The Home Stretch

Good Friday morning, a quiet time… The shops are closed and the neighbours quiet. Time to reflect. Lately, I’m checking in with myself these days. Easter, the full moon and the past five months; a lot has changed…

Transformation.

Image result for creative commons sunbeams

November to March, a tough time, when I couldn’t pretend any longer. Unresolved issues intruded into my life. Terrified I tried to suppress them, fearing if I let them escape they’d erupt and blow apart everything I’d ever known. Life stripped me bare, and my gnarled knuckles tried to hold onto the things I swore I needed to function. They turned to mist, ethereal.

I’d begun to work on the inter-generational trauma that hid in my cells. I’d read about it when researching my first novel, Schicksal, but I thought it didn’t apply to me. November: a young psychologist said to me, ‘Trauma, you need to work through that.’ I had to face the watermark of the past and see how it affected the quality of my present life.

Misconception: Trauma is related to childhood abuse and/or war.

Actual fact: trauma occurs anytime we are rendered truly helpless in a situation.

My parents lost everything in WWII and began a new life here in Australia. I was their second chance. I carried their wounds in my heart and lived out their dreams and I did so willingly. Working with my Schema therapist, I’ve explored my core beliefs.

I’ve been writing about my adolescent years for 5 years, staccato progress. It began as a quest: why me? How did this happen to me?  And grew into something much more. My progress was limited by my ability to face the past.  I was a wog-child, growing up in an Anglo suburb who tried to blend two different worlds and in my heart, I wanted to belong in both. I pretended a lot of the time.

High school, adolescence, years 7-12 that is the scope of this manuscript.

Year 12 awaits a major revision and I have just reread the entire MS (63,000 words). I am now able to see how my ED developed and where my faulty core beliefs kept me ensnared. In sight of the progress I’ve made, I’m now confident in my ability to complete this task. The doubt of its worth has paled. ‘It is a story that needs to be told,’ my therapist said. And I agree.So I’m in the home stretch, writing it as it was and seeing clear.

Why do we write? Kindly share your thoughts.

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