Write Yourself Into A New Story

My inner writer percolates for ten years in the arid desert of self-inflicted non-writing exile because she fears to write truth until everyone dies.
Without truth, there is no story. With truth, her life will unravel. Then one day the tight laces come undone. She does not kill herself or others, she does something much worse: She writes herself into a new story.
When I gave myself permission to walk away, I found a house for rent that very day and subsequently, every other thing I needed. No plan. No savings. No safety net. No bed!! Two daughters (one pressing a self-destruct button daily), one Very Difficult Husband who thinks I’ll betray myself and return to him when I am broke (and he controls my job and reads my e-mail). But now the truth is out and it empowers me. I’ll live under a bridge for it. It’s ugly, but it’s mine. And no one has to die.
I had to think of myself as a character in a book to make my escape. Had to admit I’m not always (or maybe ever) a good girl, and God may not want me pretending anymore. I never did anyone any favors being Mom The Martyr Who Never Writes. My first truth manifests itself. I am not that woman.