There was a time, not so long ago, that I Rollerbladed down 3rd Avenue in New York at high noon in search of blow.

My boyfriend and I had been awake for several days, entertaining three strippers he had picked up at a bar to punish me for flirting with a friend of ours. I was facilitating the party because—though I was certain I had not flirted with this friend—I was also certain if I didn’t, some greater punishment awaited.

It was a safe bet. A greater punishment was always just around the corner.

I got the blow, the summer sun pressing down insistently on my pulsing head, my mouth crusted white at the edges from dehydration, my eyes rotating wildly from side to side as I looked for cops, and Rollerbladed back home.

When I walked in, skates tucked under my arm, so relieved to be back inside, I was surprised to see my boyfriend having sex with one of the dancers right in the middle of the living room floor. Instead of screaming or crying or doing what any other normal person would do, I apologized and went into the kitchen where the two other girls were waiting uncomfortably for this little rendezvous to end.

As I write this, I feel humiliated—scared of being judged, and physically ill.

It is one of countless such scenes, the variety and outrageousness of which could—and in fact has—easily filled an over 400 page book. I keep writing and writing and writing because it seems to be the only way to get the poison out.

I am a mother now, and the thought of my children subjecting themselves to treatment and behavior like this incites me to fury. Of course, fury is just a another expression of fear. I am afraid that they wouldn’t come out of the experience alive, as I very nearly didn’t.

But I can’t deny that without those horrible experiences, I would be a much different—a much lesser woman today. How can that be?

As the saying goes: No mud, No lotus.

So I have had to make a conscious decision to, not rewrite the past, but see it in a larger context.

It’s the only way to make any use or sense of it. Instead of  slumping around crying “Woe is me!” I try and honor the facts, while seeing them as a piece of a bigger puzzle. My puzzle—all of it. And when I do that, my puzzled mud is covered with a field of lotus.

Here are three of the gifts my abuser gave me:

Stories.

As horrible as the actual experience of bathing in the Hudson River because I was homeless and eating fish a fellow homeless person caught in those same disgusting waters was, it does make for a good story. I’ve got loads of them.

This is gold for a writer—actual currency—without which my experience of the world would be a lot less dynamic and therefore, so would my work.

Compassion.

Before I dipped my toe (okay, my entire foot) in this life of ill repute, I was an extremely judgmental person.

Drug addicts, strippers, bums sleeping on park benches and battered women would all have suffered the thorns of my contempt. But it’s hard to judge people once you have literally walked a mile in their shoes (or stilettos, as the case may be).

As soon as I accepted that I am human, and that everyone else is too, compassion towards myself and others became my default position.

I love this! The world does not have to be a cold and scary place, particularly when warmth and goodness begins to flow from our own hearts.

Courage.

Let me tell you, once you have survived irate drug dealers, jail, topless auditions, eviction, and New York City without a penny to your name, more  typical life challenges don’t seem so hard.

I remember after I gave birth to my son, and hadn’t slept for weeks and weeks, while simultaneously raising 5 other step-children and then one of them took their own life, thinking I can handle this. And I did.

I wouldn’t wish my past on my worst enemy, but I wouldn’t be where I am today—happy, grateful, loving and loved—without it.

It’s really not about the mistakes you make, but how you handle yourself afterwards that matters.

 

Relephant Reads:

The Hidden Wisdom of Addiction. ~ Darius Hickman

~

Author: Erica Leibrandt

Editor: Renee Jahnke

Image: Lumir Belesa-Flickr