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.
It's the oddest feeling being a Christian and writing stories which are contrary to those beliefs. I am drawn to write about my life experiences with my father who was a serial killer. I can't divorce myself from my past.
As the saying goes for writers: Write who you are. Who I am is a product of my upbringing. I spent my formative childhood years in the presence of three mentally disordered people who had personality disorders; my father, my stepdad, and my mother. The worst was being around my psychopathic/narcissistic father and second my narcissistic mother. On the other hand though, the experiences have given me plenty of writing material.
I decided to go back to the original information I had included in my About Me page. I wrote about how I started writing fictionalized accounts of my abuse. It began in church in an exercise directed by the associate pastor. I released what I'd held onto for a long time; wanting to play my flute on the praise and worship team. In return, I received the gift of writing whatever I needed to write. One thing I remember clearly which I promised to do; never throw away any book you write. Keep everything. And I've done that.
I dreamt about Wolfhounds protecting me and hunting down my father. My father referred to himself as a wolf. Irish Wolfhounds hunted and killed wolves and elk.
This dream recurred twice so far. The first time happened after I submitted the first scene of my memoir to a critiquing site online. The second time occurred after I submitted the first full chapter to the site.
In some way, I believe this is spiritual warfare against what I saw and what was done to me.
The dream was powerful and I cannot seem to wipe the grin off my face.