Two Steps at a Time

I did not sleep at all last night.

I sent Scott what I had written of my memoir and the moment I hit send, my belly was a mess of nerves, a hot bowl of anxiety soup.

The internal voices started again, all of them talking at once. Even though they were a mass of words, I had heard this mantra before:

Would he like it? Would he expect there to be more written by now? Would they pull out of the contract? Would they refuse to publish it because it was so awful?

These may seem like very irrational fears, but I think to a writer they are just normal thoughts of self-doubt.

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I had nightmares. I don’t really rememer what they were except one part of the dream where I was wearing a ballet outfit and being called a whore.

I woke and went to work, my belly still a mass of wasps and blackflies. And then I checked my email. There was an email from Scott and he gave me relief; he killed my fears and made me feel so much better:

I have just read through all of this and I think it is remarkable stuff, really very powerful and moving….This really is a fine piece of work and you should feel proud of your ability to put this into words.

I was able to breathe again, to take in deep breaths and feel the air puffing out my lungs. Beautiful, gorgeous air that tasted of success.

But he also gave me something else:

I personally still feel that One Step At A Time is your best title.  The footsteps image appears frequently through the book and it has so many connotations with CP, with the life journey etc. that it really feels right to me…..

And so my nameless journey has a name.

And I can breathe again….

My publisher, the lovely Scott Pack from The Friday Project, asked to see what I had written of my memoir.

Oh. Crap.

What if he doesn’t like it?

This is my ultimate fear, I think.

Over the weekend, my husband read what I had written of my memoir thus far.

From the time he asked if he could read it to the time he was done and I heard him step away from his computer, I wondered: will he like it? Will the words be powerful enough? Will he view me differently after reading what I had written?

These were all silly fears as the answers are obviously: Yes, yes, no. But a writer has fears no matter who is reading their work, no matter who is giving their opinion.

He hugged me after he read what I had written and he was shaking with anger. “It’s not that I didn’t want to read it.” he said. “It’s that I knew how angry I would be if I did.”

He pulled closer to him and said: “I don’t know how you came out so normal after what you’ve been through.”

“I chose too.” I said. “Everyone keeps telling me that I must be so angry, that I must be filled with such hatred. I can’t live that way and move on with my life, so I choose to forgive and live.”

We didn’t say much about it after that. But he had read it and still loved me and values me. That is more than enough.

I gave him my heart and he holds it like a treasured object. My heart beats for him and I could not imagine my life without him in it.

He has my heart, it is his. But more importantly, we belong to each other. We belong together. And in him I have found something I’ve searched my entire life for.

To belong.

Something has occurred to me: I wonder how people will see me after they read my memoir?

Will they still see me as me? Or as a different version of me?

Will they say to me: Oh, you were so brave? Oh, you must be so angry? Oh, how did you turn out so normal?

This is usually what people ask me when they learn a bit of my past. They stop seeing me and start seeing a victim, start putting their own pictures of me over top of my face.

The real me becomes invisible.

And so I wonder, will they see what they want to see or will they see the person who stands in front of them?

Last night I wrote to a friend: Writing this memoir makes me feel as if I’m a puzzle and I am putting all the pieces together. And some of the pieces are missing.

She said that it would be a hard thing to take myself a part, study myself and put myself back together. That she wouldn’t be able to do it but knew I had the strength to continue.

I wrote a good chunk of the memoir last night and found myself trying to detach from what I was writing. I was figuring out dates and times, trying to get things into chronological order.

Was I really that young when this happened? Was I not older than that? Where does this memory fit? Why can’t I remember what I said? Who is this talking now? Who’s voice is that? Why do I remember a rough wool blanket? When was my brother born? What did my father look like (as if I could forget)?

 It feels like my brain is whispering when I write about myself, when I try to put myself down on paper. My fingers sped over the keyboard, memories taking new shape, getting new life in words.

I feel as if I am wading through a large swamp thick with muddy water. And I have not even made it half way through the soupy water. I can hear animals in the bushes, chattering at me.

And still I trudge on forward.

I asked Robert, my husband, if he would read what I wrote, if he would read what I’ve written so far. I knew before he answered that he would say no, that he would say: I want to read it when it’s finished.

How can I tell him that I want him to read the fragments, the puzzle pieces? That I want him to read as I go along, to come with me on this journey a bit at a time?

That the puzzle pieces are what will make up the whole and that maybe he can help me put the puzzle together? That it would mean so much to me if he read these words, because they are me on the printed page with nothing to hide behind.

A bared heart that beats for him.

But perhaps I’m meant to put the puzzle together myself, alone?

The very thought of that is frightening.