Descent

I've been working on my manuscript that I plan to self publish and also hope to one day publish traditionally- I thought I'd share a chunk today as it's fresh on my mind and heart and I thought you might appreciate reading a bit of it.
So... here you go!

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I wasn't allowed to stay with him. My not-quite-yet four year old son would be in the hospital without me for several days. Parents weren't allowed to stay outside of assigned visiting hours, and I would have to leave him in the care of strangers. We were four hours from home and my temporary bed would be at the Ronald McDonald House located a few blocks away. Heavy with the knowledge that I would be leaving him there, those two blocks felt more like a million miles. I had no way of absorbing that pain in the moment. I had to be strong for him, and reassure him that all of this was perfectly normal. He takes his cues from me, and I drew on every ounce of strength within me to present myself assured and calm.

After we'd arrived on the ward and been given the tour, a nurse led us back to the main area and I knew it was time for me to leave. He'd lagged a short distance behind us as we'd woven our way through the halls, his ruffled blond hair bouncing atop his head like a buoy in the ocean. Eyes wide with curiosity, he seemed to believe we were on a grand adventure. I avoided looking down at him to keep myself from feeling anything. I was numb; the overwhelming reality of my young son entering psychiatric care had washed over my senses like a sticky film. I'd nodded in recognition when she had shown me the room where patients gathered to watch movies and play board games, and as she led us through the rest of the wing, I'd scanned the halls for signs of comfort and reassurance that my oldest boy, the one who had thrust me into motherhood with gusto, would be safe and well cared for.

We circled back around to stop in front of the charge nurse's desk. I looked down into his bright questioning blue eyes to tell him I loved him and would be back in the morning. My smile felt borrowed from someone else and I knew he could sense my hesitation as he stared back at me. Breaking our unspoken communication, I bent down to pull him close, nuzzling my face into his neck and reassuring him he was okay and I loved him desperately. He was silent and stoic, tilting his had like a beloved family dog trying to comprehend words flung into the air. As I straightened, I was suffocated with feelings of failure laced with the thin thread of hope that maybe I had rescued him. Maybe this time real help would come. This time we'd find the elusive freedom. My heart split wide open under the pressing weight of guilt and shame. Tears threatened to slide down my face, and I refused to allow them access in that moment. Lies of inadequacy hovered around me like thick smoke, and the slash in my heart gave space for them to take up residency. Walking towards the heavy grey metal doors meant turning away from him. Turning from him felt horrifically symbolic and I rebelled against the wretched feeling. I felt as though all of the air had been sucked out of the room and the carpet seemed to stretch in front of me for miles. The rock in my chest grew heavier with each step I took; creating space between us that felt both visceral and emotional. I swallowed and tried focusing on the colorful childish paintings hanging on the walls. Reassuring myself we'd come to a place of help and treatment became my mantra, threading itself through my brain to keep thoughts of panic and desperation from landing. When I finally put my hands on the door, the steely cool of its surface bore testimony to the atmosphere; cold and sterile. Turning my face back to him, I was relieved and crushed to find him still watching me. His features were so baby-like, innocent and fresh. he understood I was leaving for the night, but thankfully, he didn't have the maturity to grasp the gravity of this dramatic initiation into psychiatric care at such a tender age. He stood rooted in the same spot, next to a faceless nurse wearing cheery, bright scrubs. He was so small. So young. How was I to leave him here without me to protect him from unseen dangers, from others who might not understand his behavior and words?! I was pierced again with the default statement I'd adopted as a mother at some point on my journey: I was a failure. I could see him struggling to fight back tears, and fresh grief washed over me knowing I couldn't run back to wrap my arms around him with protection, reassurance, and comfort. There was no comfort for us to be found in that moment, only the stark reality of reaching for support for our future to buffet me from complete wasting.

The Post That Meets My #2 Goal for This Week

I've worked on a manuscript for my book on and off for years. In 2017, I won a contest with a few of the chapters from my book and was given a trip to a writing conference and workshop complete with a writing coach. My coach was a best selling author and I learned so much from her- but her recommendations on how to change my writing brought me to a full stop and stunted a lot of my growth for the last year and a half.

She was complimentary about my work, but she told me if I wanted to sell copies that I needed to shape it into a self-help book and to dumb it down to a middle school reading level. I was deflated. That wasn't at all the vision I'd had for the work I'd bled into, sweat through and gutted my soul out onto the pages. But, I knew she was the expert and I was not. She'd sold thousands of books and I've only had essays published. I felt I needed to consider her advice.
Books have a way of birthing themselves to some degree. My book has grown organically into part memoir and part self-help, if for no other reason than I offer information and resources as a natural progression of my story. I was loathe to chop it into short chapters with three alliterated bullet points  and a cheesy anecdote...and trying it felt forced and disingenuous. As every writer does, I write with a certain cadence, vocabulary and tone- and it's not far off from how I speak. It hit me hard to think that I'd have to 'dumb it down' in order to connect with my audience.

But I can't let it just sit. I've had too many interactions with people who want and need to hear what I have to say to keep it to myself; and I'm ready to move forward into being a more vocal advocate for mental health. I pulled out my manuscript yesterday and read through it. I was relieved to still connect with what I wrote and found it powerful and captivating. It's tough to read personal work- it's a pull back into dark times when life was scary, confusing, traumatic and chaotic. Much of what I had written was taken from my journals; entries often written with clinical sterility, solely for the sake of charting my son's moods. But those entries jog my memories, and the the memories give way to the words pouring onto the pages. Rereading them in part is reliving them, but with the scratchy comfort of having come through it and the knowledge that somehow we've made it.

I'm meeting with a friend weekly- one who pushes me and texts and gets on me when I'm not completing the goals I've set for myself. I've wanted to have my work published and to have the chance to speak in front of groups again for years; but I've allowed fear and the words of other people to hold me back. I'm tired of waiting for permission. I'm annoyed with myself for the myriad of excuses and reasons as to why now isn't a good time. I'm done letting my work sit in a drawer. I have no idea if anyone other than my family and few close friends will ever read what I write, but I know that I can't keep spinning my way around this universe year after year without trying. I don't have a new year's resolution, but I do have a promise to myself- to finally try. To give myself the chance to do what I've always wanted to do. To keep meeting with my friend, keep setting goals, keep writing a paragraph at a time, and to see where it leads me. In fact, that's one of the reasons I'm writing here. Goal #2 for this week has now been met.
I may not ever be a best selling author, but I refuse to be one of the bazillions of writers who are 'going to write a book one day'. I want to be able to look at myself proudly in the mirror, so for me, pursuing what I love has become a vital part of my well being. So instead of 'new year, new me'... I'm choosing to embrace 'new year, true me', and find out what happens when I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Cheers to showing up for our real lives!