(Published on Pure d’esprit as: How to Love Yourself-Even if it Takes a Lifetime)
Painting by the author
NOTE: While I work on that list of reasons to write a memoir, let me share this recent post of mine from the Medium platform publication, Pure d’esprit. I will follow-up later with posts that get into the origin of why I felt this way, the shame carried, and lifelong self-hate that had to be recognized and confronted.
So what am I if you don’t love me…and I don’t either?
At the end of the day it really comes down to this question. In life, sometimes the only one we can count on at times to be in our corner IS ourselves. Parents may fail or abuse. Spouses may walk. Friends disappoint. At the end of the day, if we measure ourselves by those around and outside of us…and they fail us, does that mean we have failed?
That answer took me 69 years. I had almost 30 years of childhood abuse to rebuild from. For a lifetime I hated that younger person I was. Viewed her as weak, stupid, a victim. And I was never going to be a victim again. So, of course I shunned a whole part of me…the part that actually saved me.
About that younger part of me…
That younger part of me had struggled through some of the worst years of my life and kept going. She had trudged through all kinds of abuse, through no or few friends. Through suicidal times. Circumstances crushed me and challenged me to ask myself: “Why should I stick around?”
She instead listened to a small voice inside that kept telling me: “Just hang on. You can always choose to ‘leave’ tomorrow. But just hang on, even one more day. You might miss something.” That small voice wouldn’t relent and she kept listening. “You can hate yourself. But, just hang on anyway, even a little while longer.” I don’t know why she listened, but she did.
Over the next several years I slowly rebuilt me. Got strong, fierce, determined. No one was going to ever do that to me again…a good thing for sure, though I think the pendulum swung a little too far with that tough side of me.
Never be weak again…and then…
Eventually, though, life got better. I even found love with a true soul-mate. And while I continued to soften emotionally, to myself I was not very kind. I had learned to “value” me in some things, in that present moment. I valued being strong, not that “weak stupid younger part.” Her, I despised. I sealed her off and tried to forget her. She was dead to me. Besides, I was too busy raising a son, having a life, to think about her anymore
Then 2006 came along. My husband almost died. My son left for college. The dog died. Menopause hit. And I could no longer face doing the medical research work I had done for a decade. I was in a total spiral. Lost. And it was then, brought to my knees and realizing I was no longer that “tough strong” person anymore, that I began the rest of the journey to healing. And she, who I had hated for a lifetime and abandoned, was the key to my healing.
The return
It has taken a lifetime to return to her…to me actually…that younger part of me. It took me a lifetime to recognize just how brave she was, how much courage she showed. And that the only reason I survived and grew was because of the strength she showed. I finally realized what a truly amazing and special person my younger self was, and what a debt of gratitude…what a debt, period, I owed her…as well as an apology. But even there, strong, loving, gracious — that younger part of me showed me love. Reminded me that at any point we are all just doing the best we can. And she welcomed me back with full love, reminding me also, that is is “better late, than never.”
It is never too late to start loving yourself. And whether it takes a lifetime, whether it is a messy imperfect process, it only matters that you finally reach across the table and reconnect, and truly LOVE yourself. Just start. Even a little. The rest can follow later…even if it’s a lot later.
Photo by the author of just “some” of the many memoir-writing books in her home library
What About the Risks?
So you’re considering writing your memoir. You take stock of what stories, events, and insights most impacted your life. You examine your life and make a list of obstacles encountered, successes and failures — and how you dealt with either. Your soul says “there‘s bits here that might be helpful to share,” so you sit down at the computer, get ready to open a vein and…you freeze.
There is no question that many writers experience tremendous fear when writing, no matter the topic. There are many books and articles out there on how to write, what to write, and even how to overcome the fear of writing. I have more than a few of each kind on my bookshelf.
Fear of writing
On that last item, fear of writing, I have a book — The Courage to Write: How Writers Transcend Fear by Ralph Keyes — that I’ve kept since it was first published in 1995. So, it’s not a new problem. I suspect the first time a cave person scrawled an image on a stone wall it might have given them pause when they stepped back to assess their work.
The idea of putting ourselves out on the page…even if we never show it to anyone, may stop us before we ever start. And I am not even talking about whether the writing is any good or not. First, there is the possibility of triggering powerful emotions never before confronted. That is immediately followed by self-judgment: Am I really like that?
The pages never read aloud
We all have those “pages we never read aloud” to anyone — things we don’t want anyone to know about us, and for that matter, things we may not even want to admit to ourselves. And yet there is no escaping their reality when the words sit there — stark black letters blazing tracks across the white page.
Even if we’re not writing about our own mistakes or faults, there is no question that subjects of a serious nature will impact any writer’s willingness to venture there. It’s one thing to talk about how a car engine works and know you will be judged on how well and accurately you write the piece. But to write about victimization, shame, or messy emotions, and to say on the page what someone drilled into you NEVER to speak about, invites some powerful ghosts to come stomp all over your courage.
While you may have shared those stories with therapists, relatives, or close friends, it is a whole other matter to actually know that thousands of perfect strangers know your secrets. And that doesn’t take into account in a digital age, putting things out in places where people can respond immediately, and with things like: “What’s the big deal? Get over it” or worse.
So that brings me back to my original question — is writing a memoir worth it?
The power of transformation
I have been reading a book on memoir writing that is great…actually, I’ve read many over the last few years. But the one I speak of right now — Deep Memoir, by Jennifer Leigh Selig, PhD — just nails soooo many important themes.
One theme in particular, in a chapter near the end of the book, really caught my attention. In that section, the author dug into the power of writing a memoir to transform you — change you not just by looking back at the past and making observations about what happened THEN, but to change you RIGHT NOW as you are writing.
As soon as I read that sentence, my gut tightened because I knew exactly what she meant. I’d be writing about some issue of anger or shame that I’ve carried for years and even as I was typing the words, I could feel some slight shift in me…a softening, compassion, a lowering of terror.
All I know is that in those moments, I am like a crucible holding individual chemicals. And as I am held over the fire in that writing process, the chemicals start to melt, mix, react, and become something new. The process taking place in that “writing crucible” changes me and it’s not about the ingredients I started with. It’s the process.
But what about the risks?
But the book also notes some authors who have experienced extreme emotional trauma such that after they published their book they said they would never do it again. Jessmyn Ward, writing about five men in her life who died, said she doesn’t know if she could go through that process again. Carmen Maria Machado, after writing about intimate partner abuse, said she probably would not. And Pat Conroy, writing about his childhood abuse in his novels, experienced suicidal despair, attempted suicide, and had another suicidal breakdown later, after another book. So the risks to one’s mental health are not imaginary or inconsequential, especially when writing about traumatic events.
Physical illness is another way traumatic material can wreak havoc on a writer. Kate Bornstein was already experiencing sleep and eating disturbances, along with having to seek therapy because her writing triggered a borderline personality disorder. But she also suffered gut problems so severe they had to remove part of her intestine, something she attributed to her writing. She said the writing “gets you right in your gut…and I took that as a sign that I was on the right track.”
All of that aside, there are the “normal fears” about writing a book. What if people hate it? Or don’t get it? Or maybe worse, what if they love it and the response overwhelms you? Fear of success is just as strong as fear of failure. Especially if you’ve lived through abuse, you may have lived your life in the shadows and sudden public awareness is too much. Or there are the stories about writers who’ve encountered rejections and relationship breakups; angry responses from others who don’t like what was shared; or for some, even lawsuits.
What risks am I facing?
So, based on all of the above, in terms of writing my memoir I realize it might:
Trigger my own pain, health, and emotional reactions to revisiting painful things
Expose all my hidden details to the public
Deliver reactions from others that I may fear, or be emotionally devastated by
Change my life
As to “change my life” — well it already has. And will continue to. Just look at the fact I am writing here and saying truths I’ve not put out publicly before. So change is a given. And the remedy for that is just “one day at a time.”
Regarding the first three risks, I have given those a lot of thought. I have put in place some support systems for me as I do this. Also, I drafted a list of things to share with readers at the beginning of the book — things such as rules and boundaries for how I chose to write the story; trauma-trigger cautions for readers, given the topic; and most importantly, the purpose for writing.
What is memoir REALLY for?
The last one matters most because in the end, if I am going to write a memoir, it is not about just making a laundry list of all the things I lived through. It is REALLY about: because of what happened, what did I do with it? It is about coming back. It is about hope. It is about connecting on a universal level with a reader who might have a different story but still experienced similar emotions.
The “decision-maker”
Having thoroughly rattled myself with the risks, I did one last thing before answering the question — I made a comparable list of “why it’s worth it to write a memoir.” I figured it would be blatantly obvious after that, what I should do.
Digging into all of the books in the above picture (and several more) I compiled a list. It was an illuminating…actually an eye-opening experience. And so I came to my decision.
I will share in a separate post, what I put on that list. It will, no doubt, make clear my logic and maybe be helpful to anyone else considering whether to write their memoir or not. It goes without saying — but I will say it anyway — that each person has to make their own list and determine what their own risk/benefit ratio is for writing and then make their own decision.
The bottom line
But for me? Is writing a memoir worth it despite everything above? And despite the fact it’s taken me seven decades to come to this point?
(Published on Medium Pure d’esprit as: Difficult Stories: Considerations of Risk and Courage When Writing About Sexual Abuse…or Anything)
Painting by the author
Difficult stories
Difficult stories… Well, maybe every story is difficult in its own way because no matter the topic, every writer must take a risk to write, and then find the courage to share that part of their soul.
To me, the bottom line is: To write is to be brave, period. And it is a topic I have wrestled with for years, so I will speak from my own experience.
Trying to write about sexual abuse – childrens’ books
I have contemplated writing my story for a long time…in fact, I tried–magazine articles, children’s picture book, middle-grade chapter book, another magazine article…but none of them seemed to work out.
My first thought was to write fiction–thus I could convey “something” about sexual abuse that might be helpful to someone, yet avoid speaking about me directly…and publicly.
I thought I should write for children — because maybe I could offer them some help on how to avoid being abused, or how to get help in abusive situations. But …what could I say?
For one, I am not a mental health professional so I could not give them current or professional advice. Second, the childrens’ books I saw out there on the subject made it sound like all the child had to do was go to a helpful adult, tell them what was happening, and the adult would make it all better. To me that seemed like REAL fiction, a betrayal of the reality, which might offer no change or a situation that was even worse.
For one thing, often in abusive situations there are no safe adults to go to. And even if outside agencies get involved it doesn’t necessarily make things better. Families may be broken up and kids may get put into the same sitution elsewhere. Even if the family stays together, the abuser may have gotten just minimal help so they might not be “that” safe. And maybe there would be repercussions to the child for “speaking,” from the abuser or other family members. So I just felt I could offer little to help kids.
Trying to write about sexual abuse – magazines
I tried magazine articles hoping to bring more awareness of just how prevalent sexual abuse is and how damaging it is. And while editors were sympathetic, none offered to publish them.
But maybe that was for the best. Frankly, at the time I wasn’t sure how best to write it or exactly what I needed to say that would be a useful and universal message. And I still had a lot of work to do on me. So it was not time.
The message and “giving witness”
Now, decades later, and after years of work with a trauma specialist, I am writing to adults. While someone needs to write to children, I accept I don’t have the talent, voice, or message, at least not at this point. But I can speak to adults. Memoir is my strong suit, and….this time, I know my message:
“In spite of what you did to me, despite how I still struggle, I THRIVE.”
I can give witness not only for myself but for all the others who were harmed and might not be able to speak…or who didn’t survive to be able to speak. As novelist Pat Conroy said:
“I write for the people who can’t speak”
Maybe my story might give someone hope to find their own answers for healing.
Questions that must be answered first
But there are some issues I needed to face to do this, and I think it is true for most writers there are questions each must consider before writing. Because no matter how valid, important, or useful any writing might be, the writer has to make it through the process. Some questions to consider:
What are the risks of writing? Physically, emotionally, relationship-wise….
What, if any, are compelling reasons to do it despite the risks?
And…should I take on that battle?
To the last question — “Should I”? For myself, after seven decades of silence, THAT ONE IS A DEFINITE YES…I am writing. And I will use my own name, not a pen name. But it has taken me a lifetime, and I have thought long and hard. And as to exploring the risks and benefits, I will share my findings in a separate post, and simply leave it that is was a rich, illuminating, and gratifying exercise to do.
The real nature of writing: Courage, honesty, power
But for now, my reason for bringing up the subject of difficult writing is because #1 we are all writers. And in the end, it is not about the subject matter. It is about courage and honesty. It is a supreme act of courage just to put your words on a page even if you share them with no one. Because if you write honestly, you must still face them yourself. It is another level of courage to share them with another.
So the topic of “courage to write” is something I have been exploring a great deal and will write more about. I imagine it is a subject many of us can relate to. One thing I can say about the times I have taken a risk, dug deep for courage, and did the thing I believed was right, I could feel my soul soar.
For now, a gift of inspiration — two quotes I came across and share here for all:
“A word after a word after a word is power.”―Margaret Atwood
‘’You too are driven by the desire to understand…Beneath your desire for knowledge writhes the hunger to understand and love yourself.” — Gloria Anzaldua
Relating to the post with the scarred lioness, I received a kudo from one of the editors who liked my description of her showing “quiet power.” And that really summed her up when I looked at the picture. In fact, it sums up what I feel at this point 7 decades into life…quiet power.
When he gave a kudos comment, I responded:
And that really is the crux of that description…I have lived through a lot. Life may yet surprise me, overpower me, lay me low, gift me. But no matter what…quiet power to take any of it in.
For a good many situations in life, I have already experienced them or something similar. I have had time to consider what my life values are and what I will and won’t compromise on. And, I still know how to fight, though these days I pick my battles because I won’t waste precious energy and time on useless things.
So as I said in the article–win lose or draw, I know what I can draw on, what I can take, and I will give it my very best. Beyond that none of us can know the outcome. That too is quiet power…the awareness that some things are beyond our power and all we can do is bring our best self to the table. After that it will go how it will go. But at least we will always know we did our best.
The battle-scarred lioness thrives with quiet confidence
Painted by the author
Have I said that I love being older? And no, I am not being facetious. I truly DO love being older. No, I am not fond of arthritis, pre-diabetes, or fatigue. But I have received some “gifts” from life that may at first seem not so “gift-like.” And while I can’t say I wished for or enjoyed the experiences, I AM grateful for the strength they gave me.
Quiet power
Friends of mine traveled to Africa not long ago. As they shared pictures of savannah landscapes, giraffes nibbling on tree leaves, spectacular sunsets, one picture jumped out at me and I knew immediately that it was “mine.”
There in the photo, on the side of the road some distance from their vehicle, lay a lioness. She was not young — her face testified to the fact she had fought and survived a number of battles in life. “Experienced” is a good way to describe her — not old, but not a novice.
Her demeanor as she rested in the twilight, seemed one of perfect ease. Not oblivious, she was certainly scanning and vigilant. But there was no evidence of fear or anxiety. In fact, to me she seemed almost …bored is not the right word, but maybe “unimpressed.” As if to say “is this the best you can throw at me for a challenge?”
What I saw, looking at her in that photo, was quiet power — the sense that she could be there alone, apparently at ease, not because there were no possible threats in the bushes, but because in spite of whatever might come at her, she would meet it as she always did. Because she had done it before. She emanted this sense that she knew what to do, knew her own power, and thus, she would meet the challenge.
A kindred spirit
When I saw the picture, before I could even speak it, my gut almost yelled “YES!” And I knew I needed to paint her. Like that lioness, I bear the scars of many battles over a lifetime. I have been broken and brought to my knees many times by the twists and turns of life. And I won’t say I am “grateful” for those battles. No one happily seeks out fear, wounds, threats, or pain. But the one thing the battles did give me was the awareness of my own capabilities and power.
In my early years I was prevented from fighting back, and had to step back out of fear. But gradually, I grew stronger and rose to the challenge. I didn’t always win the battles. Sometimes they were a bloody, messy draw at best. But…I showed up. I stood up for what I felt was right. I learned to trust my gut, dig down deep, and find I really did have courage even in the midst of terror. Being tested, forced to choose between running or standing firm, I learned I could sustain and do whatever I thought was the honorable thing in that moment. I learned that I “could take it,” and what my capabilities were, so that became a gift even if I wouldn’t have chosen it.
Scars
Many of us have scars from life. We are no longer the pristine version of ourselves when we first arrived in this world. But the scars possess a power, bestow a beauty upon us that can only come from meeting a challenge and emerge maybe on our knees, maybe still standing, but unbowed. And the fact we are still here means we got back up and met the next challenge. And the next. And thus, we also have the ability to stop now and then, take our ease, and survey our path to our current moment.
As to those scars, many of us carry them on the inside, invisible to others. But it doesn’t matter. They are real, we earned them, and we know what they have knighted us with. Even if life or others were to strip us of everything we have, they cannot strip us of the power of that hard-earned wisdom and the honor that comes with it. That power is ours to keep, and it is that power that allows us to take our rest at moments, even as we know more challenges will come.
To know yourself…and your power
So now, in a twilight moment, no longer young, but still very much alive and aware of my abilities, I take a rest now and then. And I know that whatever the future holds, I will stand…or kneel… to meet it, but meet it I will, because I’ve done it before. Like that lioness…I know what to do, I know I can take it, and win, lose, or draw, I will do it.
The Roman philosopher and leader, Seneca, captured the gift of adversity perfectly when he said to those who had never been tested:
“I judge you unfortunate because you have never lived through misfortune. You have passed through life without an opponent — no one can ever know what you are capable of, not even you.”
I live with PTSD and anxiety. I have my whole life, even for those decades when I didn’t know it, or denied it. I just shrugged it off as irritable bowel, being “high-strong,” or having a small bladder. Other than that I was fine, no different than anyone else, right? Because if you ignore what you feel, mobilize some anger at your “weakness” and push harder, of course you will get over it, right?
Be KIND to anxiety???
There are so many things wrong with that paragraph I won’t even waste time to list them.
Now, I am not a psychologist so I am not going to give anyone advice. I will just relate my own experience. As to the above, that is how I lived my life for years, and I will simply say that unless you are looking to cause yourself more harm, I wouldn’t recommend it.
I now work with a wonderful trauma specialist. And anytime I said anything like the above to her, if I didn’t get an eye roll, I would see her take a deep breath, smile with compassion, maybe say something like “Yes, well…” and then proceed to help me understand why treating myself that way was me abusing myself the way I’d been abused for years.
For starters, she said: “ You come by your anxiety honestly,” by which she meant it would have been abnormal not to have PTSD and anxiety after what I lived through. That was a major revelation to me. I actually had to take a bit of time to wrap my head around the fact I wasn’t being weak. And imagine that, there was actually a valid reason for what I was experiencing.
Second, when we first started working together I was shocked to see the amount of compassion she showed me. That was certainly nothing I’d experienced much of in my earlier years, never mind allowed for myself. So Clue #2 — perhaps I was not approaching this whole “healing thing” correctly?
“Weak” vs “tough”
Regarding “weak,” I should note that I grew up in a situation where weakness was reviled and it was all about being tough. And I had to be anyway because it was survival. The mantra I learned was “hurry up and get over it.”
I remember having a stomach flu one time and right after being ill my father insisted I needed to eat because I needed to get over this fast. So I came by “tough” honestly, too.
My therapist gradually helped me understand there was nothing wrong with being kind to myself, and that believe it or not, healing is a life-long endeavor. I learned that PTSD and the various things that came along for the ride in me — depression, anxiety, and anger — made total sense given the stress-hormone-fueled cocktail that flooded my system for decades. I joked with a friend, that I had no idea what “calm” felt like, except for maybe the time I was coming out of anesthesia after a colonoscopy. It finally started sinking in that I had a fair bit of “relearning” to do.
The nature of trauma and PTSD
Given I spent my adult life in medical research, I did what I did best — hunted for information that would teach me what I’d not learned my whole life. I consumed research journals and Psychology Today articles on anxiety, stress, and PTSD. I read books, such as one my therapist recommended: Bessel van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. I read anything and everything to help me understand why my body felt like the painting above. Once I realized how totally unaware I’d been of how poorly I was treating myself, I was hungry for all the knowledge I could get. After all, I might be decades late, but I can be taught.
So then, of course, I did the opposite. I figured that if I read everything I could find, worked as hard as possible with my therapist as fast as possible, and pushed myself to relax and meditate and… Yeah. It might not have been the stomach virus anymore, but it was still that “hurry up and get well” mentality. So much for self-compassion and letting healing become a way of life.
Compassion?
I will say with total gratitude, that my therapist is a blessing and the most patient, compassionate person I have ever dealt with besides my husband and a few good friends. Like coming back to the breath when you get distracted in meditation, she kindly brings me back, again and again, to self-compassion…and at least the “suggestion” of patience with myself.
Her knowledge of Yoga and meditative techniques also rekindled the practices I had first started learning in the 1990s when I came across a wonderful book by the former Buddhist monk Jack Kornfield, A Path With Heart. It was all about the reminder that life is filled with suffering, but that we can still show ourselves and others compassion. It was such a help, as were books by Pema Chodron and other meditation practitioners.
This is not to say that this fixed my PTSD. No, nor the anxiety. In spite of all my work in life, that “word salad” still walks with me. Yet, progress does come and I recently had another “aha” moment.
The moment of insight
I was sitting on the couch, aware of those pesky tendrils of anxiety starting to spread through my body, as they often do, uninvited. My initial thought was one of “God, when will this ever go away?” and an answer immediately flashed across my brain: “Never.” But instead of being upset, I actually felt a calmness at that. A sense finally, of acceptance and the awareness I wouldn’t be failing if I just stopped fighting it.
In that moment, I was aware of a level of compassion coming in along with the anxiety. It occurred to me that the frantic, anxious part of me…WAS me. A piece of me. She was my lifelong companion, maybe even a friend of sorts — she sure could be as we’d traversed enough of my life together.
Finally, the awareness dawned on me that I could either spend the rest of my life hating her or…I could simply accept her…welcome her in. I could offer that part of me love and acceptance, and invite her to just “come on over, and sit with me and we will weather the storm together until it eases.”
“Holding the baby”
This is not to downplay the discomfort or the need for my anxiety meds or continued therapy. But something shifted in that moment just a bit…something softened. To just stop the battle against myself was actually a relief.
After all, if I had a friend who was struggling and upset, what would I do with them? I knew without question — I’d hug them. I’d walk beside them and tell them I love them no matter what. It wouldn’t cure their anxiety, but it would give them relief to know they were loved, accepted, and not alone. So why wasn’t I doing this for myself?
I flashed on this image of “calm me” just holding that quivering stressed-out me and saying gentle words of love. And I remembered a quote I’d read years ago by the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, about holding ourselves like a mother holding and calming an upset infant. Sure, he was talking about managing anger but the same thing applies to anxiety:
Anger is like a howling baby, suffering and crying. Your anger is your baby. The baby needs his mother to embrace him. You are the mother. Embrace your baby.
Embracing the Tiger Within: Meditations on Transforming Difficult Emotions Thich Nhat Hanh
I figured, if it works for anger, then it might work for anxiety. And God knows, I struggle with anger and impatience too, so what could I lose to try?
Two sides of the same coin
And then, the other day I found the Psychology Today article by Leon F Selzer, PhD: “Why Anger is Nothing More Than Repressed Anxiety,” and if that didn’t set off waves of self-recognition, nothing would.
Dr. Selzer explaied how “anxiety and anger are two sides of the same emotional coin, kindred states of ‘agitated unease.’” That hit me. He went on to explain that “most people would prefer to ‘mutate’ their anxiety into anger…” He noted that anger gives a person the “illusion” of regaining control and it was a “pseudo-solution” to the self-shaming that went along with having anxiety.
Well, hello again. In one short article, he connected the dots between my anxiety, the shame I always felt at “failing to get rid of it,” and my anger and impatience. I resorted to that last one because at least getting angry and taking some action seemed better than being “weak, anxious and stuck.”
The “antidote”
I suddently understood what Thich Nhat Hanh was getting at, and why his antidote to anger had deep relevance as an antidote to anxiety. Imagine that — self-compassion as a better way of life than kicking yourself? Who would have thought.
Now no, it doesn’t mean I will not feel that familiar creeping sensation of anxiety at unexpected moments, or that I can stop working with a therapist, or doing all the self-caring things she recommends. I just finally understood for the first time in almost 7 decades, how nice it is to be nice to me. So, now, when things get upsetting, I can hold my own “baby” with care, and at least I don’t have to add “self-hate” to the word salad of things I live with.
If anyone else has felt that familiar sinking sensation of fear spreading through your nervous system, I would of course encourage them to seek their own therapist, mentor, or spiritual guide to help them explore and navigate ways to healing. But I can also add that for anyone, giving oneself a few moments of quiet attention, love, and “holding your own baby” is always a soothing and loving experience. May you all find a way to “comfort that inner being.”
I have been busy for the last many years – working at the NC Museum of Natural Sciences in Raleigh, NC. It was the BEST job of my life and it used every bit of what I learned through 40 years of medical labs, pharma research, clinical trials and medical ethics. And my creativity, painting, play and prototyping with Play-Doh…it was a return to my childhood of dissecting frogs, chemistry sets, and reading about the adventures of undersea-shipwreck explorers. That job was literally PLAY that drew my long-dormant 10-year-old back to the surface. I could reach and excite kids about all the weird tweaky details of science and its stories, because I returned to BEING that kid.
I did it for 15 years, every day a new exciting topic to create an activity or class or show for all ages. The topics, the ways to spin it, the ways to get people involved, surprised, laughing even, fed my soul to no end I would have done it forever, but finally, arthritis plaguing my joints, a really bad bout with the flu and subsequent infections this past year, and just plain tired no matter how much I loved it all, I knew it was time to stop. I’ll be 70 next year. It was a good run. I “did good!” 🙂 But yes, it was time for new blood, and so I retired.
So now what?
However…that doesn’t mean I sit in a rocking chair. I have a manilla folder full of things I want to do – take all the poetry and literature classes I never had time for when I went to college in the 70s – only enough money and time then to get my requirements, my lab classes, get out and get to work. But now, the adult ed classes at local universities have these classes and I will take them.
I want to learn to play chess well. I know how to play – poorly 😉 – but it would be nice to get better. There are a few small trips I would like to do.
And I now oil paint every day — partly for me — partly to sell — and partly to brighten people’s lives. As I do a painting I post pictures of the progress on my Facebook page as I did it during Covid. People then found comfort and joy in watching the evolution of various paintings. And these days the world has so many “issues” going on, I figured people could use “a Moment of Respite” from it all, if only to follow along with my oil paintings again.
And if you like what you see, there are links on that page (and below) to my DebsWritingandArt Etsy store where I sell the originals, or to my FineArtAmerica pixels.com website page where I sell prints and originals, and also blog about the paintings:
But why am I bothering to write here then, if I have all these other places I show up on the internet?
It’s because the “Soul Mosaic” concept has never left me…
Logo for this blog, incorporating a picture of a mosaic the author took at the NC Museum of Art
The truth is, that mosaic idea is the truest metaphor of my life – broken, mismatched, unwanted — rebuilt into a beautiful mosaic. The truth is, it may have taken me a lifetime to get here, to learn what I needed to, but I am STILL HERE…and in spite of all the havoc that went on in the first half of my life, I THRIVE.
The work of my lifetime?
So that brings me back to the writing work of I am doing and have been working on for the last few years…the writing work that has waited a lifetime for me to come back to it…my memoir.
In short, I was abused – physically, sexually, emotionally, mentally — from infancy through age 27. I should never have gotten out due to all the brainwashing, gaslighting, shame, and frankly ignorance that what happened to me had a name – incest. I thought I was an aberration of nature, and instead I found out it happened to others. Many others. And all of us who lived it walk through life, silent, SILENCED, and broken. The key to healing – understanding, speaking, finding our strength – are denied in silence.
I have fought back for most of my life. I left it behind, rebuilt a life, a good life, and I have done well in spite of the scars I carry. But life has a way of coming back with the well of emotional pain left behind that demands to be heard…in fact, MUST be faced and heard if one is to heal…learn…understand…LOVE.
Why go back? Why write?
Rabbi Jonathan Sacks commented about Holocaust survivors that most spent the bulk of their lives LIVING and BUILDING a life. THEN, only after that, was it time to “look back” – T’shuvah – return to it, and examine what it all meant.
The book – Deep Memoir by Jennifer Selig, PhD – has some pithy answers:
Photo quote take by the author from the book, Deep Memoir
Later in the book she also has a quote from another author who sums up the “why”:
”You too are driven by the desire to understand…Beneath your desire for knowledge writhes the hunger to understand and love yourself.”
So – understand…heal…connect with others…and finally PUT BACK TOGETHER FRAGMENTS….LOVE YOURSELF
And to anyone who thinks it is just a litany of just this happened and that, or gee, why me? It is the story of hope…after despair. It is the story of evolving over a lifetime, from a pile of broken-bits rubble, into that mosaic.
It is told through almost 100 paintings and photos that helped me remember, feel the trapped emotions, then find the right words to understand and move forward.
So it is the story that says: “In spite of what you did to me…in spite of how I struggle...I THRIVE.“
As to Questions – that tired old “why me?” – that was NEVER the question that plagued me.
MY QUESTION was always:
“Because of what happened…what do I do with it?”
That is the final reason I write – MEANING. All that destruction has to have meaning, and if that comes by writing and helping even one other person in pain with my story, it will MEAN SOMETHING.
Why use the blog?
A way to get my book written, is to have a place I can write posts that discuss one topic at a time that will be covered in the book. This can be my place for “rough-drafting and brainstorming a concept” that I will later more fully develop in the book.
By the way, to write the book I am using a software called Obsidian. I LOVE IT! And it has been a gift to come across, both for gathering thoughts, storing easily accessible info I need to have available, but also to hold the drafts as I build the book.
Anyway, I realized that this Soul Mosaic blog could be my “scratchpad” or “sounding board” place for things I need to explore so I can then expand on them and put them in the book.
Some of the topics I have written about in related essays I published in the Pure d’esprit Medium publication, and I will share those essays here too because the Medium platform is only open to paying members.
But some of the topics I just prefer to write here, in my “old friend” Soul Mosaic because emotionally, it is my place for broken bits being reformed into beauty…and always has been.
So I will be posting here again. For anyone who decides to follow along, welcome.
Soul Mosaic 