Writing a book, I have decided, is very different then writing a blog. It may have something to do with the subject matter. My blog is about the daily stuff of life. My book is about a specific period of time in my life that is wrought with emotion. I can not get it out of my head. I HAVE to write it. I know that, just like I know I have to breathe 12 times a minute, give or take. And like breathing, I have only some amount of control over it. It is a very strange thing.
I am currently stuck. I was thinking about it today on my way to work. And of course, as I thought about it, the tears just flowed out of me. I realized that crying is also part of my cathartic process. Sometimes there is so much emotion tied in with these events that tears are the only outlet I have left. I have worked through the anger and the grief, for the most part. Those emotions are not the primary issues any more. Tears are indicators, to me anyway, that I still have emotional ties to my memories and to the wounds I have healed from.
The part I am stuck on is the day that I physically left the state of Texas, my husband, my house and my friends. A door to that part of my life slammed shut. Reality began to sink in. But how do I describe it? Most of it, I do not even remember. It is a blur of highway miles, scenery, drowsy conversation and one poignant epiphany moment.
I realized that I have not spent a lot of time reliving this day. I have walked through my last week in Texas, from the moment I learned of the abuse my husband was enacting upon my 5 year old daughter, through the reporting process at the police station, the rape kit at the hospital and the interview with Child Protection. I have replayed all of those moments in my head so many times in the last 6 years. I have tried to dissect and understand every piece of what happened. What did I miss? Did I handle it right? What did I say? What did I do? How did it feel?
I had to do that. HAD TO. It was how I worked through my grieving process. It was how I made my decisions about how I would move forward, what I would tell my children and how I would live the rest of my life. That week was when I stopped being a victim and started surviving.
I think there were important things that happened in the 1200 miles between Dallas and St. Paul. Clearly, not every mile was crucial. I can not remember every detail. I just have not thought about it much. If I were sitting in my therapist’s office, I am pretty sure she would ask me why. So, I will ask myself that question.
Even though I was with my parents, I felt utterly alone. I was safe but I was scared. Actually, I was terrified. I had no idea what I was going to do from that day forward. Everything in front of me, for the first time in my life, was a complete and utter blank. I had nothing but 3 children and 1 squirming inside me, the clothes on my back and $500.
The only thing I was certain of was that I had to get out of Texas. I could not feel safe in the same state as my husband, the abuser of my child. A few weeks later, I would realize that he was my abuser too. My feelings of panic were part of that reaction to being abused and now I was yanking myself out of a situation that although it was extremely unhealthy, it was predictable. I did not know if I could do it.
It is a very good thing that I was not driving because I am fairly certain, I would have either turned the car around or I would have stopped many times on the side of the road. Instead, I was able to let someone else literally take the wheel for a while and drive me away and keep me going in the direction I needed to go, even though I was afraid of what lay ahead.
As I think about this writing block I have, I think it may be that there is not much “action” to describe compared to the whirlwind I had just gone through. This section of my story is more reflective and is more about feelings, impressions and remembering with a little bit of planning and then a lot of “dawning realizations” about the hard road ahead of me.
Perhaps this experience of writing about it is not so much about what words I find to describe the events of my life but the process I go through to put them into place and make them make sense again. Catharsis and healing.
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