I sit here once more at my computer, with a jumble of thoughts that have been dancing around in my head for some days now. It has taken me until now to find the inspiration, and to really think about the concept surrounding this Phenomenon.
We have all been in a position where we have felt our heart has been broken, that it will surly never mend. That there is no light at the end of the tunnel, the pain is just immeasurable. We sit and stare at the floor deep within our sadness. Then it occurs to us that a little music may help, we make our way towards the CD player to make our selection. It makes sense you would think that at that point in time, we would be looking for something uplifting, something that could change our mood. But the selection we make is so very far from whatâs expected. We stand there with it in our hands acutely aware of the tracks of which it holds. The music starts and we sit there listening to someone singing about the pain suffered. The tears start to roll down our cheeks, but we make no attempt to wipe them away. We can feel this personâs pain as if it were our own; every note sang a description of the feelings we now find ourselves experiencing. Why would we choose to inflict further trauma upon ourselves? It is just so completely illogical. We feel our pain worsening, but do we remove the said CD or do we sit there until the end? Then the track arrives where you feel without doubt that it was surly written for you, so do we then press on to the next track or do we press repeat?
I have chosen to share the above scenario, because at some time in our lives we have all been in that head space. But that is not my reasoning for being here today hoping to connect with youâ¦. itâs just the doorway in.
It would be safe to say that I love to read, I guess I always have since I was a child. You can lose yourself in a book; become that person in your own little world where no one can intrude. Over the years I have read many types of books, mainly depending on my mood at that moment in time. Our moods differ daily with the act of day to day living. Bringing us neatly to the point I have been striving for.
The day I made the decision to make headway in my recovery so many things changed in my life, even those I thought had no real connection. As my journey continued I was acutely aware that so were the books I was now purchasing. I was drawn towards them like a moth towards a light; I was able to single them out even as I approached the stand. They were like a beacon drawing me ever closer. I would stand with each one in my hand, trying to figure out which one would be the saddestâ¦. unable to choose. On more than one occasion more than one would return home with me. My library was changed rapidly. Filling the selves now were books you would think I would do my best to avoid. Books about abuse, depression, desperation, mental healthâ¦. the long painful journeys made by many. Which I hope loops us back to the start of this piece.
So why would I purchase books of that nature? I knew for a fact that I was not alone. Others within the same painful place as me during that time would offer me books of the same nature to read. I would in turn do much the same thing for others. It seemed that we were sharing out our misery, somewhat like dealing the pain out evenly. So can I make a stab right now in reflection as to why this situation manifests? Where do we start? A problem shared is a problem halved? Are we looking for some manner of camaraderie in our own painfully empty space? Can we reach a greater understanding within its pages? We were clearly not alone because the proof was sitting right there in our hands. The complete madness surrounding you had a greater reach than you could have ever imagined. They are all valid points, and I am sure there are many more than I have mentioned here. For each one of us there will be a main factor which differs.
So what was my reasoning for this journey into shared misery and pain? Why would I choose to read books of that nature, after all it would be like I was once more staring into the mouth of hell? Not my own I grant you, but the fear was still felt immensely. I would reach the end of a chapter, one look at the clock and I could see it was late I should be sleepingâ¦ but I was unable to put the book down. It was as if I needed to reach the end of their journey with them. That was the overwhelming factor of my reasoning. You see I was unable to make that journey alone; I needed the condensed strength of all those people out there rewriting their own future, just as I was struggling to do at that time. The power of one is never as strong as the power of many. With one common bond we reach out. We are then blessed by the heightened knowledge that recovery is possible. In truth every one of those books I read helped me to take another step towards my ultimate goal. I didnât need to be in the authors company to feel the closeness resonating between us. The mere fact that they were out there was enough. I have never met those that helped me take a step in the right direction, simply because they graciously chose to share a chapter of their life through their writing. But my heartfelt thanks are unreservedly sent. My hope is that through my work there is someone out there going through the same process. Today there is a chapter out there of my own through the writing of my own book, please take it and let hope rise to the top. Because of our shared journeys there is an invisible thread that links us together, please believe that no matter how far itâs stretched it will always hold fastâ¦â¦.
Teresa Joyce was born on the 15th December 1958 the middle child of three. After losing her father at a very young age; this was to set the pattern for the rest of her life. Losing was something she would have to get used to. Today she still has some memory of her father, but in truth itâs all a little hazy. Her mother through no fault of her own after that loss had no other alternative, other than to return to her parentâs home with her children in tow. This family unit was to spend only a few years there, until the wind of change came around once more. Happy memories are something that Teresa holds in very short supply. Her mother was set to meet the man that was to become her stepfather, and they moved once more to a new city with the promise of a new life. Hopefully it would be a happy one for all concerned, but it became a place for Teresa that felt far more like a prison. One in which she would spend many years months days and hours hating. She swore to herself that she would leave all this behind at the first possible occasion.