Writer No Writey

I’ve been caught in the clutches of the underworld for a good lifetime now and O! how a struggle with the chthonic depths can make it tough to grab a pen.

It’s hard to write when you’re in soil.

Under the earth

Subterranean living is slower and faster and nothingness.

Avoiding

In a void.

In.

O.

Here we gather - to refuse to be for a moment - underground.

In psychopathology some call it severe clinical depression.

As a mystic - I can only say I’ve been drowning in dirt and saltwater grief.

Receiving messages from angry ancestors

And learning how to stop fighting in the dark.

That’s the thing about listening -

there’s nothing to say when you truly are.

I didn't notice that my words were s

Every time I tried to write them down, they’d wash away like they were written in sand.

I’ve been trying to finish this blog since November.

That’s when I went to a sexual violence protest called Minute of Shouting and a sibling in the struggle spoke to me about how she had found me through this blog that I haven’t written on in years. She said she found my words powerful and important.

She was a fellow trauma survivor and I don’t know why that made it easier to look her in the eye. I told my soul not to run away - darling, stay and be brave - that despite all the loud noises to the contrary, this near-stranger felt safe.

I realised that one of my gifts in this world is raw expression. When I neglect or abuse this gift, I feel sick. Uneasy. Imposter syndrome is a real ride. I thought it was impossible to write under the sea. It feels far worst to swim around drowning with the abandoned ghosts of stories I was too repressed to tell.

So I write this blog as a commitment to my many selves - to remind myself that I deserve access to my own creativity. As I enter this new season of my training as a Feminine Mystic, Seer, High Priestess, Creative Healer etc- in Igbo we say Ezenwanyi - I realise that I cannot prosper in establishing healing and expressive arts spaces for my community if I reject participation in my own practice. There are always distractions that prevent engagement with my inner world. There have been, are and always will be. But if I want to be the mother and partner to my art-as-activism organisation - Black Mind - that I yearn to be… then I need to drink my own damn water and eat my own bloody dinner. Even when I have no appetite and the cup feels miles away. Because I know it in my womb-root (I love re-languaging) that this works. I have faith in the arts-health revolution. I believe in compassionate-based creative practice with my whole being. Therapeutic trauma-informed and survivor-centred open spaces for free fucking expression and exploration is how I radically reimagine psychology. It’s what I’m giving my life to. In my gut, I know that we need stories to understand a shared truth - to evolve and grow - we have since the beginning. Trust me, I was there.

So, here I am. Practising living authentically. It is vulnerable, icky and exposing. I feel scared.

I also feel powerful for facing my fears.

As Ezenwanyi and as a poet, I am obsessed with etymology. When I say, obsessed - it is accurately and happily used ahaha I reflect often on the root of the word courage.

I believe that the essential meaning of words can get distorted, exploited and beaten out of them over time. As an indigenous Biafran - especially one belonging to Afor market day - when I feel lost, I like to go back to the root of things and start from there.

In the UK it can feel embarrassing to speak from your heart. To carry your fears with you, openly, can be met with degradation and disgust.

“Keep calm and carry on”

“Stiff upper lip”

We have invented this strange social order that devalues those that are visibly vulnerable. Living here as a someone with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (c-PTSD) can feel a bit like being a zombie-monster-perv, vomming over and glomming on people just by nature of existing in a culture that forbids you from expressing your distress in social gatherings.

“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.”

- Fannie Lou Hamer, 1964

If cross-culturally there exists a distinct image of the heart being the seat of the soul - the seat of “true feelings” whatever that means to you - maybe there’s something in that.

A wisdom I inherit from our common ancestors is the importance of honouring and not abusing our collective heart.

This blog is a commitment to heart-centred living, courage and creativity.

As we say in Igbo, a hụrụ m gị n'anya - I see you and I love you. Thank you for visiting.

Ezenwanyi Amarachi Rachel Nwokoro aka Rachel Shapes x