Untaming my voice

On working through hypervigilance and understanding how it impacts my work.

I am returned! November is always a time of reflection, celebration and in latter years preparation for the assault of mourning that December brings (and yes it does create some manic conflict with Christmas).

I have been bewildered this year. I am realising how very much living with cPTSD affects every aspect of my life (the fact I still feel so uncomfortable describing my diagnosis is yet another symptom). I realise I temper myself, modify, dampen, reduce my impact and space in the world. I shy away from opinion, gnaw at myself for days after social situations and generally fight the fact that I even exist.

I feel like a fraud when I describe myself as a trauma survivor, as though there is some kind of trauma Olympics and I am a mere bronze medal recipient. Yet here I am, experiencing hypervigilance that is so acute I am afraid of my own (very lovely) husband coming through the back door, suffused with Oscar worthy panic if the phone rings unexpectedly, and constantly have to wrestle my mind back from imagining the deaths of those I care about.

It’s exhausting and terrifying. I’ve learned that these symptoms ebb and flow, and so am more prepared for their onslaught at times when my physical and mental capabilities are challenged. I am used to it and understand that it’s a part of the way I live. I am reaching a point where I know that those that matter understand it too.

Photo by Mike Lewinski on Unsplash

This state of hypervigilance does make socialising very difficult. I am constantly second guessing those around me, constantly looking for clues as to who is safe and who may be a threat. This happens without me really realising, but I have learned that it means I make instant (sometimes inaccurate) assessments of a person or situation and modify my behaviour accordingly. I seek to mask the storm in my mind, in order to function and of course to make my escape intact. The flip side of this is that when I encounter those who seem safe, who give me some sense of connection then the bond can be intense - almost too much the other way.

It occurs to me that this tempering of behaviour impacts my writing. I have been wrestling with myself as a writer over these last few months. Where do I fit? How do I “get in” to all these groups and gatherings of poets that are so kind and welcoming and yet still terrify me? I am not sure I can find the pathway, never mind walk on it. I have notebooks filled with work that I’ve “toned down” or reworked to make them a bit less sad or serious. I read work that is oozing with poetic devices and concepts that I would cut from my own poems because of fear that it seems too “poetic” and therefore beyond me (who do I think I am?) I judge my words before they reach my pen, filter them through a gauze of what iffery. I stick to writing observational type poems about trees to avoid any upset, I keep my language sensible and plain. I keep my ideas and thoughts to myself, because what is the point of me expressing them when there are so many others doing it so much more effectively. I am my own jailer, my own dungeon master. And I still do not know how to get free.

So I hide. I choose to garden or bake because these things demand less and have simple, clear results. I wonder whether perhaps it would be better not to write, perhaps I just need to accept my mediocrity and get back in line. Keep to my place. Yet I could be the voice of the quiet, the voice from the chair at the edge of the room, the hare in the shadow of grass, bursting across the fields, racing from those who seek to extinguish her.

As ever, my response is practical. I have the luxury of two days’ solitude this week and have designed a mini poetry retreat. I’m spending time reading Jean Atkins’ High Nowhere, in preparation for a review (spoiler - it’s an utter swoosh of brilliance), I’ve dug out two of my favourite books on the craft of poetry (The Ode Less Travelled and The Craft). I’ve made a timetable and I am thoroughly enjoying myself. It’s rare to have time to write and to explore my own skill and I’ve had to be firm about not wandering away into applying for jobs or exploring new ideas for wedding poems. Those things are important, but taking time to nurture and grow my skills is important too. Just doing this feels like an act of resistance and rebellion against the “who do you think you are” voices that pepper my mind.

I have focused my learning on formal styles of poetry. I find the order and puzzle of formal writing both challenging and comforting. Wrestling to find the way into a villanelle or sestina calms my mind in a way that free verse enlivens it. Perfect for creating a space of reflection and focus on what I love about being a writer. I’m aware of how much I’ve learned since I last worked with these two books - I feel more confident and have honed my level of understanding. My progress is slow but it is there.

Things have been remarkably quiet on the poetry film front too – sheer lack of time and a touch of trepidation are to blame. Working with the words in Dust are challenging at this time of year, which holds so many anniversaries (last time I saw my brother, last emails, last phone conversations) this week is the anniversary of his death, and I hope to spend some time making the seventh film from Dust – I'll post it as soon as I have.

I glad to have writing as a companion through the dark days that December brings. Thank you for joining me.

Until next time

Kathryn

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