Writing has been my life line. Without it I would've perished long ago. To be able to express whatever is on my mind; to be able to write whatever story comes forth from deep within me; to tell a story that must be told. All of these have given me life.
I've written in one form or another since I was nine years old.
Though when my mother died in 2010, my writing took off in a new direction. I couldn't stop telling stories about what I saw happen with my serial killer father. The memories emerged in story after story since 2010. They helped me heal and gave me perspective on what happened to me. In addition I filled pages and pages of journals through writing my story online on a survivor's forum. It's the only place on the web where I spilled out the horrid details of my abuse. I've yet to find another forum like that one. I copied my postings to my journal software on my computer.
In 1976 I first started to journal my life, giving myself permission to write whatever I pleased. It stemmed though from the first time I journaled in one of those keyed, locked diaries one writes in as a child. Back then there were short entries without much depth. My next journal detailed my journey through life yet without the knowledge of what happened to me as a child.
In my head I kept a journal from the time of my first visit to see my father when I was three years old. That journal stayed inside my head for the rest of my life until I learned what the cryptic sounding passages meant. And that's when I unraveled the mysteries of my childhood and the horrid things I witnessed my father doing to others and to me.