Dear Blog Readers,
I have a poster in my living room that says “Freedom is being able to write your own story” which reminds me of a quote by Brené Brown. She wrote “When we deny our stories, they define us. When we own our stories, we get to write a brave new ending.”
There has been a long silence on this blog in the same way that there is silence about Eating Disorders. It is time to speak our truths for others struggling with ED silence, isolation, stigma, and symptoms – and it is time to speak our truths for ourselves.
For you.
Sharing our stories inspires others to share theirs. And most importantly, it gives voice to your unspoken thoughts and emotions. We invite you to submit your stories, articles, poems, interviews, prose, photographs, photos of your art, experience of groups at Sheena’s Place, experience of recovery AND of struggle, and of any place you are in right now. We invite you to share words. Disconnected words that tell your story without the need for explanation. No writing experience is necessary. Your story is written in the way you want to tell it. Please remember to follow Sheena’s Place Language Guidelines that you can find information about by clicking here.
We want to hear you. We want you to own your own story.
This week I am sharing my own story about a friendship that led to a first step in recovery, along with art I created to remind me of her. Her name was April and she lives forever in yellow flowers, yellow cloth, and the afternoon sun.
Take good care of yourself, and remember to nourish your body, mind, and spirit.
Your blog moderator,
Kira
Kmccarthy@sheenasplace.org
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yellow by kira
the second last time i saw her she wore yellow cloth
as yellow as a painting of the sun wrapped around her as though the celestial body itself was holding her together
and she laughed
oh how she laughed
over the years she showed me her secret places in the city
the places that are quiet and beautiful
and then she showed me the tree that bends over the river with long thick branches and broad leaves whose only purpose seemed to be to protect us from the world
or was it to protect us from ourselves?
sun was our nourishment, giving us everything we needed and everything we wanted
the day she wanted to jump off that bridge into the river without knowing the depth of the water or the depth of my love was the day i decided that living on only sun for my sustenance wasn’t enough
and i wanted to do enough to let me
be enough
i reached out for recovery and stepped into a world of healing
the last time i saw her she wore purple
she bounced through that parking lot walking on air with excitement shining from her pores like beams of sunlight in my eyes
“i have so much to tell you” she said as she skipped and jumped away …
and that night she burned
she burned in that all consuming fire
as the load-bearing beams burnt into toothpicks and the walls collapsed
until she was fire
until she was smoke and dust and air on her way back to the sun
and so she never told me
her stories trapped in the light of the sun that warmed my skin reminding me that i could live on sunshine alone
her story ended unfinished
untold
or was that the beginning of a new story? a story of the love that remained in all of us whose lives she touched
a story of my recovery
or of the loss that crushed my heart squeezing it in the strong and unrelenting grip of sorrow and grief, squeezing with no promise of ever letting go, and i fell
i fell backwards like i was the one who jumped off that bridge i told her to stay away from, falling without looking, drowning in the sadness of loss, tormented by the whatifs, by the ending that she didn’t write herself … i think
it was years before i could crawl out, carrying around rocks from that river in my belly, with room for nothing else until the rocks were pulled out one by one
the more of my story i told, the more the rocks began to tumble out of me
sometimes they hurt when they fell out
sometimes there was relief
some fell easily
some had to be pulled out as if by forceps like my head was when i was born
when i was pulled out of the womb unwillingly and beyond my control
the rocks came out of me like demons
until only a few remained and even those broke into little pieces like rubble with spaces that could be filled with something else
with things that could sustain me
things that would allow me to live
to live and to continue my own story, getting stronger year by year
i still turn to the sun to feed me sometimes and it burns my eyes with the brightness of the yellow she wrapped around herself that day she took the bus to see me with no shoes and nothing else on under that cloth
and i laugh
i laugh at the silliness of that cloth, the joy of being near her, the people i met through her, the lesson i learned about looking before i jump
i am reminded of the lessons i will learn when i trip and fall into rivers of mistakes and bad choices
i look back at the days and years of nothing but rocks in my belly and notice the rubble has turned to sand – still there as tiny grains of reminders that don”t hurt so much anymore
never gone
never forgotten
with room for more
and i want more
i want my story to last longer than it would if i carried nothing but those heavy rocks in my belly
longer than it would be if i continue to be nourished only by the sun
my story begins here
and yesterday
and before
and after
and winds and bends like that river, like that tree, like the beams of sun that shone through her pores the day she wore purple
the day she said she had so much to tell me and never did
i have so much to tell you
so much that it will fill the empty spaces within me
so much that it will fill me with strength to keep swimming against the current of that river i keep falling into and i will find a new tree that is gnarled and bent with broad leaves where i can sit and give myself the things i need
the things i need to live
i have so much to tell you …
