…even when the title is too long and convoluted to be taken seriously in the serious world of titles.
REPOST
June 17, 2020 * excerpt from work-in-progress memoir
I’m 21 days into meditating every morning, and what often comes up in my guided mediation is the suggestion to “think of someone whom you feel neutral about — you neither like or dislike them” and my mom always pops into my head. It causes me to pause, which I try not to do in that very moment, because I wonder if I do feel neutral about her. I gut-check myself all the time, testing to see if I feel anger or hate or sadness, and I guess it’s true — I don’t really feel anything. I can get angry about situations and memories, and I often think that’s because it’s the memory of me of then reacting to how I felt then with her. But not that I feel that way now. Which challenges me to dig a little deeper to be sure I’m not once again shoving down my stuff and not dealing with it.
I’ve become the girl who likes to pull out all the dark places to examine everything in the light. I think this is important to learn what is hiding in there, and like looking behind the curtain at the wizard, understanding that a lot of what lives back there is old and musty and probably a big ole lie. So, I feel neutral about Mom right now. This feels wrong, too. It’s like I’m done, or like I don’t care, and I know I do care. Or maybe I know that I’m supposed to care and I don’t anymore.
It’s like — and not like — sending out your book into the world to get an agent, and not caring when they say no thank you, except you do care, but you also feel neutral. Or you’re supposed to say you feel fine about the rejection, or you’re supposed to whine and complain. I don’t know — the ideals of what we’re supposed to do are confusing. If I’m too feeling, I’m dramatic and need to buck up. If I’m too chill, I’m not dealing with my stuff, or I don’t care enough about my work.
Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.
Part of me is afraid to lose my feelings about Mom and her behaviors. If I lose the emotions, can my writing be as strong? Or can I report without being too emotional now? The needs of a writer are many, and emotions are, I believe, a big one, but so is the need to not dig one’s self a new hole every time she mines for the gold.
This place confuses me with its lack of tears and balled fists of fury.
On the news today is a story of a woman I know who has turned herself in for the death of a child a few months ago. I’m struck by some idea that also never surprises me: evil lurks everywhere. I think back to what I heard about this woman from others, since my interactions with her were few and from a distance. She was described then as mean and petty and sometimes cruel with how she spoke. She showed her true colors all along, not that we would have deduced she could be responsible for the death of a child. Of course, she’s innocent until proven guilty, but we are reminded over and over in life that when someone shows you who they truly are, you should believe them.
Mom showed me who she truly was, and maybe who she still is, and maybe the nine years that have passed so far without having a conversation with her to be harmed anymore has helped close that gap of need — the need to be loved, seen, heard, and whatever else that younger me desired so very badly. Maybe now I can see objectively; I can separate emotion so as not to give permission for readmittance, to keep me safe and on the steady road to healing.
Time and space work well for so many things: mental health, peace, healing from trauma, and re-reading anything I’ve ever written. I look back on some of those early rejections for works that are laughable now. I hereby issue a public apology to all the editors I ever bothered with my writing from “back then.” Not to beat myself up or anything, but let’s be honest — most of it is bad bad bad.
Yet, there are also some very good bits out there, some good ideas. Execution hasn’t always been my strongest point, but I have had good ideas. That’s where I sit this week, sandwiched between another one-on-one overnight with one of my grandchildren and my eldest child’s thirtieth birthday — along with John finishing a big foam build (a year-long project) of Wonder Woman — thinking about ideas and life and what was and what is. I feel so incredibly blessed right now, and I don’t mean like hashtag “look at my awesome life” blessed, but rather knowing where I was and where I am, knowing I’m not just alive, but that I’m healthy and happy. I’ve chosen to lean in with intentionality every single day to taking care of my physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health, and it’s paying off.
Ideas, though, seem to be slow at returning. I slog through words almost every day, hopeful to stumble upon the bucket of ideas I’ve had before, the ideas that begged for attention when I didn’t have time, and isn’t that just how it works… I know if I write, something will come, but mostly it’s all introspective and short and not at all pitch-worthy. I used to get a lot of ideas when I walked every day, but I don’t live where it feels safe to take long walks. My walking now takes place in the living room on the treadmill or quickly with the pups and husband. My showers are too short now, too, as I work to manage my carbon footprint and water bill all in one. And I fall asleep too quickly for long jaunts through the flowered fields of ideas at night.
Blah blah blah, I have zero ideas and now I want a sandwich and a nap. [end]
I opted to share this piece un-edited today because I often have conversations with others about how our brains work and how as a writer I try to just let my own brain do its thing before I edit out the extra content. Letting it all come out the way it does helps me to see threads and what I’m thinking about, as well as work through something I might not have known was weighing heavily until it suddenly shows up on the page. This may never make it into the final work, but it spoke to me, moved me.
If you’re just joining me: I’m a survivor of complex trauma and am on my healing journey. I share openly and candidly of my experiences with child abuse, neglect, sexual assault, teen pregnancy (and teen marriage), domestic violence, and all the complicated living that comes with it, alongside the beauty that is life. This whole blog comes with a TRIGGER WARNING. Almost everything I share is pretty much stream of consciousness writing. I am not a doctor or counselor (but I am a trauma informed coach and advocate). What’s with the tiara? Watch This!
Photo by Kira Whitney Photography
