First, the “Writing Talismans”
Every day when I sit down to write these entries, I wear a specific ball cap:
It is my “talisman” of writing power. It is less a reminder of why I do this but more a reminder that I can.
On the especially hard emotion days, though, I have a super-weapon to help me through.
It is a lavender-seed-filled otter my husband named “Dotty.” It was a gift from a friend who never realized it would be needed. On those harder days, I hold Dotty against my chest. The pressure helps me feel “safe,” protected, and loved. And on the worst days, I can even warm the otter in the microwave, and it will give off a calming lavender scent. If anyone thinks this is silly, I will tell you that I know better. It is, instead, empowering and a gift of self-love to admit that I am brave even in the face of scary emotions. So, for anyone out there who needs a “writing buddy,” I recommend this.
Time to assess things before the hardest part…
Before moving into the next section, I just wanted to take a moment to assess how this process evolved, how it’s going, and how I am doing with it emotionally.
I am about to start writing about the most difficult part of my life story – the years of college and young adulthood…the time of despair, stagnation, shame, and crisis. I would be jumping into life’s deepest waters without knowing how to swim.
In fact, I just read through a journal of mine from 1979-1983, and it absolutely crushed me with its heaviness. It was all I could do to keep reading the entries and feel that pain off those pages. And yes, a part of me wanted to shut off the laptop, walk away, and give up.
So I decided it was a good time to do a mid-course assessment of what this blog writing has done for me.
Answers to questions on the writing
No question, but each section has presented its own challenges.
First, there was the beginning stage after Mom’s death four years ago. I was choking on emotions with no words, and painting up a storm, which eventually gave me words for my journals. Volumes of them.
Then, in June of this year, I started this “book-blogging” process. Again, I was overwhelmed — but determined. Sooo many paintings, so many journal entries, themes, recurring elements, research, and questions. That whole “How-do-you-eat-an-elephant” problem. Yes, one bite at a time, but which bites? And where?
So I did what I know best – my “science” approach. The first section of this blog was entries that posed questions and possible answers:
Why am I writing?
Because my story has sat in a pile of broken fragments for 7 decades. And it is finally time to put all those pieces into a logical, coherent whole. THEN I can see what I have, and what that story can tell me. And this is allowing me to share my process with anyone else who might find this helpful.
For whom?
First of all, for me. But also, and just as importantly, for anyone who had the same experiences and can’t speak but needs to know they aren’t alone. And…for those who didn’t live to tell their stories. I write to give witness to all our lives, because all of them count.
Why NOW?
Cue the piece in the first section where I thank Madonna for reminding me of my mortality.
When to start writing?
Duh! Now! And if I still can’t remember the answer, go back to the piece on Madonna!
What questions need answers?
All of the many…but the biggest…and meanest: How could I have been so stupid as to believe him? Why did it take me so long to leave? How did I do it? And why have I blamed myself instead of him?
Where to start?
See my early entry – “Pick a Nipple” – i.e., stop fretting, pick a spot, ANY spot, drive a stake in the ground there, and START. The rest will fall into place and can be fixed later.
How has this been affecting me?
I could no longer carry it within me. I was choking. I couldn’t “not write” even as I knew how hard writing would be.
Yes, the emotions experienced as I’ve written each entry have been all over the place. Sorrow. Rage. Love Despair. Rage. Heaviness. Loss. Fondness for my younger self. Rage again. Pain for all that my child and teen lived through. And did I say rage?
To be safe, I have made sure I do this with support and a ritual of self-care. Meditation. Stretching. Prayer. A good trauma therapist. Close, supportive friends. And most especially, my husband…my soul-mate.
When I first started, I would get up from bed with a sense of dread. This routine would slowly soften it and ease my anxiety enough so that by the time I started writing, I could face it.
Still, for the first few months, EACH morning sitting down to write was like forcing me to claw a few inches up the side of a cliff. Some sections have been easier than others. But never any predicting. The material dictates the emotions.
The strange, unexpected gift of going back, to go forward
But a strange thing has been happening. Emotions have shifted. There are small glimmers now of calm. Less self-hate. Easier to get up in the morning and actually welcome the day. A touch less anxiety. And… a strong sense of RELIEF.
For some reason, putting it on paper, TELLING it, GETTING IT OUT OF ME, has filled me with relief. With each passing section, each essay, it’s like someone inside me is feeling lighter. Grateful. Less alone. Whether anyone reads this…or understands, I am feeling just a bit better with each essay.
Getting it OUT of me feels “good.” It’s the fact that I am no longer HIDING my story. When I hid it, I felt shame. People who say “Why are you going back there? It’s over and done with!” don’t get that NO, it’s NOT over and done with UNTIL YOU GO BACK THERE. Until you RELEASE the WHOLE story, and stand tall. You have to go BACK to go FORWARD.
When I check in with my therapist, she asks how I am. And my answer the other day was: Relieved. Relieved and INTACT. I am NOT falling apart. On the contrary, I feel like I am growing stronger.
Better out than in
Silence doesn’t mean the story isn’t there. Or that it can be forgotten. Silence continues to harm you — eat you from the inside out. Silence was actually telling a part of me: “Of COURSE you have to be quiet! It’s an ugly, dirty story. YOU’RE ugly and dirty for having lived it.”
But when I tell the story, for better or worse, it is OUT OF ME. I can set it down and release it to the fresh air. When I tell it, I am saying “I deserve” and I am NOT “dirty, or trash.” And the younger version of me is almost sobbing with relief that I came back for her. It’s like I am finally telling her…all of me…”I AM worthy.” And I have waited a lifetime for that.
So am I glad I am doing this?
Yes. ABSOLUTELY.
Is it easy?
No. And it is about to get harder. Because I will now be telling the part of my life that is wrapped with the most self-hate and shame, my college and young adult years. For my entire adult life, I despised the “me” of those years. Felt such disgust. And turned my back on “her.”
Yet, I will go back there because I suspect that this time, again, getting the story out into the light of day will bring more relief. That young adult was brainwashed and bludgeoned mentally and emotionally her whole life. So she was NOT a whole adult person because of it. Yet somehow, I got myself out of there. Against all odds.
And then that young adult faced the depressingly hard task of starting life all over and building from scratch…at 28. Yet she DID IT.
So telling how my child self was abused is one thing. I felt love, warmth, compassion, and sorrow for the child that I was. And even admiration for and humor over her feistiness.
Telling about my young adult, the shame because of the inability to know how to fix the problem, or just “adult,” THAT’s the HARD story. No one wants to look inept. But judging by the huge amount of pain and despair that I felt as I reread that journal, it is the story MOST IN NEED of telling. And healing. And it is the story I think anyone who’s been sexually abused or assaulted most needs to hear.
Those are the parts that have been most deprived of any self-love, and that has been grossly unfair.
So, on to these next pieces. And they may come slower as I may need to be gentle with myself. But I have my cap, Dotty, and my support system.
This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Psalm 118:24
Tags: blog, life, love, mental-health, writing
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