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.

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.

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.

The Dark Mark

I had my first year wedding anniversary on Saturday.

I can’t believe it’s been a year that I’ve been married. I also can’t believe that Robert and I have been together for almost three years. It seems like a few months.

Something occurred to me yesterday while I was still basking in the glow of the newly married: I no longer consider myself a freak.

There was a time, not so long ago, where I felt my having Cerebral Palsy branded me with a mark others could see; a mark that said: Dangerous Waters, Careful All Who Tred Here.

Sometimes I felt as it were a large neon sign that flashed above my head in seductive reds and yellows; maybe a bright flash of blue or gold. Always drawing attention to the fact that something about me just wasn’t right.

While I still have issue with my self-esteem (who doesn’t nowadays) it’s been a long time since I’ve felt marked by my disability.

I also realized yesterday that most of this has to do with my husband. He was the first significant other who saw just me, only me. Not “Jamieson who has Cerebral Palsy” or “Jamieson with the Gimpy Legs” or “Jamieson with the Lazy Eye”.

I am not freakish. But instead freakishly beautiful.

Robert sees only Jamieson. He sees only me.

And finally, I am able to see myself.

Remembering the Forgotten

It is amazing what we teach ourselves to forget.

I knew that writing a memoir based off this blog would not be an easy thing to do. This is mostly because I knew the memoir would cover everything in my life; not just the fact that I have Cerebral Palsy.

I know for a fact that nothing in life is ever easy. This only inspires me to try harder, to try again and to try more. But I have never really tried to remember.

Writing the memoir has been slow going mostly because I knew that if I started writing, memories that I have tried so hard to forget would come to the surface again.

It’s not easy to welcome these memories back into my life. I forgot them for a reason, I closed them away in the hat box of my head for a purpose: so I could get on with my life and focus on the now instead of than.

But memories are pesky little things; they cry and moan and shake with indignation until you open your arms to them, until you notice them.

In writing my memoir, it’s amazing to remember what I had forgotten:

*The first time my father hit me.

*My mother trying to explain to me what Cerebral Palsy was.

*Hiding in a closet, hearing my father raging, looking for me, knowing he would find me and I would not like the outcome.

*Seeing my twin brother taken away by the police.

*The first night that I slept on the streets.

*Eating food in shelters and half way houses, grateful for the first meal I hadn’t had in days.

*Learning to walk without showing the pain in my face with each step I took.

*Dating girls because it was what was expected of me growing up.

*The last time I saw my brothers and sister, ten years ago, and how my younger brother Jeffrey was afraid to hug me, to come near me.

*The first time I kissed a man and knew it felt right to me, that I had found that piece of myself.

I feel as if I am going on an internal scavanger hunt, that I am hunting for pieces of myself, piling them in this large basket that is almost too big to hold on to.

And somehow I must place this all together. Somehow, I must take this puzzle of me and put the pieces together.

It is a mammoth task and I have always loved a challenge. But I never thought I would be up to the challenge of me.

The writing of Head Above Water (the working title…I can’t just keep calling it The Memoir. That makes it sound too grand) has been therapeutic but also gut wrenching.

I sat down this weekend to write and started balling at my computer as I was typing away. I am not normally an overly emotional person; but everything just came rushing back, slamming around the inside of my head.

If I close my eyes, I can see a mass of hands, waving like a field of poppies. Each is a memory and each is yelling the same thing:

Pick me, Pick ME, PICK ME.