January, 2022
Golden, Colorado
Reflection, angst and opportunity…
“What happened to the writer is not what matters; what matters is the large sense that the writer is able to make of what happened.” Vivian Gornick
Why do I want to do this… I’m putting myself in a pretty vulnerable place… It’s hard and the feelings are painful. Why would anyone share their story? Does it really matter?
It matters to me because my younger self was never seen, heard or loved in the way that she needed to be. This is my way to honor and acknowledge her in a purposeful and loving manner.
So many of us don’t know why we are here…now…during this time. I have come to believe that we choose when we come into the world. We choose our parents and we choose our purpose. We’ve all committed to the roles we play in each other’s lives. Maybe growing up the way I did happened FOR me…not TO me.
People have always told me that I needed to write a book. I do have an extraordinary story. I, and most of my siblings, had to overcome several life circumstances that were incredibly difficult and painful. I have shared parts of this story in 12-step rooms all around the world. I’ve periodically kept journals.
Writing leaves proof… proof that it all happened. Proof that I was there.
As the only biological child born to young and idealistic parents who ultimately adopted 16 children, coming in at all different ages, at different times, from many different countries, I’ve always known that my story was unique. Much of it is hard to believe. Many parts are blurred and confusing for me…but as I put it all on the page for you, dear reader, everything becomes clearer for me.
The story I have to tell is complicated and colorful…in every way. There are many untold secrets. In fact, part of my challenge with writing the story is that it still feels overwhelming for me…it almost feels like a story from a previous life. Much of it took place long ago…but the effects are still felt. My mind has moved on, but my body doesn’t forget. My body feels everything–always. I still sometimes get triggered, anxious or feel threatened, and I don’t even really know why. I carry traumas from the past, stories and situations that I often can’t remember, but that still live in my body. These unseen mysteries often send warning signals and an occasional red hot flare of blistering rage.
My inner, most times very emotional, child has almost always desperately sought to be seen, heard and loved…yet no one person or role could fulfill this void but me…my adult self. It’s the hardest work I’ve ever done. The complexity behind the simplicity of the answer to it all. I needed to become my own loving parent. Easier said than done since I have never been a parent.
I turned 51 years old last winter. The day before my birthday, I got COVID. I didn’t feel too concerned because I’m fully vaccinated — but then the thought occurred to me that if something terrible were to happen…and I never finished my book- would I relive the same story line in a different lifetime?
My younger self showed such strength, such courage- how could I not honor her?
The events of the past two and a half years have been interesting, to say the least. Aside from the obvious, a kind of rebirth has happened for me. Space. Nothingness. Quiet. Re-set. Shifting realities- everywhere. Confusion and clarity. Long walks. Forests. Loneliness. Meditation. Trauma work. Masks. Hand sanitizer. Ceremony. Crock pot cooking. Cake. Drumming. Sage. Yoga. Sleep. Tears. Bad dreams. Peace. New friends. Sweatpants. Quarantine. Plants. Purging. Getting angry. Weight gain. Weight loss. Gray hair. Dry skin. Sleepless nights. Hats. Mistakes. Growth. Unemployment. New opportunities. Disappointment. Fear. Joy. Love.
It seems like a lifetime…in two years.
My husband and I moved to the mountains of Colorado almost a year ago. We started to look for land after all of the events surrounding COVID had swallowed up our downtown Denver neighborhood in a way that didn’t feel safe anymore. Businesses shut down, homeless camps shifted from corner to corner, bikes and packages were stolen every day.
I’ve lived in cities most of my adult life. I love the energy and convenience. It’s easy to keep busy…all day long, if needed. I like to stay busy…it’s safer for me. When I’m not busy, things can go dark. Fast. I’ve been down the rabbit hole more times than I’d like to admit. It’s painful and scary. It’s also fueled my growth in often unimaginable ways.
Here, on our beautiful mountain, insights continue to be revealed. In my experience, reconnecting with nature is a very effective way for me to settle into what really matters…to take a deeper look within myself. Everything is slower up here.. It’s peaceful…simple. Nature has always been my trusted refuge and teacher…it’s just that I have often ignored her because I was so “busy”.
As I sit in stillness- surrounded by the many magical mysteries of the forest- I’ve opened myself up to all the healing properties that my only true mother, mother nature, can share with me. She has quietly revealed new insights- that up until now- I didn’t know that I was ready to receive. My relationship with her continues to evolve, her intelligence is immense and extraordinary. For the first time in my life, I feel safe…supported by her and all of her majesty.
My father passed away in his sleep in 2016. Losing him was one of the hardest experiences I have ever had. My mother died after an exhausting battle with metastatic breast cancer early in 2019. I have not yet shed a tear. However, after her death, working through all of the physical and mental debris, I felt a deep calling to tell the story of our family as I experienced it. I knew it was time. At least I thought it was. I started writing. Each day, I set out to write a chapter. I didn’t realize it at the time, but when I look back at those beginning pages now, I can see that years of anger and hurt were fueling me.
Having never written a book, I quickly realized that it was no small task.
Three months after my mom passed away, I decided to take a year off from working 60 hour weeks. (something I had never done before) I put a plan together, hired a coach, and made an outline. How hard could it be?
I went to a friend’s place in Montana to have no distractions. It worked for a few weeks. Then my husband got a new job and we moved from Virginia to Colorado. My energy shifted. We had one month to move. I swung into gear: packing, finding a home, cleaning out closets, visits with friends, selling old furniture, buying new furniture, paint samples, new rugs, car registrations, new doctors, new neighbors and new adventures.
By the fall, it felt like 5 years had gone by. I was anxious and bored. Working on the book had become a task…a difficult chore…too hard…too many feelings. Fear. I was quite literally re-traumatizing myself. I connected with a few of my siblings to compare notes. My memories were sometimes vague. I’m grateful to my two younger brothers for their memories. They continue to be supportive. I’m grateful because many of the others don’t want to remember. It’s too disturbing and painful for them.
My identity had always circled around whatever I was doing to make a living; who I was working for; what my title in the world was. For most of my adult life, my drive was fueled by feeling important…doing everything I could to stand out…to be better. Anxious attempts to be loved and accepted. Reaching for answers and comfort outside myself. I didn’t know any other way.
It sounded cool to say that I was writing a book, but–the truth is– I wasn’t writing much.
Julia Cameron’s morning papers…something many serious writers swear by: 10 minutes of writing in the morning…every morning. I could do that…and I did it, every day for a few months…then I stopped.
Mary Karr, Anne Lamott, Roxanne Gay, Elizabeth Gilbert…I’ve read and learned from them all.
Frustrated, sad and blocked, I made an appointment with my therapist. “What’s wrong with me?” I cried. “I know this is what I’m supposed to do, it’s all I think about, but I’m scared. I’m scared about what people will think if they really know me…if they know where I came from.”
“Laney,” he said, “I have never heard a story like yours. By all accounts, knowing all of the pieces of your story, you should be in a psychiatric hospital or worse…dead. You survived. You’re alive. You were meant to thrive. You have a beautiful life with a wonderful and kind man who loves you. You have good friends. You’re smart, capable and special. You are a miracle.”
I appreciated his diagnosis, but the pain I felt was so deep, so visceral, that I still secretly felt hopeless.
27 chapters and a proposal written…when I go back and read these pieces now, they don’t sound like me at all. They sound like a scared child who is extremely careful: being at the beach, dipping her toe in the ocean, but not wearing her bathing suit. Curious, but not yet committed to immersion.
I have started to write on this Medium platform to slowly and thoughtfully risk immersion. In many ways, I’m starting over. Taking off the mask. Doing it differently. Being honest. Sharing. Asking for help.
My story is my legacy. It’s proof that I was here. It’s proof that I survived. My hope is that it will give others a new perspective. By understanding where someone comes from we can engage in a higher level of compassion. I believe that all people are doing the best they can with the tools they have.
Your engagement is appreciated, dear reader. Your thoughts are welcome. Your stories are important. Life is hard, but also rewarding. Hope is everywhere…especially in the stories that involve our broken parts.
My thoughts are my own, solely based on my experience in this continuously evolving life that I, sometimes reluctantly, keep living. Why? Mostly- just to see what happens next.
Thank you for following along. This is kind of scary for me. My hope is that by sharing my story, others will have the courage to share theirs.
