For the last eight years of my fifteen-year marriage, I was being used and abused.  I saw my children being held back from social development.  I saw our finances going into a deep, black hole.  My health was suffering.  My husband would not agree to counselling.  I was becoming afraid of my spouse - the man who was my mate and partner.
 
I started writing as a form of expression, consolation and escape.  I started to question his intentions and actions.  I started to speak up.
 
I nearly lost my life.
 
The knife that cut me also cut the cords that bound us to a dark and hopeless existence.   Due to the actions of my children and neighbours calling 911, help arrived quickly.  Due to the aid of paramedics, doctors and nurses, I survived.
 
Due to the compassion of my family, friends and workplace, I was able to find a new home for my three children and start a new life.  
 
 
Domestic Abuse
I soon met people -  writers - who had lived through a similar hell and survived to write about it.  They wanted to tell their stories.  They wanted to educate others.  I got to better know the first wife and hear her stories.  What similarities there were.
 
I met people who went to lengths to see that justice would be served.  Even though I was dragged through the mud in an unnecessarily long trial, I struggled to keep my dignity.  After the ordeal, I was invited to tell my story during a special broadcast on a local television station.  
 
It will be a long time before I can trust and love again.  In the meantime, I have my paper and my pen.  Oh, yes... I also have this awesome Mac.