Tobey's Rough Draft -This draft is VERY ROUGH- I am looking forward to some peer feedback tomorrow!!
September 27, 2002, 7:30 in the evening. That was the night my mother's eyes turned black, and she left me. I don't know where she went. I thought she would come home, but instead I watched her die in front of me.
The image of her death left me wounded. It was the kind of wound that felt like it would never heal. The kind that I wouldn't let others see. The kind that was private. My wound made me ill and stuck no matter how much I pretended that it didn't exist. I went through the motions of life. I looked after my dad, worked, tried to do "normal" things again, but it didn't work. Anxiety manifested into my life. I became consumed with worry. I felt like I would die all of the time. It was too much. I knew I had to face the image, the black eyes.
6:00 every Tuesday for twelve years, a comfortable room, an earnest face, safety-it was my place-my place to heal. I talked about everything in my life, everything that is, except the black eyes and that September 27th. I avoided it. And through that avoidance, my wound continued to consume me. There have been times that I tried to talk about that moment, I tried to relive it, or share what it has done to me, but panic would set in and I simply couldn't proceed. My fear-the heaviness would hold me forever.
June 2015. A new opportunity awaited me in a graduate school program: The Kean University Writing Project Summer Institute. I was excited and nervous. Kim, our professor smiled and shared of the wonderful possibilities awaiting us. The five other students seemed to be open and optimistic. As we looked over the syllabus and work load, we were introduced to the "Author's Chair." The idea of having to share a writing piece with others brings about a feeling of vulnerability. First up, me. What was I going to share?
With my time in the "Author's Chair" approaching, I became consumed by my ideas of what to write. I already started my academic piece and could share parts of that. That would be safe. But I knew what I wanted to write, I knew what wanted to come out of me. It sat and sat in there for so long. Could I really write about it? Could I share my wound with these people who I hardly knew? This could be my opportunity to start to heal, for real. As I sat in my car, I grabbed an envelope and just started writing. I cried and wrote on the back of an envelope in a parking lot in my car. It was release.
The day of author's share and I had two choices in my hands. The academic piece felt light and safe while the other lay like a heavy brick. I chose the brick. What was created on the back the envelope was a poem about my mom's black eyes. After I shared, what I received was more than writing feedback, I gained insight into other's healing and was given advice about how I can proceed with my own. I ran with it. Towards the end of the Summer Institute, I wrote a companion piece about healing.
Healing is a part of life. Healing happens through medicine, stitches, an ice pack, someone's kind words. Sometimes we have a wound that is so deep, that we may feel that we will never be healed. That's what I thought, but I was wrong. My healing came from the unlikeliest of places; a small office on a college campus, in an author's chair, facing five women who I barely knew. My healing came through writing.
The image of her death left me wounded. It was the kind of wound that felt like it would never heal. The kind that I wouldn't let others see. The kind that was private. My wound made me ill and stuck no matter how much I pretended that it didn't exist. I went through the motions of life. I looked after my dad, worked, tried to do "normal" things again, but it didn't work. Anxiety manifested into my life. I became consumed with worry. I felt like I would die all of the time. It was too much. I knew I had to face the image, the black eyes.
6:00 every Tuesday for twelve years, a comfortable room, an earnest face, safety-it was my place-my place to heal. I talked about everything in my life, everything that is, except the black eyes and that September 27th. I avoided it. And through that avoidance, my wound continued to consume me. There have been times that I tried to talk about that moment, I tried to relive it, or share what it has done to me, but panic would set in and I simply couldn't proceed. My fear-the heaviness would hold me forever.
June 2015. A new opportunity awaited me in a graduate school program: The Kean University Writing Project Summer Institute. I was excited and nervous. Kim, our professor smiled and shared of the wonderful possibilities awaiting us. The five other students seemed to be open and optimistic. As we looked over the syllabus and work load, we were introduced to the "Author's Chair." The idea of having to share a writing piece with others brings about a feeling of vulnerability. First up, me. What was I going to share?
With my time in the "Author's Chair" approaching, I became consumed by my ideas of what to write. I already started my academic piece and could share parts of that. That would be safe. But I knew what I wanted to write, I knew what wanted to come out of me. It sat and sat in there for so long. Could I really write about it? Could I share my wound with these people who I hardly knew? This could be my opportunity to start to heal, for real. As I sat in my car, I grabbed an envelope and just started writing. I cried and wrote on the back of an envelope in a parking lot in my car. It was release.
The day of author's share and I had two choices in my hands. The academic piece felt light and safe while the other lay like a heavy brick. I chose the brick. What was created on the back the envelope was a poem about my mom's black eyes. After I shared, what I received was more than writing feedback, I gained insight into other's healing and was given advice about how I can proceed with my own. I ran with it. Towards the end of the Summer Institute, I wrote a companion piece about healing.
Healing is a part of life. Healing happens through medicine, stitches, an ice pack, someone's kind words. Sometimes we have a wound that is so deep, that we may feel that we will never be healed. That's what I thought, but I was wrong. My healing came from the unlikeliest of places; a small office on a college campus, in an author's chair, facing five women who I barely knew. My healing came through writing.
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