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….

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.

Abled Not Disabled

Cerebral Palsy is not a disease.

A few people have been sending me emails and leaving comments on this blog and I am thankful beyond words that my words have moved them to do so.

It’s still a bit bizzare to know that my words provoke emotion, that others are moved to comment. I think this is the wonderful thing about words and it’s what helps me to write this blog.

The fact that others reading it can know what it is like to have a disability, really know what it is like for someone living with one, that makes all of worth it.

Which brings me to some of the comments. I wanted to make sure that people understood, that they really comprehended what I have inside me, what rests inside my body.

Cerebral Palsy means brain paralysis. It is a disability that affects movement and the position of the body. It comes from brain damage from before the baby was born, during birth or as a baby.

The whole brain is not damaged, only parts of it and mainly the parts that control movement. 

I just want to make sure that everyone knows it’s not a disease. While a disability can seem like a disease (and even I have called it so on this blog) it’s not. It’s a physical and mental disability that affects my life; one that I live with every day.

It’s funny; when I was younger and growing up I used to think of myself as damaged goods because of my having Cerebral Palsy. I used to wish and wish and WISH that I could be like others.

I would watch them walking and think to myself: I want to walk like them. I would admire my twins feet as he walked in front of me.

Heel toe. Heel toe. Heel toe.

Something as simple as walking properly, walking gracefully, seemed unobtainable to me. I kept thinking that maybe if I concentrated harder, if I found comfortable enough shoes, if I wished hard enough, I would be like everyone else.

It seems silly to me that something as simple, as casual as walking would set me apart from others; that it would isolate me and mark me, scar me on the inside and the outside.

But it did.

Adults can be cruel but children are even worse. They are taught by their parents to hate and criticise and shun anything that is different. And children can take to these beliefs with a vengence.

I remember waiting at the local mall in line to see a movie. I can’t remember the movie (and I wouldn’t want to date myself; I want to be ageless) but I remember walking towards my twin brother.

There were two kids, boys my age, that started walking with limps and they began to slap their hands against their chests and mumble as if they were incapable of proper speech. They were pointing and laughing at me and I felt much like the circus sideshow freaks might have felt: under a spotlight and hating the brightness of it.

I approached them and asked them what was so funny. They said it was the way I walked. “You look like a Jerrys kid,” one said. “You walk like a cripple.”

“I have Cerebral Palsy.” I told them. “I’m physically disabled.” My voice was quiet; anger seethed in me.

The two boys had the grace to look shamed. They apologized. “We didn’t know you really actually had a problem.” one said.

“Why should that make a difference?”

It shouldn’t.

It’s taken me years not to view myself as damaged goods, as something that was made broken. As something that no one would want.

I no longer wish to walk like everyone else, though I still find it fascinating, watching how others walk; I just know that I don’t want to be like them anymore.

Instead, I think of myself as abled; not disabled.

For there is really nothing different about me at all.

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.