Let It Go?

Since April is Child Abuse Awareness and Prevention Month, for the past three weeks, I’ve been trying to come up with something on the subject of child abuse to write about in this blog, an important offering that might be the least bit beneficial to abuse victims, their loved ones, and child advocates. Surely, I thought, I’ve gleaned some wisdom since the publication of Call Me Tuesday, a book about my own experience as a victim of abuse, and Call Me Cockroach, in which I detail the damage sustained as a result of my childhood trauma. But each time I sat down to my laptop to write, I came up blank. The problem was, I wanted to write something uplifting and full of hope, and I couldn’t think of anything. So here it is, nearing the end of April, and this is what I have to say. I will warn you now that if you want to learn something encouraging and motivating about child abuse, you should stop reading right here, or skip to the last couple of paragraphs.

Because of my books, I get letters almost every day from readers of all ages who suffered childhood abuse similar to mine. While I appreciate the support of other abuse survivors, and it’s comforting to be reminded that I’m not alone, it’s also depressing and heart wrenching to know so many people have endured horrendous childhoods. Years ago, after I read Dave Pelzer’s, A Child Called “It”, I tried to get in touch with him because, naively and ignorantly, I thought he and I were the only two people in the world who had been singled out by our mothers for the type of extreme abuse that we both endured. I desperately wanted to tell him it happened to me too, and to thank him for having the courage to share his story. At the time I was angry that I couldn’t contact him, but now I realize that if I get a few letters a day, he must receive hundreds, if not thousands, and there’s no way he can answer them all.

To think there may be millions of us, all damaged, searching for answers, seeking relief, scares the hell out of me...makes me physically ill. Know what’s even more depressing? Each time a child abuse survivor reaches out to me, I’m given the privileged opportunity to try to help him or her. But I can’t; I can only offer comfort. I want to help them all, to say what they need to hear, that the pain will eventually go away and one day they’ll forget all about the terrible things that happened to them when they were helpless children, but that would be a lie. In truth, trauma inflicted during our vulnerable formative years runs too deep to ever just disappear. This degree of damage, once branded into our souls, stays with us forever. Sure we can function, and with the support of loved ones, even manage to live happy, close to normal lives. Therapy can help, as well as medication, but the abuse is always there, crouching in a dark place in our minds, waiting for the opportunity to pounce.

Speaking for myself and the victims who have contacted me, most of the damage comes from a fractured self-esteem, from years of being humiliated and told we were worthless. Relationships are difficult at best. Trust is iffy. Moodiness, bouts of depression, oversensitivity, and a tendency toward isolation are some of the everyday challenges we face. What we’ve all heard is true: abuse breeds abuse. But the harm is not always directed toward others. It’s my belief that most survivors are aware of this well-known stigma and fight extra hard to make sure they never mistreat another person. Instead they turn the abuse inward, which, sadly, sometimes ends up hurting those who love them, the very ones they are trying to protect. Either way it’s a lose-lose situation for everyone involved. But time heals all wounds, right? Not necessarily. Now, in my fifties, I’m still waiting for that one to play out. The older I get, the more I find myself delving back into the darkness I fought so hard to escape and revisiting my brutal childhood days.

For adult survivors of child abuse, the damage runs deep and lasts a lifetime, but for current victims, and those at risk in the future, there is hope. Our best weapon is awareness. In the past I made the mistake of not talking about my abuse, because every time I told someone they looked at me like I was either lying, or off in the head. When I was young, abuse like mine was unheard of and therefore, unbelievable. Now I realize that was the problem. The fact that there are so many adult survivors today is unfortunate, but on a positive note we have a powerful weapon in our numbers to heighten awareness just by telling our stories to as many people as we can. If you were a victim of child abuse and you want to help children at risk, you don’t have to write a book (although that would be helpful) but please consider talking about it more, blog about it, make it in-your-face heard of in any way you can.

As I write this, I can’t help but be reminded of my two year old step granddaughter, Marleigh, singing her favorite song, Let It Go, from the Disney movie, Frozen. Wide-eyed and waving her arms like she’s releasing invisible butterflies into the air, she sings, let it go, let it goooo...if only it were that easy...

The After Christmas Drain

Recently, I received a thoughtful email from one of my sisters-in-law, apologizing for not being in touch. The reason I hadn't heard from her, she wrote, is because "the holidays are not my best time of year." She didn't go into detail why, only that too many loved ones were gone and there were too many expectations from others. She was obviously down, and I felt bad for her, but, at the same time, almost instantly, her words lifted my own depressed mood. Not that I was reveling in her sadness, I was just relieved to hear about it, because it made me feel more human, less like a scrooge.


Christmas sucks the life out of me. This year, afterward, I collapsed on the couch and stayed there for an entire day, drained of all my energy. Why? Not because of the rushing around to buy gifts, or the preparing of festive dishes to take to various gatherings, or even from hosting a dinner party for my husband's family. Nah, I breezed through all that. What took me down was the exhaustion from a month of faking the spirit, holding up the heavy, happy  façade, keeping a smile plastered over my sadness, so as not to ruin, for anyone else, what should be a magical time.


The truth is, I don't really like Christmas. Sure, I get a warm feeling when I think of the true meaning of the day, a soul-deep stirring. And who doesn't enjoy watching kids rip into their gifts? But the rest I could do without. There, I finally said it, and I don't feel as evil as I thought I would, thanks to my sister-in-law's email. Although for different reasons, she and I just aren't Christmas people, and I'm guessing we're not the only ones.


My annual depression starts around the end of November and runs well into January. The reasons are pretty straightforward. The Christmases of my formative years were not joyful ones, and in spite of all my attempts at happy holidays since, I have not been able to cover up those first horrible memories. When my kids were young it wasn't so bad. Their glee filled me up and their happiness was mine. But in the last several years, even as I'm surrounded by smiles and laughter, I can still see, vividly, the forlorn face of a little girl on Christmas morning, a little girl who thinks even Santa hates her. She's huddled in a corner clutching a package of socks, watching her brothers play with their bicycles and race cars, admiring from afar the same birthstone ring that she'd seen under the tree for two years in a row, but never worn on her finger. And most painful of all, years ago, my dad was killed in a car wreck just days before Christmas. The ruthless ghost of that Christmas past haunts me every year.


I hate this part of me, mostly because of my husband. He didn't sign up for his wife turning into a grumpy elf on his favorite holiday. And I'm ashamed that I feel the way I do. My reason for writing this is to reach out to others who feel the same way. Just getting an email from someone else who also gets the holiday blues lifted my spirit. Maybe someone like me will happen across this blog and take some comfort in knowing that he, or she, is not alone.

The "Scam"

Audiobooks. We all know what they are—the title is pretty much self-explanatory—but I, for one, had never given them much thought until someone claiming to represent  “Audible Studios” contacted me a few months ago offering to professionally produce my books,  Call Me Tuesday and Call Me Cockroach, to sell in downloadable spoken format.

Of course someone was trying to run a scam on me. What would Audible, the world’s largest seller of digital, downloadable audiobooks want with an indie author, who decided to go that route because she knew no big publishing house would want to take a chance on an unknown?  Yes, it has to be a scam, I thought, and shot back a snarky email that all but asked, how much? Even when the guy from so called “Audible” responded to clarify that they wanted to pay ME to produce the books, I was still skeptical. I Googled him and found his profile on LinkedIn. He was for real.

I was convinced that the offer was legit, but I still had questions. I’d run across other books in audio format and had casually wondered if the finished product was worth the money and extensive effort to produce it. With a reputable company like Audible taking on that burden for me, I figured I had nothing to lose. But I couldn’t help but wonder about the popularity of audiobooks. I could understand how they would be beneficial to the visually impaired, come in handy to someone who travels a lot, or make the time on a treadmill go by a little faster. Beyond that, I didn’t have a clue of an audiobook’s potential to reach readers who might be interested in my story, but I was eager to find out.  Some internet research led me to a staggering figure. Turns out, in this digital age, the audiobook industry is flourishing, estimated to be worth 1.2 billion dollars. Clearly that’s more than blind people and a few road travelers.

Audible serves customers in over 190 countries.  In addition to selling through Amazon, they are the exclusive provider of audiobooks to Apple's iTunes stores worldwide.  The Audible Service is compatible with hundreds of mobile players, including iPods, iPhones, Android-powered smartphones, BlackBerrys, Microsoft-powered smartphones, Kindles and hundreds of other MP3 players. Production values and narration quality of Audible's recordings are stellar and their efforts at creating superior audio productions have not gone unrewarded.  In 2014 they won 3 Audie awards, having been nominated as finalists in 32 titles across 18 categories.  They won Best Spoken Word Album at the 2013 Grammys (Janis Ian’s Society’s Child: My Autobiography).  Also in 2013, they won 9 Audie awards, including Audiobook of the Year (The End of the Affair) and Distinguished Achievement in Production (Dracula), having been nominated as finalists with 32 titles across all categories. This most recent Audiobook of the Year is their second, having won in 2008 for The Chopin Manuscript. With Audible Studios, I could be assured that my books would have the advantage of the best talent available in narrators and support from a great marketing team, in addition to top notch producers and engineers.

Now I was excited, embarrassed and feeling a bit stupid, but excited.  I’m all for getting my message out to as many people as possible, and if audiobooks will help accomplish that, “Then sign me up,” I said. Thanks to Audible Studios, (the real deal) a company willing to take a chance on an unknown indie author, Call Me Tuesday is now available in audiobook format through Audible: http://www.audible.com/pd?asin=B00W3ZKWKS&source_code==AUDORWS0416159DB3

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Call-Me-Tuesday-Based-Story/dp/B00W5UF0EO/ref=tmm_aud_title_0

And also Apple iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/leigh-byrne/id515690672?mt=11&ign-mpt=uo%3D4

Allyson Ryan is the narrator of Call Me Tuesday. She’s good. Her southern accent is awesome. Just listen to the sample here: http://www.amazon.com/Call-Me-Tuesday-Based-Story/dp/B00W5UF0EO/ref=tmm_aud_title_0.  She has narrated hundreds of audiobooks, and can also be heard in promos, commercials, and animation. She received an AudioFile Earphones Award for On the Divinity of Second Chances by Kaya McLaren and narrated the successful parody The Fifty Shames of Earl Grey by Andrew Shaffer. She also has an extensive stage and TV resume and appears as "Young Mom" in dozens of TV commercials.

Audible is providing a few free downloads of Call me Tuesday, the audiobook, in exchange for honest reviews or ratings on the Audible, Amazon and Apple websites. If you are interested in reviewing the audiobook please contact me via this blog, or at leighbyrne@wowway.com, and I will provide you with a code to claim your free book.

To Believe or Not to Believe

A few days ago, I was scanning over some of the recent Amazon reviews of my first book, when one in particular jumped out at me. The reviewer started out by stating that she (or he?), too, had been a child abuse victim, and fully understood the incidents described in Call Me Tuesday. That, alone, is nothing out of the ordinary. It saddens me to write that I receive correspondence—through email, Facebook, and my blog—practically every day from fellow abuse survivors, many of whom suffered through almost exactly what I did. The thing about this review that struck me, really pricked at my heart, was what the reviewer said next. She said she would love to find the courage to write her own story but, “some of the incidents are too unbearable to comprehend that people could do that to a child and people would choose not to believe it rather than to try to understand there are heinous monsters in this world disguised as loved ones.”

Her childhood was so horrible, so incomprehensible that she’s convinced there’s no use writing about it, because there would be people who wouldn't  believe her. And the dismal truth is she’s probably right. If she were to write and publish her story, there would be many who would have no problem calling her a liar. I know, because I get it all the time. Not so much to my face, but I’ve read comments online and reviews saying they think the events described in my book were either all made up, or exaggerated. It used to bother me. Make me cry. Hell, who am I fooling? It still bothers me. Still makes me cry. But I’m getting tougher. And I needed to thicken up my skin some, so for that I can thank the non-believers. Truth is, they are the reason I, and most abuse victims, never told anyone what was happening to us when we were kids. We were afraid no one would believe us. And now as adults, when we’ve finally mustered the courage to tell, those of us who’ve chosen to write it all down must live out that childhood fear again and again with every “I don’t believe” review.

Really, in defense of non-believers, most child abuse stories are unbelievable. The majority of the population (thank God) has difficulty processing such information because they can’t fathom harming a child under any circumstances. Others just don’t want to face the truth that such terrible things happen. Possibly another reason abuse books garner doubt is because, besides their obvious, sometimes jaw-dropping, descriptions of inhumane treatment of another human being, the author almost always changes the names and locations. Why? I believe I can speak for all child abuse memoirists when I say the intent of telling our stories was not to inflict harm or cast blame, but rather to help, to heal. The true names are not essential to the message, and incriminating the individuals involved, after the fact, would not be beneficial to anyone except for the purpose of revenge, which in my experience has always been a waste of energy. Using real names would only cause trouble and pain, and Lord knows we former victims don’t need any more of either one of those things in our lives.

There are probably some authors who have pulled a James Frey and published fabricated material to get attention or make a few bucks. But I can’t imagine why anyone would do this because there are too many other, more pleasant and profitable subjects to write about. Abuse memoirists actually lose a large portion of the reading population because many people would rather not read about something so depressing. Whether or not some of the books out there are exaggerated, I don’t know. Speaking for myself, I can tell you that I wrote the way I remember feeling at the time. But, as with my fellow child abuse memoirists, I was a child, and when you’re young, things do sometimes seem larger than life.

The people who never doubt stories of abuse are other abuse survivors. I remember how I reacted when I read a Child Called It, by Dave Pelzer. It’s been a while, but if my recollections are correct, the author was stabbed, forced to drink bleach and eat the contents of a dirty diaper. Unbelievable, right? Not to me. I knew his account was true, every word, because I had once faced the same evil. At the time, Pelzer’s book was one of the few of its kind on the market. Today there are many touching and inspiring memoirs and novels about child abuse available to the reader. Like with any other genre, there are some good reads and some bad ones. If you are interested in the subject, a couple of noteworthy books to consider downloading to your reader, or adding to your personal library, are Spilled Milk, by K. L Randis, a lovely novel in which the author artfully recounts how she brought her abusive father to justice, and Ghost No More, by Cee Cee James, who, unlike me, was able to rise above her abuse with dignity and grace. 

In my opinion, there can never be too many books on the subject, because volume heightens awareness. I encourage every abuse survivor to write your story, and if you feel so inclined, publish it, even though by putting something unbelievable out there for the world to read, you’re setting yourself up for some harsh ridicule. Still, the rewards are worth the risk. Publishing my books has been one of the most emotionally fulfilling experiences of my life. And probably the most therapeutic part, aside from the actual catharsis, has been connecting with other child abuse survivors.

As for the non-believers, if our shocking childhood stories don’t ring true to you, please know, we didn’t write them for you. We wrote our stories for our brothers and sisters who suffered in secret right along with us, to let them know they were not alone after all. And for the boy in junior high school who decides to speak up when he recognizes that a classmate’s actions bear a resemblance to a character's he read about in one of our books. We wrote them for those of you who want to learn, to know the signs of an abused child, and be made aware so you can attempt to make the world around you a better place.

Call Me Morbid

Lately, I've been thinking far too much about death. Possibly an unhealthy amount. To be honest, I always have been, not quite obsessed, but probably one rung down on the crazy ladder: intensely preoccupied, at least twice a month, with what happens to us after we pass from this life. With this past Saturday marking one year since my younger brother's tragic and untimely passing, that occasional preoccupation has morphed into constant morbid thoughts: Will it really be what we're all hoping for, what most of us have been led to believe--a euphoric reprieve from this life's challenges, tribulations and sometimes unbearable burden of pain? Do we move on to another life, in another bodily form? Do non believers and the corrupt souls amongst us truly burn eternally? Or is there nothing at all waiting for us after we die? We simply cease to exist. After much contemplation and gobbling up of all the information I could find on the topic, I've come to believe in a combination of two of these possibilities: God has many lessons for us to conquer and so we live on and we learn, until our spirits have evolved enough for us to earn our places in what we call heaven. I believe this because it's what I want to believe, because it offers an explanation of why God would allow so many people, particularly children, to suffer so. In this way I can look at pain as being for our own goods, to strengthen our souls and make us more like our Creator and His son, fit to exist beside Them eternally.


Another factor that has prompted me to think so much about death is that, like many of you, I read in the recent news about the young woman with terminal brain cancer who, with the assistance of a physician, has chosen to end her life around the first part of next month. Medical professionals have estimated that if she lets the cancer take it's course, she has less that six months to live anyway, and the end of her life would surely be excruciatingly painful and without dignity. She does not want her family to see her go out like that, and her main justification is that she's not the one who's ending her life, the cancer is, she's only speeding up the process. I get what she's saying and I agree. I'm a strong proponent of sparing needless suffering in humans as well as animals, therefore, I am a supporter of physician assisted suicide in such cases, and I think that more states should allow it.


Some may argue that suicide is a coward's way out, and under any circumstances other than to end the suffering from a cruel, terminal illness, I too believe it is. The people who ridicule and judge this young woman for wanting to end, what must be hell on earth for her, surely have not endured anything close to what she has. She's made a brave decision, and going public to heighten awareness took almost as much courage. My fear, as a Christian, is for her soul. God forgives any sin, but how can she ask for His forgiveness after she's dead? I can only hope for His mercy on her and the many others before and after her that will be forced to make the same choice. When I think of the suffering of this young woman, I look back in disgust at the times in my early adulthood when I seriously considered suicide. How dare I, having been blessed with extraordinarily good health, (Daddy insisted my heartiness is because the unsanitary lifestyle I was forced to lead, as a result of Mama's abuse, subjected me to an unusual amount of germs, which, in turn, caused me to form strong immunities) even allow such a notion to enter my mind? Had I followed through with my thoughts of ending my life over a few unfortunate, yet tolerable, challenges, I would have been the definition of a coward.


Nobody wants to talk about death, although it's a fact of everyone's life. If what awaits us after we die, as most of us believe, is full of light and love, then why is everyone so afraid of dying? Call me morbid, but if everything I know in my heart is true, when the time finally comes for me to die (for good), death will be my reward, a much needed and hopefully well-earned rest for a soul that is growing weary.

Are You Happy?

In the past, I always hated when people asked me the simple question, “How are you?” because the answer—the truth—was ugly and something they probably didn’t want to hear. It’s a superficial question we all ask to be polite, and what we expect the answer to be, whether it’s true or not, is what almost everyone says: “I’m fine.” While deep down we may genuinely care about the happiness of others, we ask mostly for selfish reasons, to come across as kind and compassionate so we can continue our day feeling good about ourselves. After all, we have our own problems with which to contend, our own illusive happiness to chase.

A few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of vacationing in Maine, in the Casco Bay area. Anyone who knows me can tell you I’ve always wanted to go to New England, and Maine was at the top of my list. Although there were many places I wanted to visit—Paris, England, Australia—I desperately needed to go to Maine. It’s something I have harped on for my entire adult life. Why Maine? I honestly don’t know; all I can tell you is the area beckoned my soul as if I belonged there. I just knew there was a quaint cottage nestled in a wooded area, near a rocky beach with my name on the mailbox. I was convinced that if I ever made it to Maine I would be truly happy.

So after a three hour airplane flight we arrive in Portland—my husband, Wally, his parents and I, and contrary to what I’d always imagined, I am no happier than I was back in Indiana. In a rental car on the way to our hotel, I am anxiously looking out the window at the lush landscape and charming Cape Cod houses in search of inspiration. Where was that magical feeling I’d dreamed of? Where was my instantaneous bliss?

The next day, in downtown Portland, I finally get my first close-up experience of a Maine harbor. As soon as the car is parked I bolt from it and run out onto the pier. Surrounded by docked sailboats, the salty air on my cheeks, seagulls above me dipping close to my head, all at once my heart takes flight and I feel a goofy, childlike grin take over my face. My in-laws are chattering behind me, and Wally is asking me something about his sunglasses, but I am speechless.

Now, once again, I’m back in my home in Indiana. Am I happy? Perhaps the most sincere answer I can give is "Most of the time." For me, happiness comes and goes. Even though I had a lousy childhood and my young adult years weren’t much better, there were snippets of joy sprinkled throughout so intense that when I recall them today they still bring a smile to my face. At eight years old, dancing on my grandma’s baby grand piano as she played it, and later, as an adult, hearing the laughter of my children.

It’s been said that we create our own luck. I say we create our own happiness too. We all have a choice. We can allow the dark spots of our past to overshadow our future, or we can recognize and seize the fragments of light all around us as life so generously presents them daily. I choose happy :). Which do you choose?

Why'd Ya Do it, Christie?

Why did you, at sixty-years-old, put on that sexy blue bathing suit and pose for the cover of People Magazine, and then let the publishers Photoshop the hell out of your picture? Do you really expect us to believe that a woman who, in some restaurants, is eligible for the senior discount, (and claims to have never had plastic surgery) doesn't have a sag in her skin, a broken vein in her legs, or the slightest pooch in her stomach? Don't you know the frustration you've caused every women over forty who has no chance of looking like you do, at sixty? Perfectly normal, lovely, middle-aged women standing in check-out lines at grocery stores all over the world, gazing at that cover photo of you, with nothing but rice cakes and celery in their carts, because they actually believe that in order to be attractive and worthy they must be thin and youthful. You are a beloved celebrity, an icon. Women have always admired your wholesome good looks and girl next door quality. Our hearts went out to you when your younger husband left you. And this is what you give us in return? Shame on you, Christie Brinkley! Yes, you look amazing for your age, but you are so not the face of sixty--what we should "aspire to look like" at that age--nor should you be. It's unrealistic, unfair, and just plain bull crap.


What's worse is People Magazine tried to pull the bogus photo off as a celebration of aging. If they truly wanted to celebrate aging they would have published an unretouched cover of a woman who has aged like the average sixty year old, and still enjoys a healthy, active, and productive lifestyle, sending out the message that it's possible to have a wrinkle here and there and still be happy. That it's okay for women to grow old, look their age, and still be beautiful and valued. But that won't happen any time soon. Old doesn't sell magazines, because it isn't pretty in the eyes of a shallow society that has cruelly defined a woman's worth by her appearance.