The Spot Where the Soul Thoughts are Spoken and Feeling Out Loud, Your Space
Heal Yourself: Heal Your World (Part One)
I believe the writing process is a healing process. It is with this in mind, that I am beginning a new series of posts entitled “Heal Yourself: Heal Your World.” This is the first installment in that series.
Personal disclosure is not something at which I am very good. To be honest, it scares me. Even so, I realize that it is, at times, necessary. Healing, in and of itself, requires disclosure. The simple fact of the matter is that you cannot heal what you do not acknowledge. Another important aspect of healing is that of facing your fears. I believe that one cannot overcome that which he/she refuses to name. As a human being, I fear exposure. As a writer, I know that my words cannot bring healing without it.
Every human being has a story. Some allow their stories to define them; others choose to give definition to their stories and in so doing give structure to the narratives that make up their lives. Deena Metzger said, “To follow Story is to understand the path of healing. Each of our stories is a universe. Each one of us is a living story. To discover its shape and essence is essential in soul making”; and, in my opinion, soul healing.
I didn’t choose writing; it chose me. My earliest memories are of writing. I remember having drawers stuffed full of stories and poems—drawers my mother would tear through on a regular basis. She would yell, scream, and, at times, beat me for being such a slob. Then she would make me throw all of my treasures away. To her, these bits of my soul were useless. In fact, the only piece of my writing she ever found useful was a poem that I had written about my grandmother—her mother.
I wrote it the day my grandmother died. I told my mother I wanted to read it at my grandmother’s funeral. I wasn’t permitted to attend the funeral. I begged and pleaded, but to no avail. There just wasn’t enough money for all of us to take the trip, and she needed me to stay behind and take care of my four younger brothers. I was only twelve years old, but I had been responsible for taking care of my brothers and the majority of the household chores for several years. My mother assured me that she would read my poem. When she took it from my hand, there were tears in her eyes; and for a brief moment, I felt bonded to her. The words of that poem had united us.
When my mother returned from the funeral, I asked for my poem back. When she told me she had placed it inside my grandmother’s coffin, I was devastated. I didn’t have another copy of the poem. I had told my mother this before she left. She assured me she would bring it back. When I started crying, she told me that I was being selfish. How could I even bring up such a trivial matter when she was grieving the loss of her mother? I, too, was grieving; but my grief was over the loss of the only person who had ever shown me unconditional love. My grandmother was my anchor. Without her, I felt adrift on a tumultuous sea. The words I wrote about her were all I had left, and now they, too, were gone.
I don’t hate my parents. I tried to, but I couldn’t. Somehow, even as a child, I understood that they were far too wounded to give me the security and love I needed. My father was an alcoholic. He wasn’t so bad when he was sober; but, then again, he was only sober four days out of the week. My mother was chronically depressed—today they call it bi-polar. She scared me. She could turn on a dime. One minute she would be laughing. The next she would be raging. I don’t know why, but I was usually her target. What can I say? My dad beat her; she beat me.
I grew up in a war zone. There was constant fighting, constant drama, and constant chaos. My father’s drunken tirades were always the talk of the neighborhood. They started Friday night when he got off work and didn’t end until Sunday afternoon when he would sober up enough to go back to work on Monday. He was a mean drunk who liked to abuse women and children. My mother never drank. Thank God, she was crazy enough without any added stimulants. My father, well, the booze just added fuel to his already fractured psyche and made him meaner than a rattlesnake. Through all the madness, however, they both touted hard work and a decent education as the measure of person’s success.
I was a good student. My father was surprised by my intelligence and more than a little troubled by my artistic leanings. He made it clear that what little money he had would not go to sending his only daughter to college when he had four sons waiting in the wings. He told me that I would just get married and get pregnant. It would be a waste of money. So what did I do? I ran off at sixteen and married my childhood sweetheart. I’m proud to say that I’ve been married to him for over thirty-six years. We have two beautiful children—a thirty-three-year-old daughter and a thirty-one year-old son. We also have four beautiful grandsons—ages six, seven, twelve, and fourteen.
Shortly after I got married, I went back to school and got my GED. Back then, married students weren’t welcome in most high schools. When I felt that my children were old enough to function without so much mommy time, I went on to college. I received two associate degrees—one in applied science and one in general studies. I continued writing on-and-off, most times more off than on. I held several jobs, to include being an administrative assistant, an office manager, a telecommunication’s supervisor, and finally owning my own desktop publishing business. I was working on completing my bachelor’s degree when Spirit decided enough was enough.
I started having balance problems, panic attacks, and flashbacks. If that wasn’t bad enough I started getting sick a lot. I spent several years on antibiotics for a host of inexplicable infections. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I was a mess. Not knowing what else to do, I went to see a psychiatrist. He told me I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). I thought I had dealt with all of my childhood issues. The psychiatrist said it was evident that I had not. He prescribed several medications and sent me to a therapist. I threw the meds away—kept the therapist, though. Still the balance problems, panic attacks, and flashbacks persisted. That’s when I turned away from the therapist and turned back to writing.
As a child and a young adult, I had always written my way out of things. Surely, I could do it again. I started journaling. Shortly after I started writing again, I was diagnosed with Pulmonary Sarcoidosis—a granulomatous autoimmune disease. Yeah, that’s right—my body was attacking itself. To say I was sick would be an understatement. To say I was pissed—well, I won’t even go there.
I felt like I just couldn’t go on. Dealing with my childhood was hard enough, but I knew I could handle it. I had done it before. I had no idea how to deal with a body in rebellion. I was at a loss. To be honest, I had come totally undone. Then one night while I was lying in bed praying, I saw a woman standing on the edge of a precipice. She looked at me and told me her name; then she began to tell me her story. From that night on, I wrote. I quit school—besides the fact that I was too sick to handle academia, I really didn’t see the need in it anymore. I knew I had always wanted to be a writer. Now I felt like my life depended upon following that dream.
I wrote constantly—day and night. As I wrote, I felt myself changing. I began to nurture myself. I worked hard to get well. I took my medication and followed the advice of my pulmonary specialist and general practitioner. I began doing yoga and meditating. I made sure I wrote in my journal every day. I wrote poetry and short stories—all this on top of working on my novel.
I am happy to say that I have been in remission from Sarcoidosis for over three years now. I don’t have panic attacks, balance problems, or flash backs any longer. My PTSD is gone! To be honest, it began to disappear as soon as my creative spirit began to re-emerge. I say began because this re-emergence did not happen over night. It is an ongoing process—a process directly tied to my now daily practice of soul recovery.
Soul recovery is the process of retrieving the pieces of your soul that you abandoned or lost. This loss or abandonment can happen during a trauma, but it can also happen through the act of giving your power away to another person or entity. There are probably as many tools and processes for soul recovery as there are opinions about its veracity. I won’t get into those things—at least not now. I will say that my soul recovery tool of choice is my daily writing practice. I have other practices that augment my daily writing practice but, again, I will save that discussion for a later date. Suffice it to say, I believe that each one of us has the power to heal ourselves. In the end, our paths may differ, but we are all initiates on a journey to wholeness.
My journey thus far has resulted in the birth of two novels and the conception of a third. All of these books are part of my Family Legacy Series—a five book series that cuts straight to the heart of the generational legacy of familial abuse. I’m still not published; but you know what, it doesn’t matter anymore. For me, writing is about the process, not publication. It’s about healing, not getting rich. I believe that writers are called to heal the world with their words. That’s why I started Phoenix Rising Writers’ Corner.
My logo phoenix—a colorful fiery bird, a red rose in its mouth, rising out of the ashes, reborn and ready to take on the world—embodies who I am and what I believe. I am the writer. I am the Phoenix. I am the myth. I am the story. I transform and am transformed by the fiery words upon which I have built my own funeral pyre.
So let me ask you; “Who are you, and what do you believe?” And perhaps more importantly, “Are you ready to heal yourself and heal your world?”
I hope you have enjoyed the first installment of the “Heal Yourself: Heal Your World,” series. In the second installment, I will discuss my concept of soul retrieval as it relates to story building and expressive writing. In the third installment, I plan to discuss the various practices and rituals that I have found helpful in my own journey to wholeness. After that—well, we’ll just have to see where this trip down the rabbit hole leads us.
© 2009 Phoenix Rising. All Rights Reserved.
Individuals may copy this post for noncommercial use without permission provided that this post is used in its entirety and carries the Phoenix Rising copyright notice and the following link back to this blog: www.phoenixrisingwriterscorner.blogspot.com.
Personal disclosure is not something at which I am very good. To be honest, it scares me. Even so, I realize that it is, at times, necessary. Healing, in and of itself, requires disclosure. The simple fact of the matter is that you cannot heal what you do not acknowledge. Another important aspect of healing is that of facing your fears. I believe that one cannot overcome that which he/she refuses to name. As a human being, I fear exposure. As a writer, I know that my words cannot bring healing without it.
Every human being has a story. Some allow their stories to define them; others choose to give definition to their stories and in so doing give structure to the narratives that make up their lives. Deena Metzger said, “To follow Story is to understand the path of healing. Each of our stories is a universe. Each one of us is a living story. To discover its shape and essence is essential in soul making”; and, in my opinion, soul healing.
I didn’t choose writing; it chose me. My earliest memories are of writing. I remember having drawers stuffed full of stories and poems—drawers my mother would tear through on a regular basis. She would yell, scream, and, at times, beat me for being such a slob. Then she would make me throw all of my treasures away. To her, these bits of my soul were useless. In fact, the only piece of my writing she ever found useful was a poem that I had written about my grandmother—her mother.
I wrote it the day my grandmother died. I told my mother I wanted to read it at my grandmother’s funeral. I wasn’t permitted to attend the funeral. I begged and pleaded, but to no avail. There just wasn’t enough money for all of us to take the trip, and she needed me to stay behind and take care of my four younger brothers. I was only twelve years old, but I had been responsible for taking care of my brothers and the majority of the household chores for several years. My mother assured me that she would read my poem. When she took it from my hand, there were tears in her eyes; and for a brief moment, I felt bonded to her. The words of that poem had united us.
When my mother returned from the funeral, I asked for my poem back. When she told me she had placed it inside my grandmother’s coffin, I was devastated. I didn’t have another copy of the poem. I had told my mother this before she left. She assured me she would bring it back. When I started crying, she told me that I was being selfish. How could I even bring up such a trivial matter when she was grieving the loss of her mother? I, too, was grieving; but my grief was over the loss of the only person who had ever shown me unconditional love. My grandmother was my anchor. Without her, I felt adrift on a tumultuous sea. The words I wrote about her were all I had left, and now they, too, were gone.
I don’t hate my parents. I tried to, but I couldn’t. Somehow, even as a child, I understood that they were far too wounded to give me the security and love I needed. My father was an alcoholic. He wasn’t so bad when he was sober; but, then again, he was only sober four days out of the week. My mother was chronically depressed—today they call it bi-polar. She scared me. She could turn on a dime. One minute she would be laughing. The next she would be raging. I don’t know why, but I was usually her target. What can I say? My dad beat her; she beat me.
I grew up in a war zone. There was constant fighting, constant drama, and constant chaos. My father’s drunken tirades were always the talk of the neighborhood. They started Friday night when he got off work and didn’t end until Sunday afternoon when he would sober up enough to go back to work on Monday. He was a mean drunk who liked to abuse women and children. My mother never drank. Thank God, she was crazy enough without any added stimulants. My father, well, the booze just added fuel to his already fractured psyche and made him meaner than a rattlesnake. Through all the madness, however, they both touted hard work and a decent education as the measure of person’s success.
I was a good student. My father was surprised by my intelligence and more than a little troubled by my artistic leanings. He made it clear that what little money he had would not go to sending his only daughter to college when he had four sons waiting in the wings. He told me that I would just get married and get pregnant. It would be a waste of money. So what did I do? I ran off at sixteen and married my childhood sweetheart. I’m proud to say that I’ve been married to him for over thirty-six years. We have two beautiful children—a thirty-three-year-old daughter and a thirty-one year-old son. We also have four beautiful grandsons—ages six, seven, twelve, and fourteen.
Shortly after I got married, I went back to school and got my GED. Back then, married students weren’t welcome in most high schools. When I felt that my children were old enough to function without so much mommy time, I went on to college. I received two associate degrees—one in applied science and one in general studies. I continued writing on-and-off, most times more off than on. I held several jobs, to include being an administrative assistant, an office manager, a telecommunication’s supervisor, and finally owning my own desktop publishing business. I was working on completing my bachelor’s degree when Spirit decided enough was enough.
I started having balance problems, panic attacks, and flashbacks. If that wasn’t bad enough I started getting sick a lot. I spent several years on antibiotics for a host of inexplicable infections. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I was a mess. Not knowing what else to do, I went to see a psychiatrist. He told me I was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). I thought I had dealt with all of my childhood issues. The psychiatrist said it was evident that I had not. He prescribed several medications and sent me to a therapist. I threw the meds away—kept the therapist, though. Still the balance problems, panic attacks, and flashbacks persisted. That’s when I turned away from the therapist and turned back to writing.
As a child and a young adult, I had always written my way out of things. Surely, I could do it again. I started journaling. Shortly after I started writing again, I was diagnosed with Pulmonary Sarcoidosis—a granulomatous autoimmune disease. Yeah, that’s right—my body was attacking itself. To say I was sick would be an understatement. To say I was pissed—well, I won’t even go there.
I felt like I just couldn’t go on. Dealing with my childhood was hard enough, but I knew I could handle it. I had done it before. I had no idea how to deal with a body in rebellion. I was at a loss. To be honest, I had come totally undone. Then one night while I was lying in bed praying, I saw a woman standing on the edge of a precipice. She looked at me and told me her name; then she began to tell me her story. From that night on, I wrote. I quit school—besides the fact that I was too sick to handle academia, I really didn’t see the need in it anymore. I knew I had always wanted to be a writer. Now I felt like my life depended upon following that dream.
I wrote constantly—day and night. As I wrote, I felt myself changing. I began to nurture myself. I worked hard to get well. I took my medication and followed the advice of my pulmonary specialist and general practitioner. I began doing yoga and meditating. I made sure I wrote in my journal every day. I wrote poetry and short stories—all this on top of working on my novel.
I am happy to say that I have been in remission from Sarcoidosis for over three years now. I don’t have panic attacks, balance problems, or flash backs any longer. My PTSD is gone! To be honest, it began to disappear as soon as my creative spirit began to re-emerge. I say began because this re-emergence did not happen over night. It is an ongoing process—a process directly tied to my now daily practice of soul recovery.
Soul recovery is the process of retrieving the pieces of your soul that you abandoned or lost. This loss or abandonment can happen during a trauma, but it can also happen through the act of giving your power away to another person or entity. There are probably as many tools and processes for soul recovery as there are opinions about its veracity. I won’t get into those things—at least not now. I will say that my soul recovery tool of choice is my daily writing practice. I have other practices that augment my daily writing practice but, again, I will save that discussion for a later date. Suffice it to say, I believe that each one of us has the power to heal ourselves. In the end, our paths may differ, but we are all initiates on a journey to wholeness.
My journey thus far has resulted in the birth of two novels and the conception of a third. All of these books are part of my Family Legacy Series—a five book series that cuts straight to the heart of the generational legacy of familial abuse. I’m still not published; but you know what, it doesn’t matter anymore. For me, writing is about the process, not publication. It’s about healing, not getting rich. I believe that writers are called to heal the world with their words. That’s why I started Phoenix Rising Writers’ Corner.
My logo phoenix—a colorful fiery bird, a red rose in its mouth, rising out of the ashes, reborn and ready to take on the world—embodies who I am and what I believe. I am the writer. I am the Phoenix. I am the myth. I am the story. I transform and am transformed by the fiery words upon which I have built my own funeral pyre.
So let me ask you; “Who are you, and what do you believe?” And perhaps more importantly, “Are you ready to heal yourself and heal your world?”
I hope you have enjoyed the first installment of the “Heal Yourself: Heal Your World,” series. In the second installment, I will discuss my concept of soul retrieval as it relates to story building and expressive writing. In the third installment, I plan to discuss the various practices and rituals that I have found helpful in my own journey to wholeness. After that—well, we’ll just have to see where this trip down the rabbit hole leads us.
© 2009 Phoenix Rising. All Rights Reserved.
Individuals may copy this post for noncommercial use without permission provided that this post is used in its entirety and carries the Phoenix Rising copyright notice and the following link back to this blog: www.phoenixrisingwriterscorner.blogspot.com.
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