Diamonds
Thirty years ago I was a single parent in a foreign country, living on welfare, with no higher education, no job, and no prospects. Now I'm heading back there.
Well isn’t this a sad little neglected corner of the Internet!
Hello, everyone—and WELCOME to all you new subscribers! Over 40 of you have joined us since I last put up a post, and you’re probably already wondering if you signed up for a whole lotta nothin’…!
For those of you who have been around longer … hi again!
When I started this little project about … wait … a year ago!? A year ago! Almost to the day. Gosh, time flies.
… So when I started this little project a year ago, I had ambitions. That is to say, I wanted to write about things that were, let’s say, a little off-brand for me. Specifically, I wanted to write about some of the themes and topics I touched upon in my memoir, Daughter.
Ah, the best laid plans …
One of my fatal flaws quirks is to lurch off in the direction of my latest passion, thinking I can swing it all time- and energy-wise, and that was definitely the case when I decided to start—not just one, but two new Substacks.
Like most people I have a finite number of hours in each day (something I tend to forget) and things get ticked off in order of priority/urgency. Lo and behold this little project would sink to the bottom of the pile because, well, other things took priority. It was easy to put this newsletter last because there are no paid subscribers to whom I feel I owe content, or retailers waiting for books, or any number of small issues that come up each day needing to be resolved.
Also, full disclosure, writing on the topics I set out to write about is one of the harder things I do. And while there were a number of you with whom that content resonated and let me know, it would sometimes be extremely disheartening to spend hours writing something only to get no response on it whatsoever—not even a wee little “heart” that is the equivalent of a “like” on Facebook. ~ No shade, just a gentle reminder to let writers or artists know that you appreciate what they are doing if you do, indeed, appreciate it. It is so important. (And here is a “heart” from me to those of you who have passed on your appreciation—you know who you are 💓)
Anyhoo
I’ve been reflecting back on my life, as one does. Partly because next week I am heading back to where I lived when I was in a really difficult place—Essen, Germany. I have not written a lot about that time publicly, though I did allude to it in a post I put up on social media a couple weeks back. I also have not publicly shared that I was in an abusive relationship at that time with the father of my child. (My daughter knows, and is OK with me writing about it.)
As with every adverse situation in life, there was a reason I ended up there, and in that situation. Nothing like that is ever a fluke. In my memoir I wrote about my childhood, and there is a direct correlation between that and where I ended up later. Like we all know, it is necessary to do a lot of inner work when you come from a situation like that if you want to avoid recreating the old toxic patterns. I had done quite a lot of work by this time, but not nearly enough.
Being in and later extricating myself from that relationship was a pretty horrific experience. I was left alone in a foreign country with a one-year-old child, with no family around and barely any support, no higher education, no way to earn a living and no way to go back “home”, as Canada, which was the closest place I knew to a home at that time, had closed its doors to me, and my mother refused to help me by sponsoring me to come back. I was emotionally depleted and had completely run out of resources. Everything I had done to try to save myself had come to a dead end. I was literally at rock bottom.
And yet …
Reflecting on all that from today’s vantage point I can see many bright sparks that I was not aware of, then. For one thing, this was in many ways when my liberation from the past truly began. I was still steeped in my own self-gaslighting and had hoped that my mother might have changed and that I might have imagined her discard of me. But what happened during that time showed me that I had not been wrong. It was then that I vowed never to ask her for anything again, and so put an end to my own abuse.
Also, I really began to hone my writing. Always when I have been in a dark space—or many years of dark spaces—I have written it all down. Writing has been my therapy and my reprieve. I have screamed my feelings onto the page. When there was no one around, no one to talk to, I always had my journal. Writing saved me.
So during those dark years in Germany, when everything was falling apart, I wrote a book. It wasn’t very good—but I didn’t know that at the time and I dreamed of getting it published. This was in the days before indie publishing and all the wonderful things that have since been made possible by the Internet. I sent query letters to agents and publishers the old-fashioned way by enclosing self-addressed stamped envelopes so they could reject me1 my book without having to spend their own money—and they did reject it, sometimes using those self-addressed envelopes, and sometimes by just not responding.
When the Frankfurt Book Fair was on, my friend Alicia agreed to look after my daughter Aldís, who by then was two years old, so I could drive my beat-up Fiat Panda down to Frankfurt to try my luck with those agents and publishers. I drove three hours each way with my manuscript in a manila envelope in the back seat, but when I finally got there I was too terrified to speak to anyone about my book. All I managed to do was visit the Iceland section and talk to some drunken Icelandic publisher who, learning that I lived in Germany and had a child, declared that my daughter “had to have Icelandic books!” so he gave me two books to take back to her, bless him.
Fast-forward thirty years …
And I am going back.
Looking at myself then and now, is like looking at two separate lifetimes. Today my life is light years away from the young woman who saw no way out and wanted to die. I managed to raise my child. I realized my dream of making a living from my writing, without the agents and publishers—I built that all myself. From someone who was on welfare and seemed to have no prospects for the future, I now have enough money to travel over there, stay in a hotel, eat in restaurants, rent a car, and go to the Eras tour.
It’s pretty damn sweet.
Best of all, today I have mental and emotional stability and a life that works. I am at peace. This, to me, is the ultimate success, and something that seemed unattainable in all those years of pushing boulders up hills, only to have them come rolling right back down again.2
Yes, I have had moments of apprehension over the last week or so about going back there, because it was a traumatic time, a painful time, and I fear running into all those old feelings again. But I won’t. And my apprehension has lifted. I’m in touch with two friends from that time—my bestie Alicia, and Vera, who was in much the same position as I was at that time, and who also survived. I can’t wait to see them both again.
I will go back with the now-evident realization that it was not all darkness and devastation back then, but also a time of gestation—literally and figuratively—and of finding diamonds in the rubble. I go back with a sense of gratitude, and pride that I made it.
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At the time it certainly felt like they were rejecting me, and I initially wrote that here … but quickly reframed it. They weren’t rejecting me. They were rejecting my book based on whatever criteria they were using. Nothing to do with me.
Good job on surviving! I'm thankful that you did, because now we get to read all the wonderful things that you write :)
Thanks, Alda. I think it is super important both for folks to hear about folks who not only survive but also thrive, and to hear that folks who need welfare at once time are not doomed to a miserable life of poverty.
Yes, I, too, was on welfare for a bit. People are shocked when they find out. I have a good job and a good life now. I'm educated. Doesn't mean there weren't times when I needed help.
People aren't disposable. Recovering from abuse isn't a sign of moral weakness (my American is probably showing there).
I hope you have a fabulous time in Essen and overwrite some of those bad memories with new, good ones. And if the old memories mug you, well, you aren't that person anymore.