"I spent my entire life hiding this part of me"

Allison Sweet Grant, on turning pain into creativity

“Harmony,” by Patricia De Leon

Whatever pain you can’t get rid of, make that your creative offering.

We talk a lot about this idea (which I wrote about in my book Bittersweet, and also in this Kindred Letter).

And people often ask me, well, how exactly do you do that.

So here’s a case study for you.

Not long ago, a friend sent me an advance copy of a debut young adult novel, I Am the Cage, by Allison Sweet Grant. This book tells the “story of a young woman’s journey to confront the medical trauma inflicted to “fix” her—and to heal her heart in the process. Elisabeth was only eleven years old when everyone around her decided she was broken and needed to be fixed. That’s when it all began—the doctors, the hospitals, the indescribable pain…It is a story about the chains others place us in and the lengths we’ll go to in order to break free.”

Grant — who from ages 11 to 13 went through the same harrowing procedures she describes in the novel — calls it the story she’s been waiting all her life to tell.

I have a *lot* of trouble focusing on novels, these days, unless I’m on vacation. And I haven’t been on vacation for a while.

Nor, mercifully, have I ever experienced medical trauma.

But I picked up the novel anyway—and devoured it in two sittings.

I think that’s because Grant’s narrator does NOT hold back in telling her story - she lays bare her experiences, her flaws, her heartbreak, her dreams, her humanity.

And I think she does this because—like all bittersweet alchemists, who feel compelled to turn pain into creativity—Grant is fueled by a fervent desire to heal others, and so to heal herself. Here’s what she wrote in a letter to her advance readers:

“My hope is that I Am the Cage will find a home in the hands of anyone who’s ever been asked, “What’s wrong with you?” Anyone who’s ever wondered, ‘What’s wrong with me?”…A long time in the making, I wrote I Am the Cage because I had a story to tell. I’ve thought every thought, smiled every smile, cried every tear in this book. I have loved the good guys, loathed the bad guys, and at times found myself confusing the two. I have cradled this story’s heart and soul in my arms wishing it had once been there to cradle me. This is the book I’ve been waiting my whole life to write."

For Grant—as for so many people who perform this particular alchemy—telling her story is also a meaning-seeking act:

“Writing it has brought immeasurable meaning to me,” she writes, “and my hope is it offers something meaningful to you.”

“Lotus Vision” by Patricia DeLeon

Of course, this particular form of bittersweet alchemy—i.e., putting your deepest stories out there, for all the world to know—involves gargantuan levels of personal exposure. And I wondered how Grant, an extremely private person, felt about that.

I asked her this question, and she said it was OK for me to share with you our exchange. I think that it will interest you very much:

Me: “I’m curious how you feel about the exposure aspect of the book. I know you described this as the story you’ve been waiting to tell - does that mean it’s 100% comfortable? Or is it more of an ambivalent thing? I ask this question from a great deal of personal experience, needless to say.”

Grant: “No, I’m definitely not 100% comfortable. At least, not yet. I spent my entire life hiding this part of me, thinking that I SHOULD be hiding this part of me. Every day feels a little bit different, if I’m honest. It’s a cyclical thing, you know, feeling like I shouldn’t have to hide myself, shouldn’t be ashamed, so then letting a little bit of the real me out, but then worrying that it was a mistake, and then an added layer of feeling shame for being ashamed. It’s an anxiety tug-of-war.”

I wanted to share this exchange because I think that almost every human has a part of themselves they feel they should hide. And it’s always nice to know that your fellow humans wrestle with the same dilemma.

*

And now, here’s an excerpt from I Am the Cage (you’ll see how raw and visceral it is):

“Mom brought me the pills with a little cup of water. ‘There you are,’ she said.

I took them from her, placed them on my tongue, and mechanically swallowed them down.

There I am. Here I am. But the real me is not really here at all. I imagined Real Me hiding in the back of my mind somewhere. In a junk drawer. And every day more junk gets thrown into it—spare pennies, some Post-it Notes, a snide comment, a judgmental laugh—shoving Real Me to the back.

It’s dark and dusty, and as I crawl into the corner, I step on the crumbs of things that were stuck in here before. I wonder how they might have gotten out and I look for an escape—but I’m too far away from the small crack of light, and I keep getting shoved farther and farther to the back.

One day something spills in the junk drawer, covering Real Me with a goopy mess. It seeps into my eyes and ears. Everything becomes hazy and muted. I stop looking for a way out. Instead, I settle in.

And there Real Me stays, hidden, forgotten, cowering, and buried beneath layers of something heavy and viscous…”

I realize that this particular excerpt ends on a despairing note, so will just assure you that redemption (but not a Hollywood-esque version) arrives, later in the novel.

*

As always: your thoughts?

Do you have a pain you can’t get rid of?

Would you like to alchemize it into creativity, healing, or something else? (Btw - as I often note - this does NOT need to happen in a grand or public way, such as writing a novel; it can be equally done in total privacy.)

I always love to hear from you, and for you to hear from each other.

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