I’m Published
Today is the day. My memoir, Thinking of You, is officially published. Which, I guess, makes me a published author. Give me a minute to digest that…
Now, for today’s post, I want to talk about the genesis of my book. I want to share how it began, where it took me, and why we are here now.
About five years after this relationship had ended, I finally brought Mr. Davis up in therapy. After about two years of consistent therapy, I felt comfortable moving forward. I did not find myself revisiting this part of my past as often as I once had. Then, Mr. Davis returned. Physically, I mean. He moved back to my area and was once again teaching in my hometown. To say I was triggered feels like an understatement. I began noticing that I was experiencing a high level of anxiety every time I went out. I looked for him everywhere until I was assured he was not there. Even then, I was looking over my shoulder constantly. I had panic attacks attending events in my hometown. The type that had my heart racing so badly that I experienced adrenaline crashes when I returned to safety. Dreams involving him, which had become more sporadic, were happening multiple nights a week.
When I called my therapist to tell her about this, she understood my fear. I had healed with the acceptance that I would never see him again. Moving forward without closure felt doable because there was a sense of finality in all of it. Now, I am unsure. Even as I write this, the chance of our paths crossing makes my upper lip sweaty. I hate it. I live with it.
In February of 2024, I went to a cabin with my closest girlfriends. One of those nights, I woke from a dream about Mr. Davis. At this point, I had come to accept the feelings that lingered in my waking. However, this time I felt something a bit foreign to me. This time, I was angry. It might surprise you to find that this was not a feeling that came easily for me. I was almost excited by its presence.
When I opened up to my friends about this, they listened. My friend (and editor) Alana recommended an exercise. She suggested that I had allowed myself to use his words to tell me our story. His words, the ones that I had kept for eight years, tucked safely in the letter he had sent me when I was nineteen. This. This changed my life.
When I got home, I pulled out this letter. I read it. Then, I read it again. I started to find myself drawn to certain phrases. Once again, I felt that feeling–anger. I was so mad at him for the way he wrote. He was so vague, but so clear. He called me beautiful and said he cried when I told him how I felt for him. Then, he called me friend. He spoke from a familiar place of authority, but with a whisper of intent. In my book I talk about the line in the sand he blurred, but you can also imagine our relationship as two-sided, painted in black and white. What he did in this letter was like running a hand along the wet paint. It is confusing. There are parts of clear white. There are patches of black. But mostly, there is gray. He said so much, and yet nothing. He played with my mind and left me confused. I know now that this was a testing of boundaries. A way to present the gray and gauge my response. This was a manipulative move that is often done strategically. This was grooming.
I started pulling his words, copying them to the top of a Google document, and writing. The first iteration of this book is a chaotic mix of poetry (poorly written, to be honest), angry letters, streams of questions, and stories. At some point, I decided to share this document. I think this started as a means to be understood. I longed for someone to understand why I felt the way I did. When I shared it I received feedback: This story needs to be told. This is heartbreaking. This is like reading the diary of a teenage girl. Your strongest writing is when you are telling your story. Stop asking him questions and lean into YOUR story.
That last one stuck with me. I started to restructure my pages. I rewrote. I reorganized. I continued pulling lines from his letter, but this time I paired each with a memory. When my memory failed me, I found more of our communication. I pulled all of the exchanges that had been sitting, safely saved in my college email inbox (yes, this man was emailing me at an address that ended in .edu). I found more. I wrote more. Each chapter was like putting on glasses for the first time. What I thought had been normal vision was skewed. With corrective lenses, I saw a girl. A young, naive girl who had let herself trust and love a man who took advantage of her youth. This was a first for me, even after years of therapy. It was freeing.
Once I had filled the gaps and organized my writing, I started to wonder if it could be shared. I considered a blog but was terrified of the repercussions. Opening up about this without an experienced journalist or publisher was intimidating due to the nature of my story. I started sending query letters and received only two responses. Rejections. I continued sharing my book.
I found the right person. A publisher interested in highlighting untold, messy stories. He called me days after receiving my manuscript with a desire to help me publish. My publisher was compelled by the letter, which led to the inspiration for the cover. He took my book and made it something sharable. I am endlessly grateful that Mike Sager took a chance on this girl with no qualifications to be an author.
My original intent had always been to publish this story under a pen name, to protect the identity of “Mr. Davis.” I was never ashamed of my story, but I was fiercely loyal and protective of him. We will talk more about this another time. For now, know that this story is shared under my name because it is mine. I want to use it to bring change. I want to make something good out of this, and I want to be a part of that.
Mr. Davis, if you are seeing this, I’m sorry. I tried very hard to protect you from this, but this is too important for me to hide behind a false name. People need to understand that I was a real girl and that your actions had very real and lasting consequences on the woman I became. I needed to go from thinking of you to thinking of us - the women who share this experience. I want us to engage in meaningful conversations. I want to be a face that fellow victims can look at and think, “She understands.”
So here I am, a published author. I am proud. I am terrified. I am relieved. I am excited. I hope you will take care with my story and let it become something important. Help me create something meaningful with this.
“Now and then I reread the manuscript, but the story isn’t mine anymore.”
- Taylor Swift
With love,
Mary Beth
