Prompt 162. Aftermaths
Memoirist Erin Khar on starting again
Hi friend,
Do you ever feel like your sense of self is fractured, that your life is one long series of reckonings—of starts and stops, of befores and afters?
I know I do. Every time I turn around, there’s some new rupture or upheaval: letting go of a childhood dream, illness, losing friends, romantic heartbreak, a global pandemic. Even with good news, like unexpected love or the arrival of a new child (or in my case, a new shelter dog), there’s almost always a sense that you are forever changed.
To center myself in the midst of transition, I often return to these lines from Stanley Kunitz’s poem “The Layers,” which my friend Ned shared with me when I was on my 15,000-mile cross-country road trip:
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I have considered my many lives and tried to identify that “principle of being,” certainly I can see what’s changed—but I’m also struck by the consistency. I mean this in terms of my general disposition, my interests, and the things I’m drawn to (mainly rescue pups and more rescue pups), and also in how I cope with the upheavals (mainly journaling). I have come believe that those moments of reckoning are spiritual forks in the road, where you either can inch farther from yourself or closer to yourself—and I inch closer to myself by writing my way through.
Today we’re going to hear from the incredible Erin Khar, a previous prompt contributor and the author of Strung Out: A Memoir of Overcoming Addiction. It’s a poignant story, and timely too, given the ongoing opioid crisis, given that September is National Recovery Month. I hope Erin’s words remind us that no matter the past, we all contain the possibility of altering the course of our becoming, and that we can do so one word at a time.
Sending love,
Suleika
P.S. If you missed our Studio Visit with New York Times-bestselling author Imbolo Mbue, you can watch the recording here—it’s full of warmth and humor and insight. And we posted a discussion thread inspired by Imbolo’s take on perseverance in the face of rejection. So many powerful responses from the community—eager to hear yours!
Prompt 162. On Rebuilding by Erin Khar
In the past eighteen months, in the thick of a rolling pandemic, a collective anxiety has emerged around how we are going to rebuild our lives in the aftermath. There is a not-so-distinct before and after, because we have been moving forward in fits and starts. It can feel overwhelming to imagine what the “new normal” is becoming and when it will be here.
Something that has given me comfort during all of this uncertainty is that I have rebuilt my life again and again. I have had to define my life in multiple befores and afters, and it’s given me faith, in myself, in my ability to survive, and that things will feel good again.
In my memoir, Strung Out, I focused on my years of active drug use, of the psychology behind my addiction, and how my recovery unfolded, allowing me to piece my life back together. When I was in early recovery, I didn’t realize that I’d continue that rebuilding process—that before and after—again and again, in the face of other failures and traumas and disappointments.
I like to play with this idea of rebuilding when I write, especially when writing from a fictional character’s point of view—how would they rebuild their relationship, their day, their home, their life?
Your prompt for the week:
Write about a time you had to rebuild something, or imagine a character rebuilding. Is it furniture from IKEA? Is it bodily recovery from illness or injury? Is it piecing your life back together after divorce or loss or a hurricane or a pandemic? Wherever it goes, let it take you. Detailing the physical and external process of rebuilding reveals so much interior life.
If you’d like, you can post your response in the comments below, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals.
Today’s Contributor
Erin Khar is the author of Strung Out. She writes the popular weekly advice column, Ask Erin, and her personal essays have appeared in SELF, Marie Claire, Salon, The Times (UK) Sunday Magazine, HuffPost, Esquire, Cosmopolitan, and others.
I had to rebuild my self after I cut off my communication with my father. Sitting in a therapist’s office telling my dad that I would not be seeing him or talking to him starting immediately, I felt myself in that moment have the most epic battle of self I’ve had yet. The self I knew very well and merely tolerated was pulled toward his tears and his “ill do anything”s, while the self that was still a small seedling knew these cries weren’t rooted in love but in narcissistic selfishness. After I stepped out of the world where I was a parent of my parent, a “superhero” who only knew loneliness and dedicated every second to fixing the impossible, I had no idea what to do with my life, how to continue. I became really interested in finding who I was, who I am and who I want to be. It was in this discovery of self that the rebuilding occurred. I knew me, I knew who my people were, I knew love. With that knowledge alone, one can move mountains.
The Jenga blocks of my life have recently spilled over after leaning for some time. The sound was deafening like a clap of thunder in the night. The realization that I am no longer looking up pauses the game. My downcast eyes survey the scattered pieces of smooth wood that hold possibilities. A will to pick up one block makes it heavier than it should be. Starting over. Starting. Over. Those words are at opposition in my mind. Choosing to play another round, I arrange a handful of blocks in an unfamiliar way. A newer version of myself that is allowed to adjust when needed. A steady hand guided by my rules that aims to make the foundation stronger than before. After carefully placing the rest of the pieces, an epiphany stops it all. I have already won and it’s not over. Looking up, I rise to my feet and move on with my day. The game is left there as a reminder of the moment I believed I could make it better. The instructions now read: Make the game your own.