Being diagnosed with cancer has made me think about who I am in a different way. There have been so many moments when I’ve felt that it has broken me into a million different pieces, and I’ve been faced with the task, yet again, of piecing myself back together. Overwhelmed by the emotional and physical toll it has taken, I have often struggled to find the words to make sense of my experiences to myself, let alone explain them to those around me.
Writing, though, is different. It’s a space where I can take the time to consider the words I am choosing, or where I can let them pour out in a tangled, messy rush. I’ve come to love this space that I’ve created for myself more and more, as the path of my treatment has forced me to deal with physical and emotional side effects that have been hard to bear. I return to it again and again, testing the words for their truth and integrity, tentatively trying out the things I want to say about what this all feels like for me and who I am within it.
It is a space in which I can find my voice, whatever that voice is on that day, at that moment. Sometimes, I write in my journal, using my voice to record, to question, to think. But I often find that it is poetry which offers me a way to really explore my voice and the experiences that I am trying to give a voice to. Playing with words and phrases, the way they look, the way they sound; trying on different metaphors and similes and seeing whether they seem to fit with what it is I am feeling. I lean into the language as I write, feeling it wrap itself around me as it materialises on the page. The words that remain resonate with this process of seeking out my voice in these moments of fear, anger, relief, joy. This is me, I think, this is a part of my story that I have brought into the light.
This space that I have forged with my writing becomes a vessel for my stories. In the act of committing them to the page, I am recognising what it is they mean to me, in all their messiness and imperfection. This experience of living with cancer, is often one in which the stories are ugly and raw, and which leave me angry and afraid. But I have found that through my writing I am able to begin to acknowledge the part they play in understanding who I am within these experiences.
As I piece together my stories - as poems, as journal entries, as blog posts - I am piecing myself back together, bit by bit. It is a slow process and it often feels like I take one step forward and two steps back, but my writing is at least helping me to keep moving forward. It gives me strength to hear my own voice in my words - a new and tentative voice at times, but there nonetheless. And so, I listen more carefully to my stories and I hear my voice more clearly, and know that I am still here, moving onwards step by step.
