Over the last few weeks I've been thrust into the battle between my desire to move forward and my trauma trying to hold me back in a familiar place, rather than go out into the world and risk more hurt and difficulty. Even if I want to side with moving forward, it's hard to overstate the power of the trauma-induced fear in paralyzing me. It's one of those ugly truths about the whole experience of cancer, that cancer doesn't end with a pat on the back and an "Atta boy" when you get the beautiful news of remission. It stays with you, sometimes for the rest of your life. Whether it's an amputation or the scars of surgery or needing assistance or waking up screaming or crying when a memory is triggered, the experience tends to stick with you like a needy koala toddler to its mother. The last year has been especially rough, with the paralysis nearly choking the rest of my will to move forward to death. But, with a lot of work and both the desire and the need to push through the anxiety, I'm finally beginning to make headway in a couple areas. I'm hesitant about being overly optimistic, but I'm starting to think this might be the first few steps in the direction I have been wanting to go in for years now, it's just been that life is content to throw a googolplex detours my way.
Perhaps the most important thing, to me at least, has been the work I've been doing on my book. I mentioned before that I was waiting for my editor to get my memoir back to me, and only a few days later, she did. Her report and her notes on the manuscript itself were absolutely astonishing and very touching and meaningful for me in so many different ways. Personally, I believe that her kind words and belief in my story and my ability (the terror of wondering if her notes would come back as a mighty hand to swat down the pathetic insect that laughingly thought it could write kept me from opening her notes right away, but even before the end of the first paragraph I felt relief in a way that I don't think I've felt since...probably 2012, when I was the closest I've ever been to reaching that semi-normal life I've been craving) have been key in lighting a fire under me not just in working on the fourth and newest draft of my book, but also in other areas of my life. Getting a bit of confidence in one area seems to have been contagious, and it might be the first contagious thing I've been happy to catch. There's still a lot of work to be done. I'm a third of the way through her edits (plus edits of my own that I'm making after hearing her general thoughts on the book and what areas to focus on more or reduce) and hoping to finish within the next few weeks. After that, assuming the length is more reasonable than it is now (Currently I'm 20,000 words over the maximum "limit" for a memoir. Although there obviously isn't a real limit, the usual length for one ranges between 60,000 and 120,000 words), it's onto the marketing and networking. I've got a lot of trepidation about that, but the more success I have with the book and in life, the better I think I'll be at tackling these sort of problems. I believe victories in life help to give me confidence, especially when they've been so rare and tainted with bitter irony or followed up with crippling defeat. For now, that's not going to be much on my mind, I choose to focus on getting the edits done first. One thing at a time.
The other big thing I've been working on and have begun to find some success in is being more social. When I get overwhelmed I tend to shut down and shut away to decrease the amount of stimulation and unknown variables that my brain says will only make things worse. Even if I don't want to, the anxiety of having to face other living entities becomes a daunting challenge that my mind refuses to attempt. I've been wrestling with the comforts of reclusiveness for the last few months. It's comfortable for me, in much the same way I actually preferred being in the hospital after my ordeals with Graft vs. Host and the side effects of the bone marrow transplant. I hated the hospital, much as I hated reclusiveness, but there was a kind of serenity and comfort in them, they were predictable, and so there wasn't anything to be worried about. No real surprises, just maintaining a basic existence was about all I wanted to deal with. Simple things, things I could enjoy or that would pull me from reality and plop me into my head where the world couldn't get to me, that's what I wanted, even as I protested against it. It's been hard to drag my unwilling brain back into some sort of social mode, but I'm doing my best to force myself to contact people and hang out with them. I know that once I am spending time with friends, I enjoy myself tremendously, but in the days and hours and minutes leading up to that encounter, I feel the panic and the desire to call it off get stronger and stronger. Grappling with that is exhausting, but it's worth it when I finally get to see friends and I can forget about it for a time. The more I socialize, the less my brain protests, so it's been getting a bit easier lately, but I'm still wary and making sure I stay on top of the reclusive me so it can't surprise me and shut me back away again. I really do want to be part of the world, especially since the world has space and gravitational waves and Pluto.Hope your year has started of well so far,
Ciao
PS: I'm starting a new writing blog, Make a Write Here (I know, I know, deal with it. I'll feature pieces and excerpts from various stories and non-fiction, discussions regarding aspects of writing, and updates on current writing projects. It's online at the moment, but I have yet to post any content besides the first generic "Hi, this is my blog" post. It's also not full formatted, but I'll probably get around to it before the universe ends (maybe).
Guess not...
