Author: Aimee Eddy

In elementary and high school, I disappeared into my imagination to escape the bullying I faced. It was so much easier than dealing with the real world. In my teenage years, I began to write down my daydreams and I put them in folders. I would put the title of the stories on the front of the folders. I would sit for hours writing and escaping into a world I could control. When a teacher told me I was talented, I began to enter contests and submit to magazines. It was also when I started to dream of having my own book published.

In seventh grade I wrote stories for the school magazine and by ninth grade I had my first story published in Creative Words magazine a magazine that published stories written by kids of all ages. I had several short stories, news articles, and essays published since then. I even had my own column in a local newspaper.

In 2019 Alexander Kovarovic asked if he could put two of my essays in his book Change Your Life. He told me it would be an advice book for teens. I was excited and honored. I had already been writing blog posts for his nonprofit organization and he loved my work. It wasn’t my own book, but it was a steppingstone. It’s a publishing credit that will look good when I’m ready to send my own manuscript out to publishers.

In 2019 the book came out with my essays in it, one on bullying and the other on depression. Alexander sold me copies of the book at a lower price. I in turn sold the book to friends and family. I signed the books and indicated the pages my essays were on. I felt like an official author signing books and selling them. The money I made from the sales helped pay for a partial scholarship to Saint Davids Christian Writers Conference.

I also had a chance to do a book signing at a craft fair in my hometown, but unfortunately it wasn’t advertised well and not too many people showed up. I sold one book. It was disappointing. I had bought several copies of the book that for a few years sat in my office slash storage room gathering dust. Until recently.

My friend and fellow author Amy Bovaird told me she was setting up a book signing and invited me to join her and two other authors. She said I could sell and sign the book I’m published in, Change Your Life. It’s good practice for when my own book comes out. I must do my own advertising for this book signing. I have sent out numerous invitations online and have told several people about the book signing. Several said they will try to come.

So here is my invitation to all of you who live in the Erie area. Please come help me take another step in my writing career. The book signing is November 10, 2p.m. to 5 p.m. at The Crick, 236 West Main Street, Girard PA. It’s a Christmas theme so I will also be selling some of my woodburned Christmas ornaments. Come see me and three other authors.

My memoir is with a second editor who is doing an in depth edit. She is pointing out details I didn’t think about. It’s taking some time. She does the edits and sends me the chapters with suggestions and her corrections. I make some corrections and send it back to her. Then she makes the actual edits in the manuscript. I’m glad she’s picking out these details. I want my manuscript to be the best it can be.

In time I will be selling and signing my own book. For now, I am learning the process of selling and marketing by participating in book signings like I will be doing on November 10.

When I was a kid, I wrote to escape the pain in me and the bullying I faced. Now I write about my own experiences to educate and help others. I advocate against bullying and I advocate for those with mental illness through my writing. I think God gave me the talent to write to help others. My essays in Alexander’s book were written based on my own experiences. You must buy the book to find out how valuable they are to all who face depression and bullying.

I fought many battles and have struggled through some very hard times to reach out to the world and touch them with my writing, and this helps me shine within the light of recovery.

We all experience life with different perceptions. We go through life’s struggles and each person’s journey is different. What may seem like a minor bad point in a person’s life may seem like a major one in another person’s life. Someone may feel sad about a situation, while another person may feel happy. No person on earth experiences life the same or feels the same emotions as another. Everyone’s feelings are valid even if we don’t feel the same or understand them.

Feelings are a tricky thing especially when it comes to mental illness. It is so hard to understand why a person with a good life could fall deep into sadness. It’s even more difficult to understand how a person could feel so hopeless and depressed that he or she would want to commit suicide.

A friend’s aunt came in my line at work. I told her that her nephew was really struggling with depression.

She looked at me and said, “What does he have to be depressed about?”

I was taken back by her response. It was like she couldn’t understand her nephew’s feelings of sadness. This happens a lot to people with mental illness. Many don’t understand those struggling and they shrug them off like their feelings are not important, when they are very important.

After my mastectomy I struggled with grief for the loss of my breasts. Many of my friends told me that I didn’t need them anyway and I should be happy they were gone. Some said they were envious of me and would love to get rid of theirs. I felt like they didn’t validate my feelings of grief and depression.  This made me feel even worse. It’s like my loss was a joke to them, and it wasn’t. I lost a part of my body, a part that made me a woman, and yes at times I wished I didn’t have them, but when it came to having them removed, it was like a piece of me was stolen from me. The hardest battle for me with breast cancer was dealing with my loss, and having friends who didn’t take my grief seriously made me feel even worse.

This has happened with my mental illness too. I had lived two years in recovery from mental illness. I had friends, I was living in an apartment with a friend, and I had a boyfriend. Then suddenly I fell down that hole of depression. I felt hopeless, depressed, useless, and worthless. Some people didn’t take my feelings seriously. It didn’t make sense to them that I would feel those emotions when it seemed like I had a good life. To them I had no reason to feel bad. This made me feel even more alone. The more my feelings were not taken seriously, the worse my depression got.

     Years after I recovered from mental illness, I went to a friend’s house for a dinner. There was a group of us. They talked about a girl we all knew. The girl got upset and locked herself in the bathroom during a party. The girl told them her life was hopeless and she felt like she had nothing to live for. The group of girls who told me about it said that she was doing it for attention. They didn’t take her feelings seriously. They thought she was a joke when she was crying for help. To the girl her feelings were real and very overpowering. By locking herself in the bathroom and telling the group her feelings she was begging for help, and they didn’t listen. By not validating her feelings and noticing her call for help they made her feel more depressed, and she injured herself.

When I was in school there was a girl who kept talking about taking her life. I knew nothing about mental illness or that I was suffering with it. I thought she was telling us that for attention. She told me she was sad, and I thought she was a spoiled child craving attention. The teachers at my school never took her cries for help and feelings seriously either. She never got the help she needed because no one would listen to her or validate her feelings. I found out many years later she struggled with mental illness and was never able to get the proper help she needed. She has been living in an inner hell since she was a kid and it led to a very rough life.

     Everyone’s feelings are real and valid even if we don’t understand them or find a good reason for them. With mental illness the darkness, the feeling of hopelessness, the worthlessness, and inner anguish is very real. Not recognizing the person’s feelings and letting him or her know you acknowledge how they feel can be detrimental. It can lead a person deeper into his or her mental illness and can lead to suicide attempts or suicide.

When a person turns to you and tells you he or she is feeling depressed, that person is confiding in you and asking for help. Say you’re there for him or her, suggest he or she gets help, and listen to him or her. Don’t brush the person off or ask them, “What do you have to be depressed about?” Never assume the person is just trying to get attention. Don’t turn that person in to a joke you can talk about with your friends. Those feelings the person has been struggling with are very real, and if he or she is telling you about them then it is to ask you for help. Don’t ignore him or her. Validate his or her feelings.

Many years ago, when I confided in my mom my feelings, she went out of her way to get me help. Because people who care about me, friends, and family, validated my feelings, I got help and I dance in the light of recovery.

I had the chance to interview someone I knew since my school years. Since I was held back in first grade, she was in the class ahead of me, but we are the same age. I lived next door to her older sister and nieces and nephews as a kid. She was a late in life child. I knew she struggled with something in school but didn’t know what until I was an adult and learned about mental illness. She has had a rough life and I believe her story needs to be told. This special woman is Mary Swabik and she is a friend whom I admit I misunderstood as a teen. I am so glad we reconnected.

Here is my interview with Mary.

What type of mental illness do you have?

MDD (Major Depression Disorder), anxiety, and PTSD (Post Traumatic Disorder)

What are some of your symptoms?

I have panic attacks and things that trigger them. I am never happy, I have to force myself out of bed and to do daily activities.

What has caused your PTSD?

I faced abuse starting at age ten when I was raped by my uncle and cousin. I was physically and verbally abused by my mom. She would tell me that I would never amount to nothing, she said I couldn’t talk right, and that I would end up in an institution.

In a special school I attended, I was locked in the cooler for not eating my lunch. I was also in several abusive relationships.

How has your family reacted to your illness?

They have not been in my life for twenty years. I only have contact with my oldest daughter.

Do you have positive relationships in your life?

Most of my friends are older and we go to church together. I have several mother figures in my life.

Has your illness led to bad relationships?

I had gotten into abusive relationships with ex-husbands and female friends.

What has helped you cope with your mental illness?

Talk therapy and God. I have been in and out of mental hospitals since I was nineteen, and I have been in a state hospital for eighteen months.

Do you have any coping techniques?

Breathing into a bag, praying, and talking it out.

What advice would you give to others struggling with mental illness?

Take your medication, find a good counselor, and have a support team. Mental illness is not your fault. It is an illness.

What advice would you give to other women being abused?

Get out of the relationship and it’s not your fault. Most importantly get help. If it’s physical call the police and press charges. Don’t ever drop the charges. Stay away from the abuser no matter what he promises.

What steps are you taking to reach recovery?

I take one day at a time. I pray and I have people pray for me.

Mary has lived a rough life and deserves our support. She has many struggles in her life and could use your prayers. She grew up in Ripley, New York and now lives in Florida. She has a kind soul and has a strong faith that helps her through the many heartaches she has faced. She is a survivor in many ways and will someday be standing in the light of recovery with God carrying her.

God gives authors the talent to write, but to hone and improve your writing you must be willing to learn. Writers learn new techniques from books, writing groups, conferences, and workshops. No matter where you are in your writing career, there is always something to learn. No author sits down and writes a publishable book without ever studying the craft of writing.

I have been going to writing conferences since high school. My first writing conference was a summer enrichment writing program an English teacher who helped me with my writing selected me for. The program was for students who were talented. The program took place at Chautauqua High School which was about a half hour from our home. A bus took us there each day for a month during the summer. For an hour we learned about different techniques of writing; then for another hour we went over to the Chautauqua Institute. Our instructor would give us a writing assignment and we would find a place at the institute to write and something to write about. The institute is a wonderful place with lots of history: it’s a center of many arts, it has old fashioned summer homes, gardens, and special places like the Hall of Philosophy. I learned and I was inspired.

Then the English teacher gave me a brochure for another writing conference at a college during the following summer. My parents scrounged up the money for me to go and then they drove me there, many miles away. I spent a week going to different workshops on different aspects of writing and different genres of writing. I was rejected at my own school, but I was accepted among my fellow writers. I made friends who had the same passion I did, I learned, and I was inspired.

My senior year of school I collected donations from local businesses in my hometown and flew to Washington, DC for a journalism conference. I was given the chance to interview a senator of New York State. Each time I returned from the conferences my writing improved and my knowledge grew. My English teacher noticed a difference in my personality. She said I was happier, and she was right. The conferences were the one place I fit in and I got to study what was my passion.

The conferences continued as an adult when I joined Pennwriters. I started going to their annual writing conference. The conference was from Friday to Saturday at a hotel out of town. I loved going and learning. I also started going to Saint Davids Christian Writers Conference which was held at a college. Through the conferences I made more friends and continued to learn.

When I got married and moved out of my parents’ home, I began going to Saint Davids whenever I could get a scholarship and I could no longer afford to go to the Pennwriters annual conference. Luckily Pennwriters started putting on one-day conferences in my hometown. It was and is perfect for me. It’s affordable, there’s a variety of workshops to choose from, and lots of fellow writers to talk to, some I know and ones I meet for the first time.

This Saturday was Pennwriters Road trip 9, their one-day conference. For each hour there were three workshops to choose from like editing basics, finding your character’s emotional wound and character arc, and hitting your story beats. The workshops started at nine a.m. and went to four thirty p.m. with a half hour for lunch. I’m a member of Pennwriters and I attend their meetings, so I reconnected with friends and I made new friends.

In the workshops I learned about editing, formatting a manuscript, making a set time for writing, using your senses in your writing, how to look out for scammers in the writing field, and much more. Workshops were taught by authors who are published and used the techniques they teach or have important information to share. There was so much to take in that my head was whirling, but yet I was inspired.

Not all techniques that are taught work for every writer. What we do is take a little bit we learn from different workshops and find ways that work for us. Many authors suggest you sit at a desk in a quiet room where you can’t be disturbed and write. Others listen to soft music when they write. I sit on my couch with a lap desk and the television on. Once I get to writing the TV just becomes a hum in the background. I write at night when my husband is in bed and it’s just me and my dog. I took a little bit of advice from other authors and found something that works for me: my alone time is when my husband is in bed and my music is the hum of the television.

I love going to workshops not only to hone my writing, but to be inspired, and to talk and network with other writers. Many of my good friends are fellow authors who helped me grow as a writer and as a person. My friend Amy mentors me in memoir writing, my friend Catherine has taught me a lot about writing and helped me with editing stories for magazines, contests, and my memoir. My friend Roberta edits these blog posts, and my friend Kathy has edited my synopsis and memoir. My friend Todd is always encouraging me and giving me good advice. All these authors have helped me grow and there are many more who have helped and taught me a lot.

Writing is my passion, my talent given to me by God, and my therapy. It helps me with my mental illness, and it gives me a chance to help others. I always tell people if you want to get to know me, read my writing because I put all of me in the words I put on paper. I spill out my heart and soul with a strike of keys on a keyboard.

What’s your passion and how do you hone it? Does your craft or creativity help you with mental illness? Can you use it to help others? Pick something that you love to do and something that helps you deal with your struggles and find ways to hone it. Learn about it and meet others who have the same passion. This will help you make friends, express yourself, and help others. It will also be therapeutic to you.

Writing is my passion. Nothing will ever stand in my way of learning and making my writing better. Because I write I stand in the light of recovery with stories filling my mind.

Dear Sick Aimee,

I remember when you were so sick that you felt life was hopeless. You thought there was no end to the sadness, the inner anguish, the crying spells, the sleepless nights, and the overpowering emotions. You thought the only way to stop it was to take your life. You planned it and you tried but never succeeded. You thought your family and friends would be better without you, but you were wrong.

     I want to thank you for never taking your own life and for your failed plans. If you would have committed suicide, you would have missed out on watching your nieces and nephews grow up. Taking them to do fun things, spoiling them, and sharing memories with them. They would have never gotten to know their favorite aunt if you were gone. They would have only heard stories about you. By living you have instead given them love, courage, and many wonderful memories. Since you lived you have been blessed with two great nieces and a great nephew. On Friday you watched your oldest niece get married. It was a wonderful wedding. Your nieces and nephews have been one of the greatest blessings in your life.

     Remember when you wrote out what you wanted to go on your grave, “A lonely soul who couldn’t go on.” Good thing you never had to use it. If you had died, you would have never met the love of your life. On the first date he drew you in with a promise to treat you like a woman, to protect you, and to never hurt you. He swept you away. You couldn’t stop seeing him. He even rode his bike thirty miles to see you. Within just six months of dating, he proposed, and you knew your souls would be one forever.

     What a beautiful wedding it was! You could have missed the best day of your life. The day you said “I do” to the most wonderful man you ever met. The day you pledged your heart and soul to him forever with tears in your eyes. Now you have spent fourteen years of marriage creating memories, sharing your love, standing side by side in ups and downs, and falling more in love each day. You can see the love in his eyes, in the things he does, and how he takes care of you. Wouldn’t it have been so sad if you would have missed that?

     Remember when you took a bunch of pills and somehow drove to college in a snowstorm and back without remembering how. God took the wheel for a reason. He drove you to class and back because he had plans for you. Because God kept you alive, you have fought hard and reached recovery. In this blog you write about what you learned in therapy and your journey to recovery. Many have told you how much your posts have helped them. You would have never been able to do that if you took your life. You have written a memoir that will help many when it’s published. Because you are alive, you will soon see your first book published.

     You touch many lives as a cashier. Customers stand in long lines to see you and pray for you as you face health problems and rise above them. Many call you an inspiration because no matter how far down you fall, you always pull yourself up. You have many friends who you’ve touched in many ways. Friends who you call sis, ones who turn to you in a time of need, friends who support you, friends who stand at your side no matter what, and friends who have helped you grow as a writer. What if you missed out on all this? How sad would that have been?

     One time you thought none of this was possible. You thought you would be stuck in your internal hell forever. Look how wrong you were. Your life turned out wonderful because you didn’t succeed at suicide. How could you have ever wanted to miss out on such a wonderful life? You thought you would never feel happiness again and now you are very happy. Yes, you still have bad days, but you have coping techniques and a special support system to get you through. You have struggled with many health problems, but you have a wonderful husband who helped you through them. Your life isn’t perfect, but it is wonderful.

     Thank you, Aimee, for being alive and for pushing forward. You’ve had many challenges and rough times, but you have risen above them. If you were gone you would have never gotten a chance to rise above so much and to write about it. If you took your life, you would have never experienced true love, joy, and love of friends and family.

     Your life is beautiful. Thank you for living it. Thank you, God, for not letting Sick Aimee succeed at suicide. Suicide was never the right answer. I forgive you for being misguided and rejoice in the life you have lived because you never took your life. You stand in the light of recovery a strong, vibrant, and inspirational woman because you chose life.

     Thank you for being alive.

Sincerely,

Aimee standing in the beautiful light of recovery

     When a woman goes through breast cancer, she is often put on hormone therapy for different reasons: to reduce the chance of the cancer returning, to reduce the size of the cancer, or to control breast cancer that has returned. This therapy is given by a pill that the woman must take for five or more years. A major side effect of this type of pill is the weakening of bones and osteoporosis. While on the pill, women are told to take calcium and vitamin D to help prevent osteoporosis, but sometimes that is not enough to stop it. The inevitable happens.

     Because I am on the hormone therapy for having breast cancer, I get bone destiny scans every two years. I recently had a scan towards the beginning of this month. Wednesday I went for my six-month checkup at the cancer center. The physician’s assistant came into the exam room and asked if I had seen the results of my bone scan on the mychart app. I never read those because I don’t understand them. I prefer the doctor explain the results of my tests. So, I hadn’t read it.

     She looked at me with sympathetic eyes. “I’m sorry to tell you, you have osteoporosis.”

     I felt like I was kicked in the stomach. I couldn’t think and tears welled up in my eyes. I fought to control them. I told her I had back surgery in October for a broken bone and asked her if it could be related to the osteoporosis. She told me that it was what caused it, because the bone weakness is worse in my back especially in the lumbar.

I was in shock. I couldn’t process my new diagnosis. I’m only forty-seven years old and I have osteoporosis. This had to be a nightmare. I thought it was a nightmare when they told me I had cancer and it wasn’t. This too was real. The assistant went on to tell me of three options to treat my condition. My husband asked her which one she would suggest. She suggested an infusion I would get every six months. The infusion would take thirty minutes and it would also protect me from bone cancer. We agreed to that.

     It wasn’t until I got home it started to sink in and questions began to surface. For almost a year now I figured I had broken the bone in my back and had surgery because I have scoliosis. Now I find out it is because the bones in my back are weak. When I first felt the horrible pain in my back before my surgery, I was doing my job, reaching to clean the belt and lifting heavy items. Does this mean doing my job is dangerous to me? Could I break another bone in my back doing my job? Would I have osteoporosis for the rest of my life? How long will I have to have infusions for? Are there restrictions for work?

     After the questions, I started going through the what ifs. What if I’m walking to work and I fall beside the road, break a leg, and no one stops to help me? What if I’m walking downstairs in the morning and I fall down the stairs, breaking several bones, and am unable to reach my phone to call for help? What if at work I lift a twenty-four pack of pop and I break another bone in my back? What if a customer bumps into me, I fall, and break my hip? The what ifs started small and kept growing bigger and bigger. I began to imagine myself in those situations.

     This new condition became a life altering tragedy. I’m a very emotional person. I feel emotions strongly and sometimes they lead me back to that hole of depression. Part of my mental illness is feeling things more intensely than others. Finding out I had yet another health problem brought a flood of emotions. I was sad, angry, scared, and frustrated. Once we left the cancer center, all I could do was cry. For several days I went in and out of crying spells.

     Cancer stole my breasts from me, because of it I had a hysterectomy, and now I have osteoporosis. This is just not fair. How could I get osteoporosis at the age of forty-seven from a medication I take? Why me? How could I have another health problem? Damn breast cancer has taken so much from me and it doesn’t stop. It keeps kicking me and pushing me down. I’ve been cancer free for three years and now this. I feel like a porcelain doll that could easy break if not taken care of properly.

     I asked my friend Kelly if I was magnifying my diagnosis. She told me she felt I was and that many women live full lives with osteoporosis. My friend Cheryl said she knows how emotional I get about things and how I magnify things.

When I think about it both friends are right. I have taken this diagnosis like it’s a life ending condition, but it’s not. With treatment, exercise, and calcium and vitamin D supplements, I can live a full life. I may have to do light duty at work, which is express registers, but I like those registers. No heavy lifting. If I take care of myself, I may never break a bone again. I’m only on the hormone therapy for two more years. I can kick myself through this disease and not let it defeat me.

Breast cancer is an awful disease. The medications for it can takes their toll on our bodies. It also takes a toll on us mentally. It’s easy to feel hopeless and get sad. If you already have mental illness, it can push you backwards into the dark hole of depression. This illness is like a kick in the gut. It keeps kicking you until you’re on your knees, but you can kick yourself back up to your feet. Don’t give up. Fight breast cancer and fight mental illness.

I must get an exam and blood work before I start getting infusions, but I’m no longer going to let this new health problem drag me down. I’m standing in the light kicking at whatever tries to pull me down.

    Teenage years are a difficult time. We are trying to fit in, we are trying to figure out ourselves, and we face our peers who try to sway us and sometimes ones who abuse us. My childhood into teenage years were extremely difficult. I so much wanted my classmates to like and accept me, but instead they rebuked me and bullied me.

In high school I went on a search to find my self-worth. It was a rough and lonely journey. I built walls around me to protect myself from bullies, but the walls left me feeling lonely. Not talking unless spoken to was part of the wall I built. If I didn’t speak, then my peers could not use what I said to ssmake fun of me. Inside my world of silence, I felt some sort of safety. It didn’t stop the teasing, but it kept me from making new friends who would have either turned on me or left me, and it was one more thing my bullies couldn’t use against me. The problem was it also took away my chances of making friends who might have accepted me as I was.

In school a red-haired girl tried very hard to get me to talk. She always passed me in the halls and told me to smile. She sat with me when no one else would. She talked to me, but I couldn’t force myself to talk to her. She tried, but I built my wall with bricks so thick that she couldn’t tear them down. I wanted to break through and give her a chance. I was just too afraid.

I struggled with my inner demons. I was barely holding myself together. I was falling into the black hole of mental illness. At the time I didn’t know what was happening to me. I just knew something was wrong. Every day I saw this girl I fought with my thoughts and overwhelming emotions. There was a war inside me, and I felt like I was on the losing side.

Talk to her. Give her a chance.

No don’t give in. She’ll just hurt you like everyone else.

I’m all alone. I need a friend. All I must do is talk.

Don’t be crazy. If you let in, she’ll turn on you or break your heart. You’re better off alone.

The internal fight went on at school, at home, and while I attempted to sleep at night. If I had a switch to turn it off, I would have. It tormented me and made my emotions go out of control. Mental illness is a sickness of the mind that can put you at war with your inner self. I was stuck inside my mind with awful thoughts, and the wall I built made that war even worse.

Later the girl moved away, and I berated myself for never talking to her and never letting her in. Yes, if I had talked to her and had become friends with her, I would have been heart broken when she moved away. If I had talked to her, I might have had good memories that would have made her leaveing easier. She may have been the one friend who would have kept in contact. For years later I was left wondering what I deprived myself of because I built a wall and went silent.

In my adult years when I started working at a grocery store, she started coming in my line. I was finally able to talk to her. Each time she came in my line we talked about casual stuff. Through nearly twenty some years of her coming in my line I still couldn’t bring myself to ask for her phone number and if she wanted to get together. I had torn down the wall that I built in school. I had friends and co-workers who accepted me for who I am, and yet I still couldn’t take the steps to build a friendship.

A week or two ago my husband and I went to a local fair. We stopped at a tent for food. The girl, now a woman, was running the tent with her daughter. We stood and talked for several minutes. Then she wrote her phone number down for me. She even said she’d have me and my husband over for supper sometime. Maybe this was God saying, “Now is the time to build that friendship. You’re strong now, go for it.”

I put her number in my phone that night and texted her so she would have my number. We have texted each other a few times. I learned she too was bullied. Now is my chance to build a friendship I couldn’t allow myself to build in my younger years. Maybe God has given me a second chance.

Sometimes when we are going through rough times and we have been hurt, we put up walls to protect ourselves. The problem with walls is they block out people who could make a big impact in our lives. Those walls can leave you lonely and can block out the people who can help you in your struggles. Don’t live in regret. Take that step and start tearing the bricks down. Take a chance on someone and take a chance on yourself.

I’m not sure where we will go from here, but I’m excited to find out. I now stand in the light of recovery discovering a second chance at a friendship.

No post this week. My husband and I are on vacation. We needed time away where I wasn’t recovering from surgery. There will be a post next week.

Remember you can reach the light of recovery. Put all of you into the fight towards recovery. Take care of yourself and next week I’ll be back with a new post.

    When I tell people I have written a book and I’m preparing it for publication, they ask, “When can I get a copy?” Many people don’t know there is a long process to getting a manuscript (the book unpublished) to the point when it is ready to be sent to a publisher. Then once it’s ready to be sent out, there is a waiting period and a possibility of several rejection letters before an acceptance letter arrives. Then sometimes it takes the publisher a year or so before the book is printed and ready to be sold.

     The first step is to write the book. The second step is to self-edit your manuscript. Thirdly, send the manuscript to a professional editor. Sometimes the author sends it to more then one editor. Fourthly the author makes the edits suggested by the editor. Fifth the author picks out two or three beta readers to read the whole manuscript, looking for any major problems. The sixth step is to make any changes necessary and format it to go to a publisher or agent.

You must research publishing companies and agents for ones who accept the genre of your work. Then you must study their guidelines. Some require a query letter, a synopsis, or a book proposal. The seventh is to follow the publisher’s guidelines by formatting your manuscript accordingly and you write any query letters, synopses, or book proposals required. Then you send what is required to the publisher; sometimes you only send a couple of chapters. The eighth step is waiting you wait for a reply which asks you to send the whole manuscript. After maybe weeks or more of waiting you may get several rejection letters before you get an acceptance.

     I just received my manuscript back from my editor on Wednesday. I have already started making the edits she has suggested. I have made corrections in elven chapters so far. Probably by the time this post goes out, I will have edited even more chapters. I still have a lot of steps to go through to get to publication, but I consider finishing my manuscript and sending it to an editor a big accomplishment. Once I sent my manuscript to my editor, I checked my email each day, waiting for her to return it.

     It took me four years to write my memoir. A memoir is about a certain time in a person’s life when something significant happened. Mine is nine years of my life when I was bullied and when I went to the family garage for love and acceptance. Writing about what I went through in school was like reliving a part of my childhood I wish I could erase from my memory. I had to relive the pain, anguish, and sadness. All those awful feelings rushing back in at times became too difficult to face. I had to take a day or more away from my manuscript so I could process what I have tried so hard to bury in the back of my mind. Sometimes I had to step away from my writing for a week or two. I was opening old wounds I didn’t realize had never healed.

     Writing my memoir became like a therapy session. I opened a wound and had to work through it emotionally so it could heal. As I wrote I was able to trace how far back I began to slip into mental illness and the dangerous path it took in my life. I spent four years rehashing heartache and finding ways to bandage tears in my soul. It wasn’t all pain. I enjoyed writing about the time I spent at our family garage and the things I did with my cousin that my parents may not be aware of.

     While I worked on my manuscript I struggled with self-doubt. How could I write a piece of work that would be long enough to be a book? I had attempted to write book length material before and failed. What made me think I could do it now? Maybe I was only meant to write short stories. Maybe I don’t have the talent to write long pieces. What if my dream to have a book published was hopeless? This is when my friends and husband encouraged me and gave me a little extra shove. Each night my husband would ask how many pages I wrote.

     Then I worked around my learning disability to self-edit and rewrite parts of my memoir. The more I worked on my memoir, the better my writing got. So, I had to go back and rewrite parts of pervious chapters. I took my chapters to Penwriters (a national writer’s group) for critiques. I struggled to figure out how to eliminate too many “I’s” and redundant words. Sometimes I got frustrated and found myself ready to scream and give up. What may be easier for others is much harder for me with my learning disability. The members of the group told me I could eliminate too many “I’s” by reworking the sentences. This was like a foreign language to me. I fought to try to find ways to turn my sentences around.

     Editing is very difficult to me. I didn’t go into regular English classes until I was in ninth grade. From elementary to nineth grade, I spent my time doing English classes in a Special Education classroom. I know what a verb and noun is, but adverbs and adjectives are another story. I get confused with grammar terms. So, getting to the point where I could send my manuscript to an editor is a huge accomplishment. Especially when I go through the edited manuscript to find that my editor didn’t have to make an enormous number of corrections. I’m proud of myself for making it this far.

     Whether you have a disability or an illness, if you work hard enough, you can make your dreams come true. You may have to work harder to make it possible, but you can do it. Don’t let anything stand in your way. If someone says you can’t do something, show them you can. Believe in yourself, and if your confidence begins to fail, then make sure you have people in your life to encourage you and give you a little push forward. A kick in the bottom might be what you need to move ahead. Dreams can come true, recovery is possible, you can heal from abuse, and you can rise above bullying.

I still have several steps ahead of me until I reach publication, but I am positive one day I will be standing in the light holding my published book.

     The word “retard” is unacceptable in society, but that doesn’t mean bullies don’t still use it to torment their victims. “Retard” used to be used to define people with intellectual disabilities, but the word was even an insult to them. People over the years have used the word to label people as having no intelligence. It has been used demonize and degrade individuals who are different.

     When I was a child, the word “retard” might as well have been branded across my forehead for everyone to see. It was a label given to me by my first-grade teacher and became a name I could not escape. I have a learning disability that made learning a struggle for me. To my teachers and classmates my learning disability meant I had no intelligence. I wasn’t smart enough to even do my own classwork. I quickly became the retard who would never make it through school on her own. My classmates called me a “retard” daily. No matter how hard I tried to ignore it I couldn’t.

     Being called such a name caused emotional damage. After being called a “retard” throughout elementary, I began to believe it was true. I gave up trying to succeed in school. I allowed teachers to assign students to give me answers on test. I was defeated and left with no strength to fight back. The word “retard” cut into my very being and left wounds no eye could see.

     That word hurt me so badly I found it nearly impossible to believe I was anything but stupid. What else could I be? I didn’t learn like anyone else. Just learning to read was a struggle when my classmates seemed to excel at it. I wasn’t like them. I felt like I wasn’t normal. My mom told me I was smart, and I just learned differently, but how could I believe her when everyone at school treated me like a dummy and called me a “retard”? I began to hate myself and sink into sadness and hopelessness.

     That name was vile and evil in every sense. It ripped at my insides like a vicious animal. I craved to be accepted and to be like everyone else. Each time that name filled my ears a piece of me died. After school I cried in my mother’s arms and at night I struggled to sleep. I had nightmares of my classmates and teachers teasing me. I became afraid to go to bed. Sometimes I lay in my bed looking up at my ceiling as the word sang through my head. I asked God, “Am I a mistake?” I had to be one. Why would he make someone to be so stupid that she had to be pushed through elementary?

     I went to a special classroom for extra help. My classmates called it the “Class for Retards.” I wanted to learn as easily as my classmates. I didn’t want to struggle with reading and math. Why did I have to be different? It wasn’t fair. Everyone hated me and I even hated myself. My insides were twisted into knots each day I went to school. I used my imagination to escape. I daydreamed of getting hurt so I wouldn’t be able to go to school. I even wanted the dreams to come true, but they never did. I was stuck in a prison of anguish and hopelessness.

     In elementary school I wrote down what I was told to on tests even if I knew it was the wrong answer. I didn’t study, and I didn’t try to do classwork. I didn’t try to show them I could do things on my own, because I began to believe I was stupid. I couldn’t fight back. I depended on a girl who put me down every chance she could to pave my way through grade school. According to all my teachers she was a good friend and much smarter than me. How could I argue? Things came easier to her, and I did pass my tests when she gave me answers. This only confirmed to me that I was indeed a “retard,” a dummy, and that I lacked the intelligence to push forward on my own.

     It wasn’t until sixth grade that I could ever accept I could do anything on my own. In sixth grade my teacher told me I had to take my tests by myself. No one would give me answers. I fought with my thoughts. How could I pass if I was dumb? There was no way I could pass a test. I was the “retard.” I did the test on my own and just barely passed.

In high school I dedicated my time to finding ways to work around my disability to succeed at my classes. I made the merit roll and honor roll and I was inducted into the Honors Society, but the wounds on my heart still bled. Depression settled in and slowly ate at me. I burst out in angry fits at home, breaking things and fighting my siblings. It took into my adult years to heal the wounds the word “retard” caused me. I spent years in therapy for mental illness caused by the bullying and a chemical imbalance in my brain.

     Words hurt. Abuse isn’t just physical; it is also mental. Cuts and bruises heal, but the wounds on the soul never completely go away. They scab over causing scars that open from time to time when something triggers a memory you can’t erase. You learn to push those memories back and create new and happy ones. The pain of being called a “retard” still hurts me to this day, but I have reached past it and pushed forward. When I hear people use the word, I cringe.

     No person deserves to be called a “retard.” It’s a word that should be banished from the tongues of all humans. Even though you may not hear that word as often nowadays, it doesn’t mean it is not still used. Bullies use any reprehensible word they can find to abuse a person who is different. Even words that are no longer acceptable. If you hear someone using the word “retard,” tell someone. Don’t stand by and watch an innocent person being torn apart. Stand up against bullies.

   I have risen above all expectations my elementary teachers had for me. I’m a published author, and I have been a cashier for 26 years. I have a college degree and a loving husband. I stand in the light as an intelligent woman.