Lynn Tolson, Beyond The Tears: A True Survivor's Story

Lynn C. Tolson, author of "Beyond the Tears: A True Survivor's Story" is the Featured AUthor for the month of April.

Visit http://www.beyondthetears.com and order through her PayPal, amazon.com, bn.com, or authorhouse.com. Lynn promises an interesting and enlightening read!

Here's a message form Lynn about her book:

Hello Boomer Girlfriends, I am delighted that Dotsie has chosen me for the Featured Author Forum in April. You may have read my on-line tag-line which states: “My passion is writing and my mission is to confront violence against women and children.” Thus, I wrote the book Beyond the Tears: A True Survivor’s Story, which is my memoir about overcoming abuse, addiction, and suicide attempts.

As you read, you will be like a “fly on the wall” during my therapy sessions, as I reveal the problems and solutions discussed in therapy. But that’s not all: my story also offers a spiritual journey, lessons on living, inspiration, and communication. As Dotsie has said, even if you have never experienced abuse, your eyes of compassion will be opened.

For those of you who have experienced adversity (and who hasn’t) you will see that you are not alone. It is fitting that this book was selected in April because this month is National Child Abuse Prevention Month and National Sexual Assault Awareness & Prevention Month. 1 in 3 girls and 1 in 4 boys will be sexually violated before they turn 18! I reveal these issues in Beyond the Tears.

There are passages that may not be pretty because I do not glamorize abuse; in fact, some passages are accounts of what abuse looks like, feels like, sounds like. The reason for choosing this method is because abuse is often referred to in polite terms, such as “molestation.” I let the reader know exactly what the term means so that society can no longer ignore its existence. But don’t let that scare you!

You will also read about the culture of our collective coming-of-age time frame, such as the introduction of the Beatles, the growth of suburbia, the advent of the hippie sub-culture. I promise you a read that will ultimately offer you a message of hope and an inspiration as you read my journey from victim to victory. Lynn C. Tolson

A great big welcome to Lynn.

[ February 15, 2006, 10:28 AM: Message edited by: Dotsie ]

Hello Dotsie and Boomer Women, I am honored to have been selected as the Featured Author. I hope I will be of service to everyone on this site. My life is an open book; please feel free to ask me anything! There is so much to talk about. Love and Light, Lynn

As an opener, I'd like to quote the rock and roll super star, Sting. Whatever we discuss this month will be wrapped with love for the earth and for each other. In reference to flowers, Sting writes, “…not only must such tiny beautiful and delicate living things be charged with love, but also the inanimate stones that surround them, everything giving and receiving, reflecting and absorbing, resisting and yielding, and I realize perhaps for the first time that love is never wasted. Love can be denied or ignored, or even perverted, but it does not disappear, it merely takes another form until we are consciously ready to accept its mystery and its power. It may take a moment or an eternity.” Broken Music, A Memoir. Love and Light, Lynn

Lynn329,
I'm going to start out this discussion by saying I've read the book and was brought face-to-face with abuse. I was shocked, humbled, torn, angry, sad, but most of all, enlightened. If you ask me, everyone should read it and therefore, be armed. The writing is excellent, you will fall in love with Karen, (I won't tell who she is), and you will want to reach out and protect Lynn. You will feel helpless, however, you will feel somewhat vindicated in the end.

Thank you for telling this story so that the Mothers and Fathers of the world may have their eyes opened. Also, for the victims out there...that they may know you can overcome.

This book was hard to read at times, but I can honestly say, I so grateful I did. Would I recommend it to anyone? Absolutely.

JJ

Lynn, you already know my reaction to your book was similar to jawjaw's.

By the grace of God, I have never been abused. Your book was the first I've read on the topic. This proves it's good to step out of our reading zones (something we've been discussing in another forum).

I was ignorant until I attended a luncheon and the guest speaker (who looked like you and me) spoke of her physical battle with her husband, protection of her children, acceptance in a shelter, and recovery. I was stunned. When she stepped up to the microphone in her stylish suit and lovely smile I had no idea what was hiding behind her glamour.

Her story and your story opened my eyes to the compassion so rightfully needed by women who are abused, and the knowledge that abuse is probably a couple doors down and I don't know it.

I'm grateful you so willingly shared your story. Now I have a question...

Have family members read your book, and if so, what are their reactions?

Good morning friends! I have an answer to Dotsie’s question, “have family members read the book and if so what was the reaction?” My family’s reaction was the main reason I did not tell my story. My mother, who called me a writer all of my life, used to tell me I should write stories of my “escapades.” She pointed to books by Danielle Steele and said I should be a writer like her. She hadn’t realized that those “escapades” were directly related to having been abused. When I told her the result of my writings included the entire family, she said, “You don’t want to embarrass your poor mother in her old age, do you? I thought you’d write a book, but does it have to be that book? You didn’t paint me in a good light.” She has not read the book, but my stepfather read her portions of a rough draft. Perhaps I sent them the draft to get their permission. I did not want to hurt anyone. I did not think in terms of “They hurt me, so now it’s payback time.” Revenge was not on my mind. A message of hope was my primary motive, and I realized I did not need their permission. In my forties, I accepted that my message of hope and healing was a calling that could serve others, and that calling became greater than whether or not my mother approved. During the visit to my parent’s in Phoenix last week, I brought up the subject of my book to my stepfather. My mother was not in any mental condition to discuss it, but she does know that I “lecture” on violence. I told him my by-line (my passion is writing and my mission is to confront violence against women and children.) His reaction was acceptance of my work, and there is understanding of its importance. As for my older brother, a perpetrator, he read both the rough draft and the actual published copy. It’s funny: he bought it on Amazon. I would have given him a copy. He has realized that he can be a silent partner in my mission to confront violence. If he denied my work he would deny his participation in abuse. He realizes that by telling my story, of which he is a great part, he is contributing to solving the problem of abuse in our society. During the early draft, I asked him if he was going to sue me, and he said, “You are the one who should sue me.” Indeed, I wouldn’t have minded some payment for therapy! My grandmother is 98; she does not know of the book, but knows that I help women in some capacity. My younger brother, who lives near our parents, has not read the book and said he doesn’t have a compelling desire to do so. He does not know what work I do, and I did not make it clear until yesterday, when I wrote him a letter and included my web site. Based on my recent visit with him (in Phoenix) I think he may have a growing interest in reading the book. So, my family might have preferred that I was a writer like Danielle Steele, but they have accepted that I have used my life story to help others.

Lynn,
Of course you have closed some doors in my life and answered many questions for me . I have read her book and loved her writting and only hope that I can do as well .

Thank you Lynn and glad that you are back on the forum.

In the beginning, I did not set out to write a book about abuse. I did not even intend to include members of my family. I tossed and turned as to whether to use my own name, and whether to write a fictional account. I intended only to write about suicide attempts, addictions, physical/emotional recovery and spiritual transformation. I knew that I had to start at the end (the suicide attempt) and use flash-backs to get to the beginning of my journey of survival. I began by writing vignettes, such as the attempt, or an account of addiction, or a memory of a friend (Christopher.) I also used poems I’d written in high school to evoke my emotional state at that time. It was a surprise that the book evolved into the story about abuse, which were the root causes of suicide and addiction. 1 out of 3 girls and 1 out of 5 boys will be sexually assaulted before the age of 18. Had I omitted the most heinous of crimes I would not have been authentic, and I would have done a disservice to victims and society. Have any of you started a story (or other piece of art work) with one intention only to have it take on a life of its own and evolve into something else entirely?

Hello Nancy, JJ, Dotsie, and others: Thank you for posting your responses to the book. As an artist/author, I have set goals for my work: I hope to evoke emotions, provoke memory, open lines of communication. If a reader benefits, that offers validation that my work may be worthwhile. By the way, I also happen to believe that art can be produced for its own sake, without purpose other than the process.

I might have preferred to be an actress (I have celebrity envy) but I was charged with this mission. I would have preferred to write romance or fantasy because those genres are “safe” in society but I was given the courage to write about controversial social subjects. I thought long and hard about how graphic the accounts should be. With shows like “Law and Order, Special Victims Unit” society may get the message that crimes have to be sensational in order to be heinous. In fact, the opening to L & O SVU is: “In the criminal justice system, sexual based offenses are considered especially heinous.” And every show has a sensationalized version of what story was “ripped from the headlines.” With the advice of my counselor, I decided NOT to minimize abuse and its ramifications, suicide attempts and addiction. Believe me, sometimes I cringe when I meet someone who has read my book. I think, “Oh my gosh, he/she knows THAT about me.” Yet, it was that shame that kept me from telling my story. And if I feel shame, then I am contributing to the shame based stigmas society holds on abuse. So…I swallowed my ego and the result is an actual, factual account of what may happen in real life, right next door, to the family that appears to be the model middle class members of society.

Thank you all for saying the book is well-written. I was glued to editing guides for grammar for the final draft. The writing process consisted of using vignettes, making lists, stream of consciousness, and not letting go of a topic. For example, if I was writing about my father, I would ask myself “what else?”…what else do I remember, feel, smell, taste, see, hear? I would examine a situation like a forensic scientist. I would stretch my memory to the limits, even when I was afraid to recall. Early on during the course of writing, my mother sent me my childhood photo album. I had it for weeks before I dared look in it. I was afraid of what I might see. Who was this little girl in the pictures? Was that really me? One night, I woke up from a dream. I said to my husband, “The angels Odetta and Michael were here.” He said, “What did they say?” I replied, “They said, ‘We are always with you. Go without fear.’” (I’d never even heard of the name Odetta before that night.) Friends, I can hardly describe how real this experience was. Yet I did not know at the time the reference was to the story I was about to write. I thought the message was more about the property management job I had at the time, which was high stress and low pay. Leave it to the angels to have more depth than to refer to the material plane. In retrospect, I realize that message was in reference to the book I was about to write. The next day, my day off from work, I sat on my bed and looked at the photo album. I saw myself as an innocent, sweet, generous child, and not the addicted adult I was ashamed of. Funny, there was not one picture of my father. Anyway, as far as “well-written” I think it was a matter of divine guidance, and I am humbled to have been an instrument for the messages of the book. That being said, I must add that writing is work that requires discipline and determination.

I am working on a memoir about my cancer experience. I must confess that I am afraid that I may not produce material that is as well-written. I’ve read on the forums that a couple of you had success with your first books, but are stuck on the second. I wonder if the fear of being able to produce as well once again is a component of the writer’s block. I’ve heard actors say they thought they might be unable to generate from the well of creativity for a subsequent project. Even Bob Dylan said that he could not reproduce the genius lyrics and music of his youth. I wonder if the other writers/artists here plunge right into a second/third project, or linger in the fear that you might not be able to do it again?

Welcome Lynn
I like the idea of seeing my goals!

Lynn,

Another name used for your style of visualization is "treasure-mapping". Sometimes, people will get a blank photo album and fill it with pictures of what they desire. They will even replace the heads of people in the pictures with their own when that person's appearance or activity matches their desire.

It is a very effective technique because it creates a mental equivalent, which is eventually what will manifest in the physical.

Congratulations on being so consistent in using such a technique to create your desires!

Hi TV. My book opens with a suicide attempt, an obvious manifestation of depression. I recall when my goal was getting out of bed! In order to battle depression and low self-esteem, I would not have goals par se, but would instead have an "achievement list" at the end of the day. I would acknowledge not what I did NOT do on my to-do list, but what I DID do. 1) got out of bed 2) took a shower 3) brushed my teeth 4) got dressed 5) fixed my hair 6) took my meds 7) ate other than sugar. This may sound silly, but anyone who has ever suffered from depression will recognize that getting out of bed can seem like an enormous task. Fortunately, the above mentioned tasks are routine, and no longer something I have to think about. Now, my goals are loftier. Do you want to share what some of your goals are and/or what image would depict them?

Lynn, I'm going to try your Treasure Map technique. Does faith figure into it at all? Do you have to Believe that it will work, or will just seeing it every day help it to happen?

Lynn, it surprises me that some of your family members haven't read your book. Do you know why? Has it ever been a topic of discussion?

I can relate to writing taking off in different directions. I began this project in 2002. It looks like the book I set out to write will be different than the one that gets published. I had an idea and it snowballed. I am rewriting another proposal as we speak. It's been a n amazing journey.

You mention meeting people who have read your book and feeling awkward about what they know about you. I can relate. Out of the blue, people will tell me they've been in my forums(this happens at PTA meetings, church functions, neighborhood meetings, etc) and I stand there feeling naked. My face turns read and I wonder what posts they read. But I'm sure you feel the same way I do. It's all true, it's me, take it, or leave it.

The dialogue with your counselor is priceless. There is so much wisdom in her words. How did you go about writing that?

Lynn,
Could I ever relate to those depression-battling goals. I had to do the same thing. After several weeks of not even being able to get out of bed, (and that failure just made it worse and harder to get out of bed the next day), I finally decided to move ONE LITTLE STEP, one achievement at a time. 1) Roll out of bed (forget the shower today); 2) Make it down the stairs; 3) sit in the chair and ponder breakfast; 4) go back to bed. 5) Thank God for a husband who made sure I didn't starve to deth. That was the first few days. But it was better than not getting up at all. Like you, I stopped concentrating all of the stuff I was not doing and started focusing and applauding the few little things I was doing.

And it evolved from there. The morning I was actually able to make (and eat) my own breakfast was a huge milestone, and probably marked the turning point for me. It was a very long arduous uphill climb, but now, even though retired, I'm up early every morning, take a shower most mornings and never skip breakfast, and rarely have enough hours in the day to fit everything in.

I love your goal-manifest post. But I also like the way you remember that some people can barely manage to roll out of bed. We can only begin where we are, and if that's in bed, then that's where we start, with rolling out of bed. And then do what little we can, when we can, and be proud of ourselves for even that little morsel of accomplishment.

I REALLY like the one about being a guest on Oprah...have no idea why or what I'd say, but it definitely rings a chime somewhere deep inside of me.

Unique, I can honestly say that when I first read of this technique (in Creative Visualization) I was skeptical. At that time, I had little faith in God and/or myself. There are books about intention being an important component to manifestation, (such as “The Sky’s The Limit” by Wayne Dyer) but I did not put much emotional effort into my maps. If it worked, it worked. If not, then oh well. I don’t recall using images to depict the spirit in my first one, but in subsequent maps I realized how important spiritual growth is to me.

I was drinking too much wine at the end of the work day when I made my first map. I clipped a bottle of wine, pasted it onto the map, then put a big red X over the wine. I have not had a drink of wine since December 4, 1994. Not that wine is bad! I was just using too much of it to escape from high stress and low pay. So, that’s one way of imaging habits you want to break, by using a big red (or black) X.

I didn’t dare to dream at first. To give you an example of how limited my goals were, the first map I did had a tiny picture of a microwave on it. That’s all I could think of: a microwave.

I hid my first treasure maps from my husband (then boyfriend) because I was self-conscious and I thought he’d be skeptical. Since then, we’ve seen so many manifestations of our desires that he clips pictures, and says, “Put this on the map!”

Hmmm…. I still have a crush on Paul McCartney. Maybe I should put a picture of him on my map!

This technique is amazing. And, if something is not meant to be, you’re still covered by saying, “This, or something better…”

The dialogue with your counselor is priceless. There is so much wisdom in her words. How did you go about writing that?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hi Dotsie, thanks for noticing the dialogue. In my first draft, I had no dialogue at all. I had no idea as to how to write dialogue. The draft read as a life-less news account, not a story about a life! Boring. The first draft also had 167,000 words. I hired an editor who suggested dialogue. (I paid him $1,000; his editing was priceless!) Gosh, I was scared; dialogue was stretching me as a writer. I also had to constantly reference editing manuals to see where the commas are placed, when to use colons, when to let a part of a conversation stand alone as one sentence. Some of the conversations are word-for-word based on memory. I’d ask myself, “What did Karen say? What did I say?” The wisdom comes from the composite character of Karen. She is more than one counselor combined. Some of the wisdom was actually my own insights, but to keep continuity of the dialogue, I attributed the knowledge to Karen, as if she were imparting it to me. ALL of the wisdom was new to me!

Hello Eagle, Perhaps the notion resonates with you because you too will be on Oprah in and of yourself. I have no doubt that we boomer women will be on Oprah, with Dotsie in the hot seat. We are a phenomenon! I am glad to hear you made your way through depression. How did you know to mark your accomplishments? You know, I think that our spirits desire healing and wholeness, and we can be driven by instinct and intuition to health. I like your phrase: we can only begin where we are. Thank goodness you had someone to care for you and about you. I still take the anti-depressant Celexa

Hi Boomer Friends, with the passing of the Pope, I am remembering what I learned in Catholic school, including prayers. In the opening chapter of “Beyond the Tears” I am repeating the Lord’s Prayer during a suicide attempt. The irony is that I had a difficult time as a child accepting God as the Father, because “father” provoked feelings of fear in me. Yet, as I approached death, I prayed to the Father. Indeed, I was rescued. During my darkest days of depression, I would repeat the Lord’s Prayer as if I was a cloistered nun! Even if I couldn’t connect with each word, the rhythm soothed my spirit. My grandmother, who is 98, was near death with pneumonia last summer. After a stay in the hospital, she was to enter a nursing home/rehab for follow-up care. The day before she was to enter the nursing home, she was so scared I thought she would will herself to die rather than go to rehab. I was in her kitchen, and I overheard her murmuring in her bed. She was murmuring in Italian, her native language. When I got closer, I recognized the rhythm of the murmuring as The Lord’s Prayer. So, I asked, “Grandma, do you want me to pray with you?” Of course she said yes. We held hands and said The Lord’s Prayer aloud. Last week, I was with my mother, helping her to arrange her final affairs. She said that at her funeral service, she wants the Lord’s Prayer recited. I pray in less formal ways now (a simple “thank you” will do) but the ritual of official prayer still resonates with me. How about you? How has prayer affected your daily life, or crisis situations?

Lynn,
Interesting seque here...can I share my "crisis" experience with the Lord's Prayer too?

I've believed in God all my life, and enjoyed a very strong, joyously life-giving, seemingly unshakeable faith for over 40 years. Never needed "signs", although I did have incredibly wonderful dreams that always seemed to speak whatever wisdom I needed at just the right time, even through my depression years. I just always believed.

Then my Dad died. And I mentioned in another post somewhere that the continuing absence of any sense of connectedness beyond his death devastated me, and threw me into a whirling maelstrom of doubt and crisis of faith. A crisis I'm still wrestling with, although I find that I'm closer to a more unconditional belief and love for God than ever before. It has become a deliberate choice to accept Him for who/what He chooses to be, and not insist He be who/what I want Him to be. To let God be God and let go of my paintbrush, which always wants to paint Him the way I think He should look and behave.

All through that crisis of faith, no matter how lost and, well, to be honest, even disgusted I became (Dad's death, 9/11, my Mom's death, etc, etc) with His apparent inactivity and silence, I never lost my profound desire to "come back Home", but couldn't get past my anger, and had to work hard to not let myself get completely lost. Praying became almost impossible, because I could no longer "look Him in the eye". All I could say was a very bitter "How could You let this happen? Where were You?" And then a montonous litany of tired "I'm sorry"'s.

Until one day I remembered the Lord's Prayer. Such a simple basic prayer, one recited so often since early childhood that it had become rote and meaningless. But all of a sudden it became my only link, my lifeline to something, someone I desperately didn't want to lose. It still is my strongest link, along with the wonderful caring church community that we found just before Mom died.

Now I've rediscovered the power in that simple prayer, and the caring compassion of a God who would give us such a perfect prayer for those times when we just don't know what else to say.

Dear Eagle, thank you for sharing your experience with God and prayer. I’m sorry to hear that your Dad and Mom died, and with that you lost a sense of connectedness. Dreams are one way of capturing the wisdom of the universe (I guess that’s why Native Americans create and hang “Dream catchers” over their beds.) I experienced a loss of intuition and insight for a while, and thereby could not interpret dreams. I needed the “writing on the wall.” I was so obtuse! I was also prone to self-pity and “why me?” I’ve learned a lot since then, including that I no longer ask God what He can do for me, but what can I do for Him (Him being the broader sense to include all that is creation, including the universe.) Another lesson is accepting the tasks that I am charged with, including being a voice for those confronted with violence, even when I’d rather be an actress accepting an Oscar! Anger is a part of the grieving process, whether we are grieving for a lost love one or the loss of a sense of safety. And “bargaining” is yet another part of that grief process: “If you do this one thing for me God, I promise I will do anything in return.” What you’ve shared about the recollection and reciting of the Lord’s Prayer as a lifeline is so eloquently expressed, and exactly what I was trying to say, too.

Important News Flash: Hobby Lobby has poster board on sale this week, just in time for us to start our treasure maps. How synchronistic!

Hi Dannye, I almost missed your post. In the message about going for your goals I credited Shatki Gwain of "Creative Visualization" as being the first I heard of to use the term treasure mapping. Do you use this technique in your workshops and on your CDs? It's hard for me to explain how the physical world will help manifest what the mind is already holding as truth. I hadn't thought of putting my own picture in place of ... Sounds silly, but I have gone as far as coloring a blonde depiction to brunette to match my own image!

Fiction or non-fiction? I had a difficult time deciding whether or not to fictionalize my story. The books “Black and Blue” by Anna Quindlan and “A Thousand Acres” by Jane Smiley are fictional accounts of some of the same topics I cover in my book, as was “We Were the Mulvaneys” all of which subsequently made movie of the week. I often wondered how much auto biography is incorporated into a work of fiction. For whatever reason, I have never been able to write fiction. Perhaps my memory is too intact: I recall conversations word-for-word and I can picture spatial scenes exactly as they were, even years later. Yet, reading and daydreaming were my favorite past times. With all that imagination flowing, I cannot conjure fiction. Even my early poems in 3rd grade were not fiction. Also, I was concerned about depicting the real members of my family as I perceive them to be: what would they think if they read of themselves in my book? Would they sue me? How can I be sued for telling my truth? The literary license I took was with making Karen a composite character. She is by no means fictional. And I changed names, but not places. How do you all reconcile fiction versus non-fiction? If you’ve written memoirs, what obstacles have you had to overcome to tell your truth?

Hi Lynn, I just returned from "our home land" and thought of you while there. I was wondering if like me, you have certain triggers in Phoenix? I noticed that I still do but they are much shorter in duration than they used to be.

Hi Dianne, I hope to hear more about your presentation at ASU. Yes, I have certain triggers there. For those who don’t know, a” trigger” is a term used to describe person, places, things that will bring on the “bad” feelings initially experienced during a “bad” experience. A trigger is different than a flashback in that there is more objectivity in a trigger, whereas a flashback will make the person who was abused feel as though the “bad” experience is actually happening again. There can be sensory triggers, such as a smell or sound. (That’s my layperson’s definition.) Dianne is referring to the fact that she and I both write about living in Phoenix metro, where we experienced abusive relationships. Most of the domestic violence I experienced occurred in Chandler, AZ. At the time, 30 years ago, Chandler was deserted desert, and now it is built up. My parents, who I visited last week, have retired two blocks from where I lived in 1974, the scene of the crimes. So, to get to and from their homes, I have to pass the exact place where I lived before. I was getting depressed each time I went by. The sight of the property I owned and passed by recently brought on the feelings of isolation and desperate loneliness. However, as Dianne said, each time I passed that area I felt more in control of the here and now, and was able to put that part of my life where it belongs, in the past. Dianne, what triggers you? If I were you, I’d probably never be able to get on a boat again

Here is a paragraph from my book stating how and why I bought desolate desert land. Todd is the man who married me. He was 18 years older. The ceremony refers to a marriage civil ceremony "Not long after that fateful ceremony, I turned twenty-one. Todd celebrated by asking me to use my trust fund to buy land in Chandler, Arizona. Past the dairy farm and the rodeo arena, there were alfalfa fields newly zoned for mobile homes. He said we could get rich quick on the land while living cheap in a trailer. Whenever I objected to moving out of town, Todd threw a fit, until it seemed easier to comply with his wishes than to confront his temper."

Here's what it was like for me living in that desolate desert: " it was too hot: one hundred degrees by 9 a.m., one hundred ten by noon. Even the weather forecasters spread rumors to make desert dwellers feel cooler in hundred-fifteen degree weather: “It’s a dry heat, with low humidity, so you barely feel it. You get used to it.” You have got to be kidding! When I fed the horse or got the mail, the scorching sun bit my skin as if I had collided with a prickly pear cactus. At the same time, residents were asked to avoid using excessive water to prevent drought conditions. Even after a short shower, perspiration poured from overburdened sweat glands.
To open windows was to allow the sour odor of urine and manure from the dairy farm to drift in. The neighbor’s chickens, crossing under the chain link fence for horse feed, caused yet another stench. So I applied sun-shield film to the panes, closed the drapes with their sun-repellent lining, and holed up in the trailer cave. The ineffective swamp cooler churned its clanging blades while spraying a mist of warm water.
In an effort to conserve my low energy reserves, I watched Good Morning America and Days of Our Lives, and read Jackie Collins’ “Valley of the Dolls” and Sidney Sheldon’s “Stranger in the Mirror.” I was indeed a stranger unto myself, sitting and smoking, and choking back tears. I missed the real challenge of college and the fantasy of rescue. I wasn’t a strong heroine able to flee from inner demons and Todd was no knight in shining armor slaying dragons."

What hurts me is that the property I paid $5,000 for is now worth over $200,000. That hurts! I was so eager to get away from Todd that I sold the property for what I paid for it. My regret is in not keeping the property. It stands just as it was because it is a "county island." I was meant to have that piece of land, just not with that man! My younger brother (he's in his 40's) lives directly behind the property in a newly developed neighborhood. It's uncanny: his house numbers are the same as what mine were, only a couple of blocks north!

My triggers are Hayden Road in Scottsdale where he terrorized me while driving my car. Speeding, driving reckless and actually doing a 360 degree spin in the middle of the street. What an idiot. My parents live about two blocks from where I lived with him so driving to their house brings back some ugly memories.

Certain restaurants where we went - certain intersections - and places I lived before I met him after I had left my husband who was cheating on me and how scared and alone I was at that time. I'm not sure these can ever be forgotten because it wasn't a good time for me.

Thanks for sharing.

Hi Dianne, no wonder you live across country in TN. Reckless driving seems to be a common characteristic amongst abusers. My father was a reckless driver, endangering his own children! And Todd was a reckless driver, "peeling rubber for emphasis." What immature behavior! How can these things be forgotten? The memories do serve to remind us how far we have come as survivors. You're so right about the intersections: they become more than cross-roads, they are landmarks of our prior lives.

Sounds like a title for another book, Lynn. "Intersections."

Lynn, you never mention anything about your little stepsister. If it's too painful, I understand.

The things we do to ourselves sometimes by not holding on. I left my 2nd husband and the beautiful home we owned right on the lake in a private subdivision in Northern Illinois called The Chain of Lakes. I left because he and my eldest son, his step-son didn't get along but mostly because one day he cancelled the mortgage Insurance on the home and he was 22 years my senior. I was scared to death that if he died I wouldn't be able to manage. SO STUPID, SO SHORTSIGHTED of me. I could have managed just fine and the property now today is worth nearly $400,000 because of where its located. Talk about 'cut my nose off to spite my face.' So here I sit trying to save $5000. so I can kick this border out on his behind and have a buffer for when the paycheck is alittle light...Who knew, right Lynn329???

Chatty, thanks for sharing this story. I feel exactly like you! Yes, I too could have handled the measley payment, even though I went to waitressing and lived on tips while going back to college. Heck, I took all of the bills because I knew he would let them lapse and it would ruin my credit. How I had the foresight to even think about credit, I don't know. So you married a man much older than you? It sounds like so-called security was a motivator for you. A quote of Maya Angelous is: "When you knew better, you did better." I hope I have learned from my mistakes. Land never depreciates. Thanks so much for jumping in here.

Hi Dianne, thanks for asking about Heather. It's not that it's too painful, it's just that I don't have anything to say. I always get asked what happened to her, and the truth is my relationship with her stopped just like it stopped in the book. For those who haven't read, Heather was born with Down syndrome in 1969. Not only was she mentally retarded, but she also had severe physical handicaps. She was put into a state institution when she was 4. She could not have lived a long life. And here is the last sentence I have regarding her in the book: “Love is never lost. Heather was here long enough to teach the lesson of unconditional love. The exchange of love experienced with her will never leave your heart.”
Am I remiss for not hiring a detective to find out when she died? Dianne, what else can I share with you? I know the readers are left with a loose end as far as Heather, but that is just the way it is for me, too.

Hi Friends, I am posting the first chapter in case you are interested and missed it over on the announcement forum.
Pills and Prayer
That night, December 20, 1978, the radio reported the most rain in Phoenix in one hundred years. Broadcasters called it the flood of the century. While I was driving, I listened to reports of accumulated rainfall and road closures. “Stay off the streets,” the announcer warned. The wet pavement reflected the colored holiday lights that adorned cactus. Seasonal garlands, heavy with the weight of rainwater, drooped to the gutters. Carols interrupted newscasts, followed by the countdown: “Only four shopping days left until Christmas.” I felt a pressure as intense as the rain that pounded on the windshield.
I sipped from the Michelob that rested between my legs, and then lit a cigarette. The cough of a nasty cold rattled my chest. As I passed gas stations and convenience stores, I could not decide whether or not to fill the empty gas tank. It was too dark to stop, too cold to get out, too wet to pump. My T-shirt and bra were soaked through to my skin, and the denim jacket and jeans provided no warmth. The heater vents blew warm currents of air, but I still shivered.
In a trance, I drove until the high beams of my Chevy formed a solitary tunnel of light. The roads were as dark as the thoughts driving me to an undetermined destination. The vehicle transporting me through the desolate desert was as isolated as the body that entrapped me on earth. I longed to be on the other side, in another realm.
After courting a death wish for over a decade, I thought I heard a voice that urged me to die. Die! Die! I imagined giving in to impulse and stabbing myself with scissors straight through the heart. Die! Die! Because I could no longer live with myself, self-annihilation seemed to be the only answer.
My hand shook as I reached for the glove compartment. My fingers trembled as much from fear as from the cold. The glove compartment contained vials of pain medication that my doctor had prescribed for the headaches that never ceased. I’d carefully counted and hoarded the pills: ninety Darvon Compound for mild pain, thirty Tylenol with Codeine for moderate pain, fifty Percodan for severe pain, one hundred Serax to relax me, Dalmane to sedate me, and Compazine for nausea. I planned on using this multicolored mix of tablets and capsules to put me out of my misery.
I had scripted suicide scenes for months, wondering how each setting would play out. If I killed myself in a muddy field, a cotton farmer would find a skeleton in the spring. If I committed suicide in the car along a county road, passersby would think the car had been abandoned in the mud. If the sheriff discovered my body locked inside the car, I would be considered a criminal because suicide was against the law. If I nicked a vein with a razor from my overnight bag, I would surely cringe at the first sight of blood. However, would I, could I feel any pain? Perhaps an oncoming cattle truck would veer across the yellow line, causing a head-on collision. If I spotted the bright, raised lights of a semi coming towards me, perhaps I could ever so slightly steer to the opposite lane. What if the truck driver had a family awaiting his Christmas homecoming? It would be best to stick to my original plan to take pills, leaving others out of it.
Close to midnight, I turned back toward town and pulled up to a Holiday Inn I had passed earlier. I parked in the far corner of the lot. After turning off the engine, I sat behind the wheel to think. Drops of rain were pelting the roof like pebbles: ping, ping, ping. I was trying to collect my thoughts.
I packed the collection of pills into my purse and grabbed the grocery bag of beer. As I stepped out of the car, cold currents of water washed over my leather clogs. The rustling leaves of the oleander hedge spooked me. I ran to the office. I must have looked like a breathless bag lady with wet brown hair, a soggy brown sack, and an overnight bag. As I checked in with cash, the desk clerk politely handed over a black key tag numbered 206.
In the motel room, I tugged the orange-and-green checked spread and the pillows from one bed and crawled into the other bed, fully clothed. This was the final suicide scene: checking out at the inn. Who would discover the body in the morning? Maybe the maid would think this guest was just asleep and forgot to put out the light and the do-not-disturb sign. I was still shivering, even after I’d wrapped myself in several blankets.
Sitting on the bed with legs crossed under me, I rocked back and forth. Every night I would rock away the day, rehashing the scenes that were safe to repeat and repressing the acts too intolerable to talk about. The rhythm of rocking silenced the cacophony of random thoughts. My life had been quite a dramatic production, and the curtain was finally closing.
I placed the prescription bottles around me in a semi-circle. They rattled like baby toys. I opened another beer and swallowed the Compazine first, so as not to vomit. Then, dumping the pills by handfuls into my mouth, I found they went down with an easy gulp. Soon my vision blurred and the patterns on the beds, the drapes, and the carpet floated around in geometric shapes of garish orange and green.
As I succumbed to drowsiness, I waited for death. I realized I was always waiting for some catastrophe to befall me. Why not get it over with? I gulped more pills and lay down, curled up.
I worried about the fate of my soul, if indeed I had a soul. Parochial school taught me that it was a sin to commit suicide, so I would burn in hell. Surely, my soul was unworthy of any place other than hellfire and damnation. At twenty-four years old, I deserved to die.
I sensed the presence of my deceased father. I was definitely my father’s daughter, killing myself as he had killed himself. His surreal presence was neither benign nor violent, but finally, he was there for me. Was that my father whispering? “No, Lynn, not this way.” God, please don’t let my father haunt me in hell!
In case God could hear, I began to recite the Lord’s Prayer: “Our father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.” I lost track of my place in the prayer and started over: “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come.” I forgot the rest and started again: “Our Father, who art in Heaven.” How could I forget the prayer that was repeated a thousand times at Mass, in confession, during Lent and on Easter? “Our Father, who art.”

No, I don't think you should hire someone to find Heather. I just wondered if you ever knew what happened to her. I felt sorry for your stepmother too, but in a different way. She seemed to be doing the best with what she had, like all of those who are with abusers or have been in the past.

[ April 05, 2005, 12:55 PM: Message edited by: Dianne ]

Hi Lynne - I'm on the last two chapters of your book, and it has been riveting. Your writing style is top-notch, and I admire your bravery to tell such a hard story so well. Your journey was a tough one, but one you arrived at the other end as a triumphant survivor. I know in my heart many, many people will be touched by this book.

I'm late to the discussion, but I will have some questions for you soon. One that you may have answered and I missed it as I scanned the posts is, "How did you decide what to put in and what to leave out?"

Dianne, I hope you don't mind this question. Do you know if your dad had been abused?

I often hear history repeats itself when it ocmes to abuse. I'm so grateful you've broken the chain in your family!

Dotsie, my dad rarely talks about his childhood. He just shudders when you mention it. I think my grandfather was a wealthy tyrant and beat his kids. My dad has repeated that behavior. I'm sure Lynn could say the same thing for her dad. Abuse is a learned behavior.

quote:

---

Originally posted by Dianne:
Abuse is a learned behavior.

---

That is profound. And frightening.
I fear what today's generation is learning.

I never knew anyone my age who was abused. However, several of my daughter's friends from supposedly "good families" have recently revealed that they were abused.
When these issues are discussed, my daughters call me to say thank you for protecting them.

I didn't know how to protect them so I just mothered them. I tried to know where they were at all times and didn't allow them to do anything that looked like it had potential to be 'weird.' I'm so glad they were spared and I pray for those who were not.
smile