the light that came to lucille clifton
came in a shift of knowing
when even her fondest sureties
faded away. it was the summer
she understood that she had not understood
and was not mistress even
of her own off eye, then
the man escaped throwing away his tie and
the children grew legs and started walking and
she could see the peril of an
unexamined life.
she closed her eyes, afraid to look for her
authenticity
but the light insists on itself in the world;
a voice from the nondead past started talking,
she closed her ears and it spelled out in her hand
“you might as well answer the door, my child,
the truth is furiously knocking.”
Lucille Clifton
About the nature of fear
Carl Jung said that “…what you resist not only persists, but will grow in size.” I would add a P.S. to that…truth will hunt you down until there is no escape.
And even if you try, it will never really let you go. It will just come out in other forms. Like the truth in Lucille Clifton’s poem that is “furiously knocking,” mine, too, is relentless and so I “might as well answer the door.”
What is courage?
There are all different circumstances we can encounter that require…or at least invite us to show courage. But what exactly is it?
For me, first, it was finally accepting that I had to turn around to face whatever was chasing me. It was the “yes” when all of my past selves begged to be set free to speak. It was stepping into a therapist’s office for the very first time decades ago, a set of steps that triggered massive changes in my life…and saved me, even if barely in time.
These days, it has been the slow acceptance that I am to write this.
What if you don’t want to write?
That is perfectly okay. Whether you don’t write, or write for yourself only, each one of us must find our best path to healing. There is no one right way. For too long, each of us has been dominated and controlled. Now is about reclaiming our life and our power to choose. So to all — do what you need and feel is best.
For me, I knew I had no choice but to write. My gut demanded it.
Trying and trying and trying…
I had contemplated writing my story for a long time…in fact, I tried many times. Magazine articles, a children’s picture book, a middle-grade chapter book, yet 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. I tried a picture book, then a chapter book. But the words died in my throat…what could I say that would make a difference?
For one, I am not a mental health professional, so I could not give them current or professional advice. Second, the children’s books I saw out there on the subject made it sound like all the child had to do was go to a helpful adult and tell them what was happening, and the adult would make it all better. To me, that seemed like REAL fiction—a betrayal of their reality, and that might offer no change or an even worse situation.
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 have the same problem 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 out,” whether from the abuser or other family members. So, I just felt I could offer little to help kids.
Later, 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 the time.
Now, decades later, and after years of more, I came to this book and writing for adults. While someone needs to write to children, I accept I am not the right person for that, at least not at this point. But I can speak to adults. Memoir is my strong suit, and….this time, I know my message:
“Despite what you did to me, I THRIVE.”
So for me, it was clear I had to write…to someone. It could not stay within any longer. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t been terrified, and haven’t backed away many times. Like Lucille Clifton’s poem, truth was finally catching up with me, and I knew it wouldn’t stop knocking.
But, what about…
Yet, my fears lined up before me like sentinels at attention. Before I could write this time, I had to consider a few things:
- 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?
I’ve already talked at length about “Why write?” and I’ll address the last question in a moment. But about the risks, what did I see?
- Failure – whatever that is. Probably failure in getting this book published. As my previous attempts to write and publish didn’t succeed. But frankly, even if this book never sees the light of day, I haven’t failed because I wrote my story. And shared it on both my blogs. Also, for the first time in my life, I have a coherent, complete picture of what happened. Not to mention that as I wrote, I kept growing, changing, “becoming.” So the only failure, I guess, would be that I couldn’t get it published.
- Facing my own demons – This is not really a risk. Just a scary thing.
- Exposed – I will be putting me out there, warts and all. It can be embarrassing. At the very least it’s like walking outside naked. You risk ridicule, shame, embarrassment.
- Loss of control – When you spend your whole life being a control freak as your “protective shield,” it is VERY scary to consider surrendering control of your “self-image” by putting all your thoughts out in public.
- Change – I am already changing as I am this far into this process. And whether change is a good thing or bad, change is always scary. So it is good that I am doing this book post by post. It gives me time to think, grow, absorb the change.
- Backlash and alienation – Will the people who know me castigate me for writing openly? Will I be attacked, emotionally, legally, verbally? Will I be cut off by those who know me?
- Health risks – physically and emotionally – Will writing and revisiting my pain, as well as risking being naked to the world, trigger my PTSD? Cause physical health issues due to stress?
- Judged as “lacking – This one echoes from my past – Will my story be seen as “Not bad enough to be worth writing about?” I know this is an “old tape” that comes from having had my experiences judged as “not that bad and others had it worse.” But it still lingers.
As to the last question — “Should I take on this battle”? For myself, after seven decades of silence, THAT ONE IS A DEFINITE YES. But it has taken me a lifetime, and I have thought long and hard.
No hanging off chandeliers, please
I am grateful that there are writers out there who have such powerful and pithy comments. They inspire me when I need it.
So as I prepared, yet again, to try to write something that could be useful to myself and others, I came across this quote. It was exactly the message I needed:
Silence isn’t safety – it’s suffocation.
@Salwanotes – “Quietly Becoming”
If I was to embrace it all and “become” something new in life, I had to write.
At first I quelled my fears by deciding I would use a pen name. After all, the story was what mattered, not who I was. But the more I wrote, the more I choked on that. As I had said before, if I had to live it, I get to speak it. And if I speak or write it, I get to sign it.
Besides, how could I write about “Be open. Face your fears. Speak your truth,” if I hid behind a pen name?
So after making my list of fears and risks about writing this book, I went in search of things that could help me counter them. I even reread an older book on my shelf, The Courage to Write, by Ralph Keyes.
It was a good read, and reminded me of how many writers feel that absolute terror of naked exposure when showing the world what is in their heads. And it only got worse when they knew their book was about to come out. Things became “vulnerable” in a big way when that time came.
But the book also had a recommendation to be a bold writer.
“The boldest writers of all are those who leave no doubt in the reader’s mind about what they’re getting at… gripping writing results from intensity, and intensity is the flip side of fear. Daring is always more riveting.”
While that was good advice, it didn’t totally fit this particular book.
I am being “daring enough” just by writing this book. That advice seemed more akin to a swashbuckling adventure novel, complete with sword fights and swinging off chandeliers. It didn’t feel quite right for me in this situation.
I wasn’t quite seeking “boldness,” so much as “quiet courage.”
The courage found in the quiet
Just like I made up my list of risks for writing this book, I have made up my list of what courage truly is. I am sure there are many other definitions and qualities that can be added, but these are mine:
Courage is what makes us step out of the perceived safety of “silent anonymity,” into the light, for better or worse. It is “volunteering to speak for all” when, of course, the cliché rule in life is to never volunteer. If I feel called to do it and I don’t, will another fill that spot? And who do I fail?
Courage is “swelling to fill the space.” All my life, I followed the rules of his family system. It meant I shrunk myself to be compliant, acceptable, not taking up too much space or attention. But to truly stand for something means to absolutely take up space and refuse to back down or shrink away.
Courage is answering “Yes” to whatever we are called to do…accepting that responsibility, even though it puts us in danger, and every fiber in our bodies is screaming “NO!”
Courage is caring deeply about something that matters and being willing to fight for it.
Courage is writing from humility. It is looking in the mirror and doing some deep self-interrogation and self-reflection. I was not always the virtuous hero. Just a flawed human trying to do my best.
Courage is also writing about others with kindness and humanity. Other writers, society even, may expect that a “real” writer puts their art and truth above all. And if we don’t, they may disparage us and our work. But as writer Maggie Smith noted in her podcast interview with author Ryan Holiday, “…the artist’s obligation isn’t solely to truth….you have to care about other people…Let’s not trade our humanity away for our art….”
And lastly, but most importantly:
Courage is hope for a new future – It is the hope that no matter how bad something has been, currently is, or even will get, that something good will still be built and the future can be better. It is the direct opposite of cynicism.
Reality check
At the end of the day, I am satisfied with my choices. But I am also realistic. I don’t expect that everyone will be happy with my choice to write. I can only make sure I follow my ethics in how I do it. And to that end, in an upcoming post, I will share my rules for my writing and my boundaries.
It is true that there is no place dark enough or deep enough to hide in when someone is upset with you. But on that count, I will simply have to take it one day at a time. And reach for the fledgling courage I have been nurturing and growing within me.
Truth-teller
The fact is, I have always been a “truth teller” in life. It’s just that so often I had to do it in little bits, quietly, gently. If there is any “boldness” in this current endeavor, it will be to stand tall in my role, no matter what.
In a recent journaling session, I wrote the piece below, “Dangerous.” It recapped the conversation my therapist and I had a while back on how dangerous it can be to be a truth-teller in life. It’s like Ralph Keyes said in his book, The Courage to Write: “The more we show ourselves, the greater danger we’re in.”
Dangerous
“You have been a truth-teller your whole life,
with such great courage from a very young age.
But it has cost you.
You have tried, again and again, in the face of abuse
to speak what was real.
But they never heard you…
because they can’t.”
She leaned forward,
earnest eyes bored into mine,
and she spoke each word slowly and deliberately:
“There is nothing to be gained
by confronting that family system again.
It is unsafe and unhealthy,
and you will never get through.
But even more, the situation is emotionally DANGEROUS to you.”
Dangerous.
It is a word tossed about so easily
that after a while it has about as much punch
as light mist on a cloudy day.
But that word,
delivered on the tongue of THIS person?
A wave of cold ran through me,
ominous foreboding
of what lay ahead of things taken too far,
and a frightening sense (sudden?; & view? image?)
of me harmed past repair.
I am tough,
we both are, she and I —
the New Yorker and the New Englander —
–no retiring flowers here.
Her skillful guidance has helped me heal, grow, thrive.
She knows I would never avoid to confront.
But her counsel also notes when it’s useless,
or foolish,
or…dangerous.
For whatever reason,
this time her words got through,
like a boulder smashing into my skull,
like someone snapping fingers and the dense fog disappears.
This time,
I FINALLY heard.
Just as quickly,
the full impact of seven decades of trying to
connect,
explain,
convince,
confront,
fit in,
defer,
absorb,
accept,
ignore,
excuse,
plead,
warn,
protect,
overlook,
and love,
crashed in and blew away the ground beneath my feet.
Was it a stupid waste of energy, trying all that time?
I was so sure of “greater love hath no man than that he lay down his life for a friend.”
So, of course, I picked up all gauntlets thrown down.
As the old Slovak women would say
when battered by life, but still standing,
they’d roll their r’s with those thick Eastern European accents
and spit out each word with evident pride:
“I St-r-r-r-o-n-g like bull.”
And I was.
My husband loves my solid peasant stock,
calls me his “Eastern European tractor woman.”
In that fashion, for years, I kept grinding away,
certain I would finally get through and they would see
the cause of it all was not my doing – that blame rests six feet under.
But I didn’t.
They haven’t.
And the tractor has ground to a halt.
The layers of loss, anguish, and grief
opened a hole in my heart
where a relationship used to be –
even imperfect ones leave a space.
Things hoped for that aren’t,
and walking alone way too long,
it may not be “over” – only death does that –
but my trying is.
I am older now,
bone weary,
it’s time to rest.
Time to heed the call to take care.
So, I lay down my arms,
retreat from the fray.
Not to surrender,
but regroup, redirect.
The new fight is coming
another day.
My husband has asked:
“How will you do that? It’s been such a toll.”
Fair question, I know,
but I will, I am certain.
It’s a mission for me, and one asked from beyond,
the silence of a lifetime
broken open by God.
The mission — this book — is midwife to my life,
and who knows,
for another, a helping hand.
It’s like that old saying,
and I think it is true,
that those pond ripples from a rock thrown,
always touch land.
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and make a visit to my home state for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
Please like, comment, and share this post to help spread the word. The link for my fundraiser is on GoFundMe. Thank you for your support.
Soul Mosaic 
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