An Exorcism: Writing Our Way Into, Through, and Out of Trauma by Bridey Thelen-Heidel

By Bridey Thelen-Heidel

When friends ask what writing my memoir was like, I’ve described it as an exorcism. But a “good” exorcism—not a Linda-Blair-head-spinning-barf-spewing one. Hers was arguably THE BEST, but mine was pretty legit. 

Just ask my husband whose lap I curled in after vomiting up another story from childhood that had been swimming in my stomach acid for decades, burning through my esophagus. After my second endoscopy (and requisite biopsies), the gastroenterologist warned my body couldn’t handle a third. His prescription—other than giving up red wine and not eating close to bedtime—was to chill the F out. Effective immediately. 

I tried meditating but couldn’t sit still for more than a few minutes, started running but couldn’t get farther than a few blocks, upped my dose of nightly Chardonnay but more than two glasses felt like wading a little too far in the shallow gene pool of addiction where many of my family members had drowned.  

Raised on a diet of adrenaline and cortisol—

I’d gone “no contact” with my mom several years earlier—even going so far as to bury her alive and grieve as if she was dead—but my body and soul had spent thirty years marinating in the hormones required to rescue her from the dangerous men she moved in and then ran away from. The “chilling out” the doctor recommended was easier for my brain than my body that was still holding onto all the memories I’d shoved into its darkest corners. In these spaces, illness and infection spread—causing an ulcer, a failed gallbladder, cysts that crowded my uterus, and gums that bled like someone decades older. There were ER visits and hospital stays but no answers that addressed more than the symptoms, until I met with an acupuncturist who asked questions no one else had. “Did you grow up with a lot of trauma? Have you tried therapy? Ever written about it?” 

“No.” I told him. 

“Write it down” was his prescription. “All of it.” 

Cue the exorcism. 

Excavating the stories up and out of their hiding places meant returning, remembering, and reliving all of it—again. It was unlocking doors sealed with pinky promises to never, ever tell and unsealing lips forced together by my mother’s threat that telling the truth would hurt us both. But keeping the stories trapped was killing me. Literally. The only way to heal was to let myself out of the cage that my mother had welded together with lies, manipulation, and abuse. 

Again, cue the exorcism.

Preparing for the purge— 

At 4am on the morning of September 14, 2019, I sat down to begin writing Bright Eyes with a full press of coffee, a lit candle, a quick meditation to call in the muses and to surround me with protective white light (another author’s suggestion). I typed a line then deleted it. I scribbled on a yellow pad then threw it away. I typed another line, scribbled again, and eventually had more on the page than in the trash. Sometimes, I wrote a page just to burn it in the fireplace. Sometimes, I made lists just to clear my head. But I always wrote—without fail—every morning and every night. I also cried—without fail.  

Words turned into scenes that became chapters in a completed manuscript, titled Bright Eyes-A Memoir.  

Unfortunately, the exorcism didn’t always come on cue— 

Playing Hide ‘n Seek, sometimes you’re still scrambling to find a spot when your friend yells, “Ready or not! Here I come!” 

That was how the triggers felt when they showed up before I could light my candle and surround myself with white light. I was driving, and in some trick of quantum-physics, The Doobie Brothers singing “Black Water” dragged me back to the top of the cold washing machine where the older boy I adored for teaching me to skip rocks was so heavy on my little body that I couldn’t breathe. At the grocery store, a grandma who needed help with her bag of dog food thanked me with a perfumed hug that pulled me by the collar back to the house where the monster had kicked holes in our doors with his black boots.  

If you saw The Exorcist, you know how messy removing unwanted things from our bodies can be—

Holding onto the smells, sounds, and insults was my way of holding the bad guys—and girls—accountable, but I realized that by writing down every detail—and multiple drafts—the page remembered for me. If I wanted to forget, I deleted it, erased it, or burned it. And if I wanted to share, I hit print.   

As a kid, I developed a dissociative disorder to cope with my mother’s chaos. My body left its feelings on the ground as I flew up and over the monsters fighting below me. Weightless and numb, I had time to think, plan, and decide when I wanted to return to my body and to my mother’s reality. Seeing my words on the screen also felt weightless and numb because my feelings left me for the page, giving me time to think, plan, and decide when I wanted to return to that reality. My job became writing little Bridey’s stories and making sure to tell her her truth and not worry about anyone else’s.   

The monsters controlled my past, but I evicted them from my present and kept them far away from my future. 

I don’t remember if Linda Blair’s character was better off when her exorcism was over—or if she even survived it—but I did. 

And you will, too. 

Write on. 

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BRIGHT EYES

Fans of Jennette McCurdy’s I’m Glad My Mom Died will root for Bridey Thelen-Heidel as she struggles to unshackle herself from her mother’s chaos in this triumphant debut memoir.

Bridey is tethered to her mom’s addiction to dangerous men who park their Harley-Davidsons in the house and kick holes in all their doors. Raised to be her mother’s keeper, rescuer, and punching bag, Bridey gets used to stuffing her life into black trash bags, hauling them between Alaska and California, and changing schools every time her mom moves in a new monster—or runs away from one. Desperately seeking the normal life she’s observed in sitcoms and her friends’ families, Bridey earns her way into a fancy, private college, where she tries to forget who she is—until her mom calls with a threat that drops Bridey to her knees. Watching doctors and police interrogate her mother at the hospital, Bridey realizes her mom has become a monster herself . . . and she doesn’t want to be saved. But Bridey does.

Bright Eyes is about the indomitable spirit of a young girl forced to be brave, required to be resilient, and conditioned to be optimistic, and how she ultimately uses the same traits that helped her to survive her mother’s chaos to create her own happily-ever-after.

BUY HERE

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Bridey Thelen-Heidel is a teacher, writer, and youth advocate. She’s given a TEDx, performed in Listen to Your Mother NYC, published in MUTHA Magazine, and is a frequent podcast guest. Voted Best of Tahoe Teacher several times, her work with LGBT+ students is celebrated in Read This, Save Lives and California Teachers’ Association’s California Educator. Bridey lives with her husband and daughter in South Lake Tahoe, California where she teaches high school English.

 

Tags: featured, women writers

Category: On Writing