On Writing

I Was Branded Like Cattle — His Initials Were Burned into My Soul

J.A.C.

I was 14 the last time he hit me. I had a huge purple knot behind my left ear. I had really long hair that covered it up, so no one saw. I only told one person. She had also seen the bloody welts on my legs. It was a switch from a rose bush in our front yard that time. I had been whipped with a belt, hot wheels racetracks, a handmade wooden paddle with holes in it. His belt had an Indian head buckle with his initials: J.A.C. I wore those initials more than once. He branded me. Like cattle.

I forgave him before he died. I felt that in forgiving him, I had succeeded in removing his brand. But the memories didn’t die with him. The pain didn’t just go away. The hatred. The look in his eyes. His initials were burned into my soul. I was marked for over three decades. I suddenly remembered so many things I had forgotten. Why?

M y book was supposed to be a self-improvement book of sorts, particularly for the middle-aged couple in a hopeless, miserable relationship, like ours. To inspire them that it truly is possible to come back. No particularly novel idea on its own. Except that it was. It was mine.

And the story had morphed.

It Began to Shift.

I felt it was important that each of us establish our own states of mind at the very inception of “us.” I believed it to be crucial in identifying where things had gone so wrong. This seemed like a fair approach as the story was told mostly from my perspective.

A s a former researcher, it is in my nature to be a problem-solver. Find the problem. Find the solution. I began to scour through volumes of my journals, counseling notes, notes on my phone — any type of documentation that would reveal the point where it all went awry.

Before I was aware of what was happening, the story…

Took a Detour.

Memories slowly began to flood in, bringing a ton of tears and true empathy for the woman who had written these words over all those years. This story was about more than “us.” It was about me. I was that woman.

I n reading the journals that I had written merely during our 12-year relationship, I found a lot of entries about things I had discovered about myself along the way, particularly about the severe childhood abuse I had sustained as a child. Now, not only was I going down the painful memory lane of he and I. I stepped out onto the overgrown path of my childhood. What had begun with a general summary of traumatic events that had transpired between the ages of nine to 14, went rogue.

My story…

Grew Fangs.

It suddenly became a monster that I couldn’t shake. Pervasive. Intrusive. Far from the beaten path, I had found myself on a trail, barely discernible in the weeds. Where all those other things had lay dormant for more than three decades. Should I go there? I truly believed I had moved past this. That I hadn’t merely “buried” them, but I had honestly overcome them. So why wade through the weeds for things I didn’t want nor need? Why would I do this on purpose?

“Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.”

— George Orwell

I am compelled to continue down that trail. Why? I guess because I have a story that needs to be told. It is no longer targeted merely at the middle-aged couple with relationship hell but also to the individual who had experienced their own personal hell that may have been an unwitting contributor to their relationship problems. My search for answers for us became the discovery of reasons for me.

I don’t truly know why dragging myself through all this pain is necessary. I just know that it is. It’s a story that’s meant to be told for whatever purpose there may be. As a writer, I go where the story takes me and this is where it has taken me. Thus, I will follow the trail. And I hope that it truly does have something to do with a healing that I didn’t think I needed anymore. I hope it doesn’t merely cause more problems. I hope it actually inspires someone in some way. There must be a reason. In the meantime, I will keep writing…

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