills, talents, educational, and experiential background. I am not listing these things to boast of my hardships, but rather to give you some insight to the rationale behind this blog.
During all of these chaotic experiences, I wrote. I constantly had a notebook, a scrap sheet of paper, a receipt, napkin or sometimes even a gum wrapper to write away the pain and confusion. When I got married, I tried to continue writing. However, shortly after the wedding, my ex-husband targeted that as well as my family to establish the first phase of our abusive relationship- isolation.
There were several times that he would find me writing and make accusations based on his own insecurities or sometimes even read my journal and then start a fight with me about something I wrote. Once he refused to speak to me for three days because he read a rap about an ex-boyfriend but assumed it was about him. I tried to explain and he wouldn’t listen to me. He wouldn’t sleep in the same room either. And when I tried to explain it in a letter, he yelled at me and said, “I’m not reading no letter!” After that, there were five years of birthday, father’s day, anniversary, and just because cards that he refused to open because he was mad at the time I gave them to him. Towards the end of our marriage he found the unopened cards while cleaning and started laughing and opening them up to read them for the first time aloud. I cringed as I remembered the details of each incident that led to him refusing to open the card in the first place. I wouldn’t have taken the time to carefully select the card if I didn’t want him to read it at the time I gave it to him. Some of the cards were from early in our marriage and some were from that year. Not too long after that I found an old journal under the mattress in the guest room. It was from four years prior. At that moment, I realized the one thing that gave me intense solace, had been taken from me. I hadn’t kept a journal since I hid that one there. I would write on a scrap paper and destroy it or write in my memo app on my phone and delete it.
As a child, I was never permitted to express myself with either of my parents; so writing was a source of positive release for the negativity I was surrounded by. However, my mother was a snooper. I would get in trouble for writing my opinions of her or her actions.
When I was in undergrad, my suitemate got mad after snooping in my room and finding my journal entry about her lack of cleanliness. At that point, I started writing my journal in Spanish until I graduated.
The bottom line is, I have always had to write for the potential reader. the person I least wanted to find my writing. After having a few text conversations with one of my friends, he suggested that I create a blog under a pseudonym. I got so excited at the thought of writing without having to worry about offending anyone. I got even more excited when I thought about the encouragement I would have to write openly and honestly!
After telling my friend I took his advice, he asked me to send him the link to my blog. I couldn’t think of anything to say but, “Maybe…”