Back to Basics
I teach my Recovery Writing group different ways of keeping
a journal. We do all the creative stuff such as exploring feelings and
expressing them through different forms of poetry and creative writing. Every
technique we learn helps us to understand ourselves better from something as
formal as creating Haiku to something as simple as writing a list. There are
times, in recovery, when only the simple stuff will do. When you are unable to
face what has happened, when it is still too recent to make sense of it, or
when you simply lack the motivation to embark on a complex piece of writing.
So, at the beginning of a course I give out a basic set of questions and
answers to every member, that covers how the writer is feeling, what they’ve
been doing, and ask what they need to do for their recovery today. For the last
six weeks I’ve been in that place – where the new recovery is so raw that it is
enough to get through every day minute by minute.
I have been so shocked by the death of my friend and the
sudden breakdown of my marriage that it has been very hard for me to do basic
everyday things. My head has been such a jumble of unanswered questions and
emotions that I have needed this basic list to get by. My usual chatty and
detailed writing style had deserted and although I knew it would be beneficial to
write every day – even if only for clarity and catharsis – I just couldn’t seem
to make a start. I would sit up in bed with my journal and my pen and write
precisely nothing. It was easier to read, maybe because it would block out my
feelings and replace the jumble of thoughts with another story that was not
quite as painful as mine. I started to read old journals. Journals I had been
writing in every night throughout my marriage. I would write every night because
I often couldn’t make sense of what had happened, but also because my husband
came to bed so much later than me and I had private time to explore my
feelings. Reading my old journals made me cry and really brought my emotions to
the fore. I could see what a rollercoaster I’d been on emotionally and showed
me how I’d tried so hard to make sense of someone else and neglected my own
needs. I saw how the regular reminders of what was wrong with me had eroded my
confidence and left me so confused I didn’t know what was right and wrong
anymore. How had I let myself get in this mess?
Only by reading the old diaries could I remember that I was
a strong person who had overcome so many obstacles. I remembered my illness as
something that happened to me and not something I had created, or wallowed in.
I reminded myself of all the things I’d achieved despite the illness and how
much I had to look forward to. I remembered how hard I’d worked to care for my
second husband and how I’d supported him right up till his death, because I
loved him. I had started to believe that someone finding my illness ‘difficult’
was understandable and even acceptable. I had kept thinking to myself ‘if you
love someone you care for them naturally’ and worried that my illness made me
essentially unlovable in some way. I had started to settle. Yet, in the back of
my mind and in my journals was the hidden truth – he didn’t care for me because
he didn’t love me. Receiving the letter that ended our marriage was one of the
hardest things I have ever had to deal with, but at least it told me the truth.
He didn’t love me. I could then start to heal and realise I didn’t do this
wrong. That hidden thought in the back of my mind – ‘surely love isn’t like
this’ – was answered. It wasn’t like this, because for him this wasn’t love.
So, I can begin to write and continue to heal. Each day I
ask myself what I need to do to get through it and I am not so hard on myself.
Some days I do really well and achieve everything I set out to do. Other days I
want to hide on the couch, by the fire, with a good book and the company of my
dog. Whatever I need to do that day I am easier on myself and let it happen. I
try to keep to the basics – take my meds, eat well, and walk the dog. The rest
is a secondary consideration. I have released the pressure on me to be perfect
and get everything done and there are some benefits to living alone. If I don’t
feel like cooking I can just get some fresh soup and bread. I can leave the
ironing hidden in the basket at the bottom of the wardrobe and watch a good
film instead. I can accept help where it’s offered and if someone wants to do
my garden, or my cleaning or cook me a meal I enjoy the support and don’t feel
like a failure because I’ve given in to my illness. I am able to feel ill and
say so, without worrying that someone will leave. He left already.
I am back to basics. Simple, tiny little cautious steps
towards my new life and new writing.
