Hi, here's the story on finding out about all of them: *****Among the bills was a square envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. The return address was from a woman with the same last name as Todd, my married name. After deciding not to open the envelope, I practiced assertiveness skills, and then confronted Todd.
“Todd, who is this from?”
“Mind your p’s and q’s, woman.” Todd tore open the envelope, which contained an invitation.
“Todd, who is it from?”
“It’s from my daughter. She’s graduating high school.”
“You have children?”
“Yessiree. Four: Debra, Denise, Dorothy, and Donald.”
“Four? Four?”
“They’re from my first marriage, to Dottie.”
“First marriage? How many marriages were there?”
“Well, let’s see. You’re number eight. And you know what? I loved all my women.”
Loved? How well could he get to know an individual woman in a series of short-term marriages?
Todd named the wives in chronological order, counting twice one wife that he had married, divorced, and remarried. He admitted that he had been arrested for bigamy when he forgot to get divorced between his first and second marriages. The parents of the second wife sued him for fraud and misrepresentation, and had the marriage annulled.
“Her parents kept me from ever seeing my second wife again,” Todd whined.
“When was the last time you saw your children?”
“It’s been years. Dottie kept me from seeing them after I left her.”
The news of his numerous marriages came as a moment of truth: I had married a menace to society. How I could be so stupid? Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I tried to deny that I had not discovered Todd’s deceit. Perhaps he did not really have six or seven previous wives. Perhaps if I pretended long and hard enough, it would all go away. Go away!

BTW, when I refer to “husband” I mean my current spouse, who is a saint and a genius. I would never call the man I was married to before a “husband” or a “spouse” (Louse is more like it!)

When I got the manuscript back from the editor, I was eager for feedback yet afraid that the topics were too controversial. After all, this editor and his wife were the first ever to read the full story. I was certainly self-conscious, but thought that my book had been in good hands considering our connection at the church. His first line in the critique was: “This is a brave book you have written.” Well, I critiqued his critique, thinking that I would have said, “You are brave to write this book” because ascribing “brave” to the book didn’t make sense. Of course, I got the point. This editor made every effort to make my book a better read. He had me cut the book from @167,000 to @95,000 words. He helped me to use the active voice rather than the passive voice. For example, I might have written, “It was a cold and windy day” (passive) to “The day was cold and windy (active). He encouraged me to own the sentence. Instead of “The sun hurt my head” I should write: “My head hurt from the sun.” Overall, I got courses in writing for my $1,000, and spending the money was well worth the improvements to the book. I spent a year making changes according to his suggestions, and then asked him to edit the changes I had made. Alas, he and his wife had so much business that there was a long waiting list, so I had to search for another editor. (If you want to know more about his suggestions, let me know.) BTW, it took a year or more to make these changes because I had also gone back to college at this time.

Lynn, I am absorbing every word of your posts. Thanks so much for giving so much of yourself as a Featured Author. You are doing a fantastic job in the domestic violence arena, as well as the writing topic.

I have lots of catching up to do since I was away this weekend.

Did you know you were writing a book when you began organizing journals, etc. in Colorado?

I have a friend who equates writing with being a crack addict. Sounds terrible, but when she gets rolling she's addicted. Hours go by and she is unaware. I thought of her when you mentioned not answering the door or phone.

I'm glad you mentioned your husband is a saint and a genius. I couldn't agree more.

Are you still practicing the same writing disciplines?

Lynn, do you know Michelle Weldon? She's is an author, columnist, and lecturer at Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern University. She is also single mom of three boys. Her first book was a riveting memoir about spousal abuse, I Closed My Eyes. After writing that book she wrote, Writing To Save Your Life: How to Honor Your Story Through Journaling. I have not read her memoir, but devoured her book on writing.

I met Michelle at the NAWW Conference. She was one of the presenters. She's an awesome woman. Look her up online.

Hi Dotsie, thanks for the feedback. I don't know of Michelle, but I will certainy look her up. I've been away from my computer all day running errands with my husband on his day off. So I'll add more later tonight! How is everyone else? Anyone want to check in here? I think I'm going to bring up the topic of self-esteem and body issues, as that is a common thread amongst women. Til then, Love and Light, Lynn

When I was sorting through scraps and notes my first time in Colorado 10 years ago, I told myself I was working on a "project." Although I always expected that I would write a book someday, it took me a long time to say "I am a writer" because what follows is: "What are you writing?" and at that time, I wasn't sure exactly WHAT I was writing. It took another long time for me to say I was writing a book about abuse and its ramifications. Abuse is shrouded in silence and shame, and for me to admit that I was writing about it meant that I had experienced it. When someone would ask what I was writing, and I answered, I sometimes asked my husband what I sounded like. Did I sound stupid? I was that insecure about myself and my work. He would always say I sounded articulate or intelligent. He understood how difficult it was to write a book about abuse, and to speak out. He was obviously very supportive. So, the short answer is that when I was organizing I did not know for sure it would evolve into a book. When I moved to Kansas, and had a room estab lished as a "writer's retreat" I knew I was literally writing a book. I also became more comfortable saying that I was writing about abuse.

I'm certain that many of you must have heard about near death experiences. Perhaps some of you even had the experience. Although I don't call it such, chapter 2 describes a near death experience. The reason I don''t call it that is because there is so much controversy surrounding the subject. Not for me, I KNOW what I experienced. The scene occurs as I am being rescued from the suicide attempt. ***Someone was wiping dribble from my mouth and chin. I could hear techno beeping sounds and humans whispering words as if I were eavesdropping on a telegraphed code from earth to hell. The word “why” was repeated as often as the beeps. Beep. Beep. Beep. Why. Why. Why. I could sense hands undressing my body. Don’t leave my body naked on the gurney! The hands covered my body to the neck with a sheet, but I could not feel the contact of the cloth with my skin.
Dead. Dead. As if I were suspended from the ceiling, I looked upon my body. I saw a sad bag of bones with ghostly white skin and dark blue shadows under the eyes. I was finally dead.
Someone started using my name: “Lynn, Lynn, breathe, take a deep breath, breathe, hang in there! ECHO! STAT!” I sensed the tension as they tried to resuscitate my body. An urgent voice was shouting: “Blood pressure 60 over 40!”
Was that 40 over 60? How I wanted to tell them not to bother! I was not worth the effort. Stop! Stop! As much as I wanted those words to form on my lips, they remained in my brain. The body would not obey the mind, as if the body and mind were separate entities without connection. At death, I felt as powerless over my own body as I had been in life.
I heard: “I got a pulse!” It felt as though a dresser had been dropped on my chest, causing a sharp pain over my heart and a steady ache at my sternum. My head was throbbing with each heartbeat. My throat hurt with every swallow. As I breathed, I coughed. When I coughed, I vomited. My body trembled, my teeth chattered. What went wrong? I thought I was dead.
When I opened my eyes, I saw a wall of beeping monitors that cast a green light in the dim room. My body was shuddering uncontrollably, probably from the cold. As a nurse rolled a thermal blanket up to my chin, I noticed that I had been dressed in a hospital gown. “Your belongings are in a plastic bag under the bed,” she said. The image of a bag lady came to mind again.
A dark man in a white coat said, “Welcome back. I am Dr. Fernandez.” He spoke with a kind tone in a Latin accent. “How are you?”
Did he expect a response? I waited awhile, but he did not go away. Neither did the nurse, who was explaining the insertion of a catheter to empty my bladder. Apparently, not all physiological systems were receiving messages that the brain was transmitting.
“Did I die?” A hoarse sound rose from a dry well so deep below the surface that I did not recognize my own voice. The doctor looked at me. I avoided his eyes.
He answered, “Yes, you were gone for two minutes. You are in the intensive cardiac care unit. You have cardiac complications and there is a fifty/fifty chance of brain damage. You are on seizure precaution. Your condition is critical. All you can do for now is rest.”
Alas, I was alive. I alternated between sleep and waking. Please, God, let me fall asleep and never wake up. My eyes closed. ***

In reference to the above post about NDE (near death experience) I want to copy a poem I read by Mattie J.T. Stepanek from "Loving Through Heartsongs." This was the boy who had a form of cerebral palsy. He was on Oprah as well as other talk shows because he was so young and ill yet so wise and strong. He describes so well the experience of NDE:
Awakening After A Close Call:

Don't believe the Christmas trees!
Everything is so much more beautiful
And wonderful, and glorious
Than anything we can imagine
Or compare, or create.
Especially the Light, and the Angels!
The Light is so many things...
A window
A tunnel
A sunset at the edge
Of a polished pier.
And the Angels...
The Angels are more than
Just males or females with wings,
They glow with the Light
Of Every-color!
One color at a time,
Or all at once, or none at all.
But there is no darkness.
There is no darkness in Heaven.
And there is no death.
Even though we must die to enter,
As we face the Light and the Angels,
We are beyond any type of death.
Don't believe the Christmas trees!
Heaven is beyond human description.
Believe in the Spirit behind the trees.
Believe in the Life related to the decorations.
Believe in the Word leading us to our Future.
And always,
And always, and always,
Believe in the Light, and the Angels!

I sign my books "Love and Light" because I learned, I experienced, that in the end that is all there is: Love & Light. Lynn

Lynn, I think self-esteem and body issues are a much needed topic. I've always said that abuse is not so much about if he loves you, why does he do it, but about us not loving ourselves.