Finding the strength to tell my story

I am writing my story. Why am I doing it? I simply need to work through a childhood I don't always understand, I'm not always okay with, yet still I'm frequently uplifted by. I have a need to be heard, so I speak, and write. If no one is listening, reading, understanding or caring, at least I'm sending it out. Each time I give some thought or feeling or painful memory a home–a space to go that is outside of me– I can breathe a little easier. 

The story of my life may get jumbled or mis-remembered, but it's the emotional memory that guides me and binds me to the multi-dimensional fragments of life and truth. It all may seem confusing and overwhelming and sticky, but I know that if I keep at it, in time I will transcend this massive task. 

I read a lot of memoir, I actively seek out other life stories on a regular basis in order to give myself the strength I need to continue. This is one such story that moved me, this TED Talk from 2012. 

Lemn Sissay is a notable poet in the UK. His story is shocking and humbling to the (surely past) foster care system of the 60's. Lemn is prolific, and inspiring. 











Much can be taken away from this talk depending on who you are–it could be totally different from the person standing next to you. So much of what Lemn spoke about moved me, though I have not been an orphan, a foster child, a ward of the state, or a minority. Some interested in policy and advocacy may look to this account as a means to change. For me, what he's done here, is give me strength.

What right does anyone have to tell their story? I would argue, they are made of their story and so it is theirs to tell, as they have experienced it. It's important to note that sharing our life experience should never be to lay blame, but to unite us, one to another. Saying this is what I saw, what I did, what was done to me, what I felt, how I survived, who I am. 

As for Lemn, he is resilience personified. 

Aside from the great empathy and love I hold for this man, I feel unlimited respect for what he's been through and how he's come through it so eloquently. 

Photo by Emma Crouch, Flickr

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I connected with these words; 

"I'm reporting back. I'm reporting back simply to say that when I left the children's home I had two things that I wanted to do. One was to find my family, and the other was to write poetry. In creativity I saw light.In the imagination I saw the endless possibility of life, the endless truth, the permanent creation of reality, the place where anger was an expression in the search for love, a place where dysfunction is a true reaction to untruth."

Lemn's talk, to me, illustrates the universal healing power of story, of gleaning forward motion from understanding the past in order to infuse it into strength to go on–no matter what happens.

I too, am reporting back. 

Inspiration: The Whispering Ghosts of the Mind

When do the ghosts of ideas appear for you?  Every single morning I live with the protagonist in my book. It always begins as the steam from the shower billows up around me, as if permeating my skin and sending the story straight into my soul. 

That is how her story began almost three years ago, she made her way forcibly into my life. Since then I have been stumbling around intellectually trying to grasp the skills necessary to convey what she tells me in a way that people will want to hear.

 And she always begins her ranting through some connection with water. There is something about when I am around water that compels her to speak to me. Perhaps that is why I took the kids to the pool so many times this summer. I could hardly ever write there, mind you. A few times I would allow my Macbook to accompany me and I would tap away through the happy laughter and shouting of the kids. 

 Most times I would sit watching them with my mind mostly somewhere beyond where they were in a world that was playing out as if in a scene from a movie. I would let that world settle into my bones. It felt right there, almost like an adrenaline rush. Sometimes, I'll admit, I enjoy that world a bit better. 

So I think that is how my life as a writer began. I was looking for something more when I wasn't finding the color and depth that I was craving in certain aspects my life, so this was a way to do it without breaking any social norms. 

This was the way I could be the stay at home mom my husband and I decided that we wanted for our children and I could let the stories play out within my head. It's not easy, sometimes the voices scream imperceptibly at me, unable to accept that I choose my children and husband first and foremost over them. 

They are incredibly pushy. Sometimes they overcome me, and leave me in something like a cold sweat as they come in waves, there is no chance of containing them all. I have to believe, though, that the ones I successfully grasp are the ideas that are meant to remain. Even after they make me believe I am somewhat neurotic, I believe that there is a little bit of madness to any creative endeavor. 

Often I lose the purpose of what the visions and voices are trying to tell me. Somewhere between the shower and the driveline at school, I lose bits and fragments. The atmosphere of the idea, or how one bit made the hair on my arms raise, so I knew it was right. My ideas are like bubbles blown out in wonder by a child, I'm running around trying to catch the one resting precariously on a single blade of grass before it pops. 

No matter the successes and defeats, something inside me tells me to continue on. Though this may be the scenic route, I will arrive soundly and solidly at my destination. As I know writing is the journey. It is the discovery that what people say cannot be done, can in fact be accomplished and can be done with grace and stalwartness.