I was briefly married in my 20s to another writer. After our divorce, I found something he wrote online which was obviously very loosely based on our marriage, though the names had been changed.
The wife character was absolutely awful and bore very little resemblance to what I thought of myself, at any point in my life. At first, I was angry. How could he malign my character so badly and with, it seemed, very little remorse? How could he rewrite history so completely? Was he even there for the end of our marriage?
From my point of view, it seemed as if he was not. It made absolutely no sense to me—how two grown adults could live through one reality and one of them recreate it with such obvious lies.
However, with time I’ve become a little more kind in how I view the entire piece. I know he was acting from a place of hurt and betrayal. I know he was reacting from a place of self-protection. I know he was reacting from a place of denial and anger. And while I still know it was a twisted and perverted version of what I consider the truth, I also know I have very little business trying to set any sort of record straight.
It just simply isn’t on me, no matter how loudly I, at first, wanted to scream from the rooftops about the unfairness of it all. And I also know I’ve never—until now— acknowledged finding it, let alone reading it, except to my best friends, and for that I’m grateful. Because that version is not me and is not my story.
I’ve been watching the controversy surrounding Allison Holker’s new memoir, This Far: My Story of Love, Loss, and Embracing the Light out of the corner of my eye. From my scrolling headlines, after her husband, Stephen Boss, died in 2022, there was a great deal of difference in stories that went out to the public. And now, his family seems angry at Holker for telling stories about him they feel are either not fair, at best or a lie, at worst.
Holker, in turn, it seems, thinks his life, at least the part of it she shared with him, is not only fair game, but important to talk about given his suicide. Holker, on Instagram, explains that she has written about her story and yes, part of that story includes her long-term relationship and marriage to her husband and the grief she navigated after his passing.
She also highlighted things she did not know during their marriage, only to find them after he was gone. Some may be mundane, but some are in direct opposition to the life portrayed behind the screen. In response, her husband’s family issued a statement condemning the claims.
As a nonfiction writer who often wrestles with these questions about who owns the stories that make up my life or what in my life, especially when it involves another human, is mine to tell, I’ve found myself completely understanding Holker’s position. I understand that facts, especially about a shared life, can look very different depending on the angle. I understand that not only can a life shared can be blurry to the outside looking in, but can also be blurry to the person trying to understand a partner.
On the other hand, as a person who has been the subject of writing I’ve stumbled across on the internet, I also understand her late husband’s family’s reactions in wanting to scream out about gross inaccuracies perceived. Especially ones you feel will tarnish a view carefully crafted and upheld. I understand wondering about things like fairness, legacy, and a deep sense of injustice knowing I could not simply explain everything succinctly away like I was having coffee with a friend.
This is what I know from my previous marriage. I know my ex-husband hid things from his family. I know I hid things from my family. I know he hiddiffere things from me. I hid things from him, as well. I know I was deeply unhappy very soon after we married. I know our friends knew little of what our day to day was like. I know I often pretended things were fine when they, in fact, were not, but the public face would kick in and excuses were always made.
I know some things I could say out loud would be a surprise to people who used to know him. I know neither of us were terribly kind, especially toward the end. I know that he had hidden depths that scared me and demons he refused to fight. I know what it felt like to sit alone, night after night and regret choices that put me there. I know, when the end came, the list of hidden things expanded and filled every crack, colored every page of our marriage.
Holker has responded to some of the controversy, stating that her intent is to, “share my own story as well as part of my life with Stephen to help other people” struggling with mental illnesses. The backlash was swift, with claims of her making the allegations up, tarnishing his name and exploiting him for money. Most insist that the light and happy he portrayed in life is the correct truth and how he should be remembered.
But, is that healthy? To think that a person is one thing and one thing only?
Because this is what I also know from my previous marriage. I know that my ex-husband loved me deeply. I know that he was sometimes the funniest person I knew. I know that his passion for movies and music was contagious. I know that he wanted to live life fully and with great aplomb.
I know that when he called me and told me he missed me there was no hesitancy in his voice, in his words. He meant them with his entire soul. I know he had great plans for life. I know I have never known anyone who loved a parent more than he did his father. I know we both fought hard for our relationship and cried when we let go.
Both versions are my truth and my memories. Both versions are what I remember happening. Both versions were mixed together, sometimes daily. Both versions made up the days and nights of a briefly shared life together. And neither version is whole or complete without the other, but one version might be favored by people or circumstance or time or family. That I understand.
Because when I read the version of our marriage I found on the internet I knew it wasn’t complete. It wasn’t whole. It was slanted to fit a circumstance and time and that one sidedness is why I became angry. Why I wanted to fight back so badly. Why I couldn’t understand how anyone could believe a word. But the isolated words are also what helped me eventually work through the anger. I can see that now. And I wonder if, with time, the same will be said about this memoir. This family. These words.
I’m on the fence about whether or not I want to read Holker’s memoir. It’s not my usual reading genre, but I may put it on hold through my local library and give it a chance, see what is said about their life together and how she weaves the segments—the public facing, the private and the stuff we all hold inside. A friend of mine often says, “we contain multitudes” and as I’ve watched this dust-up unfold, that phrase keeps echoing in my mind.
We do contain multitudes. So is it a stretch to think maybe he did, too? That no one involved has the complete picture, but sharing our different parts we can start to see the layers that make a life, shared.
Tawnya Gibson is a freelance writer who grew up in the high desert of southwest New Mexico. She received her degree in journalism and public relations from Utah State University. Her work has appeared in TODAY online, Zibby Mag, Under The Gum Tree, Sky Island Journal, Blue Mountain Review (among others) and she was a longtime contributor to Utah Public Radio.
She currently lives and works in the mountains of Northern Utah, but her New Mexican roots still occasionally bleed through her work.
All views expressed are the author’s own.
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