A Gift of Purpose

It truly is a gift, you know. These memories, hell at the time I was making them, have changed my life.  I cursed my life and wished it different for so long that when wisdom caught up with me, it took my breath away.

A memoir based on many of those hellish memories, “Worthy: Drinking Hope from a Well of Despair” was conceived, grew inside of me and was born on the social networking site, Gather beginning in 2008.

I toyed with the idea of publication for a while. A few Gather readers of it encouraged me to do so.

“I don’t know,” I told myself. “People will be hurt.” I didn’t want to hurt people; at least not the innocent ones. I wasn’t sure about airing my secrets among my very large extended family, much less the general public. I wasn’t even sure how my siblings would receive it.

Still, something pushed me onward. I spent months trying to find an agent to represent it, or a publisher willing to take a chance. I must have seemed sure I wanted to venture forward… but I wasn’t, really.

I signed a contract a few months ago, and in the latter part of July, I was informed that the book will be released on September 7. Since then, I had my share of palpitations and perspiration. No, it is not the allergy and sinus meds or the many-weeks-long heat wave.

It was genuine panic. Intense, blinding panic.

Two weeks ago, I received my first copy of MY book, in the mail. I thought I knew how I would feel when I was able to hold it in my hands, imagining a stranger picking it up and opening it. I was mistaken.

Never in my life had I been so aware of the feel of pages beneath my fingertips, as I am with “Worthy.” I’d been in a panic about it. I’d chosen a publisher which did not provide copy editing services, much less editing. As soon as I had submitted the proofs with corrections a few weeks ago, I began to second-guess myself. But when I opened it and began reading, seeing my own name at the top of every other page, and my poetry and my experiences…  the panic began to subside.

I know it’s not perfect. But it’s a perfectly lovely experience.

I think back to earlier times; to a previous husband who, while I was reading a book called “The Courage to Heal,” written by and for survivors of sexual abuse, kept “putting it away” choosing places in which it was more and more difficult for me to find it. When I asked him why, he asked me, “Aren’t you embarrassed by it?” It was clear that he was.

A few nights ago, I sent the link to my previous blog, “Finding My Voice” to my sister. In her response, she wrote, “I’m constantly struck by how you have managed to turn your early pain into something that becomes beautiful today.”

My son, who “could have been” embarrassed by book, is instead completely supportive; sometimes in talking to him, I think I even detect a hint of pride.

A part of the gift I have been given, with this book, is a cousin to whom I have barely spoken in forty years, reaching out… a sister who can’t “really” understand, but somehow, does…  a newspaper columnist who wants to interview me for my hometown paper because she “could have written a very similar story.”

…a husband who, when I told him I was writing the story and sharing it on Gather two years ago, said, “Are you sure you want to share that kind of thing with total strangers?”

I told him yes, because I felt that was the whole purpose of what I had gone through; that if I kept it inside of me, somehow, the bad guys won.

“All right, then.” My husband told me. I asked him if he was bothered by knowing it was going to be read by total strangers, (hopefully in large numbers) and he said he wished the story hadn’t happened, but he supported me 100% in writing and publishing it… then, on Gather and now, in print.

Still, that wasn’t the gift.

When I was a child, thinking about the bad things which happened to me, I thought it was because there was something evil or defective in me. As I grew up, I told myself that it was better it happened to me than someone else, because I not only deserved it, but was strong enough to survive.

These days, I know the real reason. It’s because, as my sister said, I can take the pain and make something beautiful of it.

The true gift is in knowing that this is my chance to reach people; to tell them that I’m a living, breathing and happy example of the fact that you can hurt, be hurt, lose hope and faith, make all the wrong choices… and somewhere down the road, still have a chance to shine.