What if?

Listening to that inner voice until you change it's mind.

the beech trees in the gardens outside our apartment

Last week I wrote about not knowing what I am doing, about feeling a little lost in this vast wilderness I call ‘writing a book’, this week, I have been through peaks and troughs and am still not much clearer, but I am learning and I am finding my way through. One thing is certain, this is going to take me much much longer than I ever envisaged, but it is also going to make me a much better writer as a result, and that is a win, even if ‘the book’ doesn’t turn out the way I envisioned it to be.

This whole journey is teaching me more and more about myself and even in the dead stops I have faced, I have been able to take time out and reflect on my purpose, on my dream and vision for myself as a ‘writer’ and I have been able to look back at some of my trauma in a whole new light.

Last weekend I went to my sister’s house for a family gathering and I was asked what I was up to these days, always a difficult question for someone with chronic illness, but I hesitantly said “I am writing a book, a memoir about overcoming trauma”, I was met by an unconvincing smile, and a comment from my sister that, to be honest, I kind of expected. She said “What trauma have you ever faced?!” and while it annoyed me initially, I began to understand how different we were. We had the same parents, the same upbringing, and the same access to opportunities, but we are vastly different people. My sister is an eternal optimist, a toxic positivity kinda girl, never really going too deep or asking too many questions, I am the complete opposite. I am also almost certainly ADHD (self diagnosed) where she does not even believe it exists.

It took a few days to get back into my writing after that, not only was I taken aback and offended by her remarks, and subsequent mocking of me, but I began to believe the familiar internal monologue that has been part of my life since I was a child all over again, and no amount of reasoning or sheer determination was going to stop it speaking up:

“you’re not good enough”

“who do you think you are?”

“you are useless and this will fail”

Alongside “your feelings do not matter” as they made fun of me and dismissed my vivid memories as “ridiculous and definitely didn’t happen”. Had I made them up? Was I imagining my ‘trauma’? Perhaps I really didn’t have anything to write about after all?

I was firmly stuck, my feet trapped in quicksand, my mind empty, I could not even think, never mind write again, and this time it wasn’t the brain fog of chronic illness. I was doubting myself again. I posted on Notes that I was stuck and received some really helpful encouragement to keep going, and I began to find my voice again, slowly, but I still had to vanquish this monologue inside of me.

I took myself outside, sat in the sunshine beneath the beech trees in our communal garden, initially intending to read, but eventually just listening and sitting quietly, one by one dismissing the unhelpful words floating around my head. I heard the leaves rustling in the branches above me, felt the calm, warmth of the sun on my skin, and watched as birds and insects flew around me. I softened my anger at my mum and sister, and I thought to myself “Just keep going Lisa, this may or may not be the bestseller you wanted, and it may not even end up as a memoir, but eventually you will know what you need to write if you just keep going, keep plodding along and improving your ability to put pen to paper, one day at a time”

My little ADHD brain was quick to interject “Maybe you should start writing with pen again - buy a nice new one? Ditch the laptop!” and “Oooh you’re going to need a new notebook” (I don’t, I have about 12 unused ones on my shelf, but who am I to deny myself a nice shiny journal and some new pens?!), and all sorts of plans to “make this work”. I could barely keep up with myself!

Eventually, after some time, I settled and decided I would write again when I had something to write about, and I would just journal my feelings and emotions until that point. Well, that worked and no sooner had I resolved to ‘go slow’ did another memory pop up and an opportunity to write into some hard feelings I was facing as my Dad was admitted to hospital with alzheimer related pneumonia. It wasn’t easy, but it calmed me in that moment, and helped me to face the situation better. It also got me reflecting on what I had written so far.

I fleshed a few things out, used my creative brain and took my focus off numbers, story telling and perfectionism, and into something more genuine and reflective. Something that I hope will help me to grow as I continue. Something that will work alongside the therapy I have had already to enable me to truly uncover my emotions and memories of what is and what isn’t trauma, for me.

On Wednesday I was writing a poem for a poetry group I belong to online, and the prompt for this week was “What if?” I gave myself 10 mins to free write and came up with the following poem, which I think sums up where I am at right now, so I thought I would share it with you here.

What if?

On bad days when I have nothing to do, which is often
I sometimes sit with my thoughts for too long
listening to them, as they take up residence inside my head 
asking random questions, craving answers from me
as if I knew how to respond to these
impossible to answer dilemmas,

what if it all goes wrong? 
what if you don't make it?
what if you are not good enough?

and I feel myself sinking as if stuck feet first in quicksand
burying my head like an ostrich, not wanting to know
peering into the despair, feeling heavier and unable to breathe.
Is there really no hope for me?

Have I really been left to rot on this cotton quilted heap, 
where nobody cares what I do unless it pleases them alone?
Am I destined to be suffocated by my own incompetence?

What if I am just lazy?
What if I am not really ill?

The noise becomes unbearable, so I tune out from its clatter
and I read a book, watch my favourite comfort tv show, or
listen to some music from the old days, when life was easy, 
bringing some joy into the darkness inside my mind
and I hear hopeful optimism, whispering gently

What if this isn’t the end?
What if things aren’t as bad as they seem?
And the world doesn't end like you think it will?
What if you make it through?
What if this is your divine purpose, and the universe
wants to hear your voice? What if you win?

I clamber out of the bed, and head to the window
where I see hope in the budding branches, as colour
drenches the once dry soil beds with petals, 
and I feel the cool breeze gently prickling my skin

What if it didn't need to be this way? 
What if everything you were taught was a lie?
What then? What if they were wrong?

I press my hands onto the glass window pane 
and whisper to nobody in particular, to the world outside, 
"wait for me, I am coming"

I slip my fingers around my pen, and start to write, 
I write my way out of despair and into hope
I write frantically and furiously, telling my story,
refusing to conform. 

Because
what if it works?
what if it heals me in a way no doctor ever could?

I guess what I am saying here is, I don’t know what my ‘book’ will look like right now, maybe it will be a bestseller memoir, or maybe it will morph into something entirely different, I don’t know. But ‘what if I don’t write it?’ I know that option will leave me feeling sad and regretful. I don’t want to end my days knowing I had the opportunity and I didn’t take it.

So what if I do? and the process heals me, not from my chronic illness, but from the trauma, and the experiences that have shaped me until this moment, and what if, in doing all of this, I find myself. That’s worth keeping going for if nothing else.

I don’t want to lose my passion for poetry writing in the midst of all this, and I want to make sure I learn as I write, so I am taking it slowly, sharing bits of the story with you as I go, and hopefully, at the end of it all, I will be more grounded, more confident and who knows, maybe an author? That’d be nice.

Until next time

Lisa x