“Emma….I need you to listen to me. I need you to be careful what you write.” She said to me.
Jessica was my therapist. She was a lighthouse when Hope had been stolen. Hope I had begun writing after I had started seeing Jessica. I had just begun to share with her the disassociation that occurred in my childhood, before she taught me such a thing was a thing…I had found my journals, and in it I found my high school yearbook. I found my scrapbooks, where I had a newspaper article stating my secret ambition was to write a book on my life experiences. “I know what I can do,” I said. “Before I worked on an ambulance, before I devoted all my time to life saving, before I got distracted by life and miarriage and fighting…I was a writer. I can write this book…”
And I wrote Hope.
Jessica helped me when I had nowhere else to turn. I couldn’t go to my friends and tell them what had happened inside my marriage, the growing abuse…I couldn’t go to my family. I didn’t want anyone to think poorly of him. Jessica taught me about the cycle of abuse.
Jessica saw me after I had bruises on my face. Jessica saw me as I lost myself. She watched the process.
“Emma…I want you to be very careful about what you write.” She said to me. I had opened up to her in a living journal, I had told her the insides and outsides of my life, from the dreams I had, the nightmares that plagued my sleep as I watched them come to fruition around me, to the dreams I had, the things I wished for for my life.
“I don’t know if you have noticed or not, Emma, but everything you have ever written came true in one form or another, every story, every book…so be careful what you choose to write….” She advised.
I hear her now. I learned more in a whirlwind than a lifetime of accumulating experience.