Musings ... Meandering thoughts
|I always thought that I needed to write my story. You know the memoir that would set the literary world ablaze, catapulting me into the stratosphere of published authors. Ok, settle down. You can't blame a girl for dreaming, even if the dreams are grandiose and bordering on the ridiculous. So, this girls' got to dance with whimsical ambition, and I'm skilled when it comes to having lofty desires. And to be completely honest, there is a thin line between creative whimsy and delusional fantasy. And somehow, I've mastered the skill of tight rope walking, finding equal inspiration and support from the lofty pragmatist and the free-flowing enigmatic aspects of myself. Enough esoterical thought, this isn't about me.
I am simply the conduit, and this is my parent's story, my sister's story; I'm just along for the ride. I'm just the narrator. Writers somehow inhabit a universe where it is possible to dip and dive into both worlds, creative whim and illusion--trying to make sense of it all, somehow wrestling with nuances of meaning to create the written word. A writers skill is to give birth to a story, imbuing it with integral depth and meaning-light and shade. Words take on a mystical, magical brilliance. My dream is to do justice to my parent's story, armed only with my trusty toolbox of colourful imagery, memory and love. As if sitting in front of a mighty loom, weaving scenes and sharing intimate moments to engage, challenge and heal, not only the reader but also the writer. It is a process, a relationship with self and reader.
I am committed to making peace with my inner writer warrior, ensuring I remain disciplined, focused and fearless. There are many moments in my life where I've had harsh words, emotional and physical violence shoved down my throat. Still, after all these years in a quiet corner of my mind, I hear, "you can't do it, you'll just give up like usual" "you think you're special, well guess what, you're not". Well, today, this moment, this now I say, "No more playing the victim, no more excuses or blaming the past". I have a voice, and I have an incredible capacity to recount my parent's story with dignity, compassion, humour and grace. Even if I stumble and fall, I will pick myself up and keep moving forward, one word at a time.
So, no more falling into the deep desolate ravine of my unfinished works and stories. Like a half-formed forest, my stories litter my mind and computers. I welcome a prolific surge of creativity, bubbling forth, spewing ideas and words. I say adios to the times my creativity has been like a barren desert with sun-scorched earth. Ideas seemingly trapped beneath the parched nothingness, idle thoughts shrivelled up, never taking seed.
I did attempt to write my memoir. However, it soon became crystal clear that although they may have been my words, they were not always my memories and emotions. I discovered that when it came to writing about my parents or my sisters' stories, the images became more explicit, the feelings stronger, and the words sharper. I felt a deep need to voice my parent's journey, from the most profound darkest moments to the lightest joyous experiences of love and celebration. It is even more important now that my father passed away. His life was incredible, and it would be an injustice if I didn't find the words to share his story. I owe it to him as his daughter. He was a father by birth, but soul family by choice.
During the initial process of writing my story, I found that I was channelling my youngest sister's grief, pain and sorrow, her fears and experiences. You see, she lives with Dissociative Trauma due to a series of traumatic events that unfolded in her first seven years of childhood. She has minimal recollection, almost next to no long-term memories. That's the brilliance of the human mind; when someone so young is exposed to violence, abuse or significant trauma, their mind can protect them through dissociation. My memories became the lines for which she has been able to retrace and write her story. They are only guiding lines where she feels free to reclaim her narrative. So, with that in mind, I will write her story, tell her story. It is my promise to my darling dad, RIP, and my mother and sister. It is also a promise to myself, finally stepping into my light and becoming the best version of myself. These are my intentions. And so, my story begins.