Compassion, Winter 2020

Winter 2020 - Compassion | www.tcf.org.uk 27 maybe because mental illness evokes less understanding and sympathy from others than for a physical ailment. I am acutely aware of the subtleties of reaction, especially if I mention the recourse to drugs as self- medication. At my local Writers' Circle, I sometimes plucked up courage to read out segments. Most of the other members created fiction or poetry: short stories, mini-playlets or longer novels. I asked for feedback on my writing, not sympathy for my circumstances. 'This is a writing group, not a therapy group,' I said. But after sharing one difficult chapter a member commented, 'I thought it was a bit much having your dad die as well as your son (they died one week apart.) I managed to muster, 'I thought it was a bit much myself at the time,' Everyone laughed, breaking the awkward silence, but that one remark stalled my progress for months. Forced to acknowledge my own vulnerability, it took time to find the support I needed, first for my grief and then for my writing. Some six years after the loss of my first son, I discovered The Compassionate Friends, and specifically the group for Childless Parents -those who have lost their only child or all their children. Sharing our experiences helped me to focus my theme - not only on bereavement, but about identity, for beyond the already traumatic loss of a child, there is the loss of the role of mother, a role that for me, had taken up forty years of my life. Hence, the question: Am I still a mother? Then a chance conversation at a writers' conference here in the UK pointed me in the direction of Creative Nonfiction. I signed up for my first (of three) Thirty-Minute Memoir classes. What a joy to find myself among fellow memoirists, to share and discuss the issues specific to the genre: the importance of theme; the legal exposure of naming living individuals; how far to go in reconstructing a scene. Whether dealing with trauma or not, there is a vulnerability shared by all writers of memoir. Others may (indeed will) judge our work, our writing, but also, in exposing our flaws and challenges, will judge the life and character of the writer. Disclosing intimate truths is risky. Tellingly, only when I was part of a supportive group was I able to tackle the difficult passages. If the need to process my grief slowed down progress on my book, it gave me the time to develop my craft. The format of the Thirty- Minute Memoir class involves posting work daily, providing me with the momentum to complete my first draft. Via the critiques from fellow participants and our tutor, Joelle Fraser, I progressively refined my writing, strengthening transitions, adding brushstrokes of description. I struggled with expressing my feelings on the page, joking with Joelle that I had an interiority complex. The truth is, I often don't know what I'm feeling, beyond a general sense of unease, agitation or fatigue. Writing helped me to tease out and acknowledge that most difficult emotion for me (and many women): anger. People ask if writing this memoir was cathartic. Rather, at times I found it excruciating, but having written it, I do find I have gained new insights and processed many of my feelings. This memoir has been a labour of love - and pain - a little like childbirth itself. Helen Bouchami This book, ‘Am I Still a Mother’ , is in our TCF Library.