Narrative Nonfiction in Progress: Untitled Work on Personal Transformation

This excerpt is from a narrative nonfiction-in-progress that explores one woman’s journey through mental illness, spiritual transformation, and healing. I’ve been honored to serve as both developmental editor and copyeditor on this deeply moving, beautifully written project. The book is a powerful testament to personal growth, resilience, and the triumph of the human spirit.
(This excerpt is shared with the author’s permission.)

By early 1975, Richard was attending computer classes at the University of Alaska, which were paid for by Workers’ Compensation, while I went to work as a secretary in the university’s personnel office. I woke at six o’clock in the morning five days a week, made breakfast, took the children to school and day care, and then headed to work. After work, it was the same busy routine: pick up the children, prepare dinner, feed everyone, wash the dishes, do a load of laundry, bathe the children, and put them to bed. After that, it was time to type Richard’s homework. I would drop into bed each night, exhausted.

I was troubled about our life. I was tired, vulnerable, and apathetic. I couldn’t concentrate on my daily tasks. When I looked in the mirror, I saw only a shadow of my former self, staring back at me through dull, sad eyes. I felt hopeless. I didn’t understand how disturbed I’d become. I thought everyone felt these kinds of things too — that this was normal.

I made an appointment with Dr. Wilson because it was becoming harder to function. He asked me about what was happening in my life. I described my daily routine, my sleepless nights, and the fear that I felt every day. I explained that all I wanted to do was stay in bed and sleep, even though sleep didn’t come easily. He thought that perhaps I might have an underactive thyroid or iron deficiency, but blood tests ruled those things out.

After Dr. Wilson received the results, he called to say that he wanted to see both Richard and me the next afternoon. When we met with him, he told us that there wasn’t anything physically wrong with me.

He looked at Richard and described the conversation I’d had with him during my previous visit. Then he said, “Richard, your wife needs you to help her with the chores and the children. She needs your support.”

Richard cocked his head back while looking at the doctor and responded, “That’s woman’s work.”

The doctor, unfazed by his answer, asked him, “Do you love your wife?”

Richard replied, “No, I don’t love her.”

Then, in a curious tone, the doctor asked, “What is love to you, Richard?”

 Richard responded with a hint of disdain, “Something that fills a void.”

With a touch of humor, the doctor said, “Well, an old shoe can do that just fine, too.”

The doctor then swiveled his chair around so he could look at me, and said bluntly, “Divorce him. That’s my best advice to you. If you don’t divorce him, you’ll end up in the mental hospital. Get out of this marriage now before it’s too late.”

All I could think of on the drive home was that I couldn’t divorce him. As usual, the voices of my father, Richard, and the priest rebuked me. Their voices intermingled, mocking the very core of my being. As men, they had authority over me, as I had learned so well from my father. I was programmed to be a submissive wife, ensuring that my husband’s wants and desires came first. Being submissive limited me as a woman because “submission” was imposed on me, and those unwritten rules of submission were destroying me.

 

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