My mind at any given time is a minefield of problems; each capable of detonating if I don’t tread lightly, find recessions where they lay, and manuever around them. When I’m blinded by depression I mostly stumble, inch by inch, praying a lot that my keen sense alone will guide me. Much the same way I shoot pool when I’ve had too much pitcher beer and Jack Daniels. I fumble my way through by mere instinct. Listening to the familiar music playing on the jukebox in the background I line up my shot, then close my eyes knowing that I’ve done this before, and move the stick slowly across my fingers. Life has become that way for me; knowing I’ve done this or that before, have survived them, and can overcome the current obstacle too. I’ve had many, MANY, this or that’s.
My last post was more observation than emotion, though it might have appeared to be otherwise. After I wrote it, and reread it and some of the replies I left to your comments, for a moment…just a teensy one, mind you…I wondered if I shared too much. Me..too much? P-Shaw..say it’s not so! Then I reminded myself that I can never say too much, because after all I am working on my memoirs, and aren’t they, well…too much? I can’t very well write a complete composite of my life if I’m ashamed to share bits of it now, can I?
I have a lot of things I’ve worked on over the years; as I’m sure many of you other writers have. Some I’ve nearly completed, then pushed aside as if I’m afraid to move any farther with it and risk possible rejection. That, and it appears that I have to do this one thing for myself in order to move forward. My past keeps me anchored and won’t let loose of the grip it has on me. I have to document, to purge myself in order to make room for anything else that could be substantial. By writing it, getting it in print, thus giving it away; I feel that’s the answer and will heal me. I need to give it away.
There was only one time in my life when I felt I was truly overcoming these demons from my past, and that was prior to my current marriage when I was managing the bar. I was the perky bartender. The go-to person for every need anyone had. Always smiling, always in a good mood, always on top of things; always drunk. It was only after my father passed that the alcohol turned on me and I had stinking, drinking, thinkin; not before. It was also after when I realized that I hadn’t fixed anything in my life, but rather was drinking it away. I still indulge occasionally now, but know when I do why I’m doing it; and that it’s not going to solve the problem, but serve as a temporary buffer. Probably not wise, you’re thinking…but at least I’m no longer in denial.
Why is it easy for me to write so openly about personal things, you may wonder? Because I’ve chose to have few regrets and don’t allow myself to feel ashamed very often. I can’t. It would consume me. That, and because I’ve suffered so much abrasion in my life I believe I’m callous to what may shock some of you. I grew up not knowing if I was a bastard of an affair my mother might have had with my brother in law. Still don’t. I was touched by an older, female family member when I was young, which has made intimacy often difficult for me. I dropped enough acid when I was a teenager to escape from my reality that it’s a wonder I don’t suffer flashbacks today or can even function on any kind of a normal level. I suffered extreme physical and emotional abuse at the hands of my first husband. Had to dance for a while to feed my kids and pay my bills. My brother disappeared in 1986 and has never been found. I’ve personally known and been friends with several men that ended up murdering another by way of shooting, bludgeoning, stabbing. I’ve been shot at myself. I was engaged to a man that was into role-playing and liked to wear women’s clothes. I learned to adapt, and managed to for a time. I’ve lost many dear friends I’ve loved to car and motorcycle accidents, the affects of drugs, suicide. These are but a few….so yes, I am callous and nearly un-shockable. I have eaten more than I’ve cared at the table where shit-sandwiches were served at every meal. And…I carried secrets far too long.
I guess I just wanted to explain to some of you who might wonder, why I write about the things I do. Consider these posts as a preview of my life’s work before it’s completed.