Overcoming the Self-Defense Reaction of Making Ourselves Smaller to Tell Our Stories

I often thought about writing a book about my childhood because books were how I related to the world and learned about other lives. Books were my constant companions and friends, my escape, my comfort, and my reward. But it took a very long time to actually do it, the book writing. I had big mountains to climb before I could see the top of my story, map out a path, and pull myself up.

(I let my extended family back in my life; they weren’t ready for my career as a writer.)

You see, unlike most writers I was taught from an early age to hide the truth instead of revealing it. My abusers, first my stepmother, told me I was a liar for telling people what was going on at home, and punished me severely for it. Coupled with being told I was stupid, lazy, or good-for-nothing, (but do the housework and get groceries anyway), and being ignored or neglected by my father, I learned to shrink, to cower, lie, and pretend all was well because being a kid, I wanted desperately to fit in, to belong at school, to be a normal kid. 

When my bruises and my anxiety made the charade obvious, I dreamt of being rescued by a kind teacher or neighbor. I used this fantasy to get me through the sad days, weeks, maybe even years, before I realized there would be no rescue.

My second abuser, the pastor of our small non-denominational church accused me of being a liar based on the word of another member who had a “vision” from God that someone in the church was in sin but did not specifically name me. I was not told the name of my accuser, nor could I meet with them, or in any way defend myself. It was her word over mine. I had to either confess (to a sin I did not commit), or I would be excommunicated, a painful and embarrassing thing for an active participant and friend of everyone. To “protect” the flock and make sure I was not being “used” by the devil to hurt anyone else, I was ordered to not tell anyone of my situation, nor see anyone in the church, and not take their calls or visits. Stay away, I was told, until we decide you are repentant. 

My second lesson in hiding caused me to pretend I was fine at the supermarket, or work, or with non-Christian neighbors I met on the street. I lied about why I cried at work for fear that if anyone knew of my situation, they would turn on me and fire me, or shame me publicly. I holed up at home, alone, in fear, depression, thinking suicidal thoughts, and cowering from this imaginary devil that apparently had so much power over me that I had to be caged up. I was too broken to read or write.

Because others had defined who I was and how I should act or be in the world, and because of the trauma the constant abuse had on me, I did not mature on the usual child-adolescent-adult track, nor did I possess any strong sense of self, needs, or purpose. I was groomed to be what others wanted me to be. Because I was young when the accusations started and could not defend myself from my more powerful critics (my stepmom and pastor), I shrunk myself instead of doubting them. Writing my memoir helped me see this clearly. I wish I could have seen it then.

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Being too immature to fight back, I assumed people would never believe my story; they would assume I did terrible things, that maybe I was worthless, useless, and stupid. After all, I couldn’t stop the abuse, and had no way of knowing at the time, since I was separated from anyone in the church, that others were also being singled out on bogus charges and forced to confess or leave. Many did, but I did not know, so I hid and shrunk in shame, regret, and self-disgust. It would take a very long time to even talk about it, timidly at first, fearing rejection, stuck in that shame. It took 30 years to rebuild, to become strong enough to write about it.

Writing, even for “normal” people, if there is such a thing, comes with its own problems, without my own prepackaged ones, namely, what if I am not a good enough writer? What makes me worthy of a story? (The old, why would anyone read my book?) What if no one reads my story? What if I fail? What if no one believes me? What if my abusers and those complicit find out and come after me? 

The traumatized child in me, who always lacked protection and wanted to avoid all exposure said, Better to keep it a secret; then, no one will accuse you of not telling the truth. All great excuses to not even start writing the first line, even though I always had it in my head. It turned out to be not the one I eventually used.

Then one day I was at a sales conference for the tech company I worked for, the sort of thing companies do to pep up their troops to sell/do/create more, when a life coach who himself had written a book about living his best life after a near-death experience challenged us to close our eyes and pause for one minute. After the silence, he asked us, “What would you do if you could do anything in the world, and money was no object?” The answer was instant. Time to draft my book.

By this point, I thought of myself as having “overcome.” I had years of therapy, was happy, loved, and successful. I had been vindicated, validated, and heralded as the overachiever that I was. Yet when it came time to write, I was scared. 

No one knew much of my story. What would people say when they read it? What would they think of me? I trembled when I sent the chapter on my excommunication to my editor. He would be the first to hear about it in over 30 years. Would he judge me? Would he condemn me and suggest I leave the chapter out? Would he fire me as a client?

None of the above. His feedback comforted me; he gave me courage. Go deeper, tell us more, take us to the room, let us feel your shame. Tell your story. It is a powerful one.

And so I did, write, as Anne Lamont says, “Bird by Bird,” or story by story, the release, the strength, the power coming from the doing. I wrote one chapter, then another, and a strange thing happened (on the way to the editor). I became stronger, because the writing reminded me of what I went through, and what I had overcome to be able to write about it. The excuses fell away. I overcame my hiding, my self-defense with the only defense I had. My truth. My story. Writing is an immensely powerful thing. 

Check out Penny Lane’s Redeemed here:

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