We’re live over on the other blog now. It’s still a work in progress but it will be a slow evolution rather than a final reveal.
CLICK HERE to check out “Pesky Muses”. (I couldn’t think of a name for the blog for the longest time until I realized, duh, I already had!)
Have you ever been haunted by muses?
You probably do know what that’s like. You’re probably another blogger or creative person reading this so of course you do.
This blog was created for a specific purpose though and I don’t want to muddy that. As I heal and grow beyond this and rejoin general society in experiencing all the bounty and vibrancy life has to offer, I find my muses poking my fingers to write about other topics. I haven’t written for far too long and I find it makes me whole in a way I had forgotten. Plus, I love meeting others who feel like me. I love our community.
Truth and Recovery isn’t going anywhere (for now) and I will keep it active to serve its purpose but if you want to share with me creatively in a space not devoted to my darker moments, please feel free to join me over there.
I’ve got nearly a dozen entries stock piled which just don’t fit the parameters of this platform.
I suspect this new blog it will be filled with lots of poetry – spoken, written or some combination thereof – but who really knows what these pesky muses will push me to do? I need more freedom to accommodate their demands and I can’t find that here.
I’ll update this post and pin it to the top when the new site is set up.
Happy Hump Day, y’all. I hope at least some of you are getting some.
This week’s guest blogger is – drumroll please – my therapist!
She’s asked me not to attach her name to this but has given me full permission to repost this essay of hers. The topic, forgiveness, is a topic we were discussing a while back (since most of these posts are written weeks in advance) but it is just so central to healing from various forms of abuse. Beyond forgiving Asshole, I have also struggled with forgiving myself. I know, from other readers and bloggers I communicate with, I am not alone.
Reading this essay of hers and taking some time to process it was really helpful and pivotal for me. I hope it can help somebody else just as much.
Without further ado, real academic professional information and advice regarding the forgiveness process:
Forgiveness
Forgiveness is a process where someone who has been wronged chooses to let go of their resentment, and treat the wrongdoer with compassion.
Forgiveness does not mean forgetting or condoning the wrongdoing, granting legal mercy, or reconciling a relationship. You can forgive a person while in no way believing that their actions were acceptable or justified.
On the other hand, simply saying the words “I forgive you”, or accepting an apology, is not forgiveness. In fact, forgiveness can occur without ever speaking to the wrongdoer. Forgiveness is an emotional change that occurs within the person who has been wronged.
What forgiveness is:
-The decision to overcome pain that was inflicted by another person.
-Letting go of anger, resentment, shame, and other emotions associated with an injustice, even though they are reasonable feelings.
-Treating the offender with compassion, even though they are not entitled to it.
What forgiveness isn’t:
-Reconciliation (repairing or returning to a relationship).
-Forgetting the injustice.
-Condoning or excusing the offender’s behavior.
-Granting legal mercy to the offender.
-“Letting go”, but wishing for revenge.
The Four Phases of Forgiveness
One of the pioneering researchers on forgiveness is psychologist Dr. Robert Enright. He developed a model of forgiveness that is made up of 20 steps, but can be summed up in four key phases.
The Uncovering Phase- Thinking about forgiveness first entails thinking about how you have been hurt. How exactly were you wronged and how has it affected your life or relationship? The Uncovering Phase means confronting, rather than avoiding, what has happened and what it is that you are feeling. The goal is to be as objective as possible; one cannot begin to forgive unless they truly understand the events that triggered their hurt.
The Decision Phase- In this phase, one actively decides to begin the process of forgiveness. Forgiveness must be a free choice that someone arrives at on their own. Sometimes, people choose to forgive because they realize that being angry and resentful simply aren’t helping anymore. Forgiveness becomes a real possibility for a positive outcome.
The Work Phase- In the work phase, one partakes in the actual work of forgiveness. This does not mean excusing an offense or necessarily reconciling with the offender. Rather, it means trying to better understand an offender from a more objective standpoint, to understand the motivations or context that may have contributed towards their wrongdoing. When the injured person does this, they are more liable to see their offender as human rather than just a malicious force. This is vital, for recognizing an offender’s humanity is how we offer them compassion and empathy. In this phase, one not only accepts the pain of what has happened, but begins to let go of resentment so as to offer their offender the gift of mercy.
The Deepening Phase- Once one has done the work of forgiving, they may start to see the release of negative emotions and distress. They are able to draw meaning from their suffering and see the personal freedom that comes with forgiveness. And in turn, they may also realize how they too are in need of forgiveness from others.
While the four phases are a mere overview of Enright’s 20 steps, they are helpful for revealing what forgiveness can look like in practice. Seeing forgiveness broken down as a process can offer us a clearer vision of what our own healing can look like. We see that out of hurt comes hope.
I recently learned of the poem style called an Elfchen and had to try it out. I do believe it is intended to only be one stanza but if you can’t carefully break the rules in creative writing, then where? I wanted to tell the story this way.
An Elfchen contains 11 words (the German word for 11 is “elf” and the suffix “chen” is equivalent to the English “ie/y” indicating something is diminutive, cute or small). The poem is structured by the number of words in each line and what the content of each line is supposed to be about thusly:
Line 1 – One word. A thought, object, colour, smell, experience, etc.
Line 2 – Two words. What does the word from the first row do?
Line 3 – Three words. Where or how is the word in row one? Here is your chance to pick those evocative adjectives.
Line 4 – Four words. What do you mean?
Line 5 – One word. What is the result of this? The conclusion or outcome?
As I glanced down the length of my body while leaning back against the wall, my belly protruded from under my bust line. My middle was soft but firm and round under my hand. The world washed away for a moment to the sound of the running water as I caught my breath while cleaning the kitchen.
Trigger warning: pregnancy loss
As I glanced down the length of my body while leaning back against the wall, my belly protruded from under my bust line. My middle was soft but firm and round under my hand. The world washed away for a moment to the sound of the running water as I caught my breath while cleaning the kitchen.
I felt a cramp in my side and rumbling from above my belly button to below it.
Eight weeks.
I should be eight weeks along.
There should be a tiny heartbeat and the beginnings of two feet.
We should be at the first ultrasound this week to see our tiny flickering Bean. We should be planning the three-month announcement. We should be debating names and nursery themes.
I can see the hazel eyes and the dark, dusty curls we never made. There’d be a baptism under your proud smile and stroller walks around the river. We’d know the depth of those dimples and hear angelic giggles. Could you dream of music lessons in the spring?
But you lied and I bled; You scared me and I fled.
I only ate too much for dinner and used a bit too much spice. It was just a stomach gurgle. This physical discomfort will pass more quickly than my heart ache. I may never get another shot at tiny feet and baby smells so sweet.
We would have had another chance if you weren’t actually the Asshole I only called you in jest when I smiled at you. So my heart breaks again, two fold, for my Bean and for what I wished you could have been – what you told me you were before your actions showed a different truth.
“I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers,” you said quoting one of your favourite novels.
Ducks were creating ripples in the river as their butts wiggled and they paddled their way about under banks lined with trees and flowers in the full bloom of summer.
Sweat was making my back damp and the lack of any noticeable breeze let your words hang in the cloying humidity with remarkable irony.
I looked up at you. My eyes found your jaw line as you jabbered on, but your eyes were just a bit too high in the bright sunlight. Your hands were in my peripheral vision. They were too busy helping your mouth to extol the virtues of this Canadian literature to hold my hand as we walked along the river on the way to retrieve your mail.
We’d had this conversation before – more than a few times. In my mind, I could see the idyllic rural scenes you described from the novel set in a bygone era and the flaming red pig-tails running through wheat fields.
In front of me, I saw more ducks with their adorably wiggling feathered bums and smiled to myself. The latter was holding my attention better at this time so I tuned you out.
Your opinions on literature, theology, history, politics, culture, music, cuisine and so much more were so attractive to me at first. We had more to talk about than a Simpson’s cartoon and the debate was lively and fun. You sparked my mind and it fed my attraction.
I discovered with time, though, how shallow that pool of knowledge was and you showed no particular sign of making any attempt to deepen it. I heard the same stories and opinions repeatedly. You didn’t ask me which novels I loved or plays I found poignant. Sometimes you took a breath long enough and I was still coherent enough to recognize my opening so I bashed you over the head with my opinion or experience.
I remember you afforded me just such an opportunity on this day. I told you I understood the other philosophies behind theatrical productions from ethical and societal instruction to pure entertainment to the productions that have to come with “no children allowed” ratings and make you question your place in the world around you. I remember telling you how I liked boundary pushing theatre like “Avenue Q” and “And Baby Makes 7” and how I wished Stratford’s theatre festival would incorporate some of that. They do so many plays, surely one riske production per season could be accomplished?
I’d told you I liked theatre before and was involved in it growing up when we were first dating. You told me how you (supposedly) worked for the Festival in Stratford, a very prestigious position. You went on about production schedules and musical oversight and more. You never asked me anymore about my experience with theatre or what I had studied.
So, when I cut into conversation, after your fifth Anne of Green Gables diatribe that week with a theatre topic that went beyond “yeah, Shakespeare is cool”, your steps slowed slightly and you looked at me. The mailbox – our destination – was in sight but still a ways off.
I remember you stopped and you looked at me for a moment like a fish that’s been plucked from its tank.
“I know Schiller really wanted theatre to be societal instruction but that is just so stereotypically German to take something so pleasurable and turn it into something productive,” I said, laughing at my own wit and heritage.
Bloop, bloop, bloop went your fish face.
“The festival really should do ‘Rent’,” I continued, still believing I had the ear of somebody who might be able to make that happen. You never let me talk this much. You dropped my hand that you had finally taken somewhere between the river and the mailbox and ran it twitchily through your curls.
You looked simultaneously impressed (and I beamed a little with pride) and, in retrospect, like you just realized you shot yourself in the foot.
“No. No, no, no. It’s way to risky for our little old patrons,” you told me – as a production about reclaiming indigenous culture and pride, with undertones of sexuality and substance abuse and intergenerational trauma, played a half a kilometer away.
From that day on, you shut down any theatre talk and avoided it. You didn’t talk about your (supposed) work with the theatre with me anymore.
You never asked, but I studied theatre a bit in university. You never asked, but I’d been to West End plays in London, England. You never asked but I’ve seen productions in German and English of Shakespeare’s classics.
You never asked so many questions that would have saved you so much grief but, Honey, you made sure you told me about how much you love October. You told me too many times to count.
So as the leaves outside my window change colour and the mornings feel a bit cooler, I’m thinking of you. You’re sitting in jail and missing the start of your favourite time of year.
I’ll try to enjoy it for both of us and not feel an ounce of guilt. Your lack of interest in my experiences and me as a person made it easier to catch your lies.
As my mother said, “He didn’t know who he was messing with, did he?”
“I’m dying,” you told me with a look of mournful resignation. You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly.
I felt my heart stop beating and drop into my stomach. The air slipped from my lungs and I was filled with a tremulous ache at the core of me, reaching to the tips of every limb.
“It’s cancer. It’s bad. The doctor said stage 4,” you said with a small sigh. Glassy eyes behind smudged round specs stared at me and your fingers threaded their way through your end-of-day afro.
Some prehistoric instinct grabbed my gut to force an inhale because the rest of me had already given up. It felt like breathing through shards of glass and I shrieked.
“What? Whaaat?!” I felt the hot tears fall on my chest, bared in a low-top in the stifling summer air, before I even knew I was crying.
And then I lost the plot. You leaned against the wall, sitting on the bed, with your hands folded in your lap while I sobbed so hard the bed shook.
Eventually you told me your doctor said you might have four months left. Then you told me that was two months ago. But there you sat in front of me seeming basically fine.
I had just found you.
I had just found you.
I’d been searching for you and I’d just found you.
I didn’t know my heart could break like that.
You had so much more to show me though.
I didn’t know yet, that you were more than likely lying, or at least exaggerating. I didn’t know yet all the new pains you’d show me. I didn’t know yet, that when you sneered like a coyote and said something to make me laugh, that was likely as true as you would ever be.
“I’m not going anywhere. The man upstairs doesn’t want me and the man downstairs doesn’t want the competition,” you told me dozens of times with that canine grin. I think you were trying to cheer me up but I also think you spoke an uncanny truth.
You know, deep down, the devilish deeds you’ve done and how they’re piling up.
I saw them haunt you. I saw the fear flash in your face.
Fear of owning the truth and fear of continuing the lies do battle behind your tight lips and green eyes and you keep demolishing souls in the meantime.
Truth and Recovery 