Power in Writing.

Writing is a weapon more powerful than a fist." Hurricane Rubin Carter  

Sometimes it's the tough way....the hard road.....the path that seems meaningless that teaches the best lessons. That's the way it was for Rubin Carter. 

Convicted for crimes he didn't commit, Carter spent a lifetime in jail. A champion boxer...he earned the nickname, Hurricane Carter.  But it didn't matter how good he was in the ring....in prison....at his lowest....he learned to fight a better way.....not with his fists.....but with words. 

The words he penned touched a boy who picked up his book....cheap....at a rummage sale. Carter's words turned that boy into a fighter - not in the ring....but in life. He learned to fight for truth and helped win Carter's release.  

A movie was made of Carter. Watching his story unfold is hard. Something inside wants to turn away....to not see his descent into hopelessness. But somehow he learned to put pen to paper and write in a way that sparked something in a boy who read them...He succeeded in igniting hope....faith....and compassion in him.   

It's what I want to do with my writing...inspire...empower.....show how to fight back in ways that make a difference. But sometimes I wonder if what I write is meaningless....a waste of time tapping out all those words. Yet....something inside me feels this crazy urge to keep doing it....to keep writing.....to pen those things that inside....And maybe....just maybe....I can make a difference in even one life....like Carter did for that boy.

Shortlisted

"If there's a book you really want to read but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it." Toni Morrison

My book, In the Eye of Deception, has been shortlisted for a literary award. It blew me away when I found out. I had struggled so much to write....and to tell. When I first started writing...I never imaged publishing a book. I just needed to release what was inside me. I wrote every day and late into the nights. I wrote in the third person.

And I went running, everyday..in the woods....alone - Fighting what I knew inside.  I had to tell. I had to write the truth....to give hope to even one person...that nothing is impossible to overcome...and that Light can shine where darkness lived.

Guys, I 'm really sorry but I changed this post from the way I had it originally. I wasn't comfortable with how I wrote it.  Some of you had left comments.  Unfortunately all those comments disappeared too. I'm sorry.  But please know  I really appreciate everything you said and all your encouragement and support. You guys have helped me come through so much...

Facing Fear

"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." Dorothy Thompson

I talked to myself all morning....telling myself not to be afraid... not to worry what anyone thinks. This was the day I planned to go market my book. My daughter had made up some cards for me to give out...4X6's that had a picture of the book cover and my website. 

I dropped my daughter off at school....I was pumped...and ready. Let's do this. I drove to the first place really confident. I went in. The woman in charge was off sick. Got back in the car...losing courage. 

I started having all kinds of doubts...wondering what I was doing...and why. It was only a year ago...not even....that I didn't want anyone to know all those awful things that had happened. But things were changing. I was changing. It had never dawned on me how much He had done in my heart, in my life....how far down He had reached to pull me out. He had given me so much. I had given him nothing. I needed to show my gratitude....for what He did....for letting me live. 

I kept driving....out of the city....lost in my thoughts. I owe Him. I can do this....I need to...I need to tell. 

I stopped and walked into a sexual assault centre. I started to blurt out - I wrote this book...
The woman took me in a room, picked up my book, held it gently and then, we had a staff meeting this morning...talked about doing a fund raiser....finding women who wrote their story who would be willing to come in and share. Can I tell them about you? She took all my cards to pass out. 

I drove home...stunned. It worked. Courage....Faith....I had stepped out of my comfort zone...trusting I can make a difference...Something's shifted in me. I can make a difference....No more secrets!

Giving Back

"Giving frees us from the familiar territory of our own needs by opening our mind to the unexplained worlds occupied by the needs of others." Barbara Bush

It was a different kind of Christmas. The kind I really liked. We spent the whole day helping - serving meals to people who had nowhere to go...no one to share the holiday with. We were it. We were their supports...their family...their friends for a few hours on Christmas Day. 

As I did whatever I was asked - talked to people, served meals, goofed around with the kids....I thought of those people who had reached out to me when I lived on the street...when I had no one...when I owned nothing...when darkness was all I knew. 

Now I was paying it forward. Now I could do what those people did for me. They would never know the seeds of hope they had planted with their caring and their gifts of kindness. I had struggled so much with trust...but still - something of their kindness broke through the walls that padded my heart. It was in their eyes. It was in their voice. They'll never know the impact they made. And maybe some even thought...she's just a drug addict, a street kid...what we give her won't really make a difference....but it did. It wasn't the 'things' they gave me....it was their kindness, their compassion, their caring.


Kindness reaches a place that nothing else can. It's not in things, or gifts - it's a feeling that comes from the heart; a feeling that shows, 'I care about you. I really care. You're worth something.' 

I don't like to be touched too much, but I shook lots of hands and hugged a lot of people on Christmas day -The mother who ran from her abusive husband and was living at  woman's shelter with her five kids, the elderly woman who was all alone, the 15 year old who told me she wanted to be a fashion designer and hated being at a place that wasn't home, the 11 year old with the big black eyes who suffers with kidney problems, the older man whose wife had died a few years ago, never had kids and had no one to celebrate the holidays with. And there were more. Many more. All with their own stories of trying to survive the best they could.


And a plug for my girls. I am totally proud of them. They jumped in helping to serve, cleaning up, doing whatever they were asked. I asked them if they were ok that we did this instead of being with friends...my oldest told me she loved being able to give and my youngest smiled and said, 'it was fun.'

And I thought of you guys. I hoped you were all ok. 
You know what makes the difference? Knowing He loves me no matter what and the kindness I've been given by others. 

Touching Life

"I finally figured out the only reason to be alive is to enjoy it." Sissy Spacek

I was sick. I think I had the flu or something.  My father pulled me to the table....demanded I eat. Shoving his fist in my face - he threatened if I didn't eat he would force the food down my throat. I took a bite....then threw up. He didn't care. He swore...pushed more food at me.....demanding I eat it. I tried...I couldn't keep it down.. Later.....hiding in my closet - in the dark - I bit my arms until my teeth left indents...and my arms bled.

I think eating and food are metahpors for life and living. Food - it  nourishes the body, keeps you alive...some of my friends  talk about food and eating as pleasurable experiences....they go into great details about textures, tastes...what they love, don't like....baking, cooking, tasting - speaking in animated excited tones...

Food - eating....touching life. Sometimes I still walk around feeling I have no right to touch life...to use things....things that are supposed to bring pleasure...things that are meant for enjoyment. Sometimes I still feel like an intruder....sneaking around a house I've broken into. It's a strange sensation....a sense of not being allowed to really be part of life.

I eat the same things everyday. eggs, popcorn - cereal - something in me still can't let myself touch, feel, experience the pleasures of life. There's a part of me that still believes I don't deserve what others enjoy. Somewhere deep inside - I still think I have no right to life. - It's not the way I used to believe. I used to think I had no right to exist at all.  I don't feel that anymore - I just need to know inside that' it's ok to touch, to feel, to experience life in its fullness. 

I want to feel what my friends feel. I want to touch life as life is meant to be lived. I am really connected when running in the woods  - but it's too cold outside. And my body is always physicially cold. My friends tell me it's because I don't eat the right things. 

Touching life - feeling it's warmth - that's what I want.

Knowing......

"Sometimes, if you lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you, you will suddenly know everything there is to be known."     Pooh's Little Instruction Book

It's too cold to go running in the woods. Too cold to walk by the water or take the kids and go down to 'cherry hill' where the chickadees and woodpeckers fly right into your hands. 

It's too cold to stand on the hills and feel the soft breeze in my hair, or hear the sounds of the quiet and calm and nature - or to listen uninterupted for His whisper in my spirit......

It's too cold....really cold....But everything inside me yearns to be outside - in the woods, in the hills, .....listening and feeling His presence.....I miss looking up and seeing the hawks, and turkey vultures and blueherons flying with their beautiful wings outstretched - soaring as if they own the sky. I miss feeling the warmth of the sun and the gentle breeze and seeing the deer passing by....It's the place I feel free. It's where I feel safe. And it's where my heart sings..

It's too cold...really cold. There's at least four more months to go - if not five. If I close my eyes, I can imagine it and even feel as if I'm there....but it's not the same as being there - as experiencing it. 

It's cold....just like how my heart used to feel....cold..hard. Angry. Really angry and full of of hate...It was a like a shield that wouldn't let anyone in...or let anyone stay. And I wouldn't stay. But things have changed. Somehow He opened my heart....softed it and helped me stay. I have the best friends....the best family....How did that happen? 


Guys - I just had to write today. I had to put something down here because writing for me is like running in the woods - when I write - I feel free. The book giveaway is still on until late thursday night. The winner will be announced Friday. See post below this one for more info.

Book Give Away

"Not to transmit an experience is to betray it." Eli Wiesel

It took me one year to write what I lived. One year to put it down on paper. One year to remember how far down He had reached to pull me out. One year of fighting within myself to finally come to the place of letting Him use what I lived - to give hope - to someone else.   

It is a story I had never told; I kept it all inside. I started to wonder if it was some crazy dream, or if it had even happened at all. Sometimes I thought maybe I had made it up. Other times I thought it wasn’t that bad – it was no big deal. But last year people I hadn’t seen in a while started surfacing: family, friends... people who knew. “You’re a miracle,” they said. “How did you survive?” 
 “Survive?” “Miracle?”  What did they mean? They started to tell me stories from their memories of how bad things were: how thin I had become, how out of control... My older sister whom I hadn’t seen for a long time returned from living overseas. She needed to talk. She forced me to listen... forced me to remember. 

When the memories hit, they hit hard. I wrote to get the images out of my head. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I wanted to get in my car, close my eyes and drive. It felt like it was happening all over again – the beatings, the confinement, the rape; throwing up time after time after time, even when I had tasted only a small bite of something; shoving needles in my arm  three and four times a day; ripping my arms with jagged rocks to feel something because I was so numb inside.

Why God? Why are you letting me go through this again? 

I didn’t want to remember! Yet in remembering, it dawned on me – finally – just how far down God had reached to free me.

Every day, in heat, rain or cold, I ran - alone in the woods - in the hills near our home. There I felt the gentle touch of God. I heard Him whisper, “You’re stronger now. It’s time to tell the truth of what happened. Tell your story to give hope to others.”

How could I never have told anyone what He had done for me? Nothing else had worked. Nothing had been able to break the chains that kept me living on the edge. Nothing…except the gentleness of His touch. 

The power of His gentleness...
In the Eye of Deception: This is my story. www.gentlerecovery.webs.com

The publisher made an error and printed a couple of books with stretched margins. I thought I would turn this 'error' into a free give away. For everyone who leaves a comment with their email here or on my website -  your name will be written down and my daughter will pull out the name of the winner. The 'winner' will be chosen on Friday of this week. 

Doubting

" Trust Yourself." Benjamin Spock

These last few months, I've been really focused - strong - confident - about telling my story. I didn't start writing to put this into book form. It somehow evolved - people started telling me I need to tell...I need to tell what happened. 

I began writing in April '08. I was sitting at the computer wondering what happened to the rapist. Nothing came up when I googled his name, but someone knew him and asked me to call her. She told me things I had forgotten....things I didn't want to hear - didn't want to remember. Then strangely, I connected with the rapist's son....Other things started happening....reminders...people, the suicide of the rapist's son....my sister returning from living overseas, forcing me to listen..I felt sick. I had never told. I wrote. All hours of the day and into the night....I wrote. Everyday I ran alone in the woods, in the hills wanting to run from the memories. It felt like it was happening all over again. There were days I wanted to get in my car, close my eyes and drive. I kept writing. I met this writer. She told me 'start a blog.' I did. The blog became my voice. I wrote for me. I wrote those things I could never say out loud. Then I realized people were reading what I wrote. You guys affirmed me. You believed me. Everytime I hit post, I waited for someone to tell me they didn't believe me. You always did. 


I got stronger....Sometimes I needed to say the same things a few times - I didn't believe the words I wrote. I kept reading and rereading.....I didn't understand at the time, but doing that helped me connect to myself...to what happened. I needed to believe me. And something else...the shame that had lived inside me was starting to leave. I could look people in their eyes. I couldn't do that before.


These last two weeks, a lot of strange things have been happening. I couldn't access the website I started for the book...the publisher called and said the printer broke down - they have to wait for a part...the editor didn't assess the margins right making the words too close to the spine. - Through all of this I've stayed confident. The desire to help, to give back motivated me. 


But tonight - I was going to post something entrirely different and then it hit me, are these signs that I shouldn't go through with this? Doubts are filling my head.  People in my world will know the awfulness of what happened. Someone at work who I respect and who respects me heard about the book and wants to read it. I told him I'm afraid he'll judge me. He said he never will. 


I'm afraid. I hope I'm doing the right thing.

Afraid but Going Forward

"When you were born, you cried. 
Live your life so when you die, others cry." Native Proverb 

My book, In the Eye of Deception, is at the publisher. My words, my thoughts written in the last year - all complied in a book for the world to see. 

These last few weeks, I've been running on confidence - confidence to tell, to share, to be vulnerable  - my way - to show gratitude to Him - gratitude for what He did in my life....

When I close my eyes, I see it all like a movie playing in my head - the people, the sirens, the hospitals, the prison, the streets, fighting - desperate to be free.....shoving needles in my arms - going with anyone - desperate for a fix, a high - aching to be free from the awful lonliness, the crippling shame, the terror....It never let up. - Standing on the window ledge - believing if I jumped I wouldn't die....crouched in the fire....hearing that voice tell me he knew, and I knew so burn baby burn.....Seeing that house...where the rapist held me....climbing that 6 foot high fence in the middle of winter with no shoes, or coat or warm clothes - desperate to be free.....Throwing up day after day - afraid to eat - slashing my arms, biting myself.....my only way to fight the 'professionals' who kept pushing me to be and do what I just couldn't - forcing me to take pills that made me feel like a zombie -tying me to the bed......like an animal......I hated them..I hated me -  Locked up with people who scared me, who set themselves on fire, some who were violent, others talking and screaming to no one or threatening to kill anyone who looked at them the wrong way.... 

I thought I would die in that miserable darkness. I didn't wait for it to kill me - I tried over and over to take my life....He wouldn't let me die.

He had a plan, a purpose. He reached so far down and did what nothing else could. He touched me, freed me......shattered the chains that held me tight.

Last night and this morning it hit me - I'm afraid to be known - to be known for all of who I am. I've shown people only the parts of me I think are ok - Putting a book out there with the details of my life.....all those horrible things - I'm afraid..... I'm afraid but there seems to be somthing that feels stronger than that fear - a desire to give back - to help someone else find hope and freedom. Maybe my life, the darkness I lived - can be a catalyst for someone climbing out of their hell, their misery, their darkness.

My book will be out next week. A writer friend told me to start a webpage. I had it up and running, people from my other blog and facebook were linking to it and then today....I can't access it. No one can. All that work. Maybe it's a techno glitch so if anyone wants to try to check it out.  It still needs work...

www.gentlerecovery.webs.com

 

 

Rejection

"We keep going back, stronger, not weaker, because we will not allow rejection to beat us down. It will only strengthen our resolve." Earl G. Graves

Rejection hurts. It's sting goes deep - tearing at everything that's good. It makes me want to give up - makes me feel worthless - that my life is worthless - I'm worthless.

Anything that feels like rejection - a small touch of it triggers the pain of everything that hurt - the beatings, the bullying from my parents - being held - raped - confined - chemically and physically restrained -

It pushes me back to the darkness - to hopelessness -

How can I be a writer and not deal with rejection? I love to write - to weave words together. To spin stories that can touch people and inspire others to climb out of their own darkness. I entered a contest. Didn't win. It came on the heels of an email acknowledging the article I submited was the best they had recieved. All I could focus on was the rejection.

For two days I walked around in the darkness. Couldn't talk to anyone. Didn't care about anything. Angry - sullen - wanting to stop writing - even to stop living.

My close friend and writer called. Told me she wouldn't let me stop writing. And my editor encouraged me. Said the words I had written had stayed with her since the first time she read them. Don't give up they told me. You need to write. Writing is your voice.

I went running in the woods. Alone. God whispered to my heart - Write. Write for you. Write. Never give up.

The fighter in me came back. It came back strong. I won't let what happened in the past keep me down anymore. I won't let it pull me to into darkness and hold me there. I can use it to make a difference. A difference in the life of even one person - to give them hope - that there is a way out. I want to do that. I want to shine the light for others.

God let me live. I owe Him. I owe it to my kids - to the people who love me - who are in my corner. I owe it to myself.

Kindness in the Journey

"The greatest work that kindness does to others is that it makes them kind to themselves." Amelia Earhart

Your comments really touched me. I never thought of myself as being brave. I've been afraid to be real, to be seen. -

Many of you have gone through or are going through your own pain, your own trauma - yet you give me strength in mine. I hope I do the same for you. I want to.

I've lived as two people. One free - One not. Those things that happened - live inside me - Never telling anyone because I believed it was all my fault. I thought I deserved it. And I didn't think anyone would even believe me.

Writing - blogging has given me a voice. I need to tell - I want someone to know what happened.

For a long time I struggled to be strong. To not show weakness. I didn't realized being strong had become a weakness - a weakness because I couldn't let people see me. I couldn't let anyone get too close. Not telling created a wall of shame. I was afraid to be seen. I couldn't look anyone in their eyes - in case they saw - what I knew...that something was wrong with me - that I was bad.

I was loyal to those who hurt me. I never charged the rapist. I was afraid. Instead I used drugs. I threw up. I cut myself. - I never told.

One day God touched me. He took away the addiction to drugs. I still threw up. I still cut myself. I still couldn't tell. I told myself it wasn't so bad. And some days I wondered if any of it even happened.

I started writing. A year ago. And I connected to people. People who knew. I learned I could still charge him. I found out he had spent time in prison for rape. I talked to a court support worker. She told me how courts worked. It's hard. I may not win. He may not be convicted.

Somedays I feel strong. I think I can stand up and do what I need - most days though, I still hide.

If what I went through - what I know - how I survived can help one person - then maybe it had purpose. I'm trying to get the courage to tell - to speak what happened. I'm practising here - with you guys. Thank-you for letting me do this.

Writing to Heal

"Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart." William Wordsworth.

Writing - journaling has been one of the best ways for me to deal with stuff. I couldn't tell anyone what happened, how I felt or how afraid I was or even what I wanted or needed - But I could write.

Writing helps free me. It takes me to that dark place deep inside myself that I've been too afraid to look at. The place that's held the fear, the shame, the pain, the memories.....The place I've spent years running from. Writing has helped pull from that place what I could never say.

To say meant owning it - Owning it meant it was real. I didn't want it to be real. But the shame kept me a prisoner....isolated and distant even from myself....

So I write.

In writing I own it. In writing it becomes real. In writing I look at the shame. I face the fear, the pain, the memories that have tormented me.

There are times I want to close my eyes and not wake up....the memories hurt- the shame too overwhelming....But God doesn't let me give up. He takes me to a place I've never been....a peaceful place. He sooths that part of me I try to hide, to push away, to pretend doesn't exist. He offers me His gentleness and whispers; it's ok now.

People in my life don't know where I've been. They see me as happy, fun, free. I don't know how I never told anyone about being held in that house for six months, desperate to get away. I don't know how I never told all those things I lived, the 14 year drug addiction, the years of battling an eating disorder and cutting myself, of being forced into situations that nearly broke me. It's like I've lived two lives. Side by side. Never free. Pretending. But I want to be free. I really want to be free.

My book is soon ready to be published. I'm afraid of people I work with, friends and neighbours knowing how awful things were and how much a fight it has been. Not telling though is being selfish. If God hadn't touched me the way He had - I wouldn't have lived. I owe Him.

Moving Forward

"Live your life with greater courage, intensity and kindness." Oprah Winfrey

Whatever happened - whatever I survived - I want to use it to give hope to someone. Hope that life can turn around - that things can change - that addictions can be beat - that life can have purpose.

It never really dawned on me how bad things had been until I started writing and blogging. I stared at the words on the screen. I read and reread them. My own words - my own thougths shocked me. I had pushed it away - pretended it all hadn't happened. It hurt too much too remember. But when I started writing I couldn't stop. It's as if a damn had opened......

I want God to use what I lived - I want to help others. I don't want to think He freed me for nothing. Maybe if I can use what I survived, then all that horrible stuff wouldn't have been in vain.

I'm working on courage - courage to physically face someone and tell - I keep telling myself I am not what happened to me. I'm going to keep telling myself that until I believe it - until I have the courage - Meanwhile I want to reach out in kindness cause I know everyone is fighting some kind of battle.

Pride

"Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real." Thomas Merton

In spite of all the drugs I did and the many times I had my head bashed against a wall, I went back to school - to university. Got on the dean's honor list. I thought they made a mistake. I thought I didn't deserved it. I thought if they realized they had given it to me they would take it back.

I struggled to talk in school. I couldn't stand up in front of the class. I couldn't even stand up at my seat or even answer a question. I was afraid of being seen - afraid of being noticed. If I opened my mouth everyone would know that I had no idea what I was saying, that I didn't make any sense.

I couldn't stand up and talk, but I could write. When I write I don't have to prove myself. I don't have to convince anyone of anything. I don't have to stumble and falter and look stupid. No one's looking at me. No one's judging me. When I write, I'm free.

I've always felt like a fraud. I always thought, if people knew........... so I pretended what happened never did. I pushed everything down and copied other people, how they acted, moved and talked. I did all the 'normal' things everyone else did. Then I came home and threw up and cut my arms forcing myself to be strong. Continuing to live a lie.

I never wanted to tell anyone in my life where I came from. Hardly anyone knows. It was so bad that I've been afraid of what people would think of me. Pride. I think I have a lot of pride. Bad pride. The kind that keeps you from living the way God wants. Funny thing about pretending - it keeps you in a cycle of shame - hiding from the world and even from yourself. Somehow I had convinced myself what happened wasn't so bad.

A friend of mine knows I've been writing. She told me last night she can't wait to read my book. I told her I don't know if I want her to see it. She said, It won't change the way I think of you. But I'm not so sure. Pride. I've always worried what people will think of me if I tell them all the stuff that happened. Pride. I want to be real. I don't want to pretend anymore.

My book will be published soon. People will know. They'll know the truth. My friend told me yesterday her church is considering having me speak. She's on the women's committee and she told them about me. She gave them my blog and a copy of the radio program I did. Everyone will know.

When I'm alone I feel God. I feel his presence. His gentle touch. I can't live in silence anymore. I owe that to Him. Maybe I owe it to me too. And if my telling helps just one person find peace and freedom, then the shame of telling versus that of staying quiet is worth it.

My Voice

"Words are the voice of the heart." Confucious

I never talked. I never told. I never said the things that happened. Instead I hid - overwhelmed with shame, wondering if all those awful things even happened at all. I used to talk in the third person - almost as if I was speaking for someone else and not for myself. I lived as if I wasn't a part of myself - Separate. Detached.

This blog has become my voice. It's given me the freedom to write what I can't say - to put a 'voice' to the memories that play in my head like old reruns that have kept me cowering in shame, - terrified to be seen.

When I sit at my computer and type - I feel free. It kind of feels like running in the woods. I can say what I want. I can say the truth. I can be honest. No one's looking at me.

My book is finished. My writer friend edited the whole thing. She said she was entralled. She said I'll touch many lives. She told me she's proud of me for writing it. My other friend, my best friend, gave my name to some local churches to speak at in the fall. The fall is too far away for me to worry about right now, but I hope I can stand up and have people look at me and tell the truth of what happened.

This morning I went for a run. I listened for God's voice. His voice gives me courage. This morning, I heard, 'trust.' One word. One powerful word. I believe He led me to write. He brought some amazing people to help me including some of you on the blog. I'm grateful, really grateful.

I want my voice to be heard. I don't want to be silent anymore. I want to help other people find peace and freedom. Maybe my story will give them that.

Willingness to Fly

""How does one become a butterfly, she asked pensively.You must want to fly so much, you're willing to give up being a caterpiller." Trina Paulus (Hope for the Flowers)

I am grateful. Really grateful. As I write and remember, I am filled with gratitude. So often I have to shake myself and ask, 'did it all really happen?' The years of living on the street, shoving needles in my arm, not allowing myself to eat, throwing up if I did and cutting myself until I couldn't stand the pain or until I bled.

Living with extreme shame, out of control rage and debilitating fear - and one day, just like that - God touched me and changed everything. He gave me purpose and hope. He helped me heal. He gave me freedom. Now I owe Him my life.

There is a story about ten lepers being healed. Only one came back to say thank-you. I don't want to be like the nine who showed no gratitude. I need to tell what happened - what God did because had He not touched me in the ways He did......

How do I tell people what I lived? How do I say all those horrible things that happened? It's easier to tell strangers but I struggle with telling people who are close to me - my friends and people at work - I don't want them to think differently about me. I don't want them to be disgusted.

It was bad. Really bad. How can I tell them? Sometimes I just want to blurt it out but I can't. The words are stuck inside me. Many of my friends know I'm writing a book. They don't know what I'm writing, but they know I' m writing.

I get lost in writing. I think in some way it validates what happened really took place. And it's a way for me to have my voice. I need to write. Writing has become like breathing for me. Seeing the words in print diminishes the shame and gives me strength.

My friend came for a hike in the woods with me the other day. As we walked the secluded trails, she asked if I ever get scared out there alone. I don't. I feel safe in the woods. That's where I hear God speak to me. That's where my heart gains courage. In the woods, in the beauty of nature, I never feel alone. God whispers to me there. He reminds me I am never alone anymore. He tells me everything will be ok. He reminds me He has purposes and plans for my life. He tells me not to be afraid.

I don't want to live like a caterpiller anymore. I want to fly. I want to tell. It will be my way of saying thank-you.

Comfort in Writing

"When I write I can shake off all my care." Anne Frank; diary entry April 4, 1944

I know the comfort of getting lost in writing. I escape to another world as I develop characters and stories beyond where I live. When I write, I am in control. I can create scenerios and endings that excite and inspire me.

I loose myself for hours when I write. Maybe because I never had my voice, never allowed to speak out the brutality of what was being done to me - writing is my voice. Writing gives me a platform to speak, to own my thoughts, to share my heart, to determine what I want, what I need, who I am.

I write for me. I write from my heart. I close my eyes and in my spirit, I see beyond the present and move past all the limitations and restrictions of my own life. When I write, I'm free.

Writing is a source of joy for me, like music in my soul, playing tunes that amazingly transports me to place of peace and contentment.

The Power of a Smile

"Everytime you smile at someone it is an action of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing. Peace begins with a smile." Mother Theresa

It's such a small thing, totally free and extremely powerful. God gave each of us the ability to impact another human being with something that costs us nothing but will reap tons of benefit for us and to whomever we choose to share a "smile" with.