october journal, entry {seventeen}

 

A really crazy and really exciting thing happened yesterday that has caused me to take a small step back and offer myself some time and space for reflection. I submitted my manuscript to an editor and she seems to think it is something worth moving forward with. I mean this to myself in the kindest way -- I wasn't sure if there was enough 'book worthy' craft in what I had submitted -- writing is the thing I do for therapy and medicine -- the technicality around it is not something I have studied ... ever.

It was about January (ish) of 2016 that I decided to give writing a book a real shot. I dedicated one day/week to writing for the months of January to probably May or June -- when I was forced to stop due to the sheer emotional turmoil and PTSD that had surfaced; I needed air.  I wanted to tell my story mostly with the intention of processing it myself and then also with the hope that my story would help to hold space for others moving through the same sorts of heartache. I took a few months break within that 6 month time frame; but still with one day/week dedication in a 6 months time frame I spit out almost 66 000 words and 29 chapters.   

Since discovering writing, I have always been told I should write a book -- I never knew however what I would possibly write about, nor do I have a damn clue how to write a book. It was in a retreat in 2015 that the facilitator told me "Kori, you need to tell your story -- you were born to do this work". 

That inspired me. 

That support, that belief from someone I looked up too mattered to me. 

And so I decided to follow this wild dream and I sat down and started the process. Hour upon hour I dove deeply into my soul and my memories and I bled my heart all over 29 chapters and almost 65 000 words. And then I knew I was coming to the end of writing my story and I knew I am horrible speller and I drag sentences on and I knew someone professional needed to get theirs hands on my work. It was just a google document and when the editor asked me if I had my first manuscript done I said... "what the hell is a manuscript?".

So I sent her my rough word version and shared the google doc with this woman who is the first human to read my story. And it was wild. And it was raw. And my heart was on fire and mostly I was like... what the fuck did I just get into?

This is the realest project of mine, the most heart forward account of my story and my life. This book is literally pages of the darkest days of my existence and the absolutely life saving tools I acquired. This is a book about finding divinity in darkness, it is about the journey from utter self-hatred into one of divine self-acceptance. This is my story of depression, abuse, addiction, self-loathing and (most importantly) this is my story of healing. 

I don't know if anyone will ever read it. I don't know if I will self-publish or miraculously find an agent and land in with a publisher. I don't know if this book will be for the world or simply for my own processing. But what I do know is this:

SHOW UP.

No matter what, show the fuck up. Be brave and show up. Call on courage and know that the outcome is not what matters, what matters is simple: showing up. Maybe no-one but my Mother will read my story or maybe the whole world will -- neither matter. All that matters is that I continue to show up for my beating heart, that I continue to follow the bread crumbs that life is offering me. What matters is that I continue to put one foot in front of the next. Who knows what will happen after I have this magical woman edit my work... it doesnt matter. What matters is only this very next step. 

Courage is not saved for the people born brave -- courage is for the people who are scared shitless every-single-day... and they do it anyway (thanks Pema Chodron for that!). That's what makes me a brave warrior -- I'm scared shitless 99% of the time and I'm showing up anyway. 

more october journals ...