The last 3 days, I have been attempting to write a personal narrative, a memoir of sorts on a life filled with crazy. Tons of people from all walks of life write memoirs like this. I had no idea how hard it would be to try to write such a memoir. Most people publish these huge volumes with 200-350 pages. The first day, I wrote roughly twenty pages. Today i worked on trying to expand, refine, lengthen it-my manuscript.
When I reached, a point where I could no longer stand myself-I only had 60 pages. Ugh only 60 pages…kinda more of a short story then a life-story. I tried to get my anti-reading husband to look it over for me-he gave up 11 pages into it. He is a comic-book reader by nature. And also, he reads much slower than I do. He rarely reads for pleasure, unless it is a book from a hit cable TV series or a book where they made an awesome movie. He barely, reads his college textbooks and he is really smart so he can get away with that crap-I never could.
It hurt my feelings he could not get into it. I took my bedtime bipolar meds at 8pm and attempted to just go to bed. But he kept pestering me, was I mad at him? Why did I want to go to bed? Is everything ok? He got overly cuddly. Then I finally turned on him and began tickling him. He is rarely ticklish but tonight I got his sweet spot. He was ticklish everywhere. So I got him to leave me alone and I made him laugh-so that’s gotta count for something.
I’m not sure how many more re-visions, I can go through. I want to paint a picture of my life, how it was like, just so others could reap benefits from reading about some of it. But I want the picture to be very blurry and vague. I do not want to share “everything.” and I am sure that’s part of my problem.
Some wounds are so raw that they never heal. Yet, on the other hand I have been through Hell and back again, in one piece. There is useful knowledge and wisdom somewhere if I could find it.