I wrote the first real draft of my memoir during NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) a few years ago. But it feels like I’ve been working on it here and there for nearly thirty years. This draft feels wrong. Even though I like a lot of the stuff I included, it needs a lot of work. I do love the journal entries and poetry. I even added a section where I write from my dad’s point of view and then my mom’s.
I’ve always struggled to discover the theme of my memoir and this draft proves it. I know I can do better. A couple of years ago, I took a memoir workshop and the teacher addressed the theme issue (because I’m not the only one who is challenged by it) and simply said to the class, your theme is transformation. I liked that! And it was true. More recently I was talking to a friend about memoir (her memoirs are amazing!) and she asked me who I wanted to write my memoir for, other than myself. I spent a lot of time thinking about that and wondering if I should write in first person like I’d been doing or choose second person? And it struck me one day that the person I want to address in my memoir is my older brother who is also my only sibling.
Stay tuned to see if this works or if I get stuck again. In the meantime, I wanted to share a short piece of the draft I’ve been reading. It begins with a journal entry and ends with a few thoughts and comments.
November 9, 1998
I think I see flowers. Daisies, tulips, roses, carnations, lilies. I squint, try to focus. I’m wearing my glasses, but I still can’t see them. Oh, there they are. But I don’t see yellow, red, orange or even white. All I see is black. Why can’t I see color? There’s something eerie about black lilies. Out of all the flowers, those black lilies are the creepiest. I shake with a course of shivers down and up my spine. I feel naked all of a sudden. I look down but I’m dressed in black. Everything’s black and I wonder if it will always be that way. Sometimes I see color, splashes of purple, orange and green. Even yellow on occasion. But then they fade and black remains. I think that’s why I love black so much. It’s always there, a comfort to my starving soul. It’s like strong arms wrapped around me, like the only constant joy in my life. Colors fade always, but not black. I love black. It’s a good friend.
Sewer creature. A creature who lives in the dark and the muck, who doesn’t see any light. Does the sewer creature enjoy living in the dark depths of muck? Does he want to see light, want a different life? Or does he accept who he is and thrives in his comfortable hell?
My second therapist, Lindsey, suggested this analogy during one of our afternoon sessions. Despite the visions of the sewer creature which reminded me of the creature from the black lagoon or a scary monster from Scooby-Doo, I understood what she was going for. I was the one who loved the darkness, the color black, the comfort of my depression. I was scared to see light because wouldn’t that mean I’d have to move forward? Didn’t it mean I’d have to keep trying and probably failing? Fear of failure. Fear of being myself, of reaching for my dreams was keeping me in that sewer, but I didn’t care. I embraced the inner sewer creature. I embraced the depression. I listened to angry songs that mirrored my wounded soul, wrote dark poetry that screamed for help, stayed hidden in my room, only forcing myself to come out when necessary.
***
Maybe you have a different view of a sewer creature, but it doesn’t matter. Depression isn’t the same for every person. I can read this now and cringe a little, but that’s only because I’ve grown and come a long way since I viewed myself in this manner. I may still love the color black but I also love orange and red and green. And I love the slow process of writing my memoir because I’m always learning and I continue to grow as a stronger, more hopeful and faith-filled person. Thank you for reading.
The Second Chance Writer 