Thursday, September 4, 2014
I Can Forgive, It's the Forgetting that's getting me...
The strangest week this has been. Health wise--not the best. I've been exhausted, lack of energy and generally feeling like crap. Add to that, I'm not sleeping. Seriously, I haven't slept in almost four days with cat naps and period of dozing each night. All together I think I've slept 4 hours accumulative.
But it's not been all bad. I hit the Best Sellers list on Amazon with Love's Bitter Harvest hitting #13 in drama fiction. That was amazing and I cried happy, ugly tears more than once as it climbed the charts.
I put out a novella in my Shadow-Keepers series about the main Boss/God - BOUNCE. I love the big guy and I really enjoyed revealing just a small sampling of the secrets that will be unwoven throughout the series.
Of a more personal and dear to me- Well, you have to know my family to understand this, but maybe you have something to relate to in your own.
My dad is a huge reader. He loves spy novels, political and legal thrillers, WWII and most of all, westerns. Needless to say, I write none of those. I brought them a signed copy of Love's Bitter Harvest in hopes my step-mother of course could enjoy it. I was there recently and found my dad was doing the ultimate Ward Ritual with something worth reading.
He was reading it while in the john. That's right, my dad was reading MY book while in the bathroom. Now, before you laugh too hard, you have to understand. When I was growing up there were always magazines and books in the bathroom. Don't know if it's a southern thing or not, but it was always the norm. As my father's health declined that practice stopped and it saddened me in a way. The only time my dad read now was standing at the kitchen counter as he took another breathing treatment (he has to do about a half-dozen a day) to distract from the reality of how bad his health had become. But it had been years since reading material was in the bathroom.
But to know my dad, was reading MY book in a place that once meant a get-away from all that was outside in the room (the only private place in a busy home) to escape once again, in a place I just always thought was normal, brought tears to my eyes. My dad and I haven't always gotten along and we haven't always been close. But to know he's gotten into my romance and was actually taking it with him where ever he went to read to actually read, just...it's hard to explain what it means to me.
Feel free to laugh now.
The next thing that hit me is I was discussing the book with my stepmother and she asked why I didn't write my story. Just from the small bit I have actually talked about and she knew, she thought everyone needs to read it and see that life isn't always easy, but so worth the battle. I had to think about it.
See, I had a bad childhood and there's secrets that I don't think anyone needs to know. I survived a domestic violent marriage and still carry the shame that I didn't leave the first time that fist hit me or when that boot kicked me or my head hit a wall. You can't explain to anyone that hasn't been in that situation why you didn't just go. I ask myself that all the time. "Why didn't I just go?"
But when you're a victim of abuse, your mind is just as beaten up as the rest of you is. Your heart too. It's battered and confused, sore and just wanting to curl up until the pain goes away. You want to wait until you heal...wait until your stronger...then you make that choice. Unfortunately, that healing never comes when you get beaten again before it has a chance. It changes your mind and you just get to the point that this is as good as it gets. That you deserve this. That this is all you are worth. It's so hard to explain to others who just will never get it.
And I sure don't want my family--the few member of it I actually give a damn about how they feel about me--to see the humility of what I was then.
Then you have the suicide...that could have been so much worse in the fact that I could have been killed too? Yeah, that's not something you want to dive back into. That day lives enough over and over in my nightmares and even when I'm awake with my PTSD. I sometimes think that if I write it out, it will stop. But that means opening up all that pain and horror, loss I still in a twisted way, feel. Not to mention, battling thoughts of suicide myself is still an ongoing war. And something I still haven't been strong enough to talk to Rob's family about. And until I do that? I can't possibly write it all. Soul Bound is as close as I have been able to get in even touching that pain and tragedy.
My stepmother said put it as a work of fiction--people need to read it. People need to know how strong you are. That made me cry too.
See, I haven't gotten past the shame, the fear and the grief I guess. I can't say I won't someday, but that someday isn't here. I am getting better and I'll hold on to that and I'll continue to do so.
But to just have my parents support, even when I don't seem to feel like I'm worth it, is so amazing. They are truly a love story. Even when my dad is being mean as heck to her and she's being mean to him right back, for over 40 years, its weathered it all. Does love even happen like that anymore? I have my very real doubts.
So, my novel is proudly now thought of as a Bathroom Read and my story is one that they feel I need to share....it's enough for me. Someday, maybe, the story that keeps me up some nights, haunts my sleep and has warped my days will be told.
But that day isn't here yet.
But just saying SOMEDAY to that. Is SOMETHING.
I can be proud of that.