Long ago in my twenties, I lived a struggling, claustrophobic life. I lived paycheck to paycheck; depressed, angry, lonely, and unconvinced of my right to exist. Through my hard work and perseverance, I changed myself and my life. (This was pre-Austin, pre-Hub.) But I have a secret. This accomplishment arose from decade-long, intimate journaling relationship with a Navajo man serving seven consecutive life sentences for rape in the Arizona penitentiary. <\/p>\n
I’ll let that sink in. <\/p>\n
Yes, I credit a man — a very<\/em> broken man — who provided me with a safe heart-place to express all my thoughts, fears, and dreams. He loved me and gave companionship and encouragement. I met myself — and him — through our words. I wrapped my head around his story, his despicable crimes, and found something good in him regardless. Something that helped me. And for awhile, I helped him.<\/p>\n For ten years we wrote; at one point I wrote him letters daily — by hand, single-spaced and double-sided, sometimes 30 pages<\/em>. We no longer have contact. I broke off the relationship twice, the second time permanently and in a rather brutal way, in 1999. By severing the relationship, I made room for the path to open, and I met my husband not long after. (And that relationship also changed everything.) But this part of my journey wants to be told. <\/p>\n So I’ve begun.<\/p>\n
![\"Committee](\"https:\/\/farm8.staticflickr.com\/7232\/13838594953_592250e450.jpg\")
<\/a><\/div>\n