I absolutely love to write. I am a freelance writer for a magazine, work a steady job in human resources, keep this blog updated, and write little articles for Yahoo that no one will ever find. I love every minute of it.
Until I feel like I have to.
When I first started this blog, I would write a post every single day, and sometimes more than one. It was my escape from Meth Hell, where Chef was losing his mind, and the constant panic I felt about just how bad things had gotten. I seriously am convinced that this blog, and you guys, really contributed to my ability to not get stuck indefinitely in that pain. It felt like an eternity getting to the point where I was able to make it through one entire day without weeping. I look back now, and I’m kind of blown away that this time last year, I was still a human wreck. Now I have this whole experience with love, betrayal, blogging, journal therapy, trust, honor, motorcycle clubs, Christianity, ghetto living, laughter, forgiveness, codependence, and of course, drug addictions gone really, really wrong. I should write a book, right?
Why am I finding this so hard???
I’ve written this stupid book twice now. The first time was when my life was just freshly broken, still lying shattered around my homeless feet on the floor of a dive motel room, and I’m sure no one is going to be surprised by this, but the perspective was a bit morose for my liking…..I HATE IT. I hate the sad, whiney tone, the implied lack of any hope, and the obvious attempt to make excuses for some really shitty behaviors in a grown man who should have counted the costs before throwing his...and my...life in the toilet and flushing it. I feel a fear to blame anyone but myself coming through it too. It was a phase I needed to go through, but no way is that going in my book!! That isn’t my normal nature, and I can’t edit something I no longer like. Manuscript number one has been retired to the trash bin.
The second one is better, but I’m going to be honest with you. It wasn’t all that hard to beat Manuscript #1 with its Life Sucks, Then We All Die format. That’s the only reason Manuscript #2 can be classified as the better one. It goes the complete opposite way, making fun of some seriously dark crap I’ve lived through, and I have a suspicion I shouldn’t confirm in writing how warped I really am. Even I giggled nervously at some of my own writing…
I tried rewriting some of the really horrible stuff, trying to really convey the cracking of a little girl’s psyche, and my involuntary instinct to “lighten” the moment with humor kept getting the best of me. Then, of course, I say it aloud to my kids because let’s face it …..some of it is irreverently hilarious. My kids crack up, which in turn, cracks me up too. It’s a vicious cycle.
I don’t seriously know how much longer I’m going to try this. I have other books with less disturbing stuff that won’t dredge up things I don’t want to remember anymore I can start on. Still, somehow this story is the only one that I think will ever really matter, and I feel a need to finish it no matter how much it hurts, or how badly my image as a decent human is going to tarnished.
My compromise with myself is that Manuscript #2 with its Making Molestation Funny theme is to try to explain why I need to laugh at these things, because the alternative is so much worse, at least for me. Laughter has been essential for me to cope with knowing the real monsters don’t live under our beds at all. They can be parents, teachers, spouses, and friends. They blend in, set traps, and steal away chunks of their victim’s lives. I am blessed that I have somewhere in my mind to hide. I’ve seen some of the poor souls who never recover, and I believe that their fate is worse than death.
That’s my rant. I guess I’ll get back to it.
Excerpt: “ I’ve watched television reenactments of a kid getting molested, and the scenes always go a certain way, as if we victims all feel and act the same way…confused, scared, sad, frightened…. Maybe I did. I don’t remember those parts exactly. I do remember the stuff that was disturbingly trivial, though. Like what music was played to cover up the sounds.One time, I was inexplicably super focused on the damn Bee Gees tape he played every single time, for years and years, and wondering what the FUCK was wrong with this man? Who plays the Bee Gees when they are molesting a little girl? Worst taste in music ever. I still can’t hear How Deep Is Your Love without thinking how I would have probably done the world a favor by killing him, if only for his crappy taste picking out the Molesting Mood Music.” …Bird, in Manuscript #2: Making Molestation Funny
I know. I’m working through it….. I’ll understand if you never come back. 🙂