How the Body Feels about Writing Your Story

I like to get jacked up in the morning before I write. If I have to sit on my butt and stare at a screen, at least I can get shot out of a canon first. An iced Americano, my new dose of Wellbutrin, and a walk in the windy cold by the ocean is doing the trick these days.

So now I sit here, buzzing enough to focus on what is coming to the surface.

I have the sense my bodymind is full of things it wants to say, secrets it has been holding for me until I am ready to appreciate them, memories, thoughts it is knitting together into new thoughts. I feel like sparkling water, full of tight bubbles that, when the time comes, will rise to the surface and burst.

This is one reason I like to get jacked up. Writing these bubbles can feel like distant childbirth. It’s muscular and emotional, but not in a sweaty-yell-at-your-partner kind of way. More like an, oh, I’m not sure what this disorienting, tightening, loosening feeling is and maybe I will go do something else so I can feel more sure of myself.

I’ve found the thing is to stay in the discomfort and to walk through the door that feels like it’s closing instead of going an easier, more open and familiar route, such as reading emails or vacuuming. This is why I like to be jacked up. It’s like taking a hit of speed before running a marathon. Hahaha. Okay. That doesn’t sound like a good idea health-wise, but, for me, neither does running a marathon. If I have to start something and have idea what will happen next, I can’t blame myself for wanting a little boost to get me past the starting line.

Whatever.

Here’s what I really want to tell you.

I had a thought this morning as I was trying to get a picture from my stopped car. Bird was barking like crazy and the larger deer was staring us down, as was the smaller one near his side. I felt proud of them for not bolting at the first sign of danger, for taking the time to assess the situation. I also love when Bird goes nuts in protection mode. It’s reassuring. This 22-pound creature has my back.

I took a couple of pictures, tried to drive a little closer, and the deers turned and bounded away into the grassy dunes.

An idea came to me for the book I’m writing, the sequel to You Don’t Look Adopted. I felt like the deer, frozen in place, waiting to see what would happen next. Can I say that?! What would happen? Would everyone hate me? Who would I be if I said it? Breathing does not make much sense when you are frozen. Why would you breathe when you are trying to be still? I think the freezing is the idea testing me—Are you ready to feel me, to hear me out? Can you relax enough to give me the space to emerge or do you want me to get small again and seem to disappear?

I put my phone away and started to drive home. I thought about how time and time again I hear from adopted people they want to tell their story but they don’t or can’t because they are afraid of hurting someone, usually their parents. I’m guessing they are also afraid of hurting themselves, of feeling whatever has been packed down there and is crying in some way or another to be let out.

What if telling your story is letting your body become itself and expand into its natural shape? What if the idea that I had, the idea that made deep inside my chest feel tight, so deep that I couldn’t tell if it was muscle or spirit that was contracting, was, at its core, simply constriction crying for freedom.

What I mean is, what happens when I relax?

Just because I let the thought emerge and write it down doesn’t mean anyone has to read it. I can become the person who said the thing instead of the person who didn’t say the thing. We write to become more ourselves, right? If I let my body relax enough while I am also jacked up on caffeine courage, what is the risk of curiosity? What could I say that’s so bad? I hate my life? I hate my partner? I hate myself? These are simply thoughts, after all. Words. A ticker tape of letters that run across my mind. They can be looked at, considered. With honest looking, changes can be made in language and in action. Get a new life. Get a new partner. Get a new self.

My heart doesn’t work with words. It feeds me feelings and images. My brain uses its word mastery to scream for my attention and is super bossy, meanwhile my body wants to…be me. It wants to relax and feel safe and loved. If I listen to the constriction around my heart when I have a thought and address the constriction more than the thought—breathe in, breathe out, you are safe, you are loved, everything is okay—maybe I can find what’s on the other side of tightness.

I am beginning to suspect what’s on the other side of tightness is love.

By the way, I know getting jacked up and relaxing are a paradox.

Keeping it real.