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May 27, 2004 I started writing in the sixth-grade. My sixth- grade teacher told me she felt I had talent, which was surprising, since I felt I had no talent for anything at all. I was an extremely shy child. I was worse than shy. I was pretty much a mute. I didn't speak; I was afraid to answer the phone. I learned many years after childhood what my problem was, but most of my life was wasted because of shyness. Both my parents showed me no affection at all. They were cold, mean, even cruel. My mother is a verbally abusive person and punished me by ignoring me. She ignored me for so long, I never really had a conversation with her. She was simply unable to communicate with me. She would just stare at me with hatred and disgust in her eyes. Most times she'd just stare ahead, as if I didn't exist. This was extremely emotionally painful. I was starved for love and attention and it seemed she purposely held it back to torture me. She seemed to enjoy mentally hurting me. So my only form of communication was through silence. I learned I could write things down. No one would have to know what I'm thinking or wanting to say. The words in my head could go down on paper and they would belong to ME. My mother could ignore me, even beat me with her fists as she did when I'd cry, but I could write things down and close her out of my life. Writing gave me some privacy and independence. So I began with a diary. Someone got me a diary for a gift, I don't know who it was, but each day I could write something, anything. I am miserable today, I am sick today, my mother beat my last night, etc. My first submission was to Dear Abby. I asked her what I should do about my mean, nasty mother who beat me with her fists when I was sick. I told her I wanted to live somewhere else so someone would pay attention to me. Abby never responded. I was so sad and lonely, and starved for love, I started noticing boys in the seventh grade. I actually had three boyfriends at the age of 12. I wanted one particular boy to marry me, anything to get away from my mother. I felt so empty inside. As the years progressed, I kept myself busy with so-called friends and boyfriends. I use the term 'so-called' because most of the people I chose for friends used me. They took advantage of my shy, introverted manner. I was the first person with a driver's license, so everyone called to have me drive them around. My father was thrilled to give me the car so he wouldn't have to bother with me. "Here...go!" he said. When I started college, I had no clue what I should major in, because I wasn't really exceptional in any one subject. My grades were average. I only excelled in English and history. No one can get a job with that! At first I wanted to be a social worker so that I could help people overcome the problems I myself had, shyness, anxiety, depression, low self-esteem. I got myself into multiple abusive relationships, not realizing I was repeating my own history. I didn't know any better, I guess. I was copying what I'd grown up with, meanness, abuse, hatred. But I noticed I'd have to take too many math courses for a sociology major, and my math skills were zilch. I was clueless as to what I could do with my life. I felt so useless and depressed. I was depressed because my own mother had no faith in me to succeed, and her verbal abuse made me think very little of myself. The one bright light was that sixth-grade teacher who thought I had some writing talent. I didn't agree with her assessment, but I remembered what she said. No one had ever giving me even a bit of positive feedback. So I majored in Journalism. I remained shy. It was awfully difficult inteviewing people and attending public functions to report on the events and ask questions. I had to fight the nervousness and anxiety, as I still do today. But I got published. I never made tons of money like television media people do. I felt I was too shy to be on TV, though I secretly wished I could do that. Maria Shriver would be my role model. She's so lucky to come from a loving family who supported her in every possible way. I never had that. No one supported other than me, and I spent most of my life as an emotional wreck, a weakling. But my power has come through my words. Not spoken words. Written words. With lots of reading, mostly self-help books on overcoming anxiety, depression, etc. I worked my way through it. It's still not easy, even though I am middle- aged now, but problems can be overcome. I've battled insomnia, high blood pressure, nervous anxiety, migraine headaches, and more, by writing and expressing myself, and with regular aerobic exercise. Exercise relieves stress, and, especially all that left over anger from years of abuse. I survived dysfunction, but the battle is still a daily one. But writing, which can go on forever, has been a life-saver for me. ------------ About the author Gail Fonda: I have a 42-page ebook about my emotional traumas and how I used exercise to get through it. Email: gdvoref@hotmail.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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