Sitting on my bed this morning, as I often do, trying to decide whether to write a blog post or another chapter in my latest book, I wonder what my life would have been like if I had not met the man I now call husband.
My childhood was spent being beaten with belts, drop cords, and wire coat-hangers. I gave birth to my first child while his father was in prison and I lived on the streets. I gave him up for adoption, because I wanted a better life for him than I felt I could give him.
I took up with another man. Another child was born. The beatings continued.
Several years later, after moving in with that man, who would not marry me, but who had fathered my second child, the beatings changed. They were not eliminated, merely changed to fists. I thought this was not only my lot in life, but something I deserved. I didn't know why, but I must deserve it.