Bluebird: Women and the New Psychology of Happiness by Ariel Gore. It’s the book I’m reading. Pieces of me stare back from in between the words on every page.
” . . . the act of writing our lives has an intrinsically healing effect. . .[women] by telling their stories, they begin to see their experiences — especially their negative experiences — as part of a longer life narrative. When we can see the big picture, and begin to understand some part of the vast context in which things happen, that seeing eases the resonance of whatever it is that haunts us” (Gore 92).
That is exactly what I’ve been doing or trying to do. How did she know?
Trapped in my own head, in my own life, I thought that this was my little secret. A moment’s thought would have told me how wrong I was. Not that I didn’t already know. I just didn’t want to think about it. Part of me wanted it to be all about me. To be all mine, something I didn’t have to share or explain or justify. I wanted something that belonged to me alone. I wanted my own private outlet. I wanted a way to create something that was not of bone or muscle but of words and ideas, things that couldn’t be captured, that didn’t need watching or caring. I wanted words to smear across pages. I could walk away from these words and forget all about them.
Wanting an outlet, wanting not to care, no one was more surprised than I to discover that I do care. The words that I thought came too easily bound themselves to me. They became my children. I still love them when they mess up, when they don’t do what I want them to do. I love them because they are a part of me. I love them because they can also stand alone. . . at least some of them time.
They are more than children. They have given birth to a new me, a me that I didn’t really know before I committed to writing a blog.
I like this new me better. She’s deeper, more thoughtful. She sees things I don’t see. She gazes at a bigger picture and occasionally takes the time to reassure me that “Everything will be OK. Trust.”
And, most of the time, I do trust that she knows something I don’t, this new me that I find looking back at me in between the posts and the pages. I like this story so much better than the one I was haphazardly compiling in between one catastrophe and the next. Things that once haunted me with a vengeance don’t interrupt my sleep at night.
Writing has to take a lot of the credit. Writing is knitting the pieces back together again. I am writing myself whole and it feels good.