Not a peep

It’s been difficult to ignore all the firestorm with Woody Allen and Dylan Farrow. Allen issued his statement, and then Dylan refuted it (brilliantly, I might add).

When can we speak?Today, I was inspired to create an image to share on my real Facebook page — using my real name. The image you see here is what I posted today (except I’ve blocked my name to publish it here).

And guess what happened?

Nothing. No one said anything. The only person who “liked” it was my husband.

Maybe no one saw it. Maybe people saw it and didn’t know what to do. Maybe they just don’t care.

I’ll post it again in a few days and see what happens. But I have to say, with all the energy and courage it took for me to put that out there — almost no one knows about my past — it was pretty anticlimactic to hear not a peep.

Rough start to the week but pulled myself together

I had a bit of a breakdown last night and this morning. I’ve made a lot of mistakes, mostly financial ones, in the past several years. I made another one last week, although I didn’t realize it until last night.

This morning, I woke up in a complete panic, had a meltdown, and then pulled myself together.

It was actually kind of amazing to me how calm I felt, and how fast, by using the techniques I’ve been teaching myself lately: tapping/EFT and the Eckhart Tolle teachings.

I spent part of the day today taking action to rectify my mistake. I made some progress and will make even more as the weeks go on. My new business is starting to gain some momentum in terms of email subscriptions, and I have my first client — yay! I’m sure she’ll be the first of many.

I just have to remember that most mistakes can be corrected in some way, shape or form. Those that can’t, can’t. But this one definitely can. I just need to use some elbow grease and determination, that’s all. And forgive myself for making the mistake — and never make it again. I refuse to cause myself this kind of anguish again. I deserve better treatment, especially from me!

More than 1,000 books sold

I hit a milestone this month: more than 1,000 copies of my self-published eBook memoir have been sold (1,045, to be exact, as of this writing).

To me, that number feels like 1,000,000.

I didn’t think anyone would read it except my family and a few friends with whom I shared it. I remember when sales hit 100, I thought that was amazing. The idea that I could potentially help 100 people by sharing my own story? I cried with happiness.

And now, that number is 1,000. A thousand people whose lives I may have touched in some small way: people who are certainly as brave, or braver, than I am. People who have suffered and who continue to suffer from the effects of trauma. And maybe some people who are still trying to find a way out of an abusive relationship.

I don’t consider myself a success story just yet. While I have benefited tremendously from the hard work I did in trauma therapy and continue to find ways to make my life better, I’m not where I want to be. When I reach that point of feeling like I’m “there,” I’ll write a new edition of the book with a lengthy addendum.

For now, I’m going to appreciate the gift I’ve been given, which is knowing that I’ve helped someone who really needed to know she’s not alone. Maybe I’ve helped a thousand of those “someones.”

 

This isn’t what I wanted to write about today

There are days like today when, as I’ve written before, I want to be public about who I really am: use my real name, give a few facts about my day-to-day life, and so forth.

Because today I have something really cool that I could share — if only I were out from behind the pseudonym of Lucy Johnson. As it is, it would reveal too much, could jeopardize my anonymity.

I love Lucy (no offense to Lucille Ball, of course). Lucy is part of me, a big part of me. Her story is my story, to the letter, literally.

I could say she IS me, and it would be the truth, naturally. Because everything in the book is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent … and the guilty.

I worked hard to get my real name back, to shed my abusive first husband’s last name and reclaim my sense of self. I’m still working on that.

In working on my speech, of course, I’ve avoided the obvious question: How can I speak publicly and not reveal who I really am? Do I introduce myself as Lucy Johnson, author if “I Am Just A Woman”? Do I introduce myself as, well, myself? Do I use my real first name and then explain why I used a pseudonym to write my memoir?

The fact is, I don’t know how risky it would — will — be for me to tell my story, give speeches and talk to men and women about domestic violence using my real name.

He’s still out there. He knows where I live. Revealing my identity will reveal his, and I’m damn sure he’s worked very hard to hide everything he did to me and to our daughter. He’s denied it all to everyone who would listen.

I don’t know how to measure the risk. I only know that today, I can’t write about this wonderful thing in my life that’s happening right now, this very moment, because it feels … scary.

I’m tired of being afraid.