Exorcising The Demons and Finding My Joy

At the age of six, I was a statistic. One in three girls, one in five boys. It’s probably more than that now, but that’s what it was back in the ’80s when I grew up.

In my family, I was the third girl; statistically, it made sense. If it had to happen to any of us, I’m glad it was me because I’m the strongest of all of them. But I didn’t know it at the time. Nobody talked about those things, even then. Sure, it wasn’t as hush-hush as it was—say in the ’50s—but it was still kept within the family.

For seven years, I was abused. This isn’t the place where I’ll share any details, but it’s probably what you’re thinking, but not by an immediate family member. I’ve never publicly shared my story; only a handful of people know. But, this feels like an excellent place to talk about what I did with the pain—how I channeled it into my purpose.

Throughout junior and high school, I rebelled. Only math, science, and writing held any interest. Those subjects had clearly defined rules, outcomes, and structure—navigating those things I could control in my chaotic world. For years, I felt like I had to thread the needle with my friends and peers, acting normal even though my life was a tangled mess of secrets, deception, and lies. I struggled through these tough years, smiling all the while my life was unraveling.

Also, during those dreaded years, I hated any kind of authority. “Why?” you ask. Because of a single conversation with my mom and Grandma. Mom asked me, “Why are you so angry all of the time?” I told them the truth of my abuse.

These were the two people I respected and trusted the most. And, they did nothing. It was like I never said a thing. No counseling, no hugs, nothing. Only one good thing came from that conversation—the abuse stopped, and I never saw that person again.

I emotionally shut down. Clearly, nobody cared what happened to me.

My only comforts were knitting, crocheting, reading, and my cat. The first two I did with ease during my teenage years; I made all sorts of blankets, scarves, and throws.

Reading, on the other hand, was laborious and taxing since I was a slow reader. The only reason I pushed through it was that reading fantasy stories gave me a mental escape into another world. I could divorce myself from the pain of my life and reach an inner peace only reading fantasy could provide. My cat wasn’t allowed inside the house, so if I wanted to hold him in my lap and hear his soothing purr, I had to brave the elements to enjoy it.

Needless to say, life can’t be lived inside a book or outside petting a cat. Real life happens whether you want it to or not. I didn’t know how to love, how to show affection, or how to be happy. I was miserable.

Then, I found my purpose. As cliché as it sounds—writing brought me to life. I began writing in 2009 and discovered I could knit my heart and soul into my characters’ lives. Each person became an extension of me; they shared my pain until my story became theirs. I didn’t have to own the painful memories anymore because I wove them into someone else in my stories.

With each fantasy novel I completed, I felt lighter and happier. Not only could I create engaging stories for others to enjoy and escape into, but the stories helped bring me back to life.

I finally exorcised my demons.

I no longer blamed myself for the abuse—as many children do. I stopped harboring anger and resentment toward my mom and Grandma for their silence. I eventually realized they did do something by way of keeping my abuser away from me. I even went so far as to forgive my abuser because ‘hurt people, hurt people.’

The forgiveness was more for me than anyone else. Only I can control my thoughts and emotions. I wasn’t about to give them up again to the demons in my past. They were mine, and I would jealously protect them with my joy for the present and the future.

Since the writing process worked so well with fantasy, I delved into writing romance. I mean, really, who doesn’t want to have the handsome billionaire sweep you off of your feet and tell you that you’re perfect? Okay, that’s not how it really goes; they have rough spots in their relationships, too. But you get my point.

In case you’re wondering, I met and married my soulmate. My patient, wonderful husband taught me how to show affection. And, yes, he’s the inspiration behind the love interests in my romance novels.

I encourage people all of the time to try writing therapy. Your story deserves to be told. Even if it’s as simple as journaling, it will help unburden you from the problems that keep playing tug of war in your brain. Better yet, I encourage people to write their problems down from the perspective of the person who is troubling them the most. Once you give them a story of their own, they no longer hold the same power over your life. Try it and see. You’ll be amazed.

I love that my daily routine consists of writing. New story ideas come to me in dreams, in everyday life, and even when I shower. I write my world, and then I walk in it. Writing is my meditation, my creative outlet, and a powerful tool to restore inner peace and joy in my life.

I pray that my story has inspired you to discover your purpose and joy, too.