FOUND in a Spiral Notebook

My “way with words” to the rescue!

This is Part 4 of a series of personal stories on the topic of my voice - how the theme of my voice - or lack thereof - has woven itself throughout my life. I’m currently in the process of claiming it in all its glory by embracing a new and completely unexpected way to voice my voice into the world…

Read Part 1 of this series here.

Read Part 2 of this series here.

Read Part 3 of this series here.

The ex and I were together for a total of 11 years, married for 10 of them.

One night in the depths of one of our fights, I felt a strong urge to document what was happening during a “break in the action” when he’d briefly walked away. I was in the habit of experiencing abuse “hangovers…” terrible things would happen, and once they were over, I would forget details, the devastating events that occurred, the horrendous things that were said… which made it so easy for me to do the “forgive” part of the abuse cycle. I expound upon that particularly ugly incident in Part 1 of, My Domestic Abuse Survival Journal, in which I transcribed that account word for word.

The next two miserable years passed following that first written account of what I endured on that fateful day in 1988 with, surprisingly, no writing. I was otherwise occupied simply keeping myself afloat through turbulent day after turbulent day. About a year later, my parents, fed up with the constant drama in the household, moved out so I worked the daycare business by myself. In September of 1990, he punched me in the face so hard that my eye was severely blackened and it took weeks for me to be able to go in public or care for my clients. As always, lies were concocted about the source of my injuries to prevent him from having to fess-up as an abuser because it was expected of me to protect our dirty little (huge) secret. Even in my private therapy sessions, I said nothing about abuse per se, focusing rather on self-empowerment and overcoming anxiety and low self-esteem; in our couple’s sessions, we worked on improving communication, conflict resolution and setting personal boundaries. Dancing all around the issue, but never naming it for what it was.

Throughout those dark years I lived for the times when I could chat with friends and experience literally anything that took me out of the experience of living under his thumb. I’m certain they had their suspicions (as did the therapists), but I continued playing the part of the faithfully protective wife; I honestly didn’t know (and couldn’t conceive of) any other way to live.

I became so despondent that at the end of 1990, I could no longer stand things the way they were and decided to put an end to the ordeal that was my life. My suicide note was scribbled on something the size of a gum wrapper - that’s how small I felt in that moment…

Here’s an excerpt of a post I wrote about that experience from a piece I wrote in 2020 for Suicide Awareness Month:

…almost 30 years ago, on the morning of December 22, 1990, I swallowed a handful of random pills of my ex’s hoping they would put an end (temporarily or permanently – I didn’t care) to the emotional pain I was in. I’d reached the end of my tolerance for living with an abusive husband, crushing debt and estrangement from my family of origin.

On that day I felt there was no hope for me to ever escape those conditions. I could see no exit strategy, no means to affect change on any of the toxic circumstances in which I was drowning. I felt insignificant, powerless, isolated, unloved and unlovable. And I wanted – no – NEEDED those feelings to stop. I had no more psychic energy (or will) to fight through that miasma another minute. My tank was empty. My spirit was broken. My life was meaningless, it seemed, to myself and to others.

The ex (I’ll refer to him as “Rick” for the purposes of this series of posts) found me unconscious that morning and brought me to the emergency room where my stomach was pumped. An assessment by a social worker was a mandatory condition of my release - and I was able to convince him that I was no longer a threat to myself and that I was in no danger at home. And home I went to a life I didn’t expect to have.

I remember an initial numbness; like I was an empty shell. It was Christmastime and all around me were all the festive decorations that he insisted we always adorn the house with (because no matter how atrocious things were inside our life, it always needed to look picture-perfect from the outside). There was no light holiday joy in my heart - I just felt hollow, confused, and overwhelmed by the sense of space Rick seemed to be giving me. (In retrospect, I believe December 22 was the day I actually left him… the day I finally communicated, in no uncertain terms, that I would rather be dead than to live with him.) The “space” didn’t last long but long enough for me to let an old familiar “friend” back into my days - journaling.

With this “life reset,” I vowed to myself that things were going to change. I didn’t know how that was going to come about, but I did know that I couldn’t do it alone. I needed to commit my thoughts to the written word; to make sense of things, sort out, remember, document it all like I knew it could. And so I did write in earnest - in a black spiral notebook filled with looseleaf.

My first entry, transcribed here, in the journal is dated Friday, 12/28/90, 8:26pm.

I journaled feverishly on a frequent - sometimes multiple times daily - basis, desperately needing to take control and try making sense of my life. It was a personal practice, just for me; an intimate relationship with someone who truly saw, appreciated and loved me… Me. That journal became my lifeline. Writing in it was often the first thing I did in the morning and the last thing at night for a turbulent, but ultimately transformational 14 months. It recorded every stupid asinine thing that jackass said, did or threatened: Every inappropriate outburst! Every foul mood. Every what the fuck!? Every crazy, irrational word and action he inflicted upon me.

And you know what happened? I FOUND MY VOICE (AGAIN) AND IT SAVED ME (AGAIN)! The articulation of my circumstances and my feelings carried me from the edge back to myself, like it has throughout my life. My “old friend” continues to have my back.

I left him - officially - in January of 1992, having gained an independent sense of myself without him through my journalling and the cheering-on of devoted friends. Once I stepped into that personal empowerment, boy did life rapidly improve! I discovered me, true love, and purpose.

Through the intervening years my practice of writing has continued to enhance my self-awareness, fuel my curiosity and creativity and help me express myself. I began my first blog, Upside Down Cats in 2007. Below is a screenshot of my first post introducing me to my readers. Sounds kinda on-brand, doesn’t it?

Shortly after starting UDC, I wrote My Survivor Story, chronicling the ordeal with the wrong man with the intention of bringing hope of overcoming to others who have experienced such abuse.

I continue to blog here, still being real and raw. You can count on me telling you more about what happened Once a Time a Time with (at least intended) regularity because Life ain’t nothing without storytelling - am I right?

There’s more with which to regale you regarding my voice; stay tuned for the continuation of the saga!