After Eighteen Seconds

It’s been a while since my memoir was released. It’s been a while since I wrote anything here. It’s been a while since I assessed life beyond the release of my autobiography. It’s been a while. So here I am. What has happened since I decided to share my life story? I’ll come to that. It was a decision I didn’t take lightly, deciding to hand my words over to the world. I wanted to be honest, flaws and all. But I didn’t want to hurt anyone. This was why I invited my family to read the chapters as I went, and gave them the space to share their own thoughts and experiences. I then included those paragraphs on my pages. I also resepctfully decided not to include things one family member requested were omitted. It’s sad to read certain parts now because one of those ‘voices’ passed away at Christmas.

Uncle Edwin (also known as Uncle Lapwin, which I apparently called him as a child because I couldn’t say, yes his very simple name!) died suddenly on Christmas Day, UK time. Those who’ve read the book have commented on what a powerful figure he was in the story. He was. And though he lived in Tasmania, I felt he was close at times, in the voice notes and messages he sent me, always concluding with a joke. He was a massive support when our mother jumped off the Humber Bridge (the core of the memoir) and again more recently when Joe and I needed it. In his last voice note he joked that the doctor had told him he had fourteen years left. ‘That’s a very precise prediction,’ he said. ‘No, it’s an average, since you’re seventy-four,’ said the doctor. ‘I’d better get on with everything then,’ said Edwin. He planned to go to Nepal, maybe another visit to England, more theatre. He died just three days later. Live your lives, folks, Do it now. I miss you, Lapwin.

What, then, has happened since Eighteen Seconds (Daffodils in audiobook) came out? I left the town where I lived most of my life. Where most of what happened in the memoir took place. Too many ghosts. Too much pain. New pain and old. Open, fresh wounds, and closed. I was ready for the future, for new things, and after saving hard for many years Joe and I bought our dream house in a village near the Wolds. I have my first writing room too! There have also been other forms of closure. My dear sister Claire, who loves doing historical/ancestral research, discovered what happened to the childhood abuser I mentioned (but obviously didn’t name) in my book. It came a week after I left my old house, and it felt like the universe was saying, yes, Louise, it’s time to move on, heal, and grow. All I’ll say is, he likely didn’t hurt anyone else. And this is good. So how are things now? Last year was extremely testing. I hoped after the memoir (and I often said it at events) that that was it for drama. But sadly, my pain – and far worse, my family’s suffering – wasn’t over. It is now though. That’s all I will say. My life now is about the good people, and there are so so many of them.

So why did I decide to hand those words over to the world, as I described it earlier? Aside from the theraputic aspect, I sensed (and my instinct rarely lets me down) that writing my memoir might help other people. There are a few taboos in the book, mainly a difficult mother that results in me ending that relationship. It also explores coping with narcissistic abuse, along with childhood trauma, the resulting cPTSD, and my mum’s violent suicide attempt, but all with a topping of very very dark humour. I wasn’t wrong. About it reaching others. I’ve had hundreds of messages since the book was released. Some have simply been readers with kind words. But often these contacts were women who ‘felt seen’, as the saying goes. Many opened up to me about their own experiences, and thanked me for sharing things they’d been through too. Things ‘no one talks about’. That’s the power of our stories. They validate. Our openness with them invites others to share. Thank you to everyone who has read and responded to Eighteen Seconds. Your words have helped me a great deal – and I hope that helps you in return.

With the daffodils beginning to emerge (flowerless for now) from the ground, would I write another memoir? This is often asked of me at events or online. Because there is no THE END with our own stories. Life goes on. Good or bad. At present, no, I wouldn’t. But of course my real life will worm its way into the novels and maybe plays, as it often does. Look for me there. Look for my truth in that fiction. Because no matter what, I’ll always be honest with you.