I didn’t set out to write a book. It was a secret goodbye to the people I loved, an explanation of why I decided to end my life. I turned to writing for the simple reason that I once had a dream to become a writer. I found solace in writing, and the secret goodbye became something else. The writing was therapy with minimized exposure to vulnerability. Only the pages knew my words, only the words knew my feelings.
As I played my keyboard weeks and months passed by, and new branches of healing crept in. I kept drafting, redrafting, and healing until I found myself in a place where I could share my words, my confessions, my soul. My work was met with shock and love of the best kind. I was assured and reassured that I was going to be OK. I was encouraged to share my story so that it may help others. I loved writing, so why not? But where to start?
I consumed as many memoirs about trauma, addiction, and healing as I could find. Wild by Cheryl Strayed, Sarah Hepola’s Blackout, My Fair Junkie by Amy Dresner, every book by Joyce Maynard, and Theo Fleury’s shocking story Playing with Fire, to name a few. I found a memoir masterclass course on Creative Live by Joyce Maynard and diligently absorbed every word. My wife gifted me an in-person memoir writing class taught by Laurie Gough, who became my editor and helped shaped hundreds of pages filled with ramblings into a coherent book.
Sharing in words the worst parts of my life both in what was done to me and who I’d become because of it sank me deeper into despair, but resolute, I pushed forward. Typing through blurry vision on tear-soaked keys became as familiar to me as the cold, stale coffee sitting beside the screen.
Simultaneously, I found a therapist, and after nine years of avoiding what I’d been prescribed, I finally entered a men’s group for childhood trauma where twelve of us met weekly. In our apprehensive first encounter, we were assured that we wouldn’t be sharing our story for weeks, which was met with a collective sigh of relief. As the weeks continued, we learned about the science of trauma, tools to help in challenging times, and about each other. I signed up to share on the first day. I told them all about my book about my trauma was about to be released. I shared a copy with them all.
When we returned the following week, and it was time to share, an older member of the group who perched in the same seat every session spoke up. He shared the events and subsequent pain he had been enduring for decades. He read from his hand-written notes on a worn, folded piece of paper as we all sat respectfully attentive, holding back our own tears. It was the first time he shared his story with anyone outside of his wife and therapist. When he finished, he lifted his head and said, “I could not have done this sharing thing if it wasn’t for Rob’s book,” he turned to me, his eyes red and swollen “thank you, Rob.”
A seismic thud localized within my body shook my being. He was talking to me. I had set out to help people with my book but had no idea that I would be in the same room with them, let alone with them thanking me. My therapist had told me that it was essential to integrate the good after having worked so hard to integrate the not so good. I smiled back at him as my own eyes dampened. I nodded my head in acknowledgment, gratitude, and humility.
I look back on the despair I felt when writing with reverence, not anguish. I’m no longer embarrassed about how much Laurie had to edit and tolerate my early writing. I look back at the fact that I had to rewrite or cut out almost everything from previous drafts with indifference. I don’t care about the dismissive literary agents; at least I assume they were dismissive since most of them didn’t respond. I don’t mind having to use up precious hours in therapy to help come to terms with my story being released to the world.
As I sat among my fellow childhood trauma survivors who thanked me for my work, my inner voice whispered the phrase that was not a platitude that day: “if it could help one person, it will have been worth it.” It did. And it was.
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This post was previously published on Medium.
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Learn more about the author and his book, Before I Leave You: A Memoir on Suicide, Addiction, and Healing
Read chapter one, here on GMP:
‘Passwords’: Chapter One of the Book ‘Before I Leave You: A Memoir on Suicide, Addiction, and Healing’
Rob Imbeault shares the first chapter of his memoir on suicide, addiction, and healing.
How I Became Aware of My Toxic Objectification of Women
My editor called me out for how I wrote about the women in my book. Here’s how I handled it.
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