Raising five kids eight years apart. For so many reasons it was the right thing for me- for us- to do. After surviving an abusive childhood and undergoing years of therapy I was hopeful I would not perpetuate my abuse. Rearing my children while trying simultaneously to heal and love myself while learning to love them was an unequivocally wearisome and titanic feat. I believed that our kids would benefit from bonding together with one another. I strongly felt that having a large family would dilute my chances of saddling these innocent, loving souls with any remaining shards from my abuse. Piercing a heart is a heinous crime, especially when you know the life sentence it can bring. Sadly, it is our children, who at our hands will serve the life sentence.

A life cracked, broken and shattered; no glue can fix the fact that this was/is a decision WE CHOSE to make. It's ALL on us. The healing that will be all on our victims' shoulders to bear. To have given such a heavy load to a soul so undeserving of the lingering pain they never signed up for is unconscionable. We... WE are the villain here. I will neither lie nor underestimate the gravity of this travesty.

There was nothing I wouldn't have done to insulate, protect and ensure our children would have a happy childhood. Nothing could ever justify shattering their souls. Nothing. I'd rather have died- and almost did- three times. While I fought for a reason to take another breath, my experienced and competent therapists fought for my children and me. In fact, therapy not only helped to eradicate my pain and suffering, but it enabled me to see that ending my life was, in essence, a different but equally horrible form of abuse. They would be forever be living a life in pieces; pieces of what was supposed to be whole, that I alone crippled and sent crashing in a kamikaze mission to the ground. My suicide would result in encumbering them with the almost insurmountable task of healing themselves without the love, compassion, and consolation of a mother- the same mother who deserted, demolished and severely damaged them.

How do you kill the precious hope and future of the innocent children you gave birth to and should protect against the pain you would inflict?

Therapy... In every city where we moved for to my husband's training, we researched homes, religious affiliations, schools, and a therapist for me. In my case it wasn't a decision hinging on could versus would. My only answer was WOULD. I OWED it to my family. MY ABUSE HAD TO END WITH ME.

Moving ahead, having made substantial progress in my path to healing, I wanted and needed to document and share how well-adjusted, content and hilariously funny our kids were. Each Christmas I would compose a 5+ page letter (actually a novelette!) filled to the brim with their shenanigans and ridiculously funny antics. I loved sharing that we were a dog and pony show! Every single year I received calls and letters suggesting I write a book. A WHAT? I hardly even READ books. Write one? About WHAT?

Before long our five happy, healthy, kids were leaving our nest; the eldest graduated from, the youngest applying to college. One afternoon as I was cooking dinner Nicole, our youngest, sat near me and asked how she should approach constructing her "life essay" for a college application. I told her to look back at the letters to see her development from toddlerhood into who she had now become.

THEN...It dawned on me!

I realized I had 16 years of holiday letters to document the evolution of our family. THAT could be my book! Immediately I called my high school friend Louis Greenstein, who is an accomplished, published writer. He asked to see some of the letters. Almost immediately he called me to say, "you have here the makings of a strong memoir." He then asked about my childhood. Bad move. Terrible idea!

It turns out that what I was hesitant to share was what he and I both now realize will contribute to much-needed healing for many. You see, this juxtaposes my abuse and my healing. It bridges the torment and the triumph. Sadly, I am one of many. This is not MY book; it is OURS. It holds the message that NONE of us is alone, and it is time for us to end abuse and heal. My memoir, Room In the Heart; Surviving a Childhood Undone, Fulfilling a Pact to Love is a message of hope, survival and taking hold of my paint brushes to create the future on a new, intact canvas! It is the opportunity to open my heart, empty the pain, and allow the happiness and joy to flow in! I want to tell others that a heart holding onto pain has no room for love and contentment. What a waste of precious space!

I am so honored to have the opportunity and the forum to spread the word that suffering is a term that refers to our PAST! This blog, my Facebook page (facebook.com/iamdanaandrews/) and, especially my memoir are my outreached hand, offering the gift of proof that there is a tomorrow. Of course, tomorrow it might rain, but the sun will come out again. Winter will turn to spring, and my beautiful flowers will bloom. Funny, I have now come to love every season; the changes provide an outpouring of passion I would never have known... Had I not healed.
Trust me. Healing IS all it's cracked up to be!

Gotta go now. My Snowdrops are peeking their little heads through the frost. Maybe the crocuses, too.