I wrote a book during my own horrendous, life threatening, life altering #churchtoo experience. It was full of disassociated words, despair, and incoherence. I deleted the whole damn thing. Abuse has always squeezed the ink out of me.
I put down my pen for nearly a year as I lay in a pool of my own metaphorical blood. Words would not form on my lips or on my finger tips. I could only moan, the misery so complete, the despair — so deep.
On the last day, on the last page of the year in 2017, I picked up the pen again. The trauma had truncated, the abuse had amputated; the misery had muted. To speak the speechless was a complete and utter act of bravery in the face of unbelievable brutality.
Over the past two and a half years I have written about #trauma #csa #churchtoo and #recovery. It has been a slow knowing of what I have known; an easing into the hot waters of sorrow; a slow soak in an ocean of sorrow.
I have and inkling that In 2020, I will bind these bits of brutality; these harbingers of hope; these words from the weary, to the weary; and I will give them to you. I fear being bound, I know what it feels like. To give you my words is to give you me — for the reading.
I despise the self exaltation that comes with binding a book. I mean I loathe, detest, and abhor it. As soon as someone says, “Here, buy my book – I RUN.” I like to read dead peoples books. Dead men can’t stand for the applause.
But books have saved me, they have literally been to me a buoy in a brutal sea. Maybe, just maybe, I can pass it on and not have to be dead to do it. Death is so damn final.