In the aftermath of the Damn Bad Thing, I walked up to a group of disaster volunteers. They stood in a semi-circle in what was left of a neighbor's yard. One woman held an open notebook, a filthy, waterlogged composition book, and she read a poem aloud to the others. I recognized it.
“That's mine.” I reached out to take my private thoughts, and the volunteer's hands- the very helping hands that I had been so grateful for minutes before- pulled my own words away from me, with a sharp “I'm not finished with it.” “It's mine and it's private,” I snarled as I snatched the pages, my pages, from her hands. “I was just sharing it.” She gestured to the women taking part in a survivor's poetry reading, sans the survivor's permission. “We're using our own free time to help people like you. It was out in public, after all. ” I looked around. They were mad at me. I wanted to say “It was only in public because my house was literally turned inside out and ripped apart, you bitches. You don't get to read someone's damned diary just because you found it lying in the road after a tornado.” I said none of that. I walked away. And after dark, when the volunteers had all gone to their nice, safe, completely intact homes and lives, I broke curfew and brought my journal back to the torn up, temporarily banned, land that belonged to who I used to be. I also brought a lighter. On the barren ground that had once been my crawlspace and now was All That Was Left of Home, I ripped every sheet out of that journal. I burned each page and then I stomped the ashes into the wound that my home, my haven, had become. To make doubly sure the fire was out, I watered the ground with my tears. Safety first, you know. And I prayed. I prayed that every word I had ever written, every secret agony I transformed into letters and sentences in an attempt to heal, had been destroyed by the wind. But, I already knew they all hadn't. I had just burned the proof. My secrets had been scattered across my neighborhood, and further, by that one terrible wind. My privacy, my words, could be in the hands of strangers. I knew they had been. I had written so many things just because I didn't want to tell someone. And now it was all in the hands of everyone. Mister Twister was a shitty PR man. It was over three years before I could begin to write again, and longer before I could make words without panic attacks. It was a process, and it was hard, and I still have to do the work in my own healing, a decade later. I'm not saying that those particular “helpers,” were the sole cause of my PTSD but those women certainly played a part in that aspect of my trauma. I wrote a book, but I couldn't journal. I knew, from experience, how quickly my private thoughts could be publicized. You can't be honest when you are always writing for a potential audience of strangers who are invading your privacy. And that sucked because words are how I figure out what I think about things. It keeps me honest. It's how I work. It's who I am. A co-worker who didn't even like me much, accidentally introduced me to a solution. Rocketbook. An erasable notebook. I can write whatever the hell I please. With a bit of water, I can just wipe it away. And if a tornado invades my life again, generally rain comes along with it. My words are safe, again, for the first time in way too long. And if my words happen to be worth sharing, I can easily scan it in their app, shoot it to the Cloud of my choice, and save my thoughts for those I choose to share them with. This little notebook, that turned out to be a healing tool, gave this tornado survivor a choice, again. A sense of safety. A bit of freedom. Maybe you are a little like me. Maybe you need your words to belong to only you. Maybe you need them to disappear once they've served their purpose. If so, check out this out: Rocketbook | Best Smart Notebook | Cloud Notebook | Reusable Notebook (getrocketbook.com) This notebook might work in your life, as well as it has in My Life, the Sequel. If not, I pray you find what works for you. You deserve that. You really, truly, deserve that. Don't stop until you find it. Love, Me
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I bought my ticket for adulthood when I was sixteen years old. In the mere months between a terrified “Oh shit, I'm pregnant,” and a (still terrified,) joyous “Hello little man, I'm your Mommy,” I began a mental list that would rule my behavior for the span of his entire childhood. Regardless of how childish or frightened I felt, I must behave like an adult. I screwed up, a lot, but I was doing the best I could to learn how to adult, as a child on my own with a child of my own.
Some rules still make sense. I'll never drink and drive because I am somebody's mother. I will not be promiscuous because I am somebody's mother. No matter what people think of me, my character is worth more than my reputation. I always have to have a job. Other rules weren't as sensible as I thought they were then. “I'll stop writing fiction and give up my guitar lessons because I can't make a living at those things, and as somebody's mother, they are a waste of my time. Anything that reeks of just because I want it, is automatically against the rules. “ I failed at some of the Rules. I would occasionally sneak off to the theatre when cosmic forces aligned - my son was at his father's house, I had a day off, a little money to spare- a trinity that didn't happen often when there was a show on. I could not stop writing stories, I tried, but I could hide it from other people. And so, I did that. There were rules that affected my smallest choices. One of which was my choice in ink color. I refused to use anything but black or blue ink, adult colors, responsible colors. I wasn't creative. I'd chosen to be an adult, instead. My choice in office supplies reflected my “Adult Personality.” I became an office supply snob. Notebook paper had to be a certain quality. If a planner cover was too colorful, back on the shelf it went. Black or blue pens. Colorful ink, though pretty in a pack, was reserved for children and artists and I was neither. The Damn Bad Thing happened on my son's seventeenth birthday. Out of all the things I thought I had needed to learn to properly adult, out of all the late night study sessions to teach myself or my child some essential skill, trauma was not on my radar. I did not know the terminology when trauma affected my life. I had to learn to deal with symptoms of mental illness without knowing that they were symptoms. I do not have a good memory under the best of circumstances. I was not living in the same zip code as the best of circumstances. I was chest deep in Project Normalcy. Simply waiting for my future with a mind that was truly shocked by every single sunrise, would not work. I had work to do, for myself and my son. I needed our life to return to some kind of normal, and I knew that it wouldn't just happen on its own. Hope is actively involving myself with Tomorrow. But, Tomorrow did not exist for me. I watched every sunset as if it were my last. The phrase I have learned since (shout out to the library books) is “sense of foreshortened future.” All I knew was that, no matter how hard I tried, I could not believe in tomorrow. I found that I was unable to physically write down anything that hinted at the expectation beyond the twenty-four hours I was living in. Each attempt to fill out my precious, essential planner, caused horrible physical reactions. I now know that the term for those godawful sensations is “panic attacks.” I knew that was crazy. I knew I was crazy. I could not work around my brain. I had to work with it. I did not quite understand the word “manipulation,” but that's exactly what I did to my own broken mind. The Former Office Supply Snob went out and picked up a cheap, garbage planner. Then I purchased a big pack of gel pens in various colors. I don't simply mean multi-colored. I mean neon, and metallic, and glitter. When I needed to remember “Pay Light Bill on the 15th” or when I needed to remember “Meet Carol for coffee at 1:30 on Thursday,” my lungs began shutting down at the thought of writing it down, of planning for a future that could never occur. “Hey,” I told myself, gently, “I know I'll be dead by then. I know that only today exists. Shhh. That's why I'm writing it in pink glitter and bubble letters. I'm just playing. I'm not taking this tomorrow thing seriously.” And when the 15th of the month arrived (surprise!), I paid my light bill. I met my friend for coffee, on time, and she never knew that a metallic silver gel pen made it happen. It took time, everything does, but I wrote my way back into sanity with freaking glitter pens. My good friend has spent much time in her hometown, a disaster zone formerly known only as Altha, Florida. Last night, I typed a message to her, her friends, and family.
"It takes an average of two years to begin to feel like a person, again." Not who you were, or who you will be, but just an ordinary human living a garden variety life. It took me closer to three years to begin that process. I did not want to tell them. Those strangers, some of whom I will never meet, who showed up and loved my entire town during the Tornado Aftermath of 2011. Those dear people, who I have considered friends ever since, became members of my Disaster Tribe in 2018. Those people live in the rubble of their homes, with survival depending on strangers who may or may not show up. I did not want to tell them, but no one told me that particular truth. No one knew to tell me, but I needed to know. "Two years is a very, very long time to spend picking up pieces of your life, of your heart, and maybe, of your mind. But, it does not equal forever. There is hope. Help will come." I am going to tell you another truth now, because maybe, you just don't know. Disaster relief is not disaster resolution. Nothing can undo the Damn Bad Thing. Here is the thing you might not know, though. In catastrophic circumstances, relief is comparable in intensity, to joy. It does not matter how little you think you have to give. It will be enough. Enough is comparable, long term, to a lifetime. When that bit of money is spent or those supplies are used on survival, the heart behind those gifts will carry a person much longer. Hope and Love are tangible. I know because I have held them in my own hands. They walked home with me. When someone takes a little bit of the heavy darkness that you are carrying, and hands you hope to fill the space and love to light it up, that stuff lasts. To be loved when you have nothing but loss and heartbreak on your own. That stuff lasts. That "little" bit of relief, now, will be a companion on this long road through destruction. I know because I have walked that road hand in hand, in turn, with Grief, with Despair, and yeah, with Insanity, too. I promise you that no one can make this particular journey unless Love reaches out and takes their other hand. In showing up, in sending help, in money and supplies and food, and most of all in love, the people of Altha helped walk me home. One step at a time, one step closer to home. In my experience, a person can make the entire journey that way. Will you walk a step with the people of Altha? Please offer, share, let me know if you are willing, and I will help you find a way to be able. Love, Me Photos: One is my house. The other is the home of my friend's sister, in Altha. I'm not going to tell you which is which because there is no difference. |
AuthorI am made entirely of flaws, stitched together with laughter, good intentions, and the grace of God. Archives
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