About Me — Suzanna Quintana
I dedicate all my words to those from my past who want me to stop talking.
I used to be a good girl, otherwise known as a girl who only had nice things to say about the men around her and if she didn’t have anything nice to say then she better keep that shit to herself.
I also was a tomboy, backyard pool diving champion, trout farm fisherman, trail rider, horse fanatic, pinball wizard, Holly Hobby enthusiast, Jodie Foster impersonator, banana seat bike expert, ATC survivor, cheerleader-turned-party girl, and all-around so-so big sister who had a knack for finding all the good trouble.
And I used to be a gypsy. Until fourth grade got in the way.
You should also know I was voted Ms. Indianapolis 500 in high school after totaling my dead grandmother’s green Demon, driving my Porsche into an embankment after a party in the woods, and crashing my Camaro in the school parking lot on the first day I got it. A title well-earned at a time when being the “designated driver” had nothing to do with being sober.
But it was the eighties. You really had to be there.
Why this is important:
After having cut myself off from much of the outside world during the time I spent in two abusive marriages over the course of nearly three decades, in order to recognize myself in the mirror again in my mid-forties, I needed to go back and revisit the girl who had started it all. I needed to figure out why I had begun my life in such a fantastic way before veering off into decades of lies and cheating and abuse that contradicted all of my high school visions of the future.
That girl I used to be helped me find my way to the woman I am today.
Having my own opinion, daring to disagree, standing up for myself, all of which for over four decades, one father, and two husbands I have been reprimanded for.
It was a good thing I was a writer since all those words I couldn’t say out loud were kept safe from prying eyes in one of my many journals. Whenever I wrote, I could share the heartbreak, anger, and sadness I experienced at the hands of abusive men who wanted me to keep my mouth shut and keep their secrets safe from the outside world.
Now that I’m free from the darkness of my past, I have no such loyalties anymore.
So I’m telling on everybody.
I know certain men from my past have a problem with me sharing the truth, but as Anne Lamott is famous for saying, “If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”
Which is why I keep doing it.
But do I raise my voice today because of the abusive men in my past?
Yes and no.
Yes…
I spent decades having my voice stripped from me, being told how to behave, what to say, and what not to say. My words have been policed by men since I was a little girl. Now that I’ve freed myself from that existence, all these words that have been shoved down deep within are finally able to be heard.
No…
Just because the men in my life didn’t allow me to speak my words doesn’t mean they still didn’t exist.
No…
I don’t write out of anger, resentment, or bitterness. I don’t write for revenge. I don’t write because I know how much it pisses my ex off (though this is an extra perk of the process). I don’t write for validation or to try and convince anyone of anything. I don’t write to be right or to defend myself or to prove something. I don’t write to make up for lost time or to try and change the past.
I write because…
- If I don’t, it hurts.
- I am the authority on my experience and I have a right to share that experience.
- I’m finally holding the pen after having taken it back from men who used to write my life story for me.
- I’m much better at the written word than I am the spoken one.
Most importantly…
I write for those who are unable to use their voice because of the darkness they’re still drowning in. My words are meant to be life preservers, thrown out to anyone who needs help being pulled to shore.
I write to let others who are suffering in an abusive relationship know that they’re not alone. Because that’s what abusers do, especially narcissists. They rely on isolating us and separating us from our intuition in order to better control the narrative. As long as we’re quiet, they hold the pen to our story.
Which is why I’ll never be quiet again.
And why I dedicate all my words to those who keep asking, “Ugh, is she still talking?”
Yeah baby, I am.
Can you hear me now?
