Now

Working on my memoir doesn’t always mean I’m writing. That may sound strange for a lot of people, but writers, and especially memoir writers, will understand. When I’m not deep thinking, reading old journals and writings, or taking long walks to calm my anxiety, I do write. And that writing happens when I least expect it. There are definite triggers–a painful memory, a disagreement with someone I love, a shocking betrayal or just feeling frustrated and angry with myself.

A couple of months ago, I was angry and frustrated and wondered, why do I feel the way I do? Who am I now? I wrote and below is what came out. No editing and I stopped where it felt right. I decided to share because I am moving forward with this elusive memoir. I’ll share this too–for me, writing fiction comes easier and is more fun. But that’s why I’m not giving up on my memoir. It is my biggest writing challenge and it will be my biggest writing success.

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People ask me, what’s it like now? I don’t know what to say so I don’t say anything. Quiet. Shy. Introverted. Bookworm. Nerd. All me. I can hear the laughter, the mocking, mostly from my own family, my brother, my cousins. They laugh when I try and defend myself. “Ok, Tricia,” in that degrading tone meant to keep me to the lowest level they’ve put me on. And all these years later, I can still hear them. I can see them, their faces, faces that don’t look like mine. Are we even related? How could I be related to people who are so mean- spirited? Who enjoy insulting people, even family, for their own entertainment? I don’t talk to any of them, haven’t for many, many years. And I don’t care, have no interest in seeing them or hearing their voices ever again.

Even though I know who I am now and I’m mostly okay with it, I can’t let go of that rejection and abandonment. And you know why? Because I have it this day in different players. Maybe it’s my fault. I always expect too much, I have these little dreams that play out in my mind and I snatch them and hold onto them and I love and protect them. They’re mine! and I don’t want to let them go. So when I lose them and I know they’re gone for good, I grieve. And then I try and make them come true again and then I hear that same laughter, that same mocking, letting me know that I’m a fool again and I’m not going to have those dreams. My expectations are shattered and I feel like absolute crap. And I know I have to face the grief, the reality of it, but how do I get over it when these people who have rejected me so badly are still in my life?

Prayer. Faith. I do it and I have it but there are too many days when all I feel like doing is staring into space and feeling absolutely sorry for myself. When I can’t even write–which is what I love doing. Grieving takes so much from me, mentally, emotionally and physically. I don’t want to go through it but I have to. I can’t continue to hold onto these dreams that are never going to happen. And the bitterness. The resentment. Oh, yeah, they’re there and I know they’re not letting me go anytime soon. I don’t want them. I know what that will cost me to hold onto those but it’s so difficult to let go. And when I think I’m making progress, something happens, the littlest thing, and I can feel it gathering speed and strength within me. Prayer. Faith. I settle back there but I don’t lie to myself or to God. All the pain, the insults, mocking, rejection and abandonment, all of it lives in me and I don’t know how to release it. I don’t know how to move forward. I feel stuck. I feel lost and if I could only take a step in the right direction, the healthy direction, I could escape, but it’s hard. It’s so damn hard.

I don’t want to be one of those people who complain and whine all the time. Years ago, I loved complaining. I complained about work, my childhood, my fears, the weather, where I lived, my regrets and on and on. I was dark and depressing but at the time, I loved it. I thought it was safe and cool to be that kind of person. But I was lonely. I didn’t have a lot of friends, barely dated and I hated myself more and more. I went down a dark road, despite my faith. But, back then, my faith was minimal. I didn’t understand what real faith looked like. I went through the motions of prayer and mass but none of it made a difference to my soul. I reveled in the sad, lonely, depressed person I had become, even though I was screaming silently for someone, anyone, to help me. To see me and love me for everything I was. I had never felt seen or appreciated or loved or cherished and I just wanted to die.

Now I look back at those days, that dark period, and I want to reach back and hug that young woman. Tell her it’s going to be okay. Tell her that love and appreciation was already hers. She was seen, she was carried, she was cherished. No human being gave me what I desperately wanted. But it was mine if I had only realized it.

But I can’t go back to that young woman. I’m not that young woman and sometimes I don’t even recognize that we are the same. But this issue right now, this is transporting me back there.

Thanks for reading. Until next time…