Up until my book, Call Me Tuesday, was released earlier this year, only my family and a few close friends knew about my childhood abuse. For years, I went to great lengths to keep it hidden because I feared people might think I was mentally ill, somehow damaged by the horrific abuse I had suffered.
Now, because I made the decision to publish my story, and openly admit the book is based on my own true-life experience, hundreds of people--most of which I've never even met--know I once had to dig around in the trash for food, and drink from the dog's water. That I had to defecate on a piece of notebook paper because I was locked in a room and had nowhere else to go. They know I've had my face smeared in vomit, was made to eat disgusting food and do degrading things.
Don't get me wrong, I am thankful so many people have shown an interest in my story, and the feedback has been both rewarding and therapeutic. But the last thing I want is to be defined by my abuse, nor do I want to be labeled a victim. And anyone who knows me can tell you that I am a proud and private person.
Why then, you ask, would a proud and private person reveal such humiliating truths in a book?
More than anything else, I love to write. From the first essay paper read aloud by my teacher in grade school, to the recent publication of my book, writing has been my strength, my go-to in times of stress. It's the one thing I have always been able to do well. The only thing I've ever done that made my daddy proud.
I was taught in school to write about what I know. My childhood abuse left me with this really bizarre, yet compelling story to tell, so it kind of made sense to make it my first serious endeavor as a published author.
But, I naively thought I could hide behind the word "fiction." Change all the names, locals, time lines, some of the details of what happened, give the story a happy ending, and no one would ever know it was really about me. And I probably wouldn't have even included the words, "based on a true story" in the description, if my best friend (I'm convinced she's also my guardian angel) of over 20 years had not implored me to reconsider. She said that without the element of truth, the story would not have the power to help as many people. And that's the point of the book, right? To purge my soul of poison, and to help others.
Well, partly.
Like I said before, I love to write, and I just so happened to have had this strange and unfortunate childhood that I thought might make for pretty good reading. Sure, the writing of it was cathartic. Sure, the book might possibly help some people, But, in all honesty, I wrote it because that's what writer's do. They write.
When I had finished the book, which is slightly fictionalized, I realized the pain in the words was so raw, so frighteningly real, it was obvious that I, the author, had been the one who had endured it, and there was no use trying to hide from the truth any longer. There is nowhere to hide.
The Kirkus Review of Call Me Tuesday pretty much says it all:
"Byrne conveys a horrifying story inspired by true-life experience, according to the jacket copy, and though it’s well-written, it’s also very hard to take because the prose so vividly and evocatively portrays suffering."
