Scars
Like many others, I survived a miserable childhood. That's neither a complaint nor a boast, but only a fact. By the time I was 12, I began to plan to leave my hometown. Shortly after high school graduation, I joined the U.S. Navy. Leaving home didn't solve anything—I was still the hurting, fragmented individual I'd been before.
In my early twenties, I underwent a slow conversion that lasted seven or eight months and led me from being an agnostic to a serious Christian. After that, I grew beyond the pain, but those childhood memories remained. For most of my life, I wanted to obliterate them.
Here are invaluable lessons I've learned since then. First, I couldn't undo my agony, no matter how many times I relived the memories or wished my childhood had been different.
Second, I became aware that I connected with people on a more-than-surface level. When we talked seriously, I sensed their pain and felt deep compassion for them. That empathy pushed me into my career of being a ghostwriter (or more correctly these days, a collaborator).
When I thought about the books I've written for others, I assumed it was in spite of my dysfunctional background—that is, that I had overcome the trauma of a negative childhood. About four years ago, however, I realized I've been able to connect with others because I experienced pain and struggled for spiritual healing. I call that reusing my pain.
The agonizing memories no longer hurt or cripple me. Instead, I'm using my experiences to understand others enmeshed in trauma. At the same time, my soul remains scarred. For me, that means the trauma has been covered by God's grace, even though the distressful memories won't be totally erased. Not only do I accept those scars, but I'm at peace. Because I experienced emotional damage and anguish, I find common meeting places with others whose wounds still fester.
Here's the best lesson I've learned: Although I'm marked by my inner scars, I'm also empowered by my experiences. I need both—we need both.
