Holding My Breath

  

I am almost finished One Step at a Time.

 

The memoir has taken its own shape, its own form. My words have given it a body, a face, a pair of hands with which to reach out and touch readers.

 

It is incomprehensible to me that I have written these words; that I have put my pen to paper, my fingers to the keyboard, the click clack of keys spelling out my past, present and future.

 

I had hoped that as I wrote, things would become easier. That it would be simple to delve into the well of what I was and where I came from. That it would be easy to lower the wooden bucket and salvage the parts of me that make up the whole of who I am.

 

It has not been easy.

 

I have learned much about myself, however. I think that it the true power of what I have written. Not only does it allow me to put those ghosts to rest (I can hear them whispering at me in my head, telling tales and distorting my vision with a kaleidoscope of images) but it allows me to know me.

 

It is still the hardest thing I have ever written. But it remains the most wonderful process. Taking the puzzle pieces of me and arranging them so that they form a whole.

 

I am no longer afraid of myself. I am no longer filled with self doubt, that great weight of the carrion bird perched on my shoulder. It has released my shoulder from it’s claw like grip and flown to someone else.

 

I do not wish that weight on anyone.

 

I was wondering what would come after One Step at a Time. Surely if this was the first step, there would be more to tell?

 

The memoir ends just after I meet the man who became my husband. But what of me after that? What of me beyond that point? I know that the road did not stop when I met Robert, that there were many more trails and pathways to follow.

 

I look at my life not as one path but as several. Internally, I am a maze. Externally, I am a roadmap of crisscrossing lines. My veins are like blue print lines, burnt into my skin. Which do I choose to follow? Which do I choose to ignore?

 

Even though I know how difficult writing One Step at a Time has been (I have never taken on such a mountain sized task before) am I ready to climb the other side of the mountain? Am I ready to look at myself in that light?

 

It would seem that I am.

 

I’ve submitted another book proposal to The Friday Project for another memoir, another book of blood that would follow One Step at a Time.

 

Now I wait with bated breath for two reasons, my breathing coming in shallow gulps and gasps.

 

I hold my breath for the ending of One Step at a Time because I know it is really a beginning. I know that the ending is coming and can only hope that I will know how to write it. For how does one put their emotions into words when they are not masked by the smoke and mirrors of fiction?

 

And the second reason?

 

I wait, my breath like a heartbeat inside my chest, to hear back from The Friday Project about the next book, the next part of my maze.

 

I wait and hope that they will let me continue down the path that I have chosen. I wait to hear what they will say.

 

I wait and I remind myself to breathe. Remind myself to write.

 

Remind myself to live.

Limitations of the Body

I have been quiet again. But it’s not because I’m depressed.

It’s because I’m moving.

I hate moving. I hate it with a passion. I hate the packing, the boxes, the newspaper and bubble wrap. But there is one reason above all else that I dislike packing so much:

It reminds me of my physical limitations.

I don’t like knowing that I can’t do everything that anyone else can. I don’t like being reminded that my muscles have a limit to what they can do that is set far lower than anyone else.

It makes me feel inferior.

We’ve been packing all this week; box after box of belongings, bag after bag of clothes. After each new bag or each new box, I am reminded of the fact that I am physically disabled, as much as I would like to pretend otherwise.

My leg muscles protest going up and down the stairs, my back muscles start singing a glorious soprano aria only to be joined by my leg muscles who feel like singing a harmony. My shoulders throb in a beat, keeping time for them.

I know if I were to take my shirt off and find myself capable of turning my head to look at my own back, I would see my muscles jumping underneath the skin.

The pain has not be hot or fast or intense; it has been constant. My muscles are protesting in ways I didn’t think they were capable of. I can feel the ripple of them underneath my skin when before it would be a single jab to my shoulders, a hot kiss of hurt to my calves.

Now I wear it like a mantle. Muscles knotting together in some exterior puzzle that I am not given the answer key for. Just when I think I know how my body and my muscles will react, they surprise me with something else, some new way of feeling, moving, jerking, jumping.

I wonder if I will ever get the answer key? If I will be able to turn to page 105 in myself and see the black line that leads me to the centre of the maze?

Perhaps.

Thankfully though, I have had work to keep my mind occupied. Packing, working, writing, packing, working, writing; My mind cannot focus on the limitations of my body, on the movement under my skin.

Instead it focuses on other things and I can let my mind wander. I can dream of things, remember things, hold memories like gum drops on my finger tips or soft, clear jewels of rain.

Instead I pack and I work and I write, remembering, wanting, needing.

And I hope that, someday, I can view my limitations as unlimitations.

Perhaps then I will learn how to fly.

A Milestone

Well I reached a milestone last night.

  I’m now three quarters through my memoir One Step at a Time. I’ve got a good chunk left but I was able to get twenty five pages written this weekend which is way beyond what I can normally pull off.   Writing novels is so much easier and I can always lose myself in the story, in the characters, in what’s going on. Writing twenty five pages of a novel is nothing. Writing twenty five pages of a memoir is incredibly hard.   

I had no idea what the journey would entail when I started writing One Step at a Time. I had no idea the emotions I would feel, the memories I would stir up, the forgotten things that would come back into the forefront. It’s been a gruelling, emotional experience and I’ve still got a bit to go.

  

But you know, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  This is the most involved I’ve been with my writing in forever. I like writing novels but don’t love it. I love writing short stories but, regrettably, that’s a genre of writing that has fallen by the wayside. No one publishes short stories anymore. So novels it is. But I’ve never gotten emotional when writing my novels except for The Ghost Mirror.   

I’ve cried, raged, and had nightmares while writing One Step at a Time. It’s been agony, blissful, joyful, frightening, and revealing and all manner of other things.

  

What I find most interesting about it all is that this is the first time I’ve taken to sit back and take a good honest look at me. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know why this is, why I haven’t bothered. But there you go. That’s the truth of it.

  

I can now look at myself and feel that I am proud of me, proud of myself; I haven’t been able to say this about myself for years. Sure, I could think it, ponder it, hold it like a stone in the palm of my hand. But I’ve never felt it. Now I can.

  

A few wonderful people have been test readers for me. The lovely Caroline, my Husband, Dorothy. I can’t thank these people enough. They have read my words (MY words, not a story, which just floors me) and have still looked at me the same way, have still seen me as me. I can’t thank them enough for that. I love them for that, for being able to still respect me and love me for me after reading what I’ve written.

  And now I can see the end of the journey coming. I know its coming; I can see the light at the end of the preverbal tunnel. And now that is frightening. I’m ending the memoir just after Robert (My beautiful husband) proposes to me. I know there will be at least one more book detailing my life after One Step at a Time. I already have a working title in mind.    The future is ahead of me and that is the greatest adventure there is.