The NPE experience may bring many losses. Sometimes there are no words.
By Eve Sturges
I used to think in paragraphs, sort of dream in sentences, always in love with the way words work. In high school, Mr. Riley taught us how to string sounds together regardless of meaning. I fell in love with lilting Ls, rolling Rs, phrases like “cinnamon vanilla turquoise.” I loved speeches in the movies, and in real life, where every word packs a punch to create sentences that change the world. Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Julio Cotazar, and David Foster Wallace served as totems while I prayed for guidance at the keyboard. Essays were a voice for me, a way to process events, both traumatic or hilarious, and create a record of my life in a world where I often felt unheard. Screenplays were a way to create images and dialogue where written words were not enough. I was getting support from people I admired. I was getting paid for pieces about all the stupid thoughts in my head about the events in my life. People asked about a book. I was looped into pitch meetings. It wasn’t always positive; hearing “no” always stung, but it meant I was putting myself out there.
And then a man called my husband, and my husband called me, to say: my whole life has been a lie. There was a convoluted story about a group of Christians in the late 1970s, betrayal, secrets, heartbreak. The man explained he was sure that I was his daughter; the man who raised me was, in fact, not my father.
As one might imagine, drama ensued. Everything stopped inside me. Paragraphs and word play were replaced with whispered phone calls, difficult emails, awkward conversations, countless questions, a million tears. Try as I might, I don’t feel like there is anything to write about because everything to write about is loaded. Secrets and shame are the throughline. My lost identity is the lede. My book proposal for a memoir about the relationship between mothers and daughters? Null and void. My mom said please don’t put this on Facebook. My dad said please just wait before putting pen to paper about any of this.
Now it’s been two years. The world outside me did not stop or wait for me to sort through the myriad feelings. There has been a job, kids, marriage, groceries, holidays, global pandemic, American facism, whatever. It all keeps happening whether I can process who my father is, or not. I insisted I was fine, kind of. And yet, the thing I was the most proud of—writing—became an idea of something I used to do. It’s a dream deferred, a sad side effect I didn’t expect.
And yet.
I woke up the other day thinking about the sound of footsteps on gravel. It’s crunchy. It’s familiar. Crunch, crunch, it kept looping, until it formed a sentence about memories, about horror movies, about a young man on the side of a road pacing back and forth with a cigarette. It’s the opening sound in a mediocre screenplay I cobbled together in my 20s. I woke up thinking about that sound, and thinking that maybe my old script should be a novel, and maybe I could write it.
Instead of pulling up that old screenplay, today I wrote this essay about how I was afraid that I might never write again. It’s an exercise in meta-reflection, which is a term I just made up. It feels good putting this all together. It’s not exactly like riding a bike, but like remembering the notes of an old song that used to be my favorite. My voice is squeaky, off-key. But present.
The most obvious thing to write about, for a person who has always written about personal experiences, is the events of the past two years. Instead, my mind keeps going back to the novel. I’m still worried about what will happen if my true story comes pouring out. My thoughts say “write, but write about this, instead.” A creative defense mechanism, of sorts.
Developing a podcast was a defense mechanism, whether I intended it to be or not. It is like the opposite of my writing; I don’t have time to massage words into beautiful sounds. It all comes out awkwardly, unedited. My words are halting; sometimes I am at a loss altogether and I sputter and repeat myself. I need it that way. Our stories are not often beautiful; they are often awkward at best. Adults who are experiencing this loss of identity are raw, and I want to capture that. By listening to others tell their truths, their own DNA discoveries, the lies they’ve uncovered, or the secrets they’ve unearthed, I am listening for my own. I am feeling relief every time I can say to a guest, “Me too.” I am using their words to fill the place where the paragraphs used to be inside me.
But since the other day, I feel a small ember of something coming alive. It’s words, slowly forming with lilting Ls and rolling Rs, it’s beautiful sounds like vanilla cinnamon turquoise. It’s hope; this part of me isn’t, actually, dead. It’s the stories inside me waiting to spill out, in a world where I otherwise often feel unseen. It’s an ember that may turn into a fire of words that upset some people and change relationships, whether I ever post on Facebook or not. It’s an ember that is my truth; it hasn’t stopped glowing. I’ll take it one step at at time, starting with the crunchy sounds of gravel.
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