Why I Support TWLOHA

I've posted it before, in varying forms, how I turned to rather dangerous ways to cope in an abusive marriage, where I also received abuse from my ex-husband's family, in varying forms. (At one point, due to massive religious, faith-less fundamentalism and zeal for preaching how they could sin all they liked because they were good Christians, and that I was awful and did not believe enough, that I was sick because God was punishing me for my sins, I would joke that I quaked with fear if they served Kool-Aid. Actually, it was food itself they served that would make me ill.). I turned first to cutting... providence, or so they say, of the teenager and emo-kid. Of the attention seeker. The scars are fading there, now... I wrote over them today. I would wear long sleeves in 90 degree weather. Not just from those, but from that lovely, grab the biceps and shake type hug I used to get. I learned pure sarcasm. Rather dark sarcasm, at that. I lied when people would see them... oh, I slipped... I became rather accomplished at covering for my embarrassing habit (to me) and for others. To this day, if you ask how I managed a broken lower rib that punctured a lung, I tell a half truth: "Oh, clumsy me, I fell down the stairs!" I also used diet pills... at that time, Hoodia was the choice. I would get caught by my mother, who finally witnessed me literally hitting rock bottom in front of her. I went through therapies, withdrawl, acquired a tendency to smoke 2 packs of cigarettes a day, during the worst withdrawl period. For the longest time, I refused to sing... I had practiced very hard... O, Holy Night- to this day, a Christmas carol I love but refuse to sing- and during the church service, I saw the disapproving face, the arms crossed, the anger that I'd gone out in public. And I choked, literally. I was given water, and finished, before running and locking myself in a bathroom, with the help of a sweet old man with heart but who really couldn't carry a note in a bucket. Later, privately, I was informed by my ex Husband, aka Sperm Donor, that no matter what, I would always sound like a cat in a Cuisine- Art.
I kept quiet, plotted, planned, did my best to get out of the house, to move- by myself- to- actually, right where I am now, or thereabouts. Friends would ask me questions. My therapist would ask. My surgeon asked me after I was coherent after my kidney surgery- "Good heavens, I don't know," I hedged. A friend passed me the info on an organization called To Write Love On Her Arms as I began my divorce proceedings, during which I tossed out my ex, and his rather lascivious friend, who, with my ex's permission, had taken a migraine induced nap to his advantage. I ignored their pleas and shouts and threats and focused on myself. I called myself every kind of fool, went for even intense counselling, and made my apologies- and those whom I'd wronged the worst, told me to shut up, they loved me, they knew I was strong, but told me to bend, so I wouldn't break. To this day, while this is all dark memory, they worry, and I can see it. But yet, I am told by people I admire just how strong I am, that they look up to me. I credit, God, family, friends, my own stubbornness and will to live, and To Write Love On Her Arms, along with counsellors and physicians, for saving my life, telling me I had more to do, and people to help, beginning with me.
I am proud to support TWLOA.