Why I Didn’t Write For Ten Years

There are people who come into our lives and change us, often in ways that we never would have wanted or imagined. As you recall, I have briefly written about the abusive ratbastard cop here. I try, have tried, always will try to never let his short involvement in my life have dominion or consequence in my future. It was so long ago. So much is different. And safe. For the most part, I never think of him except perhaps in passing, when I see one of his grown children that I pretend not to know.

By the odds of cruel fate, while I was deeply in my grief at my cousin’s passing, I received a friendly message from HE WHO WILL NOT BE NAMED on my personal Facebook page. Ah, Facebook. The playground of the bored sociopath.

My sorrow had chinked my armour and while I would normally snort derisively at the audacity of such a stupid person, I started to remember. Pain added to pain. Fury added to pain. Beyond all doubt, he did one of the worst things anyone could do. He took my words.

Let me backtrack…

As a youngster, I was the insecure, the odd duck, the bullied, the outsider. I was raised by people I now refer to as The Criticisms. In a very small town, I had no escape except inside my mind and into stories. Other’s words, my words. I wrote and wrote. My sanity and my sense of self, my release, were words.

The Criticisms weren’t very supportive. They’d say, “That’s fine, but go study Math as you’ll have to get a real job someday.” It’s okay. Them, I forgive. They’re  just people and people fuck up all the time.

I kept writing quietly, never showing anyone, wearing my words close to my heart, letting them protect and save me. I worked on my craft, telling myself, “Someday, I will tell a story. Someday.”

I collected my words in journals, for later, whenever. Someday.

Almost at the end of the relationship with nameless, I came home one day after work to find all my writings, my journals, opened to pages where I had tried my hand at erotica. Nameless had the look of “I will put you through terror” on his face and a fire lit in the fireplace. It was so absurd, I actually laughed.

I’ve said before, there is no such thing as a bad abuser. They are all very good at what they do. After 4 hours of being berated by a person trained in interrogation, I burned them all. To make it stop. A life’s work. My words. My salvations. My releases.

After that, I didn’t write. No journals, no fiction, no poetry. Writing down words was too dangerous. Who might read them? Who might find them? Who might use them against me?

But in my head, they flowed. The “What ifs…”, the “Whys”. I wrote in my mind for 10 years, until finally, one day, a couple of years ago, I wrote something down.

I nervously took my cheap notebook to my husband. I asked him to read it, and please remember, it was just a story, it had nothing to do with him or me and was it okay? He looked at me curiously, read it and said “It’s good. Keep it up.”

I was safe again. My words could come out. And I’m here.

So nameless, all that you did is behind me. All you tried to do, all you thought or think you were is nothing but fodder. My husband, my son, my life now, it’s good steel. Go ahead. Beat on the door. You can’t come in.

The words you took from me? They’re back now. And they are legion.

I will write until there is nothing left to write on.