Painting pictures with words
I don't know why I didn't come back here sooner - it's amazing how a few chats with folk who 'get it' without judgement can help you feel less alone - and so many of you are fighting your own battles and need a friend to sit with.
In my first blog entry I mentioned how writing is, for me, like picking up a brush to paint a picture. The words are my colours, and today there's going to be less black in the picture. Over the last few days, the world has looked a bit more colourful. The 'Trauma Train' (described in my last entry) has stopped off at the AS rest stop and is now rumbling along through greener territory, a few birds are singing and the weather is brighter. I'm pleased to be here in my private space with my brushes, palette and canvas - painting away with a calmer head.
The first part of my picture shows me in my wheelchair, ready to slide into my local swimming pool like a seal, and then I'm gliding through the water with freedom I don't have on land. The taste of chlorine leaks through the big grin on my face and the pool water hides and absorbs a lot of tears that have been trapped for far too long. All because the pool managers changed their policy and now allow folk on wheels to take their freedom machines to the poolside. Having to wait for a member of staff to wheel you from the changing room to the pool in a little white chair was a crap idea. Being told that you're a health and safety hazard makes you feel like shit. But their new policy (finally!) helps people like me feel welcome and allows us dignity and independence while we're there. They have a booking system while Covid is being an arse, so I'm booked in for tomorrow afternoon, my swimming bag is packed and, to my surprise, my swimming costume still fits. 👍
The second part of my picture is me with my laptop, piosed to type the story through my 20s that brought me to AS. I typed my story for this forum a while back, but I'll be typing it with 44 year old fingers this time. The 44 year old me who wears a different head to the 'me' who typed it out a couple of years ago has new memories from that time, fresh revelations and a different outlook on how and why it all happened. I'm facing the memories with new, frightening emotions I'm learning to regulate and I'm desperate to be able to look at them without being pulled back to the past. My trauma therapist suggested the idea yesterday, and from lived experience I know how much it can help. Over the next four weeks we'll focus on the timeline - two years at a time. I'll show her the pictures I paint, and as the weeks pass I'm hoping to be able to look at the pictures painted by my 44 year old fingers and see them through 44 year old eyeballs. That's the thing - while all the memories are jumbled in my head, all I can do is see them through the eyes I had back then. Getting the most updated version out on my computer screen could help me see the spider web weaved by 'him', and how I got trapped in it.
It's time to put my paintbrushes down, carefully cover this particular canvas, and open my laptop to paint my story with 44 year old fingers.
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