To make an otherwise long winded story short, I have an uncommon tale of survivorship.
Context: From child runaway, to kidnapping victim, to an escape ten years, ten months, and 23 days later.
For the last two years, I’ve had a willingness to talk it through and answer questions people may have, only elusive to specific happenings to spare them grisly details. Each time, I’m told I should write a book about it, or that they would like to read the full story. I’ve never taken it as a compliment with bias because these were complete strangers. (I’ve told my story here and there anonymously online.)
The thing is, I associate autobiographies as a whole to people who had prior fame. Although I suppose Albert Woodfox, or Aran Ralston were both regular men prior to what they were subjected to, I have a hard time believing I am on that “scale,” so to speak.
While I do think it would be nice to put it all down beyond my regular journaling, and while I have considered that this may help other people who have been through, or are presently going through, similar circumstance - I feel a lot of hesitance. It’s hard to see it beyond being narcissistic.
I’m afraid there is no true conclusion, as it wouldn’t end with “and then she bought a home, got married, had children.”
Likewise, I recall how it felt to read a lot of “You are not alone,” motivational hooplah when I was still in my ache, and how little it does for someone in their present situation.
So. What determines the value or worthiness of an autobiography? When it has its happy ending? When it offers subtle tips and tricks should the situation arise? Motivation? Solely to get it off of my chest? Or just to satiate someone’s need to read a true crime?
I am okay with working on this for years to come, and I am okay with publicizing it, but I am otherwise not sure what “my point,” would be outside of wanting to comfort others who have faced what I have.