Once Upon a Time

I can still remember the day clearly. It was early morning. Yet already humid as the summer often is there. Swinging along the rusty steel frame of the farm gate I listened for the hum of the mail truck. Till finally I heard it as it came along the unsealed road into view.

There was just one envelope that day. It was addressed to me and contained my final high school score. Which was 444. Three numbers that opened an unexpected portal. An offer to study Medicine. A golden ticket. A chance to live a different life from this life I knew. So even though I wanted to be an artist I didn’t even consider that I shouldn’t accept  it.

Leaving home and going away was quite hard. Though I don’t remember worrying about it. I’d never been away from home. Or eaten at a restaurant. I wasn’t allowed to go out in town with friends. I couldn’t even drive. Really I had very few life skills. Like no experience of managing money. Or myself. I focused on sewing some new dresses which I naively imagined would somehow help. And thought mainly of all the books I’d be able to read once I was there. And finally having a room of my own.

The medical course was difficult for me but with persistence I graduated. Then I worked as an intern doctor at the Newcastle Royal Hospital. Honestly I found the actual doctor job a fair bit easier then medical school had actually been.

Mostly I enjoyed feeling like an real adult. I liked working with others in a team and being part of a profession that I assumed was helpful for others. And being paid. I remember spending all my first pay on a vintage white porcelain tea set. I still have it. I wanted something beautiful. Not practical like toothpaste and undies. What I really loved was that when you held the cup up to the light it shone though. The sales woman said this was a feature of fine porcelain. That it was delicate but also very strong.

Medicine and me have been an uneasy fit. Probably because of my thinking style. I have a slightly quirky way of being in the world. My clothes aren’t quite right and I am seriously feminist in my points of view. Sometimes I have been critiqued for being opinionated and too serious. It quickly became apparent to me that psychiatry was my only real interest. The best option. So I focused on that. Women’s psychological health in particular. I loved the reading most of all. Discovering Jung and Woodman and the world beyond the physical. Over time I’ve learnt a lot about my fellow humans. In theory anyhow. But mostly it’s been about coming to understand myself.

The essential first skill one masters in psychiatry is the diagnostic interview. It’s a balance between asking a person to tell their life story as they describe their current mental health concerns. Whilst at the same time listening for the deeper story. Keeping things on a pathway toward the formal diagnosis whilst allowing enough open space for the person to feel heard. Mostly psychologically holding a safe space free of judgement and personal opinion.

Time and again I’ve witnessed the hidden magic in holding this space for someone as they make a narrative of the events of their life. Tell their personal version of their triumphs and the sufferings. That it can be a profound and healing experience when a human feels heard and seen by another. That whatever other medicine is offered this in itself is very powerful. It makes simple sense. We all ache and long for this experience. Some of us received such experiences in our family of origin. But many like myself didn’t.

Still my truth is that despite coming to love this part of my job I found myself in a profession that I was always assumming some eventual exit from. At some convenient point. Like as soon as I’d met my responsibilities. Or made enough money. But first there was this. Then there was that. Always somewhere up ahead and in the future. That other me patiently biding her time. The artist me waiting with her ideas and dreams to be finally fully expressed.

Back then I didn’t think much about time running out. Or being limited in amount. There was a sense of other future potentials being a real possibility. Till I was called to confront unexpected loss. The early death of my mother. Later my father. Some revelations of family secrets of abuse and trauma. The inevitable heartbreaking grief. Just as my menopause had arrived.

Menopause was so much harder than I’d imagined or expected. I couldn’t sleep or think straight. I was sweating and flushing as the hormones flatlined. I found myself for the first time feeling really stuck. Without oestrogen I had a serious dopamine deficiency that coffee could no longer fix. In time I realised my so called quirkiness was an undiagnosed dyslexia and attentional and sensory processing disorder.

Despite my resilent and resourceful nature I didn’t feel able to care for myself and others at the same time. I became so unhappy at work I couldn’t hide it. So I changed places of work. Which helped for a while. But I still felt miserable inside. The colour bleaching out of daily life. Outside things were getting in a mess. The housework was piling up. The garden was neglected. My relationships suffered.

Instinctively I started to practise Mindfulness to cope. This was becoming more mainstream and was one of the ways self-care was taught to patients. I decided to work less hours. Gave myself some resources and real time for my artist pursuits. Even though I was often exhausted it felt worth it.

And I started to write. Everyday. A serious writing practise. I have always been a vivacious reader so it was a natural progression. Now when I read back over my musings I realise I was writing my own story down the whole time. Before I was even conscious of the heroines journey being a thing. Before I had taken writing classes and understood the theory of story. My big themes are already there in the early writing and incredibly consistent. There is a labyrinth and a golden thread that I have been holding onto the whole time. I started to understand the arc of my own story. The importance of making sense of ones own life story.

For instance I see now that medicine has been a way out of the poverty I was born into. That it really was a sensible thing to do. Not a waste of my talents and time. Which I once thought it might be. That it has been a gift. I allowed myself to finally value the work I did. Still do. To take pride in my commitment to learning to listen to and to care for other wounded women.

Though psychiatry I also came to know that my childhood was not as I idealised. It was sometimes wonderful. But also very hard. That there was a form neglect that I had experieced. Being one of fifteen I’d never been seen and heard and attended to individually as I should have been. That this was a subtle and hidden yet very real trauma. Truth is that I am truly surprised to see myself as an under nurtured child. But it all makes sense. It’s why I’ve not fought for my owns passions and dreams. Ever. Why I was good at surviving. Yet had been unable to thrive. Why my own ‘disability’ was never noticed. As it should have been. Why I didn’t even notice it myself for a longtime. Despite my professional training.

However to be wounded is to be given a chance to be wise. And deeply creative. This is why I desired that beautiful tea set. The one that let the light shine though. Way back then in the very beginning I understood more than I consciously knew. My journey to midlife was making this conscious so I could live differently after that. My art in its many forms has been both the message and the medicine. My task has always been to make some beauty from the mess I was born with. Be that though the paid work I do or something I make with my own hands. Maybe something I write.

So I made a decision a little while ago. To be that artist I was meant to be. I wrote this in my journal ‘From today I choose to live life as an artist’. And I’ve be doing that as best I can ever since that day. I still go to work as a doctor. And some people don’t realise it yet. What I mean is I now live as a creative. Even at work. In doing so I am constantly honouring the feminine. The suppressed archetype. Which I originally was. As was my mother. And many many others beyond my own small circle of influence.

It really all started when I wrote a short story about a woman called Rose. Her heart had run away to Paris and she needed to journey there to find it. Which she did. Along the way she met people who were actually parts of herself in disguise and unexpected things happened. Like she nearly suffers death by chocolate from a master chocolatier and she dances a tango with Chagall across the rooftops. It’s in Montmartre and it rains roses that very evening. Which is a little bit fantastical I will admit

But the magical thing is this. Much of what I wrote into that story started to become reality. Not long after the actual writing. All sorts of things started happening. My Paris Story became real. I travelled to Paris. Regularly. Staying in a room with a view at the top of Montmartre. Meeting great people. Who saw me. Got me. And heard some of what I was saying even though I couldn’t speak French. Others who reflected back to me the beauty of me. Perhaps I was finally ready to be seen and heard.

The chocolate intoxication episode even occurred. I was in the St Sulplice Square when my heart started racing. Really galloping along. I felt dreadfully unwell. So I went into that famous church and lay down in a very narrow pew. It felt a bit ridiculious but I also felt quite desperate. I actually prayed to live or at the very least not to vomit all over myself in public in Paris. And I promised the gods that if I survived to definitely do more housework when I got home. Because I truly thought I might not.

Anyway I’ve realised something. It’s simple. But really important. And it might help you. It is this. Become the heroine of your own story. Take some small step. No matter what it is. You change things this way. Make things happen. You have more power then you think. Even if you are ordinary. And not very brave. With only a few followers on instagram. That’s not that important it turns out. Not in the real world. In a real woman’s real life.

Also sometimes things don’t work out as planned. Maybe even a lot of the time this is the way. It helps if you trust that it’s all part of some bigger story. If you understand that story is a living animate thing.

By now I’ve read and listened to a lot of stories. So I’m sure this is true. When an individual becomes the protagonist in their own life they become more purposeful. And reflective. Your may not be able to actually direct the things that happen to you but a capacity for deeper reflection about what is going on is the thing that makes the difference. So often the best way to make sense of the arc of your own story is read other stories. And listen as others tell their story. We don’t make big meanings alone. We make it together. I had to learn how to hold and to listen to others in order to learn how to hold my own truths and tell my own story. And to allow others to hold and hear me. By that time a newer story was already unfolding for me.

Actually I think this is one of the things about the heroines journey that sets it apart from the hero’s path. There is always a point when a heroine realises its about more then her. If she is wise she finds a way to accept this. This is the big thing. The point of real surrender. In the great story it’s never about what a single individual desires or learns. Even as her inner world changes as a result of her efforts. And expands. She becomes part of a much bigger story. This is the creative life. Softening and finally being open to this process itself is the actual way of the feminine.

The real journey was never about an actual destination. Or even a particular outcome.  In this way it is truly never too late. It is a becoming. Accepting and allowing an ever widening circle of connection and reconnection. Growing a capacity to give and receive though another. The repairing of ruptures. This is what it is to love.

We each thrive best when we hold and care for each other. When we contribute our individual golden threads into the common weave. A cloth that over time becomes that when it’s held up to the light it is able to shine though.