Healing Through Words
Embracing my story and voice – and all the fear that comes with it
For as long as I can remember, I have always loved words. As a refugee from a war torn country, starting my life on a whole different continent halfway across the globe was quite rocky, to say the least.
Instead of having friends and genuine connections in school from 5th grade onward, I had a whole lot of bullies, ready to make fun of me over just about anything, whether it was my lack of knowledge and skill in the English language, or my red and flaky skin… there was always something. So instead, I made friends with books. I looked forward to going to the library several times a week, checking out as many books as I possibly could. Little did I know how my love of the English language would blossom from then on – and continues to, to this day.
Through TSW (topical steroid withdrawal), I stopped writing entirely. The truth isn’t really that I didn’t want to. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t even move a finger. Unable to even dress, bathe, or feed myself, and being in extreme amounts of both physical pain and psychological suffering – I was unable to do anything but do my best to survive one day, one moment at a time.
In 2019 or 2020, as my body continued to heal more through TCM (traditional chinese medicine) treatment with my wonderful TCM practitioner and someone I’m truly honored to call a friend, Dr. Olivia Friedman, something interesting happened.
I couldn’t quite tell you exactly when I picked up a notebook and pen, or grabbed my laptop and opened up a new note pad document (though I’ve always preferred the former, anyway), but when I did … the words wouldn’t stop pouring out of me. It was as if suddenly, every word, every emotion, every experience that was left unspoken through the survival of the horror that is war and chronic illness, especially topical steroid withdrawal, suddenly all began to flow out of me. I couldn’t buy the next empty, fresh notebook, or the next pen quick enough. I was going through at least one notebook and pen per week.
And the result is boxes full of filled notebooks of my own writing, sitting and collecting dust in the back of my closet. Notebooks filled with memories and experiences I’ve always been conscious of, and others I’ve slowly unraveled and uncovered throughout my healing journey of TSW and trauma.
For years now, they’ve just sat there alone, in the back of my closet, along with hundreds of files of writings on my computer and various USB drives. They were always poking their head out to me, telling me to do something with them, to share what I am able to with the world. But I was terrified, and truthfully, I still am.
In fact, as I’m sitting here typing this, just the thought of publishing this on a public platform like Substack or my personal blog leaves my body in a half frozen state. I don’t know what it is about sharing that is so terrifying to me. Maybe it’s that deep down, I still feel like no one cares, and no one would give a rat’s ass about what I have to say and what my story is. After all, why would they? I’m just another grain of sand on the infinite beach of universal consciousness. Or maybe it’s that somehow, when we write things down, when we give words to certain experiences and emotions, we truly begin to process them, and they seem to become even more real, and more alive. And well, for someone like me, who’s seen and experienced unspeakable horrors in my life – that in itself can be a terrifying experience.
Yet, I still believe in the power of writing and in the power of the word. I believe in stories, from a random fiction book by someone who’s name I don’t recognize, to mythology, religious texts, philosophical texts, etc. Stories and words have always been weaved through our very existence as humans, as far back as we know. I believe that’s part of the reason they are so powerful, and part of the reason they tend to make everything more … real. But that’s the beauty of it all.
While I’m still sitting here, my eyes welling up with tears as I write this, knowing that I’m publishing it on a public platform, and I feel the fear deep in my stomach, I am still doing it. And maybe, just maybe, there is a deeper and more Divine reasoning for it.
Maybe the truth is that we are never fully ready to bare our hearts and souls to the world, but there may also be truth in the idea that something else is driving the action entirely. And maybe today, right now, as imperfect as my writing and my Substack is, and I’m starting something completely from scratch – it IS perfect. Just the way it is – raw, vulnerable, open, and even messy. After all, isn’t that all exactly what makes (and connects) us as human beings, too?
In other words … I suppose I can say now is as good a time as any for me, and maybe the whole point of it all, is to embrace ALL of it – the fear and uncertainty, excitement and joy, and heck – even the sheer fact I still hardly know HOW to use Substack and feel like a total and utter mess on here. It’s all part of the process and the journey.
Oftentimes, we just have to take a leap and learn as we go – through the ups and downs, the “failures” and the “successes”. Just as the messy, raw, beautiful, imperfect, yet perfect – human beings we were sculpted to be.
And this … well, this is one of those “leaps” for me.
