I’ve been quiet here for some time. I have been busy writing so I wanted to pop by and update you just in case you were missing me.
I started writing my memoirs approximately three years ago. I wanted to start writing them much before that but I believed that this was to be a project for retirement. I often visualised myself sitting on my balcony overlooking the ocean in Cyprus and penning my memories, my story. The motivating factor was to leave a legacy for my children, grandchildren and generations to come.
The problem is that this project, this calling, would not leave me alone. That’s the thing with a calling, it calls you! I would meet complete strangers and have a brief chat about this and that and they would exclaim “you need to write a book you know” much to my surprise. Why would they find it so interesting? I would meet friends for coffee and bring up memories of the past, connected to the lessons learned from loss, grief, abuse, pain and they would say “Michelle, you really need to tell your story, you must write a book”.
This went on for sometime and the idea started to take shape but it was to be for the future. Aside from the lack of time for such a project (I am a busy mum), there was also my struggle with chronic illness (fibromyalgia), memory problems and confusion (from trauma and fibromyalgia), and deep down the belief that no one would ever want to read my story and that I could not do it justice by trying to write it. It would be written when I had nothing else to occupy my time and then it would be for my close family members who wouldn’t judge the quality of my writing.
However, if I were to be honest, and I owe you this since you are giving up your time to read my thoughts, the predominant factor stopping me was fear. Fear of giving up precious time to a project that could be a failure when we need to put food on our table and keep a roof over our children’s heads. Fear of the book selling and extended family/acquaintances reading it and being disappointed in me. Fear of exposing my innermost secrets, mistakes, faults, opening up myself raw for the world to have an opinion without even knowing me as a person. Fear of those mentioned in the book in not such a good light, being upset and taking some kind of action. Fear of my own children growing up and wishing I had kept my mouth shut, being ashamed of me and what I have shared with the world. Fear on being judged on the quality of my writing.
So I did what I do best and kept myself busy with a myriad of other tasks, ideas, possibilities to make some money, all along neglecting the call. I even wrote a book but not THE book. I wrote a children’s story which I ended up placing on a shelf for future publication because something just didn’t fit, I had no peace about publishing that first.
Then something happened to nudge me. A very close friend, someone who was like a sister to me and with whom I had grown up, was diagnosed with an autoimmune illness called Scleroderma which over time causes a deterioration of the body, a hardening and tightening of the skin and connective tissue. She was a single mum and her struggle was painful to watch. If love could have healed her, I would have loved her healed.
At that time, I was in a season in my Christian faith where I believed that anyone can be healed with prayer if I just believed enough, prayed enough, trusted enough. I had been believing for my own healing from fibromyalgia but now this was more important. I sent her books on healing and eventually she asked me to stop sending her Christian material. Once, when I visited, she allowed me to pray for her healing and nothing happened. I was devastated. The truth is I was confused but also embarrassed. My God couldn’t or wouldn’t heal my precious friend. Why?
I went on to have words with God, frequently. Whether it’s appropriate or not, there were several one – way arguments with him. In the car, in the shower, in the sound of dishes being washed. Why are some people instantly healed through prayer and others aren’t? Was it the measure of my faith? A cruel calculating God? My unworthiness of such a miracle?
This sent me on a searching journey, digging deeper to understand who God is, why bad things happen to good people, and if God turns a blind eye to suffering in this world. Perhaps a post for another time, (or you can read my book lol) but for the sake of this piece, let’s just say it was a time of drawing in even closer to God, of trusting bigger even when the answer is no. One day however, as I was ironing, I cried out to God for my friend. I asked “I want to give her hope, I want to give her comfort, I want to give her reassurance, I want her to know you are with her no matter what, you see her, you see the suffering and you are present. How do I do that when she won’t discuss you, when she won’t read anything I send? What can I send that she will read”? And I heard a voice say “She will read your book”. That hope was all I needed to start and then, tragically, stop. The fears came at me like an avalanche as well as the financial problems that rendered my book a non-urgent priority and I gave up because it was just too difficult. My precious friend died a year later not having had the opportunity to read my book.
In June 2018, we became homeless and ended up staying with a friend on her farm in Wales, UK, for nine months. My husband used our only car for work and it was too complex to attempt the use of public transport to get anywhere, plus we were saving money. So once the children were happy occupying themselves each day, I began writing my story. I figured, I had nothing else to do with those couple of hours each day so why not pen down whatever came?
By the end of the nine months, we had finally found a home for our little family and life went back to it’s crazy speed. I jumped right back on the treadmill of wife-hood, mother-hood, friend-hood and life-hood. The book took a back seat once more as I focused any left over energy into another income earning idea that failed.
Then Covid 19 happened and in March 2020 the UK went into lock-down. I live in Wales which has its own rules and for us lock-down went on for several weeks, I lost count but it was something like 12 weeks. Twelve weeks of not driving anywhere, no extra-curricular activities for the children, no appointments to make, no organising the lives of five people and staying on that treadmill. Yes, it did mean that all five members of our family where together 24/7 but since we have home educated for the last 8-9 years, it wasn’t dramatically different if you take out the daily outings we enjoyed and my husband not working.
It took lock-down to finally pin me back down to picking up this book project but this time I became serious. What if I lose my life from Covid? What if I die and leave this unfinished book? How will my children know the ending? What if my book can impart hope to others who are struggling?
So I began again and this time I stuck to it even after lock-down. It has been five months of daily writing and I am close to the end of the first draft. Right now it is humongous. Most chapters are 20,000 words long! Clearly there will be much editing and cutting down but that’s the next part of the project. In the immediate, I am focused on the last 4 chapters, nearing the end of this race and feeling the effects of it all.
I still have no idea whether this book will sell, will be read, will help others or will simply be the legacy I leave my children, of their story through my story. But, regardless of that, let me tell you what this has done for me so far.
It has been a cathartic healing process. I don’t know if we ever fully heal from deep trauma but I believe we can heal enough to the point of the wound being cleaned out, closed and a scar being the reminder of what once was agony. The pain doesn’t fully go away. But we learn to manage it and not let it pull us under. I am astounded at how much I remembered once I began writing. In the process of writing or typing, my mind opened and events, feelings, thoughts all came back to me. At times I had to walk away from the laptop, take a breath, do something other than writing just to allow my body and mind and heart to process what I had just offloaded onto the screen that represents my life. I took on cooking as a meditation for that processing to take place and to the delight of my family they got to taste favourite foods from Cyprus that they have missed, foods only my mother in law would make for them at each visit. For me it was time uninterrupted, my hands busy creating while my mind processed and my heart came to terms with whatever I had just relived. I have had therapy (counselling) on at least three occasions in my life, but this process was the most thorough, cathartic, edifying and illuminating of all.
I have learned that I would love to train as a therapeutic writing counsellor, perhaps, one day. To help others walk the journey and clean their wounds, process and derive all the lessons life has taught them. To help them see how their story can turn their adversity into advantage, their test into a testimony, their mess into a message, their lessons into a legacy and their journey into an opportunity for the future.
I have learned to trust God in what He is doing and not in my own doing. This has been my biggest struggle in life, to trust anyone or anything outside of my self.
I have learned to discipline myself to write each day even if it is an hour. I write until I feel nauseous with pain to the point of almost passing out. My right hand and right shoulder take the brunt of it all and usually an hour in, I am in agony. Migraines are frequent visitors. Faith in the calling can propel you to push yourself harder knowing there is a reason for it, trusting that it is all for a purpose.
I have learned to prioritise that which tugs at my heart even if it doesn’t make sense and to set an example to my children to follow that call when it happens. To let go of my default analysis paralysis and just get on with it.
To pull myself up from the bottom of the pile. This exercise in writing my book has been also a work of building a relationship with myself, valuing me and who I am, appreciating the things about myself that others find strange, loving me as I am, not when I can…. or when I am …
I have learned to be grateful for everything including the suffering. A shocking statement I know and you would need to read the book to understand, I hope, but truly had it not been for the immense suffering in my life, I would not have the patience, determination, vision and passion to make a difference with my life. I would not have the insight and gained wisdom, the humility to trust and press through constantly learning, the obedience to apologise and recognise my mistakes, the ability to forgive my perpetrators as well as myself. I would not have a grateful heart in the little as well as in the much. I would not have learned to let go of pride and ego. I would not parent my children the way I do. Oh the lessons are many, many more. We don’t like suffering, we do not want to walk that path, but there is great gain in loss…
If ever I am grateful for the uncertainty, chaos and mess that Covid 19 has created, it will be for this reason. For gifting me the time and space to heed the call and write this book even though I don’t know what comes next. And perhaps this in itself is the biggest lesson of all. Trust and do it anyway.