Me, Myself, and I

It's time to practice what I preach.

What is my first memory? I'm not sure, but I think it was when I stepped in dog poop. I must have been around two years old. I was walking in the front yard of my parents' beautiful home in Connecticut. The house was a traditional two-story colonial with a pool in the backyard, and a creek with a man-made pond and island to separate us from the neighbor. Not that we needed separation. Everyone had about two-plus acres of woodlands surrounding their grassy yards.

My parents had chosen to keep the wooded area in our front yard, beyond the grass that surrounded the house. The woods were amazing. We could play there for hours, pretending to be pioneers or rock stars, singers and dancers, astronauts. (We were a three-daughter family, but there was no gender gap when it came to make-believe. We were men and women in our stories, and we loved it.)

The dog poop incident happened long before the make-believe play. I was still attached to my mother, completely dependent, having only recently learned how to walk. (Well, obviously, I guess as I did not seem to have very good aim or awareness of how to avoid the disgusting obstacles in my path.)

So. There we were: I holding my mother's hand as we watched some men cutting down a decrepit tree in the front yard. I saw it after I stepped in it. The mound of dog poop was huge, maybe even the size of a plump watermelon, and it engulfed my blue sneaker. Oh. Wait. My sneaker was tiny. The dog mound was probably the normal size. And that is how I think this may be my earliest memory.

Why do I remember it? Because of my mother's reaction.

"Ew!" she squeaked.

"Ew!" I giggled. (At least, I think I did. It was always funny when my mother said "Ew!" or "Yuck!" We had learned as children to say "P.U." instead of poop or bowel movements or turds. Why? Because my mother had said "Pee-yew!" when changing our stinky diapers.)

She carried me into the house and upstairs to the bathroom with the two sinks. I sat at the edge of one sink as my mother turned on the water, trying to remove some of the squishy, stinky poop from my shoe and sock. All the while she and I echoed each other, chiming "Ew" and "Yuck." And, finally, my mother removed the shoe, the sock (and perhaps more), dropping it all in the washing machine behind her.

Why is this important? It's not, really. Except that it is. I had a cool mother. She was nice, she was funny. She laughed at our mishaps, but took care of us. This is a good memory. It reminds me that I had lots of fun growing up in that house, with that yard. I got bigger and grew older there. I swam in the chorinated pool, hunted bad guys in the woods, sailed across the twelve-foot pond to the faraway island where I found pirates (or became one). I also got a few scars, made a few more messes (okay, a lot more messes), and learned to become terrified of abandonment.

What? Abandonment? Yes, indeed! My mind has wandered to some other stories from that time when I was a toddler, up through nursery school, kindergarten, first grade. But those are stories for another time, another chapter. And this is a part of writing my life.

Stuck!

Guess what! We all get stuck when writing . . . about anything. Sometimes it gets even worse when we write about ourselves. How do we snap out of it? Write. I know, I know. You don't want to write. I don't want to write.

Simply start: Sit, stand, squat, lie down. Grab a pad of paper and pen or pencil or crayon or--whatever. Use a laptop or a digital device--absolutely anything that will record the letters that turn into words and sentences.
Then write. Write anything. Write about the carpet or the chair or the computer issues. Complain about how you HAVE to write. Laugh at yourself. Get angry. Get frustrated. And write about it.

The key is that writing often puts in "empty spaces." If we exercise, our minds are free to think of the things we really need to think. If we get massages, sometimes we become so relaxed that we think of the stress that is being released, and we cry!

When we write, we think, "I'm stuck." Then we walk away. (Okay, I walk away. Maybe you cry. I know a lot of movie characters type and write; and then toss piles of crumpled papers on the floor.) The point is, we would rather vacuum or eat or sleep.

There are two ways to tackle what we call "writer's block" or "stuck!" The first way is simply to write free thoughts. Don't worry about what you are writing. Just keep writing for 20 minutes (and no fair pausing for a stretch!). The alternative is to write about WHY you don't want to write. That's the tricky one.

If you don't want to write, it may be that you have changed your mind about the direction of your story. If so, revisit your original outline--or consider actually writing an outline. In the "Write Your Life" version, the outline is there. It came in chronological order, delivered for free, your entire life up to this point. So think about it--as you write about it.

Example: I had a fight with my boyfriend today. I know it's my fault, but it was also his fault. Oh. Bummer. I think it's my fault because, um, um, um, I hate to be told what to do. Why do I hate to be told what to do? Well, because he was wrong, and I was right. Thai really IS better than Italian. But why did it hurt so much? Does it matter? What if we went to separate restaurants? What if we had found a compromise? What if we had flipped a coin?

Here's the difficult part of this particular writing experience: The food choice was not that important. You could have worked it out. That means there is something wrong with the relationship, or, perhaps, you are sensitive to "never being heard" or knowing "I'm right!" Think about it. Write about it. Argue with yourself on paper. Then go back to that life chronology that you started? Anything you want to add? Anything that helps you understand yourself and your reactions and behaviors more clearly?

This is not an exercise in learning to blame yourself and despise your behaviors. It is a lesson in understanding your feelings so that you can feel better. Yes, your boyfriend was probably wrong. But you feel terrible. If you understand your role in your original family, your passions in life now, some traumatic experiences that shaped your vision--then you may begin to right your life.

Please note that this is an open blog spot. Feel free to post your writing and comments anonymously--or to share with all. You may also write to me private by e-mailing: victoria@writeyourlife-rightyourlife.com

Writing Through Your Pain

Part of writing about your life includes writing about painful experiences. We all experience pain, but sometimes we have a hard time talking about it. Writing can be the perfect way to express yourself. Why? Well, sometimes we cannot bring ourselves to describe our shame or the horrors of a violent event or the cruelty of someone we are supposed to love.
Write it down. In detail. If necessary (especially if you need to keep yourself safe), you may hide or even destroy your writing--after you put all the pain on paper.
It is best to speak to someone else if you can. Try to find a good professional to listen to your painful experiences and guide you to a place where you may be able to let some of the pain go. It can happen simply by expressing it.
When writing on your own, be sure to find a quiet, safe place. Write freely. Do not hold back. Write in details. If you become overwhelmed, seek help. "Check in" with your emotional self. Does writing about your trauma help? Sometimes we can experience a "good cry" (something like a release of pent-up negative emotions). Sometimes, however, we can experience flashbacks.
Be careful. Know of a source to contact. Then take the plunge. Expressing yourself can be a giant step towards healing.