During election week, I attended a writing workshop on the island of Malta surrounded by gorgeous seascapes, blooming flowers, and 80-degree weather. Our meals included healthy Mediterranean buffets, our private suites felt safe, and the climate (both cultural and physical) was refreshingly mild. It was a supportive place to be for receiving the news that America had chosen Trump to be our leader again. On the other hand, I also felt some shame that I found comfort by escaping to another country. I had a passport and could afford to leave the country; both afforded me privilege. While Trump’s election caused me to fear the future, it did not throw me into survival mode as it did for so many marginalized people around the world. I even told someone, “I’ll deal with the grief when I get home, but for now I just want to enjoy myself and this beautiful island.” I had the luxury of putting it off and could choose not to identify or enter into grief with my friends. I had conflicting feelings. I wanted to enjoy my vacation time without ignoring the collective grief and fears happening simultaneously. And at a subconscious level, denial helped me convince myself that this wouldn’t affect me much. Conflicting feelings, denial, and suppression are natural and normal reactions to grief and loss. The experience of feeling them all at once can be disorienting. Denial is our body’s way of metering the grief so we don’t go into shock and become immobilized by our pain. In a way, dissociating can be a gift your mind gives you when things are too big and scary for you to understand. The example of my election grief is a mild one, but it makes the point that I wanted to make. Our bodies know what we need and react instinctively.
Memoir Writing with Internal Family Systems
Our small group of workshop attendees learned how to incorporate Internal Family Systems (IFS) parts work into our memoir writing process to question these instinctive reactions. We learned how to get curious about the stories we believe without activating the internal parts of us that use denial and control to silence our fears. I think it’s fair to say that most people with a history of trauma have a repulsion and fear of the unknown. Chaos and lack of control trigger us. It throws our nervous system into a “fight or flight” response (survival mode).
The IFS journaling taught us how to write both blended and unblended from our internal parts’ perspectives as well as writing on behalf of our parts. When I refer to “parts,” I’m referring to the multiple parts of self that have different agendas, childhood wounds, values, and goals. Some may refer to them as their “shadow” or “younger self.” Some of these parts are still living in the past and retelling old “stories” to keep us safe so similar bad things don’t happen again. I have a collection of parts inside of me that have adamant ideas on who should govern and who should be silenced. There is a power struggle, like those between political parties, over how they will achieve their goals. I also have parts with resentment towards bullies, both the ones inside of me and the ones governing our country. These parts stand with crossed arms and say through clenched teeth, “Don’t tell me what to do!” So, I had parts that wanted to write and remember and other parts of me that didn’t. Many of our writing exercises involved connecting with those protective parts and asking for permission to remember and talk about our past. We talked a lot about respecting boundaries. This was invaluable since it could result in self-sabotage if a part of you wants to keep things private or feels unsafe remembering the past; it will find a way to thwart your writing about painful memories. Mine protested with shingles when I began writing my memoir last year.
The Message from Sea Glass
On election day, our writing assignment was to walk together to the cliffs by the sea in silence. Once there, we were to journal about the “moments that made me.” We arrived just before sunset. I found a secluded rock to rest on and began to make a list. This vacation to Malta felt like it was going to be one of them, even though it was just beginning. I looked around myself for a keepsake to remember the moment. I reached down to pick up what I assumed at first glance was sea glass. As a kid, I collected sea glass every time we visited the beaches in Pacific Grove, California. I loved their muted colors and softly rounded edges. They felt like natural jewels buried like a pirate’s treasure in the sand. As the sky turned orange, I picked up a bright blue piece of glass that caught my attention. Once I held it in my hand and felt its jagged and sharp edges, I tossed it aside. I then realized that none of the glass this high on the cliffs would be sea-glass. I returned to the task of my list and included more meaningful life events that shaped who I am today.
It was strange to be aware that I might be experiencing one of these life-changing moments in real-time. Would this experience in Malta be as positive as I wanted it to be? I retrieved the bright blue shard of glass again. I questioned why I loved the soft and muted sea glass more than the sharp, vibrantly colored glass. Both the jagged shard and the soft sea glass have a broken beginning. Was it broken in a moment of rage or a euphoric celebration? Did it happen in an unplanned way or deliberately? Every piece had a different story, but the outcome resulted in the original container taking a new shape.
It no longer functions as it previously had or holds what it once held, but it still holds purpose.
I reflected on how my life experiences once felt intense but now feel muted and softened by friction and age. Witnessing the change over time feels meaningful. My focus shifted to the journey instead of the result. I asked myself, “What about this unrefined moment in time is special?” The intuitive reply was clear: “The unknown possibilities.” The emotions that accompanied it were calm and courageous. This surprised me because earlier in the day, my protective parts told me that the unknown future was something to be feared.
I had a creative part of me that sprung to life, and I felt compelled to make a piece of art. I collected more pieces of glass on the cliff overlooking the sea. These pieces might never reach the ocean, but they could still change. Later, I took my collection of glass pieces to our meeting room and made an octopus. That logical part of me wanted to know something more and attach meaning to it. I did a web search on the “meaning of octopus,” and here’s what I found:
In times of newness and uncertainty, the octopus excels in camouflage, demonstrating an ability to change colors and patterns. As an invertebrate, it is extremely flexible and adaptable to various situations. Additionally, it possesses the remarkable ability to regenerate lost limbs, which can be seen as a symbolic message of resilience and healing. Able to live both in and out of water, octopuses are intelligent enough to blend into their surroundings, symbolizing the inner power and strength needed to survive.
Receiving that message on election day felt like an answer to the way forward. I can expect that parts of 2025 will be unexpected and scary, but my body will know what to do. The ideas of regeneration, flexibility, and creative camouflage helped me have compassion for the young parts of me that did their best to survive. My parts have been adapting, regenerating, and flexible in the face of the unknown all my life. I instinctively know how to do this! The unknown moments that will make me in the future may be anything positive or negative. Through it all, I can strive to show love and compassion to my internal family of parts and others on our journey of adapting to unforeseen changes.
As a way to process change and enjoy the journey, I commit to making art! I believe it was the artistic expression that helped me hear my intuitive voice. Martha Beck, in her newest book titled, “Beyond Anxiety- Curiosity, Creativity, and Finding Your Life’s Purpose,” suggests that making things helps us switch from our left-brained survival mode to a right-brained calm response. Making something allows our managing parts to rest. When our minds are calm, we become more open to listening and asking questions. We are also more capable of responding with compassion when we feel creative. Any form of play will activate your right brain; cooking, painting, dance/exercise, or gardening are only a few examples. This year, I will be planning more group events to practice and experience this. January 31st, I’m hosting a paint-by-number event at the Hillsboro Public Library. If you want to join us virtually via Zoom, you are welcome to craft from the comfort of your home with us. Reach out to me at Amelia.breugem@gmail.com for more information.
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