It’s been quiet on here since writing my two posts reflecting on my experience with traumatic brain injury here and here. And no, it hasn’t been for a lack of work or a loss of interest in the series. There’s a blog post full of unfinished sentences, phrases that jump from one thought to another without little connection between. It’s been a strange sort of avoidance, an almost deliberate delay that seems to have unfolded without my consent.
Instead, I’ve found more and more that I want to separate myself from that life, from the Isabelle that existed three years ago. Writing about my life then doesn’t feel like an acknowledgement of my past, but more so an exercise in reliving suffering, a strange sort of lyrical return to moments that only feel real when I can represent them in words, giving language to these abstract recollections of struggle.
When there are lines that recount the pain and paragraphs that convey the hatred with which you understood yourself, you can’t help but close your notebook, shut your computer, and refuse to write another word.
Though I know that everything becomes more challenging when we refuse to acknowledge its existence, it’s an application of this truth that I can’t seem to accept. How can I be witness to the darkness of my journey–bulimia, anorexia, and a loss of consciousness that nearly became my loss of life–all a part of who I am, if the person I want to be today is a source of light for herself and for others?
experience can sometimes be too painful to recall with language, to bring to form the thoughts we wish we never had, the stories we wish to never tell again.
I suppose the goal of this jumble of questions and mélange of thoughts isn’t to reach a conclusion, and I’m not sure I can garner a right or wrong answer from any of this. I’m not sure if one exists. But with writing as my medium, I learn the most about myself when I reflect and express with words. So with that, I know that a story will build, one that will present me with new phrases and new thoughts to shape the world I’ve lived.
But I suppose the central question still remains: What does forgiveness look like? The sort of forgiveness we grant to another person, and the forgiveness I still need to offer myself.