She Is Rising

Writing out trauma comes with hurdles.  Sometimes I plow through.  

Sometimes I avoid.  I avoid the smells, sounds and feelings of the memory.  There is hurt in there.  There’s a scared little girl in there. She doesn’t want to have to feel it, but we do.  To bring our story to life, we gotta feel it. 

We jumped a hurdle tonight, plowing through a memory which triggered abandonment and shunning.   This memory triggered the aftermath of sexual abuse, and the compliance holding its hand. 

I wrote it.  I felt it.  I handled it.   I tackled it and re-visited this space, remotely viewing from outside, writing from inside, a duality of conquering memories.   

The Most Difficult Part Of Writing Is Writing

My life as a writer is a very solitary existence. Outside of my therapist, brother and sister and my fellow cult survivors on the internet, there is not one who has walked directly in my shoes and understands why writing my post cult experiences are just as daunting as writing Cult Child was.

It is different writing fiction from fact. If I was writing fiction, the ideas would drift from my fingers onto the page and the worst I might deal with is the daunting tasking of actually making myself WRITE.

It looks something like this:

Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.

Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.

Set the timer.
Write 20 minutes.
Off 20.

And it continues until….


This happens when I hit an empass like writing about a body shaming experience, one of the times I was raped as a teenager and more than anything, having to deeply recall conversations and the way that my mother manipulated us in every day small little ways. Her language, her body mannerisms, the things she allowed me to do as a teenager versus the things I couldn’t do and how grossly imbalanced these things were in regards to what actually is and isn’t okay for a teenager.

Yet, this is also a part of my therapy, writing these words, mashing the page, getting them out, shutting down and curling up in a ball wishing I could cry, the anger, the triumphs, the fact that I’m here, writing about it and hoping that other humans even give a shit to pick up the pages.

I am envious of writers who pound out books like grating cheese. Still I manage, juggling my life in the hopes that somehow I can push through this sequel. I write, hoping that when this is finished, I will feel some kind of completion of this phase; that I can purge these emotions enough.

and then I get to finish the fun novels; the series I’ve been working on when I need a break from the emotion.

Documenting Thoughts On Video

There is so much I want to say as I write this Cult Child sequel.  I feel as though somehow if I can share it, give these impending emotions away, I can find some solace in that.  I also feel a deep need to document this part of the journey in a different way than ever before, something I’ve considered; that I wonder to be risky. 

But what is risk without vulnerability? 

There are deeper caves wherein lives the darkest of my pain in regards to my mother.  I feel the separation. 
I call her by her first name.  

Vlogs – they’re coming.  I’m in the mood to splay some shit open.  

Therapy Through Memoir Writing

I’m halfway through the grind. Cult Child took its toll. Seven years of digging through caves, days of uncontrollable crying, illness and so much more came like waves. All of them were unexpected.

As I now write the sequel, I am still digging. There’s even more to sift through as I continue to tell my story through Sila Caprin’s character.

In December I came to a place where I had to write a body shaming memory. I was sixty pages in, and I’ve been avoiding it since. I finally spit it out today; then painted those ghosts away on a canvas. I feel self congratulatory. I got that one out.

This time around I have no timelines or deadlines set for myself. There’s just me, time, being, accepting and writing as the strength comes. As I survey what I am writing now, Cult Child feels like the vertebrae upon which I have built this outlet. There is so much, so much more to tell.

Sila will stand alone in this second book, as sequels must do, and I am remembering teenage experiences with raw reality, accepting that whatever comes up is coming up.

A physical bi-product of this particular emotional memory purge this week has been extreme nausea and headache as well. Sunday I cried all day. Yesterday I headed to the forest to find my strength again. Today I made it through writing the memory that has had me frozen for so many days.

Now I feel ready for the next writing section. Sometimes I can pre-determine which sections of writing might bring emotional setbacks or shutdown. Other times they hit like an unpredicted earthquake.

Either way, I always come out okay.