After A Lengthy Pause…

It has been a long time since I’ve written this blog.There are a few reasons for that. The first being that The Friday Project is no longer going to publish the memoir based off this blog. This is for a multitude of reasons, none of them having to do with me.

The blog and the memoir were so intertwined with each other that it was hurtful to me to continue to write here. Knowing that two years worth of work were going to sit in the darkness after being promised the light was painful and, to be honest, I was a bit resentful of the blog.

Since the bankruptcy and buy out of The Friday Project (they are now part of Harper Collins) it has been hard to acknowledge this blog, to acknowledge the memoir. It was and is such a personal project for me that when Harper Collins didn’t want the book, it was as if they didn’t want me.

I’m sure any author would feel this way. But because this is a memoir, because the blog and book are me on the page, the damage was double what it would have been normally.

And so I stopped visiting this blog. I stopped penning my daily experiences with Cerebral Palsy. It was too painful to me to do so. And yet…

And yet, people have still stopped by to read it, have still stopped by to comment on it. I receive more emails about this blog than I do about any of my other pieces of writing. That’s saying something since those pieces are published in a multitude of different forms and One Step at a Time is still a blog.

I stopped writing in March 2008, one the one year anniversary of the blog. It seems only appropriate that I start writing this blog again, now that I have turned thirty.

Please forgive me if you’ve been waiting for posts; I’ve had to work through my own demons and dreams in order to make peace with the situation. Thankfully, I have an agent now, and we will hopefully see my memoir on the shelves in the near future.

But I realized recently that this blog isn’t about the memoir, no matter how intertwined they might be. This blog is about the disability, Cerebral Palsy and about giving inspiration and hope to those who might need it.

I can only hope you’ll forgive me for my lengthy absence. Stay tuned for more posts and read along as I take things one step at a time….

Editing My Words

  

This has been a busy weekend. We took down the Christmas tree, put the decorations away, had people over for dinner, moved the office around. And I handed in the edited memoir to Scott Pack at The Friday Project.

 

It was great feeling to know that I had come to the end of the edits, that I had been able to wade through the words again. It had taken me a lot longer than I thought it would, not for wanting of trying.

 

It took longer than planned mostly because it was difficult. It was hard to write the memoir but it was even more hard for some reason to edit it. To wade back into the words and make them right, make them fit.

 

I’m more than proud of the finished product though. Now at least I can take a bit of a break, I can let my mind rest a bit. Though there have been other things going on in my life, the memoir has held a spot backstage for some time now.

 

I am always thinking about it even when I don’t mean to. It held me in its grasp, it’s words my words, my story. I can’t begin to describe what it feels like to have everything written down, to have my words, my life, staring back at me from the page.

 

This means I can finally get back to blogging on a regular basis, something I know that I have been lax about. It’s such a relief, but now the worry will begin to set it.

 

Now that I’ve handed it back to The Friday Project, will they be as happy with it as I am? Will they find it engaging, enjoyable, inspirational? Will they find solace in my words as I have?

 I can only hope they do. All I can do now is wait, enjoy a good book and then take things one step at a time.

Holiday Thoughts

It’s been too long since I’ve updated this blog but not for lack of trying. Life just seems to get in the way of things, especially when you’re busy. What with the Holidays upon us, it’s little wonder that I’ve had no time to post.

 

I have been hard at work on the edits for my memoir titled One Step at a Time. It’s going to be published by The Friday Project in the summer of 2008. Thankfully the edits are almost done and I will be back to a regular posting schedule in the new year.

 

While the writing of the memoir has been difficult, it’s been the most rewarding of tasks to delve into it, to give my life a shape on paper when I can only remember it in pictures, little snapshots. My eyes are the lens and my brain is the camera, capturing images for prosperity.

 

The Holidays always help me remember bits and pieces of my past that I otherwise would have forgotten. I remember the smells of baking, the songs I used to sing. I remember baking with my grandmother, wrapping gifts with my mother.

 

While I’ve been editing my memoir and going through the pieces of my life I’ve sewn together, the memoirs have become stronger, become more concrete and less blurry. It’s been the weirdest experience looking at my life with a fine tooth comb, knowing that others are going to read about it in a short time.

 

I’m always amazed at the things that I’m able to remember. Sounds, music, little mental pictures that float to the surface like treasures. Especially around the Holidays I’m reminded of family, of togetherness, of companionship.

 

When I have those things around the Holidays, the pain in my legs doesn’t matter, the spasms in my back don’t hold any meaning for me. Because I know that, with a little luck, love and perseverance, anything is possible.

  

Sewing Thoughts

I have been negligent in writing lately. This is mostly because I have been doing the most dreaded thing a writer can face: editing! While I know that editing is an essential process, I don’t have to enjoy it.

It’s been an odd experience going through the first draft of the memoir. It’s been weird reading everything and having to relive everything I’ve written down. I find that words are like time capsules: they hold time still for you. They hold time in it’s grasp and, even years later, you can be transported back.

I am glad, however, that the pieces of the puzzle have come together. As I edit and go through what I’ve written I remember more; I am visited by more ghosts. I wonder if I am like a modern day Scrooge to be visited by Ghosts of Christmas past.

I feel as if I’m sewing the pieces together now, giving the chapters and parts a glue and mortar made out of thread that pulls the pieces together, pulls them together to form a cohesive whole.

It’s odd to have my life in a book. It’s bizarre to read my words knowing that others will read them.

It’s also a relief to know that I’ve written everything down. To know that I have embarked on what is a fabulous journey and that I’ve survived to tell my tale.

A Gentle Quiet

I have been quiet lately.

 

This is not due to depression, thank goodness. It is simply due to the fact that life has taken me up in a whirlwind and has only just put me down again. For the past while, I’ve been consumed in a routine: Go to work, go home, write. Go to work, go home, write. Can you guess what I’ve been writing?

 

I’ve been writing my memoir titled One Step at a Time. So, while I have been quiet, I have been active. And I have some amazing news to share with all of you:

 

The memoir is finished.

 

I wrote the last page just under a couple hours ago. If I still smoked, this would be where I would light up a cigarette. Though I can’t compare the experience of writing this memoir to sex, I can compare it to a journey.

 

And, indeed, it has been one. It has helped me heal more than I thought possible and I have learned more about myself while putting its words down on paper than I thought I could know.

 

One thing is clear to me, however: this is the most important piece of writing I have ever written. It is certainly not my favourite as it’s caused me many sleepless nights, nightmares, temper tantrums. You name it and I’ve had it because of writing this book.

 

But I’ve never had the feeling I do now of being free; of having a weight lifted off of me, a weight that I wasn’t even aware I was carrying. The chalice that rests inside me finally feels whole again and I can breathe without feeling any pain.

 

That’s not to say that my Cerebral Palsy has all of a sudden gone away, my family has welcomed me back with open arms and everything is okay. But it does mean that I feel better about myself now, I feel better about being me.

 

I couldn’t ask for anything more.

 

Now that the memoir is finished, I can finally get back to regular blogging, regular writing and other projects that have sat by the wayside. I’m giving it a day and then I’m going to delve into a read through and a little bit of editing.

 

Then it’s off to the publisher.

 

I only hope that the publisher enjoys it. It is my sincere hope that they do and that they do not find it too depressing or badly written. I’ll have to cross my fingers and toes but not my eyes. I’d bump into things that way and I do that enough already.

 

I’ve also submitted a proposal for a second memoir to my wonderful publisher. I can only hope that I’ll be able to continue my story. So, much like before, I will have plenty to worry about.

 

But I also have plenty to be joyous about as well.

 

One (or rather several) of those things is you. Yes, you, reading this blog right now. You have read my words, found enjoyment from them and been enlightened by them. You have sent me emails and comments letting me know how touched you are by my words and I can’t thank you enough.

 

I write for me, for myself but it is a treat, a pleasure and a privilege to write for you. So thank you, reader. I’ll be back on track in a day or two. Your patience means the world to me.

Now that one story is finished I can finally continue to tell another.

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.

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.  

Birthday Reminders

I was born on August 22nd, 1978. Every year around my birthday I am reminded that I was supposed to have died

 

My mother, young and frightened, felt her contractions starting late one evening and was rushed to the hospital. She was told that she was in labour. Scared, she did what she could to stop the labour. It was too early, it was too soon.

 

There was a reason for her fright. But the birth had not been an easy one. It had lasted forty eight long hours; by the end of it my mother was close to physical, mental and spiritual exhaustion.

 

The first problem was that my twin brother and I were born three months premature. Any number of problems could have occurred at the beginning of the birth; but thankfully Robert came out fine.

 

I would be the one to cause problems.

 

When Robert came out, he turned me so that I was feet first instead of head first. I could not, or would not, come out of her womb. Jailed with a cellmate for six months, I was content to swim in the space now afforded to me.

 

I had already stayed in the womb too long, however. The doctor, forgoing medical procedures, reached in and pulled me out.

 

According to my mother, I was a sickly blue colour. “You looked like a little blueberry.” She would tell me later. “I waited what seemed like forever to hear you cry.”

 

Finally I did make a sound but the doctor was worried. I had been in the womb too long. He was sure I had suffered brain damage and would die sometime that evening.

 

For the next eight hours, people prayed.

 

My father was a practicing Ba-hai at the time. He and his congregation prayed for me to live. My mother, alone in the hospital, held my hand through an incubator glove. According to her I held on for dear life and would not let go.

 

Amazingly, the power of prayer worked. I had survived the night.

 

The doctor was amazed. “He won’t survive another night.” He told my mother. “And frankly, if he does, he’ll never be able to walk and he’ll be a vegetable.”

 

You can guess what my mother told him.

 

But, against the odds, I continued to thrive. Doctors and nurses studied me; they watched me and poked me, took notes and shook their heads.

 

I was supposed to have died. By all rights, I should have. But I continued to do better day after day. Another doctor came and talked to my mother.

 

“He should have died.” He told her. “He should have been dead when he left the womb.” The doctor shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He should have died but he’s still alive.” The doctor looked solemn. “He’s Gods child now.” he told her.

 

Other doctors called me a miracle baby. But to my mother, I was simply her son.

 

Life has not bee easy however. I was born with spastic Cerebral Palsy, scoliosis of the spine, underdeveloped internal organs, complications with my motor skills, severe learning disabilities and a host of other problems.

 

But none of that matters to me.

 

I think this has to do with the fact that I am more thankful than most. I am thankful for every day I have, every day I live despite my afflictions and complications. I am thankful for the chance to breathe and to walk, however painful. 

 

And I am thankful for those around me.

 

Birthdays are not the dire progress of age like they are for most people. For me, Birthdays are a celebration of life. Birthdays are a reminder of what could have been and what is.

 

Every year I am reminded that I should not have lived. Every year I am reminded that I am here through the grace of some higher power to do some good on this Earth. Every year I am reminded that it was not medical science that kept me alive.

 

It was the love of my mother.

 

 Thanks Mum.

Pride on the Wind

I have not blogged lately.

This is mostly because I have been on vacation and have been hard at work on the memoir. My legs, however, have not been on vacation, regardless of what the rest of me is doing.

Several times on my vacation I had to sit quickly before my legs gave out under me. It would happen at the most inconvienient times: in line to buy coffee, walking to the store, while talking to someone.

I tried to sit quietly, if such a thing can be done; I tried to sit without drawing attention to myself. I know the concern of others is well meant but I still find it embarassing.

I don’t know why this is. After living with Cybill Paulsen for so long, that dasderdly twin of mine, you would think that I would be used to it by now; you would think, wouldn’t you, that I would be fine with what resides in my body.

But the truth is I’m embarassed for others to see me in pain. I think it’s a pride issue, that I have too much pride to even let on that I’m feeling anything. I don’t want to be a bother to others; their sympathy sometimes makes me feel uncomfortable.

I have always been this way though. Downplaying pain in a soft, quiet way. Once, when my brother broke a finger on my right hand and my skin had gone white and clammy, I said that it was throbbing slightly, that it was tingling.

In reality, my entire arm was numb and I could feel every movement, every scraping of the bones. It is the same with my legs, the same with my Cerebral Palsy.

I don’t want to be a bother to others, I don’t want to dampen them down, bring them down to my level. I don’t want them to have to feel what I feel; I need to keep it within my skin, to keep it to myself, rather than see the pain that is in their eyes.

This can sometimes have dire consequences, though. For about three days of my vacation, I existed in a blue fog, a sadness that seemed to seep into me. I would go for walks in the sun, have beer on my patio, work on my art; nothing would alieviate the fog floating around my head.

My good friend Dorothy told me that holding onto pain is what causes depression. Keeping it in is what brings us down.

I thought of something I could do to ease the pain inside me and help lift the fog. An idea came to me part way through the third day.

I drew a picture of myself; I tried to draw myself in pain: all rough angles, all harsh lines, my pen gouging the paper, ripping it in places, lines pressing into the other pages, leaving an indentation on the other paper like a shadow.

I folded the paper and put it in my pocket and went for a walk, my legs spasming painfully. I breathed in and out as I walked, making sure not to count out loud. Too many people look at me as it is.

I stopped in a park near Parliment Hill and took the paper out of my pocket. It was a windy day, the breeze was cool and the sun was warm. I remember it like a kiss on my skin.

I ripped the paper into small, smaller, smallest pieces, picturing the blueness leaving me and having it replaced with something bright. Something gold, vibrant and alive.

I raised my hand to the wind and let the breeze take the pieces; they littered the ground like snow or confetti and I remember thinking at the time:

Just take things one step at a time, one step at a time, one step at a time.

Strangely, afte the last piece of paper left my hand, I felt better.

Blue Blood Words

I have been quiet lately.

This has been mostly due to the fact that I am fighting off a small bout of depression. It’s as if there is a blueness around me that I can breathe in. It wants to wrap itself around me like a blanket but I am pushing it away.

I do not want to become entangled in its embrace.

That’s not to say that I’m not writing. I am. I tinker away at the memoir, One Step at a Time. Or rather, one word at a time.

I’m coming to think of these words, the ink upon the page, like a kind of blood. Though black and still, the words shine for me, as if they were alive, as if they were breathing, living things.

I suppose that in a way they are. They’ve become a maze of words and emotions that I have had to fight my way through.

The curves on the J’s become barbs and the edges on the T’s are sharp and prick my fingers. The O’s are round and soft but I have to be careful; I could become lost in them.

Memories that I had locked away to never be seen again are stretching and growing alive again after a long, dreamless sleep. They breathe in and take breath from me, stealing air that I have so long denied them.

Even though the words are made of ink, there is blood within them; there are tears. Frequently, as I type and tinker away at the memoir, I feel hot tears on my face.

I wipe them away thinking: I must not show emotion. I must distance myself. I must not show emotion. I must I must I must…

But how can I not show emotion? How can I detach myself from my memories, from the things that have happened to me? Such is my internal debate. I feel as if I am arguing with a third part of me, a naysayer that fills me with doubt.

I do not have energy for much else. I am exhausted, tired. I feel lethargic. The only thing that helps is the writing of the words, MY words.

It lets the blueness out.

I know that these words have to be written, that the process has been and will continue to be therapeutic. I know that on the other side of the Blue are other colours: Red and Orange. Green and maybe, hopefully, a wonderfully soft Violet.

But to get to these colours, I have to keep writing. I have to give my words life, let them bleed on to the page.

Then the blueness will fly away.