Year eleven, German Verse Speaking Competition … gaps, Swiss cheese recall. I sought ways to reconcile the short fall in my memory. Accepting my cultural heritage had become another pillar in my recovery from anorexia. I’d fragmented myself. But realised that I had choice and in an adolescent way, with my half-formed brain, began to glue the fragments together.
But the question remained, how did one stimulate the fuzzy memory?
For many years I worked in ICU, the Boxing day shift heavy with tragedy and food. I want to thank the 000 workers who never rest providing emergency help every day of the year. The Festive season is a frantic time for them.
Opportunities abound when people watching, new things to try or reruns with barbs. What happens when the alarm bells ring and although we should be excited? Why are these experiences with us? Done bashing my head against a brick wall, I sit back, retreating into the comfort of silence.
Thousands of stories, characters and plots that unfold. One lumpy afternoon ample fodder for a book or two. Weird stuff happens some of it almost unbelievable but conflict makes writing memorable. This poem came from recent seaside reflections.
School holidays, a whirl wind time for any parent but my children have flown the coop. Two weeks of memories, emotional provocation food for the shadow. Would it stay away this time? So far, so good.
Friday night, movie night, Netflix, who’s watching, arrow up, arrow down, arrow left, because you liked… My partner had the remote in hand, a boy thing. I stood in the kitchen thinking about a glass of red and eating a date. New releases, how about ‘To The Bone?’ Inwardly groaning, I agreed.
Sometimes the words pour out of me, sometimes they don’t. There’s a lot more to the craft of writing than I had ever expected. Everyday I learn something new. As I find my way, I realise I’m reaching into the realm of the infinite.
Writing is like golf, deceptively easy on the surface.
‘Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Who in this land is the fairest of all?’
Undoubtedly, the mirror is essential for grooming. But how do we feel about it? More accurately, how do we feel about what the mirror shows us about ourselves?
That mind bending question: how? The antagonist in my current manuscript is the inner critic. In order to give this ethereal character depth, I delved into its origin. A hungry beast it needed food, so I decided to feed it well on:
- acceptance and recognition. A gourmet delight!
Making sense of the struggle has unearthed many questions. The cycle of body image, perfection, calorie counting… had to lead some where. Beauty. The well-worn path meandered, looping carelessly back to the past and stretching outdated values into the future.
Beauty, what is it? What happens in the mind of a person with anorexia? Is their perception of beauty different? Can the insidious web of the disease keep the sufferer trapped, centred on a fixed idea? How did the idea of beauty arise? What did that mean to me?