It Took Me an Abusive Relationship To Find My Passion Again
Now I am using it to help others
I have always considered myself “artistic”, but I was never good at drawing or painting. Music and writing were my passion. In school, I loved writing essays, especially creative ones. In my spare time, I would write poems, I even started a few books. That was up until 15 years ago. Then I moved to another a new country. A country that I now call home: Scotland.
I love it here. I could never move back. I fulfilled so many of my childhood dreams, I studied, I got my first job, my career, two beautiful daughters and my very own home. I met so many amazing friends, made happy memories and picked up quirky hobbies. And I comfortably speak, think, dream in English now, some even say I have a Scottish accent. But in all those years, I have never picked up a pen again.
I thought I didn’t need or want to write. I thought I couldn’t write.
I would still read books and online articles, always with a thesaurus at hand. There were some words, I would read for years but never know their pronunciation. I would read Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde, Rowling and Tolkien. I would read business novels and love stories, online blogs and poetry. And for 15 years, I would always feel this hint of jealousy. I would remember how much fun I had writing stories, finding different words or sentence structures, coming up with new and witty metaphors. But I didn’t miss it enough to change anything. I loved my life, not being able to write seemed such a small loss in comparison to all the wonderful gains.
Writing healed me
Last year in summer I came out of a short-lived but incredibly harmful relationship. I have never felt so hopeless and broken in my life. I felt defeated, destroyed, robbed of all joy and will to live. I had no idea how to move on or past it. But worst of all, I had no idea what to move on from.
Up until this point, I had thought domestic abuse was something that leaves physical wounds. I had no idea how damaging and devastating emotional torture could be. I had no idea that emotional abuse looked so much like love.
And when my eyes were opened, it was too late.
I spent months and months unravelling the emotional chaos, trying to put the pieces together, trying to understand what had happened to me. It took me a long time to accept what had happened to me.
I have always believed that everyone is in charge of their own destiny. I have always been in charge of my own destiny. This sentence was one of the hardest to accept: I had been a victim of narcissistic abuse.
Writing gave me back my power. Writing enabled me to analyse, it enabled me to remember and re-read all those little scenes that I had thought nothing of. It enabled me to identify and point out, all the everyday instances of abuse. Writing gave me my perspective back. My voice. My views. My story. My confidence. My power.
Writing healed me more than any therapy or support group.
Finding strength in weakness
I still don’t have the vocabulary or linguistic skills of a native speaker. But the urge to tell my story overwhelmed everything. I didn’t just want to write it all down, I wanted to share it.
Not only did I want to write it down, but I also wanted to share it. People needed to know. I couldn’t have been the only person in the world living in this bubble. I knew I wasn’t the only one. And the more people I could reach, the greater the chance it would help someone.
I didn’t know a single thing about writing content, for any type of media. I didn’t know who or if anyone would be reading what I had to say. But I knew I had to try. I knew that if there was just a single person who was like me a few years ago: blissfully unaware, one person, who would find my story. That one person that I might be able to save. I knew it would be worth it, even if it would just be a single person.
So I took the plunge. And although it didn’t feel comfortable, I wrote my first article. I spent days. I asked several native friends to read it and give me suggestions on language and writing style. I edited it about 100 times and spent hours selecting a cover image. When the piece got accepted by a publication, I was ecstatic, I kept going.
Today I have published 90 articles, some of them in major publications like “PS I love you” and “The Ascent”. Some of them went semi-viral. I write a lot faster now and I don’t usually run my work past editors anymore. I don’t rewrite it 100 times. Some articles just flow, some I might ditch or completely overhaul, but I don’t overthink too much anymore. And all the writing is 100% me.
I have discovered something that I had never considered before: Many of my readers are non-native speakers too. And they appreciate reading articles without having to constantly refer to a dictionary. They appreciate it if I am able to explain complex topics in a simplified and example-driven way.
So my perceived weakness might just be a strength.
My language or lack of language is what makes me different as a writer. Everything I have to say has been said before. The concepts I write about are often a collection of ideas from psychology books and articles that I have read, translated into my personal experience. But my articles are unique. I am unique as a writer. And that thought is empowering.
Inspiring?
I have also always had a passion for helping others. Right now, I am able to combine both. I can write about the learnings and realisations that I had far too late, hoping it will help others. Nothing makes me happier than reading the wonderful comments from readers who can resonate with my story or have even learned something.
And sometimes I even get messages or comments saying that my journey is inspiring to others. I feel honoured, and a little bit uncomfortable.
Yes, I would love to inspire anyone who is in a similar situation as me to stand up for themselves. I would love for people who feel like they cannot pursue their passion for any reason to know that it’s never too late. I would love for anyone to know that the greatest barrier or weakness to doing anything is one in the mind.
But I don’t want to idealize or sugarcoat my experience. I was lucky. I had a good job, great friends and therapy. I wasn’t married to my abuser or had children with him. And still, it was the hardest and most difficult process I ever had to go through. I know many victims have it worse.
And I am also not perfect. One day I feel extremely inspired and motivated and the next day I leave my house in a mess and hide in bed all day. I haven’t figured it all out. I don’t have all the answers. Maybe I will never get them.
I am still healing. I will never be done healing. I am still on that journey, and some days I think I made it, some days I feel as if I am back at the start.
But yes, I want to inspire. I want to inspire anyone and everyone who has ever been in a similar situation as me, to stand up and tell their story. Because that is the only way we can be heard.