I’ve been hesitant to write anything when truth feels uncertain and the earth is in so much flux. I want to expand and grow my understanding of things but it takes me to a place where I look at myself like a stranger I don’t understand. I see layers and synthesis and codes between words sharing my dreams. I am integrating lessons from my psychosis again, and it is nervous to prance around these energetic states, trying to find and make some sense of the prior brain explosion.
I remember how my novel brought meaning to my psychosis, how it became some parable through which it was easier to tell the story of.
When the psychosis became no longer my most recent trauma, when the process of writing was inturpted it feels a bit like I lost that line of thought. Like when I have the perfect thing to say but conversation keeps going and the contribution I wanted to make lost because I could not keep up with it and hold on at the same time.
I have had to accept the writing process, the creative project, as a sort of loss. The creative part of my brain activated during my assault are the same cells drained of oxygen when he strangled me. I talked about this recently with a sort of crisis/short term psychologist and I finally felt like the depth of this trauma was understood, that my very creativity had become intertwined with a life or death response in my body biasing all data which comes out of me, how hard it has been to undo this rewiring and despite most of my efforts lifting the PTSD effects I still can’t immerse myself in writing like I did before. I exercise at it, practice, short form works and expressions of creativty but I struggle to link it back to the big picture. It turns over in my gut as I question if part of my brain died in that moment, I don’t know how long I was unconscious or how long it takes to sustain damage. In accepting that as loss however, I am able to focus on the things that will nourish my brain, drinking more water, trying to improve my life so I have better diet and thinking capacity…. I finally sought out help again for my ADHD (though with non stimulant options, so as to avoid triggering another psychosis).
In integrating new understanding of my psychosis does that take away the understanding which my novel as a project once offered? I become so afraid of explorong other creative avenues as I felt like they were somehow taking away from my capacity to work on my novel. I have realized I need to look at my other projects as things that can build capacity back towards the novel, if that is the dream, but that it does not have to diminish the work of what I am capable of doing in the mean time. It is strange to mourn something beautiful in myself no one else can see because I was never able to bring it to completion, but accepting its loss will be the only thing that will ever give me a chance at truely recreating or finishing it. It feels conspiracy, this pure expression which was snuffed out so unjustly. I have to honour the fragility and humanity of my own mind, what it was capable of and what it meant to have that part of me “put out”.
After talking to the psychologist about everything weighing down on me right now I was able to come back to the importance of my writing to me, that it is my most important goal. I’ve been visualizing matches, trying to remember my own flame and imagine it coming back to life again, that I may tame and mold it. I think about who I was before the assault and try to reintegrate those parts of myself, in case I am a creature my muse no longer recgonizes and so no longer trusts with her story. In my own way, I keep track of every effort I make towards this progress, and hope one day, that I’ll really write again.