Dear Journal,

I have loved writing all my life, but my pen feels very heavy in my hand as I contemplate what I must write in this journal. No, it isn't the weight of the pen, it is my knowing that I must share this journal with my husband, Mike Noble. Not his insistence, but a promise to myself.

My husband, Mike Noble, has been bugging me about what he calls, Writing and Healing. He has studied in the fields of psychology, sociology, counseling, and higher education. Mike and his first wife, Lou Ann, were camping in Estes Park, Colorado, in 2002. Mike spent a week studying the field of Writing and Healing with leaders from around the nation. He has introduced many graduate students to the concept. Mike is vice president for student affairs at Great Rivers University and he is a graduate professor of higher education.

I grew up in a trailer park (nothing park-like) with no de jure nor de facto rules--no police presence--no zoning laws--no restrictions on trailers--no restrictions on language--no rules against drunkenness or drug use--no rules against parental abuse of children, children abusing other children, or spousal abuse. Journal, you get the idea. Families, however configured, locked their doors--law (non-law) was in their hands. I grew up on the margins, and I survived.

My name was Lynn Bosen. It's now Lynn Bosen Noble. I was brought up without things most kids take for granted, including a middle name. Now, my maiden name is my middle name. I had nothing of value except my life--my body. I grew up with a wealth of fantasies, many brought on by a combination of sexual abuse, that I rarely thought of as abuse, and my own pursuit of erotic pleasures and dalliances.

My Mike would explain what I'm going to say using the expression, "differential association." As a child, I thought nothing of the conditions I experienced. It was. When of school age, I wished I had more of what other kids had. They all dressed better, had real parents, but it was, and I found ways of coping. My teachers would tell you I have a good mind--a curious mind. Some resented when I came out tops in the standardized tests we all took at that time: The Iowa Tests of Educational Development and the Iowa Tests of Basic Skills.

I could run like the wind--a quality in my youth that often saved me from danger. Many say I have a beautiful body (Mike mainly). Could be so for those who like skinny blond broads and aren't into big boobs! The street would tell you I've made mistakes, but it would also tell you I'm pretty savvy. I wanted Mike Noble and I got him. Mike is a vice president of Great Rivers University (GRU). I became his wife nine months ago. I can't believe he married me. Until I was nearly killed in an explosion last month, I was happier than I ever thought possible.

At that time I was working as an undergraduate assistant in the stem cell lab on the university campus: GRU. An explosion was meant to destroy the laboratory. A note on my 4Runner that Mike hid from me for a few days clearly said the explosion was directed at killing me, also. Why me? It gave me a spinal cord injury that has me paralyzed below the waist.

Until the explosion, all was wonderful. We're not rich, but we're rich way beyond my wildest dreams. The sex between us was like God made our bodies special for each other and we've generously shared them.

After the explosion, I was totally down. We lost our Little Mikey--a pet name for our little boy with whom I was pregnant. It was the loss of any light in my life--like a permanent eclipse shutting out the light-giving joy. It felt like a permanent fade to black for both of us.

Through my life, I've felt pain in many ugly forms. I thought it would never end unless I died. I thought about taking my life. I knew what Mike went through with the death of his wife, Lou Ann, and if I died, it would hurt him terribly. When considering suicide, it never occurred to me that our lives could be good again. No one knows what I considered--not even my counselors or Mike.

Mike knows more about me than anyone, but there are things about which he knows very little or nothing. I wonder if writing in you is a good idea, Journal. Mike encouraged me to go ahead and write in you. I asked him what I should write about and he responded, "Write about the trauma in your life--write about the joy. We all have stories to tell. By writing them, we discover new truths about ourselves. Write about everyday things. Visualize incidents in your life. Write about what you felt in those visions--your emotional state--how the vision or memory moved you--your emotions you felt then and now. Why does the vision or memory return?"

Mike told me the word trauma comes from the Greek word, wound. Wounds in my life began way before that explosion. I've been physically and psychologically wounded countless times. Referring to my psychological wounds, he says, "That toxic residue can eat at you." I'm writing in you, Journal, to exorcise some of my demons--some of my psychic wounds.

I've told Mike things about me, showing him the tip of a nasty iceberg. Some things I may never tell him. Like that guy Madoff, who misused his accountants, I've told Mike what I was afraid he'd learn. I don't know whether I'll ever want him to know everything. I'm terribly afraid of losing him. Yesterday, he brought me a couple of journals. He says writing will help me heal. Trauma--not my word--a Greek word--a sanitized word for the shit I've endured.

God, Lynn, be more honest with your journal. It's true--I've endured much. Trauma in my life started way before the explosion--way before I ever met Mike. That's the trauma of my childhood I've told Mike about. That's the safe kind of stuff the talk shows exploit. It's what I've done to myself--what I continue to conceal from him. Mike often says when referring to a screw-up, "It hurts even more when you've done it to yourself." He doesn't know it, but that's me. He says I need not share what I write with him or anyone. I'm torn about that. I'm afraid to let him read what I write, and I'm afraid not to let him know. I'm fearful that something I might write could destroy the premises of what our fantastic relationship is based on. (I bet I'm not the only woman who feels that way!) I'm not sure what I will do with you, Journal. Until Mike, my life had been trauma, chaos, and disorder interspersed with my relations with many bad and a few really good people.

Mike has told me that all people lie. He has also said, "Don't lie to your journal." I've resolved to tell the truth in you, Journal. If I fail, I will correct or clarify what I have written.

Dear Journal,

Mike is at the university. This morning, I'm with my caregiver, Betty Drummer. I love her and I loved her husband, Bob. He died a year ago. They were like what real parents should be. Not the Brady Bunch kind of family, but a family, despite hardships, who loved even this trailer-trash kid. Mike says I shouldn't say that about myself, but I know who and what I am.

We both felt up yesterday morning. I'm encouraged for the second time since the day of the explosion in the stem cell laboratory. The first time was when a procedure was proposed to Mike and me. We were informed that it was an unauthorized and unethical procedure. It violated the covenant agreements by the university when it received grants from five biotech firms, the National Institutes of...