*Content warning: self harm (historical)*
In the writing circles I have been gathered into, writers fall somewhere along a spectrum. One on side are plotters – those who outline, timeline, and map out how their story will unfold. On the other side are the pantsers – those who write “by the seat of their pants.” For those of you who know me outside of a computer screen, you may be surprised to learn that I am an absolute pantser.
Fun fact: whenever I sit down to write this blog, I almost always know exactly where it starts, and almost never know exactly where it ends. Sure, most times I know what I want to write about as far as a general topic, or story I want to share. Occasionally, even that is a surprise to me. For someone who loves structure and clarity as much as I do, it vexes me to not be able to find a straight line in anything I write.
Don’t get me wrong – I absolutely love writing. I love the feel of a pen in my hand, the ease at which the ink flows across the page. I love that a simple Word document can keep up with my racing brain, even if my fingers occasionally fumble on the keys. I love the aesthetics of writing in all media it takes, and I will buy any sticker with a typewriter on it I find. I love notebooks and stationary, and how fonts can be used to impart tone and how twenty-six letters can tell infinite stories. I have never considered myself as someone who suffers for my craft.
But the lack of being able to plan for “what comes next” definitely abrades my neural network, sandpaper rubbing against the grain. When it comes to writing, I cannot think linearly; and the longer I do it, the less predictable it is.
The need is there – the need to put words to my feelings, the need to express the constant churn inside me. Recently on social media I saw the question circulating, “why did you write?” My prepared answer for when I’m famous one day is pretty much, because queer stories deserve to be told like anyone else’s. But under that, a far more raw and truthful answer – because I had to. It’s a compulsion. I don’t believe I could ever stop writing again. So even as I struggle to find a routine, even a rhythm, that makes it possible for me to hit the release valve on these dammed words, I know they must. And they will, whether I want them to or not.
I recently finished a book called, What Happened to You? co-authored by Oprah and Dr. Bruce Perry. While I have long known the impact of trauma (both capital T and otherwise) on my own life, it was still incredible to hear the neuroscience behind it. Every word, carefully spoken by one author or the other, brought more understanding to my own struggles, as well as those of people I love.
It was also the first time that someone besides my own therapist outright called self-harm an addiction.
I’m not sure if I’ve ever spoken about that here. Likely in passing; it’s not something I hide. I don’t wear long skirts or pants every day, or long for tattoos to cover the memories. It wouldn’t matter if I never saw the scars again. I’d still miss it, and still think about the kiss of the blade every single day.
It has been sixteen years, nine months, and fourteen days since the last time I cut through my own skin in order to find relief. Six thousand, one hundred, thirty-two days.
The best part about that? I had to look it up. I stopped counting the days long ago.
Oh, I remember the last date, the whole last event. That one didn’t scar – my body, anyway. I still think about it. Sometimes, I still even crave it. I yearn for that release. I dream of it, romanticize it, and I never go back.
Not too long ago, I threw a pair of scissors across the room from where I sat. It took me a few minutes to realize why the hell I had done that. Yeah. It’s an addiction, and the lure of it is ever present. I called my therapist, then my doctor, then pulled out my WRAP plan and followed it.
Now here I am, over 800 words into this, and just now getting to what I actually wanted to talk about. Total typical pantser behavior.
Another concept What Happened to You? brought to light was that of post-traumatic wisdom. There’s something to be said for living through shit and coming through the other side. You learn things – about yourself, other people, and how you relate to the world. You already know, far too well, what doesn’t feel good. If you’ve worked on your trauma, if you’ve discussed and analyzed and contextualized and gotten down and dirty with it, you know it.
And if you know it that intimately, you can get to know the seeds the shadows leave behind.
One thing my therapist and I have been talking about a lot lately is learning to savor. Lately, just the past month or so, I’ve been trying hard to be more present with what is in front of me, and give my anxiety and depression less of my active attention. (Getting off social media has, annoyingly, been very helpful with this). And while ‘mindfulness’ has been a word that just irks me, thinking about presence and intention has struck a chord.
On our trip to San Francisco, I had zero chill. Like, none. (There will be another post about that trip coming soon). The train car at the airport heard me clearly blurt out, “Holy shit is that a palm tree?” and “Oh my god, that’s a cactus!” I couldn’t stop staring at staggered rows of pelicans flying overhead in the sunset light. I laughed until I was breathless, chasing my kid in the surf.
So hey… When’s the last time you looked back through your phone at the pictures you took, on a trip or at a concert or something you wanted to remember?
I have looked at the ones from that trip nearly daily, and not just pulling them up to show people; but opening them on purpose to think about, and recall the feeling of wonder in my chest as I stared up the impossibly tall trunk of a redwood; to feel the warmth of the tidepool water on the beach, and the cool breeze between my teeth from my jaw dropping when we discovered herds of elk on the cliffs.
This past week, on Wednesday, I sat down with my morning coffee like I do every morning. Coffee ice cubes, brewed with cardamom and cinnamon, a splash of milk; it was one of the most memorable cups of coffee I’ve had. Why? I’m not sure, but I do know that I savored every sip.
Another thing – when it’s trauma that teaches you to savor, it also teaches you when it’s safe to do so. There’s a quote I keep thinking of and have yet to find again, about the overwhelming sensory experience in a modern-day grocery store (and no, it’s not the Jon Kabat-Zinn one, which is possibly misattributed anyway). But anyway, the grocery store? Not a safe place for me to be intentionally present and try to savor. Hell, no. Get me out of there as fast as possible. Grocery shopping produces (ha) such anxiety in me, that when I get ready to go, I make the list twice – once to know what I need, then to put it in order of my route through the store, which does not change. The kiddo even has made a little song to remind me that “it’s okay to be stressed, just take three deep breaths” while we make our way through the weekly hell.
And now, with that behind me, I can savor. I have a beer that I really enjoy, my kid bouncing her way through a game on the beat-up couch, doofy dog under my feet, and I’m writing. Not at my usual time, not even at my preferred time – based on past routines, I should be cooking right now – but here I am. I can see the small smile on my face in the reflection, feel the cool air on my arms and warm socks on my feet. It’s raining outside, loud enough to get past my headphones, and is adding to the ambiance.
I’ve got a bunch of chapters left to write for my novel, and not wholly sure what I’m doing with them. I’m already dreaming up the next series. And I’m writing a blog post, while remembering I need to keep working on my Skillshare class for social media marketing.
I’m safe, sheltered, fed, and warm enough. I should put on my reading glasses; I should drink some water. For a few more moments, however, I’m going to write – because I love to and because I need to – and just savor this little slice of time.
… Where was I going with this?
Now go look at the pictures of fireworks you took, thinking you’d look at them someday. Make that day today. Call up a memory, a feeling, if you’re in a place to do so. Or make a new one – let a pastry melt on your tongue, wrap yourself in your softest blanket, or whatever is going to feel so good that when you fall asleep tonight, you can think of it again, and drift off with a smile.
Take care of yourself. We all have to start there.
Queer Mama Rising 