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It was horrifying when other people told me I was brave for writing a memoir. I was immediately worried by this accusation that I said something wrong. I panicked I had disclosed too much about myself. I feared I had broken the boundaries of appropriate behaviour.
Photo by Alena Jarrett
I started to get curious about why would they think I was brave. What exactly was my act of bravery? Was it that I said too much? Was it that I dared to disclose parts of myself I had not before found a place to share? Could it be brave to be loud, to be real and to be authentic? I was being honest about parts of my life I have struggled with. There were delicious parts I recounted as well.
As life goes on, I accumulate a mass of feelings. I have emotions stemming from events that I don't know what to do with. I have wondered how to be happy, safe, and free with all that is in my past. There came a point when I knew I couldn't hold onto them by myself anymore. They were impacting how I was in the world, my relationships, and my actions. It was exhausting to deal with.
I had cleared my life of drinking and resigned from my job. I had left the last unworkable relationship and managed my disordered eating. I had a drive to shift my internal discombobulation into a neat and ordered structure. For me this involved writing. In prose I could set all these feelings out on a page and have it make sense.
The structure of my memoir was as disorganised as the tales I had to tell. It is not an autobiography, as some readers would prefer. It is a chain of stories laid out in no particular order. It is built with authenticity and was crafted with less emotive language as it progresses. My purpose was for other readers to find the significance of the stories. I wanted people to read it without feeling sorry for me or rushing to judgement.
It was a change for those who like a book to follow the standard format of struggle, climax and happily ever after. Instead, it lays bare my experiences to highlight what I've learned through my life. It has short paragraphs and sentences that point to issues bigger than me. The subjects that are less spoken of are sometimes explicit and sometimes in the background.
I consider myself an advocate for feminism, and often a socialist. I read work from women I admire and deem to be brave. I perceive my memoir as a relatable account with some cautionary vignettes. The language is straightforward and requests curiosity of the reader. I use words such as authenticity and vulnerability in the context in which they are currently used. We have seen a rise in the number of women sharing their stories and a rise in the use of these words. We have access to more stories online than ever before.
We now talk about topics that had once been hushed. Women gain fame and international recognition through their business’ of being self-expressed. This is a far cry from when female journalists used male pseudonyms. I am clear my stories are not unique but as a combination across my lifetime they are one of a kind. Each event and action effects the next in its own way. The impact of these on my wellbeing and success is mine alone.
I can use one common use language to reflect on all stages and aspects of my existence. Doing so provides a relatability. Other women have shared similar experiences in their world over the years. The definitions of these similar experiences differ. The experiences called ‘violence’ and ‘rape’ have clinical definitions and references used in the legal system to them. The media have their own spin and we use these words in conversation differently again. These words also have different meanings for each of us.
When I speak about mental illness and eating disorders, I use my own definition. Everybody's experience with the same name is unique. We dedicate entire bodies of study to the intricacies of these broad and sweeping statements. For this reason, it is critical that women share their own accounts. No two stories are exactly the same and the world has billions of stories.
The stigma attached to words is dangerous. It keeps us small and silent. We can have a freedom to love our own versions without self-judgement or compromising our values. We can say what we want and often need if we start sharing together.
The more women talk about these vulnerable areas in life, the less room there is for judgement. Words and their meaning would become common and de-stigmatised. We could talk about mental illness with the same comfort is a torn hamstring. Words such as, rape and family violence could simply refer to the nature of the act.
They need not trigger a whole bundle of emotions, judgments, and stereotypes. This is not to diminish the severity of any topic. I implore you to support the normalisation of what still brings women untold grief.
Writing a story was my first preference. I was able to practise using the words I had not said before. It allowed me to have comfort in expressing myself and share the important parts of my life. I would say them in my head and then they would live there. These unsaid words and phrases hardened me from the inside out.
It still takes me something extra to be able to say these words out loud. When I can watch others respond it has a different power. It gives me more and more freedom as I do. I am committed to have conversations where there are not any words that are off limits. I invite other women to join in and practise with me.
Big love, Frances 💗