It all started the day that you were born. Whilst you were there, I am guessing that you can’t remember much about it. I have read somewhere that we have no memory of ourselves before the age of 3. Perhaps our memories of our younger days are just photographs on our minds and we convince ourselves that we can remember. It would have been fun to remember cutting off the heads of the prize roses of the old German we lodged with. Mum said his face was disfigured from the war and he was grumpy and scared her, I apparently loved him. Over the years I learnt that it was something I did quite a lot, cut heads off flowers and like strange people.
I was born at home at 6.30 in the morning. That’s as much as I knew, until at 50 I asked my mum about my birth, she told me that it was a long labour, her waters broke and 48 hours later this thing came out that wasn’t breathing. Imagine her distress! The nurse wiggled her fingers in my throat, removed the phlegm and I screamed my way into the world.[content_box_paper_white width=”75%”]EXERCISE
Ask your mum or anyone who can remember the day of your birth, what happened. What does birth mean to you. Start to write about birth, maybe from what your mum or others have told and see where your writing takes you. Just 10 minutes is all you need.[/content_box_paper_white]
My womb, unlike my mothers has never held a child or was used for much of its intended purpose. It has shed its lining, filled me with painful torment each month and then one day stopped it as quickly as it began. No more blood, no more life, at least the life that was. Rebirths come in many forms and to have no periods changed my life forever. I gave up drinking not long after the red stuff went away. Anxiety surrounded me, sleep evaded me, this I thought was the dreaded menopause, only to later discover it was my thyroid. Undiagnosed they gave me Prozac. I gave birth to shame. I was ashamed to have to take drugs. Why ashamed of drugs when I had snorted copious amounts of white powder during my party years. That was of course ok, I chose to lose myself with each line that travelled up a five or ten pound note. Doctors drugs meant something all together different. I was a confirmed failure, unable to cope, sleep deprivation was killing me. I may never have had a child to keep me awake for endless hours, but I had something else, life changing just the same. So, I gave it all up, drink, sugar, wheat, dairy, stuff. Eventually I slept, my diet, I discovered sorted out the thyroid. I wasn’t nuts after all. Ok, slightly barking, but that’s in my make up. With sleep, I discovered calm. Relaxed, I gave birth to my passion.
The story starts with my birth, but my writing takes me on several births, the birth of shame and the birth of passion. It’s important to just put pen to paper and see where your thoughts take you. When you write about births, consider if this, is the theme of your story, just a part of it, somewhere in the middle or where it magically ends… for now.
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