A perspective on writing memoir
I stand before the gate, terrified of breaking. Believing that at some point it is inevitable that I will. I don’t want to. Not again. Perhaps it will happen when I’m the most vulnerable, through the act of writing my childhood experiences or during the stages of sharing. A pedophile’s life sentence for me plays continually in my mind.
“Don’t tell, or you will be punished for being a bad girl.”
Words existing and thriving at a subconscious level.
If I were to only write, it would remain between me and my abusers. However, I’m fully aware that I’m writing my memoir with the intent of telling. Will it be in the breaking of my silence and the promise not to tell that I will also break inwardly?
I imagine the gate to be a regal structure made of ornate black wrought iron. Wide enough for three people to comfortably walk through side by side. Is the gate really prison bars to keep a person locked out, or the memories locked in? It is clearly too high to allow easy access. At the same time, it also has a way of somehow inviting me to walk through it. Taunting me. And yet, it is quite securely locked. Denying me access to the peacefulness and sanctuary I imagine to be on the other side.
The gate is supported on either side by square brick pillars which reach just as high as the gate. A combination of black wrought iron fencing punctuated by identical brick pillars on either side of the gate. They extend as far as the eye can see. Making it impossible to go around. Perhaps a section of fencing for each year I’ve kept the secrets.
Through the gate sits a delightful display of nature. A pebble path meanders to an unseen destination. It appears to continue endlessly. I wonder if the field of daisies seen from outside my childhood window lies somewhere within.
Trees sway gently in the breeze causing the most delicious and peaceful rustle of the leaves as they whisper their truths and dance with the breeze. I imagine them blowing ferociously as I walk under them. The truths of sexual, physical, and emotional abuse becoming the fabric of my very being. Childhood truths destroying the threads of the person I was meant to be. A person who became so completely broken that I didn’t matter at all. Not even to myself.
The air is alive with the sounds of birds gently calling me to enter this paradise that somehow promises to lead to an unseen place of understanding. A place of growth and discovery. A promise of finally knowing who I am beyond the locked gate of fear.
The gate is my fear of breaking. My fear of hurting so deeply that it will hold me tightly in its grasp and never let me go. Not this time.
Could the weight of the truth of my childhood shatter the façade of who I am today?
What if the actions of my abusers and how they left me feeling are my truth? Someone who isn’t worth loving or being kept safe? What if everything was my fault? What if I truly was a bad girl and therefore deserved to be punished? What if all those answers and the answers to the questions I haven’t even thought of, are waiting just beyond the gate to be discovered?
Is it possible that the courage to open the gate is the only thing standing between finding peace within? A gate which is only locked with fear?
Will I break if I choose to walk through it? The other side holds my memories and the feelings locked inside of my body. They are the Footprints on My Soul. But … the truth of those memories is that I’ve already experienced them. And, I survived. I didn’t break.
Knowing that, I have to ask myself if the act of telling has the power to break me if the experience didn’t. Could telling possibly be worse than living it? Could telling possibly hurt the core of my adult self more than the heart of a child? The child survived. Can the woman survive as well? The child in me refuses to feel the pain and shame from keeping the secrets any longer. She is stomping her foot, demanding that I step through the gate.
All I have to do is to have the courage to push the gate open. To take and experience one step at a time down the meandering path. All I have to do is put pen to paper and write. It’s that simple.
Yes. It will hurt. However, chances are that I won’t break. That I will finally find peace within.
It’s time to own my truth. It’s time to courageously share my truth. It’s time to walk through the gate and explore what’s on the other side.
Shh … Can you hear it? The trees are whispering in the gentle breeze. Echoing the pounding in my heart.
“Don’t tell.”