My Fiction Revealed What I Refused to Acknowledge: I Was in Trouble

I often write about domestic violence in my fiction. I had a childhood filled with it. But I’m a Gen Xer. Suck it up, Buttercup. Rub some dirt on it. I’ll give you something to cry about.

IYKYK.

I always picked the devil I knew. The one that reflected the men my mother married and discarded. The one that echoed the narcissism and don’t-give-a-shit-ism of Mom.

It’s not too hard to see how that translated into my own relationships. Trauma is familiar. It feels like, “Oh, I hear this song a lot. I know all the words.” It’s not a good song. But I know all the words.

I married and divorced. Whew. Learned Big Lessons.

I was stronger and wiser.

Yet, I didn’t know about love bombing. Building someone up just to tear them down until they are worn out. Bloody. Broken. Numb. But that comes later. After declarations of love, gifts of jewelry, compliments galore.

I married again.

You’d think after a lifetime of crap, I’d recognize crap. Oh, I told myself, this wasn’t crap. It was treasure covered in crap. Remove the dirt. The shit. The ugly words. The violent threats. The destruction of walls, doors, cabinetry. Ignore. Deny. Be grateful. At least you don’t get hit.

Dig, dig, and dig.

Because treasure.

Here’s the truth: There is nothing pure and golden waiting to be discovered under the shit.

It’s all shit.

And I was writing about it.

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I spent two days huddled in my office. Keeping quiet. Trying to keep busy. Knots in my shoulders. My stomach roiling. The door whipped open and fury personified threw dagger-words. I wrote them all down in a notebook. Writing is my therapy. Even if it’s only recording insults hurled at me.

Later, I wrote I Nearly Choked to Death on His Words.

Sometimes, I felt the hurt and anger bubble to the surface. But I pushed it down. It helps that I’m taking medication to deal with my depression and anxiety. It provides a barrier. Calm and silence de-escalates most intense situations.

Saying I’m sorry over and over and over got to me. Especially when accused of not meaning it. (And you know what? Maybe I didn’t. Maybe an apology was like a lever that opened an escape hatch. That’s what I really wanted. Escape.)

I wrote a poem called Apology.

A few months ago, I packed my dog, two trash bags of clothes, and my yarn bag. (I don’t know why. Because it was already packed?) Less than a half an hour earlier I’d been visited by police doing a welfare check on me. I convinced them I was fine.

I promised to leave.

And I did.

Three weeks later, sitting in a temporary home with friends, I saw a prompt on Medium. Write something with “disappear” in the story. I wrote this:

disappear

No note? said your text.

Clothing stuffed into trash bags. Items left on the kitchen table. The dog scooped up and put into the car.

I was too scared to make another trip into the house. I left behind my books. Journals. Pictures. Winter coat. The doll I’ve had for 48 years.

I called your mother. Texted my daughter. Emailed my best friend.

Evidence sent. Possible good-byes.

Hurried. Hurried. Hurried.

Remember what you said the night before? You ended your cruel speech with four terrifying words:

I should kill you.

I made myself disappear

before you could.

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So, what is the point of sharing this information with you?

First, let me tell you that I am safe. I live in a new state with family nearby.

Second, I am re-starting my writing career. It’s painful to think about the years where I created so little. Even though I had nothing to give you, you stayed with me.

And I appreciate it so very, very much.

Here’s the deal. I’m going to write and post fiction on https://www.michelebardsley.com. If you can become a paid subscriber, you’ll get access to my available novels and get to read along as I write new books.

If you want to buy coffee to fuel my writing mojo, you can do so at Buy Me a Coffee or at Ko-Fi.

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Finally, and most importantly, I hope you are all safe and well. If you need help, you can reach out to the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233. You can also visit their site and chat with someone. That’s what I did, and it helped a lot. You can also call, text, or chat with the Suicide & Crisis Hotline at 988. The website is here.

Find global domestic violence resources at HotPeachPages.net.

Take care,

Michele :-)