Living With Dragons

If you’re new here, welcome! I’m Barbara Ellen McMahon, author of the novella, Mrs. Rochester. It’s a sequel to Jane Eyre. This time, it’s Jane who’s locked in the attic and there’s a new governess. It’s available on Kobo, where it’s been getting rave reviews, or as a PDF download on Ko-fi.

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Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.

— Rainer Maria Rilke —

I’ve always felt like there was a really strong emotional component to my rheumatoid arthritis, somehow tied to a friend who died not long before I first got sick. When she died, it was such a shock. I withdrew from life. Didn’t want to trust anyone. Didn’t want any more friendships. Because friendships can hurt you. So I went away, shielded my pain with, ironically, more pain, and there I’ve struggled for the past twelve years.

Only when you truly inhabit your body can you begin the healing journey

— Gabrielle Roth —

I haven’t been inhabiting my body for a very long time. Things happened and then the pain hit and I didn’t know how to process any of the things that happened and I spent the next nearly twelve years trying to be anywhere but in my body. Why would I want to inhabit a body full of pain? Unless (and I believe this is true) doing so is a vital step in the process of getting better. Which seems really unfair and I’ve spent a lot of time rebelling against that thought and not really getting any better, despite the best that the medical establishment can throw at me. It’s been a long, tough slog.

Something blew up in my life all those years ago. I may never fully understand what it was, but it was BIG and the reverberations continue to this day. But, bit by bit, I’m finding my way back to life, to healing and joy. It started with getting back to my morning pages, reminding myself that I’m a writer and a deep thinker. My health and my outlook improved when I got back to the page. Launching my Substack, getting back on Medium and publishing Mrs. Rochester really helped, too. I’m not just a writer, I’m an author.

And then I discovered junk journals and the joy of being in my studio (often in the wee hours of the morning when I can’t sleep), making messes and trying things. The leap to doing a daily page has really helped me to truly inhabit my body, my life. I have to pay attention, otherwise, what will I put in my journal? It reminds me that I’m here and that I matter.

I think it works because it helps me to relax. Stress can really rev up a chronic illness, so it makes sense that something that takes the stress out of your life will help to calm your illness. It doesn’t have to be journaling. That’s just what’s been working so well for me. But, as I keep trying to remember, we’re all different. Your calm may come from something else entirely.

And I’m not saying, unfortunately, that any of this is a cure. I’m still sick. I just feel not quite as bad as I did before I started these practices. They help me. They might help other people. But they don’t cure.

Something shifted one night recently. We bumped into some friends in a restaurant, sat down and had a drink with them. I let my guard down. I didn’t worry about how they might be judging me. I just had a good time. And that made me crave more — more conviviality, more social contact.

I think the groundwork was laid and continues to be laid in my daily journaling, both in my morning pages and in my daily visual journal. There’s something about digging as deep as I can into a thought, a prompt, as well as focussing on my day, looking for the scrapbookable (thank you, Alan, for that word) moments and then cutting and pasting and drawing whatever to represent them. Before I started, I thought every day was pretty much the same — long, lonely, and full of pain. But with the right kind of looking, I can see they’re not. Each one is a treasure, in fact, even the really tough ones. Every moment is unique and to be treasured. To be grateful for and commemorate. They’re all we get, moments. And we let so many slip by unremarked and unthanked.

Every day is different. Every day is its own shining jewel. It reminds me of the day I went sketching down by the river and tried to draw the ducks. But they kept moving, kept swimming away. And I’d think, that’s OK. I’ll fill in the details from the next one. But the next one, now that I was looking closely, was completely different. So I’d start another sketch. And that duck would drift away and along would come another wholly unique duck and I’d start all over.

My days are like that now. Each one getting a unique representation in my visual journal. Because it was a wholly unique experience. And I love that. I love that I’m finally seeing what a gift each day is.

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Don’t forget, my book, Mrs. Rochester, is available on Kobo or Ko-fi. Your purchase helps to support an independent author.