Fire

This morning is no different from so many before; I feel lost. The extensive schedule I’ve generated to keep myself busy doesn’t replace the profession that I cannot go back to. I feel so much less important and without a purpose. More than that though, the morning brings another day filled with painful, traumatic memories from the past. They encroach on the void left by everything I’ve lost and threaten to fill the space. Despair lurks around the edges of my mind, but deep inside me there is also a steadfast ember that refuses to give up. Its warmth is enough to fuel my footsteps as I walk through my garden to find a place in the sun to write. The ember kindles a small flame and I’m reminded that I, not him and certainly not them, am in charge of the words that appear on the page.

All the memories will still be here tomorrow, but so will the fire.

Thanks to other people’s generosity, I recently had the opportunity to attend a virtual writing and yoga workshop. Writing and yoga have both been incredibly important parts of my life over the past few years, so I jumped at the chance to take a workshop that (amazingly!) combined them.

Each day of the workshop was centred on an elemental theme: air, water, fire, and earth. You just read one of the short pieces that I wrote as part of an exercise on “Fire Day”. Over the course of the workshop we were tasked with writing about life experiences and challenges using the language and feelings from each theme: Think about a time when you’ve taken a deep breath and jumped into something uncertain; when you were faced with weathering a raging storm; when you stood up to a fear that threatened to consume you. What happened? How did you make it through? What did you discover?

For me, in responding to the biggest challenge of my life, I wrote. So, in response to these prompts, I found myself writing about writing.

Writing has been a big part of my life for the past several years; it has helped me come to terms with the terror and violence that I experienced at the hands of my abuser, the loss of my career, and my struggles with shame and despair. As a psychiatrist, I know from the medical literature that writing in the form of reflections and journaling can be helpful with coping, processing, and recovering from trauma and loss. I have watched this in action, as some of my own patients benefitted from writing about their experiences. So, when I first started writing myself, I had hope that it would help me as well.

For me, writing quickly grew past journaling. I wrote a draft of a (yet unpublished) book, which then inspired me to start this blog. I’ve literally spent thousands of hours in front of a computer, trying to put down the right words.

Writing started as a way to help me through the most difficult challenge of my life, but the writing process itself has been its own huge challenge. Any writing that I’ve done in the past was formal; I’ve authored several medical research papers and textbook chapters. The style of writing required to share the most terrible and vulnerable times in my life is very different and has not come easily to me. I’ve learned that if want to use the raw truth of my story to give power to the messages I want to convey, I have to dig deeply into my experiences, relive some very traumatic events, and face some very painful truths. This has been tremendously difficult for both me and for my editor/husband.

Beyond the taxing process of writing about my trauma, pain, and loss, I’ve always given myself one last challenge before considering any piece “complete”: I take my writing to the quiet and safety of an empty room in my home and read what I’ve written out loud. Even though I have already spent hours and days agonizing over each word, this act re-immerses me back into the sensations and emotions that I experienced when the events were actually happening. My heart races and often I cry. The memories I’ve spent so long processing in my mind while writing are brought to life in my body. Re-experiencing them like this helps me see that I am now in control. The memories don’t drown or consume me and using my voice to confront and own them is empowering.

Like yoga, I’ve come back to writing day after day as a way to ground myself. Writing has given me purpose and direction when I’ve felt lost and adrift, and it has enabled me to remain centred through a very prolonged and frightening life storm. Writing has fanned a flame within me that, through all the pain and uncertainty, has refused to die.

All the memories will still be here tomorrow, but so will the fire.