I went to college in my thirties after I divorced my abusive husband. It was a tumultuous time, but so rich in personal growth. I was recovering from a nervous breakdown and four months in a psychiatric hospital. I was beginning to feel the effects of post-polio syndrome, but mostly just fatigue. I was not interested in dating; only in writing and raising my three sons.
At the university, I tried out various majors, starting with English and Music. I had been writing since I was ten and had been a flautist for just as long. I took flute lessons and saxophone lessons, and got good grades in both. But when I took a class in Chaucer and failed, I decided to change my major to Psychology. I minored in Anthropology.
My children knew it was stressful for me to be commuting and working and trying to study. I had bought a one-bedroom condo, and had bunkbeds and a single bed in the bedroom for them. I slept on the sofa in the living room. I had sold my childhood home to my ex-husband because merely being in the house caused severe depression and it held so many childhood ghosts for me.
I had offered to split custody of the children every other week. Joint custody was the law in Massachusetts, and even though I thought my ex was cruel, my therapist insisted that they needed both of us. I also dropped the criminal abuse charges I had made against him in the interest of not involving the children in a lengthy, drawn out court trial.
This is a picture of me and Eric, Jesse, and Ethan at the National Seashore on Cape Cod. It was the last vacation I would take with my then-husband. This is my favorite picture of me with my children. I was happy and for a moment, without burdens.
This picture was taken in August, 1984. When I see what I have been through and where I am now with the love of my life, I am amazed. Now my children have children and and I know that they survived their tumultuous childhood.
I still have a therapist I see weekly. My own childhood and first marriage and mental illness need attending to. Some day, I hope to be strong enough to leave therapy. But for now, it keeps me afloat on the ocean of my dreams.
Have you ever thought of writing your life story, or a chapter of it? Has your perspective changed over time? What might keep you from sharing your story?