From the Editor
By: Rhiannon Carswell
Tags: Love, Family, Friendship, Essay, Healing

Photo by Aung Soe Min on Unsplash

CW: Domestic Violence, Alcoholism

There are moments in our lives that only reveal themselves to be pivotal in hindsight. In 2013, while I was an undergrad at Indiana University-South Bend, I met Johnny Worthen in what would prove to be such a moment. We were signed to the same publisher, and even though that experience was a nightmare, we became good friends. We spent hours commiserating on how awful that experience was. When he created a Facebook group for writers to come together and network (or in the case of our press mates, vent), he invited me to the group. It was there, in another pivotal moment, that I would meet my best friend and soul sister, Kim Justesen. Johnny had no way of knowing this, but when he created that group, he saved my life.

In 2018, I realized my partner of nearly a decade was an alcoholic. There are only so many excuses you can make for someone before you have to accept the reality of your situation. My reality was that his temper forced me out of the house in desperate bids for safety. I worked extra shifts assisting adults with intellectual disabilities to avoid going home. The only time I could relax was when he wasn’t there, but that was never guaranteed, and it never lasted for long. He owned a gun, and I knew with the certainty of someone who had already survived domestic violence that it was only a matter of time before he killed me in a drunken rage.

When the fear and stress became too much, I messaged Kim:

“I have to get out of here. Can I come stay with you?”

We planned, and I set a date to leave. To be as self-sufficient as possible, I waited until after the new year. I should have left sooner, but asking for help, and actually accepting it, is difficult for me. I needed to know I would have as many resources as I could, and as the date approached, the stress became unbearable. Kim told me that if it got too bad, I should get in my car and drive. My stuff was just stuff and could be replaced. I was irreplaceable. I wouldn’t have made it through without her.

For the next six weeks, She Used to be Mine by Sara Bareilles played on repeat. I would sob as I realized the face staring back at me was unrecognizable, and I did everything I could to keep from shattering. On January 2, 2019, with my car packed with all I could manage, I left my life behind and traveled 1,500 miles to a state I’d never been to, to stay with a woman I’d never met in person. It changed my life.

I don’t believe in signs, but if I had to identify a spiritual “language,” it would be music. My second day in Salt Lake City found me in Wal-Mart. When I walked into the store, I noticed two things. First, the song playing on the PA system was in Spanish, something that never happened in Indiana. Second, I owned the album the song appeared on. I stopped, looked to the ceiling, and said, “Ok, universe. You’ve got my attention.” The next song that played was New Kid in Town by the Eagles. To say I was unnerved is an understatement. The third song to play…was She Used to be Mine. In that moment, whether it was a message from the universe or from the self I smothered to become too small to hit, I understood I was home.

After I got settled, Kim texted Johnny to tell him I was here. The first thing Johnny did after that text was invite me to the League of Utah Writers Facebook group. I joined, explored different chapters, and chose one to try out. That chapter was the Salt City Genre Writers. Once again, without knowing it, Johnny saved my life.

One of the challenges of being neurodivergent is that I find it difficult to navigate group dynamics. This is even more difficult when that group has been established for a while. I was glad to find a chapter, and I really enjoyed attending the meetings, but I had a hard time feeling like I belonged. It was no one’s fault, and I’m sure they never even realized how outside I felt because one thing I excel at is masking. I participated when I could, and everyone was always nice, but it never felt like there was space for me. Then 2019 became 2020 and the world turned upside down.

In March, the Covid-19 pandemic closed our office and I started working full time from home. I was completely isolated from everyone and everything. For months, I never left my apartment. When the earthquake and the hundreds of aftershocks hit, I was alone and terrified. I had never seen walls warp like that. I’m from the Midwest, where tornados are the divine retribution God intended. I had my chapter, though, and even though I never felt like I belonged before, I finally made a connection. To Grace. It was just one connection, but as that bond grew and became stronger, I was able to form another one. And another. The more individual connections I made, the easier it became for me to navigate the group. I had an anchor. I started writing and publishing again. I started mentoring. People came to me for editing, and before long I began editing for Salt Flats.

These people stopped being strangers who tolerated me (according to my ND brain) and became friends. As the months slipped by, they stopped being friends and became family. They were strong enough and brave enough to let me in, and for maybe the first time, the people I held on to were holding on to me. I know they will never let me go.

The flipside to being ND, at least for me, is that it’s just as hard to be isolated as it is to be surrounded by strangers. I spent three months without touching another person. No hugs, no handshakes, not even a fist bump. Touch starvation exacerbated the isolation, and everything became so much harder not being together in person. The smiles I could not touch through Zoom meetings and chat windows kept me sane.

From unexpected laughter to overwhelming protectiveness, each person pulls out a slightly different side of me. When the group is together, I become whole and my reflection contains echoes of familiarity. She’s still gone, but sometimes I see her shadows.

People tell me I’m the strongest person they know, and I’ve had to be. At this point, I bleed titanium. This group of people gives me the safety to fall apart. I don’t need my strength because they give me theirs, and now I have enough to carry them all because I don’t have to carry myself, too. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for them.

It’s been the better part of a year now. I’m still working from home, still isolated for the most part. A lot has changed, though. Time alone has given me the space to heal. I’m physically, mentally, and emotionally healthier than I’ve ever been and I’m stronger than even I knew. I’m ready for what life has for me next. My favorite part of the week is Saturday morning when I can see the smiles I cannot touch, and though it’s not ideal, it’s enough. Once a month, I make food and drop it off to people just for the chance to see them outside of a computer screen, even if it’s only for a moment. I’m grateful for Johnny, Kim, Grace, and my chapter, and I’m content because I know that I am loved.

So, to the family I chose for myself: I love you, too. Happy Thanksgiving.