Three Pages a Day to Get Me Back to Me

Before my process of Mormon deconstruction — if we’re calling the emotional equivalent of putting your life in a blender a *process* — I had a beautiful habit I absolutely adored.

I ran a book group based on this habit. Several of us met together every week, and challenged and supported and loved each other through our Artist’s Way journey.

I have cute little notes to myself all over my house as reminders of this habit — with quotes from Julia, and from friends in the book group.

I absolutely LOVED this habit.

What was the habit, you ask?

Some thing simple, every morning. Just me, my pen, and a notebook (that will need to be burned when I die, before the girls ever read it–eh-hem, Brynn, Angela — you got me, right??

Anyway – what was the habit?

Morning Pages.

Julia Cameron’s daily, first-thing-in-the-morning, Morning Pages. Julia introduces this daily ritual in “The Artist’s Way:” three pages, written longhand, preferably fist thing in the morning.

OH – and with NO editing.

You just write. it. all. out. That’s it.

Not three *good* pages.

Not three deeply profound or meaningful pages.

Not three pages anyone else ever has to read. (Nor probably should they!?!?!)

Three pages of whatever-the-hell-is-in-your-head. (Haha — look at deconstructing Mormon me saying “Hell” out loud — sort of!)

I. Loved. My. Morning. Pages.

For several years, nearly every single morning, I’d wake up, get my mug of warm water, my square of dark chocolate, my morning pages notebook and a pen, and away I’d write.

Sometimes I had actual thoughts. Sometimes I had complaints. Sometimes plans. Sometimes, I’d plot revenge. Prayers. Worries. Brilliant revelations. All on my Morning Pages.

And sometimes it was the f-word over and over. (Ok, so it’s really no big deal that I just said “Hell” — I’ve had a potty mouth that could rival a sailor since I taught at the middle school!)

And sometimes it was “I’m so tired, I have too much to do, why is there no chocolate in this house, I do not want to write my pages i do not want to write my pages I do not want to write my pages. . . .

And sometimes it was literally “blah blah blah blah.” Because that was what was in my head.

Still — it counted.

All that “blah” and that resistance and that brilliance and the revenge-plotting — they were all part of the magic of the prank-pulling, dinner-bringing, joy-is-my-middle-name Lizzy you know and love.

Hot take: You don’t have to know what you think before you write!

We usually treat writing like the final step.

First, you think a lot about what happened. Then you understand how you feel about it. Then, once everything is wrapped up in a nice little emotionally mature package with a pretty pink bow on top, THEN you write about it.

Except —

–THAT is very often NOT how writing works BEST!

Sometimes the best writing happens when you simply write, and THEN find out what you think. We call it “brain-dumping,” or “free-writing.”

I didn’t realize this until after my deconstruction (I’ve still got 3% hope, people!), but those Morning Pages would become the lifeline I desperately needed to come back to myself, to stop wanting to die, to get back out of bed and to start living again.

After 52 years (NOT 57, BLOAT!) in a highly-controlling church, with more demands than support, and more judgment than love and more “cover yourself up” than male-accountability — Morning Pages gave me a place where nothing had to be polished, defended, explained, justified, spiritualized, or turned into a lesson. But it COULD be if I wanted it to be, or if that’s where my brain just took me that morning, but it didn’t HAVE to be.

So, a few weeks after my “me too” CHAT WITH LIZ, in what would turn out to be a critical step in me-healing-me, I picked up the pen again, and I started writing.

It wasn’t Morning Pages — exactly. The first few times I wrote again, it happened spontaneously, mid-day, late evening, sometimes morning, too.

And it wasn’t usually three pages. At first it was just scribbled half-thoughts. Sentences. Maybe a paragraph here or there.

Initially, deconstruction was all that I wrote about.

And boy, was that painful. A sentence here. A paragraph there. That’s all I could do.

Deconstruction hadn’t been wanting to “do bad things,” or “being offended” like the Mormon Apologists shout from the rooftops about all us “anti-Mormons.” It also hadn’t been one big revelatory (pun intended) writing spree of release, followed by a triumphant movie montage where I threw open the curtains, and became suddenly and joyfully enlightened.

Ha.

No.

It was grief.

It still IS grief.

Anger.

Disbelief.

More grief.

“I didn’t go looking for this! I never wanted this!”

Shame.

Embarassment.

Literal pain as I lay in bed binging another Mormon Stories Podcast.

A whole lot of “WTH????”

Scratch that — a whole lot of “What the actual FUCK?”

And the unnerving realization that once you’ve seen “the things,” you can’t unsee them. You can’t go back. You can’t pretend and carry on.

Well, let’s walk that one back. Sometimes pretending and carrying on IS the best thing you can do, in your own circumstances. No judgment here on how ANYone handles their deconstruction. I’m the girl who burned through her savings, went WAY back into debt, cashed out her retirement, and nearly lost everything. (We’re not out of the woods yet — either). So really — NO judgment.

Anyway — coming back to those Morning Pages. The visit with Liz. Putting the pen back on the page.

But the writing was different this time.

It was no longer just something creative I loved or a way to brain-dump the mom-voices in my head before I got up and did GOOD mom things, or a way to VENT all the rage I was feeling about this thing or that — It became one of the ways I could find me again. I could hear **my own voice** again.

And I haven’t found her (me) yet.

It’s still a rude awakening each morning, when after those first few moments of stretching and coming out of the sleepy-fog.

In those first few moments, everything is ok again. The girls are still upstairs sleeping. The church is still true. I know what happens next and what the future holds.

And then — shit. I remember that I don’t know ANYthing, ANYmore. I don’t have an eternal perspective. I don’t KNOW what happens to my kids or if I’ll really see and be with them again.

Because the mind-fuck about deconstruction — ALL you know by the end, is that you don’t know a damn thing.

(Fun fact — I said “mind fuck” about 4 times when I finally called my dad to talk with him about HIS deconstruction several years ago– a conversation we’d never had, because #Mormon. Anyway — I think he choked every time I said “mind fuck.” But I can NOT think of ANY phrase or ANY way to better describe the deconstruction process. 🤷🏼‍♀️ Sorry, Dad!)

At 30 I knew SO much. At 52 (NOT 57 BLOAT!), I don’t have a fucking clue.

In the words of Jimmy Flinders, which ring more true and relatable now than any other part of Saturday’s Warriors: “Who am I, Where am I going? Here I sit all alone, Not knowing why. . . “

I don’t know where I’m going.

Here I sit, that’s for sure!

BUT — I AM on my way.

Because here I sit, AND I’m writing again. And somewhere inside thousands of handwritten sentences, crossed-out words (shhh — don’t tell Julia), angry paragraphs, ridiculous observations, heartbreaking realizations, and probably more than a few references to needing chocolate — or tequila — I AM coming back to me.

Which brings me to YOU.

🍋 Lemons to Lemonade.

Community. Writing. Your book.

Our first cohort, a Mormon faith struggle/deconstruction cohort launches soon.

A small group of women, writing together — and yes, that includes Morning Pages.

The six months I spent in bed, binging Mormon Stories, and Floodlit.org, and The Widow’s Mite, and, and, and. . . .

ALONE?

I don’t want that to be YOU, or HER, or ANY woman. (Yes, we only meet with women. Period).

The writing, and the meeting together to share and to discuss — those are the important parts.

The creation of your own deconstruction book — that’s a bonus.

It might be a bonus just for you. It might be a bonus you share with a friend who reads it and SHOUTS “hey — me TOO!”

I don’t think every painful experience HAS to become a book. I don’t believe trauma exists so we can turn every massive grieving experience into a pretty inspirational lesson that could be shared (or co-opted in a conference talk 😉? IYKYK?).

Sometimes things are just unfair. Some things (like CSA in a church) should never happen.

But I **DO** believe there is tremendous power in giving ourselves permission to tell the truth about our own lives.

And I do believe that suffering is processed, especially for women, better when we process it together.

But even if 🍋Lemons to Lemonade isn’t something you want to consider right now, I hope, hope, hope you’ll consider Morning Pages.

Because just this ONE practice alone could be the very tool you need to find your way back to you, or out of the grief, or through the experience, or out of bed and on to the day.