In 2000 I went down into my basement and I didn’t come up for two weeks. I purged every skeleton, danced with every demon, and I went back years before and found the little girl I once was, where I had left her. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, I am also a birthmother and gave my first born son up for adoption at the age of 15. I was a runaway at 14 and lived on the streets for most of my teenage years. I became a single, homeless mother at the age of 16. What I discovered, as I began writing my story, was that I was not alone. It was, in fact, the connections I had to my best friends and their stories that had saved me from death countless times. My best friend, Amy, having nearly died in a car accident in 1991 which left her paralyzed from the waist down, was my Angel. We walked together through the tragedy we endured. I found, when the novel was complete, that the content was so difficult and so emotional that few people could understand why I had written about such haunting events in my life. The molestation, the incest, the loss of a child – abortion, drugs, and my admitting of my own fight against my self-awareness. With relationships hanging on by a thread, I found myself time and time again alone, wondering if life was even worth living.
After having finished the book, I tucked it away for nearly twelve years. I was ashamed, in many ways, of the story of my life. What would people think of me? Would they turn even further from me? I was a dirty, awful being with little value other than what I had survived. Was it all my fault somehow?
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