Outside of close family and friends, or in situations where I feel the need to clarify or speak directly into unfolding narratives, I haven't really shared the A-Z of what I'm healing from.
The drum we beat becomes our anthem. I love too many types of music to get stuck in one song.
I'm still not sure how much of those rhythms I even want to revisit. I spent enough time there, waiting for the sun. Good news is, there's no rush.
If and when the things I have to say about those topics and that time in my life seem necessary, whether to speak the truth about a version of events or to encourage someone going through similar things, I've found the words are well within my reach. They flow like a faucet, when the spigot is turned.
Unless and until then, I am not seeking to set myself up as an authority on domestic violence, abuse, divorce, et al.
I never hope to set myself up as an authority on anything at all. I'm a life-long learner, still figuring out who I want to be, who I am becoming.
I am getting to know me and I'm taking my time.
However, as a writer and longtime blogger, the temptation to turn any one fleeting thought into a full-blown series, complete with searchable keywords and a free, downloadable .pdf of helpful resources is very, very real.
The convenience of telling a friend who is midstream in mediation "Go to my blog, click the 'Survivng the Night' tab for exhaustive (and exhausting) coverage of my own journey as well as helpful links for your own journey" would be, it seems, quite convenient and efficient.
But way less personal and much less personalized than the one-on-one conversations that occur, as needed, in real time, once in a blue moon.
So, when I have a simple thought like "I notice that I'm noticing details more and I think it has something to do with getting better." or "I notice my attention span changing and it feels healthy." the writer within wants to 'talk' about it.
And I have been noticing just that. I will watch a movie or read something I've already been exposed to in the past but I am experiencing it anew, with deeper saturation. I am able to be more present, more dialed in.
It is a positive change, one I'm happy to notice in myself. It is nice to know that healing is possible. It is important to believe it, too.
"I should share that," I think "for the sake of others who are nursing their own nervous systems. I should tell them that better things await, there are better things ahead" (pun intended, if you spot it)
I shared with a friend this week (and my little sister last week) that part of my challenge in writing now is I don't really need to. I am safe now. Free to speak freely, or to say "No" or, if I don't want to, nothing at all.
I no longer feel the need to start a new journal entry behind several blank pages of 'camouflage' (lest my words be intercepted and intentionally misinterpreted.) It's a thing I still find myself doing out of habit sometimes, even after I realized I could breathe easy and start on Page 1.
Not that long ago, I had a similar moment of realization about visual art & collage. For many years, I scrap / art journaled, primarily rearranging words and images I cut from the mountains of magazines hauled home from library discard piles.
(links: Orange Journal - https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-orange-journal_27.html and Blue Journal: https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2018/09/the-blue-journal_6.html - I haven't digitized all of them but these were used for court)
In my 'Scavenged Art Project' I made a point to use up so many of the clipped words I'd been harboring for years. I still do collage and couldn't pass up a busted laundry basket full of discarded magazines if I tried, but I've found my execution is evolving.
I don’t need the words of others so much - I use my own now.
(link: posts about "Scavenged Art"- https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/search?q=Scavenged+Art)
Yesterday, I shared some old writing entries with that same friend and, as is often the case, I got a better glimpse of who I've been thanks to the visage from Hindsight Hill.
Often, I remember I have an entry about a keyword or certain subject (in this case, it was about fire and matches) but I'll have forgotten the full context, and especially any palpable emotions I now see clearly in revisiting.
So often, my words have been spillage, a way to cope.
Did I think I was doing a good job hiding pain back then? Like a child who thinks she's hidden by keeping her own eyes closed, perhaps.
Or was it necessary to bury these losses in shallow word graves and just keep moving? Like casualties in war time with the enemy fast approaching, we'll come back later with headstones.
And then - - I see the date and, though it feels like four lifetimes ago, it was practically only yesterday.
My lines are fewer now ... for now ... because I'm free (and apt) to speak aloud.
And that's a good thing.
