Ten years ago, I wrote a memoir.
It was self-published and little read, but a triumph for me personally. The poor formatting aside, I was proud of the words in that book. A decade later, as best I can tell, Born Hungry has been forgotten by everyone except for the people I most meant to celebrate in its pages, most of whom never actually read a word from its pages.
My family's reaction to my most courageous creative moment created an emotional hangover I'm still getting over. Banishment from the fold, denial, stonewalling--all resurfacing the shame from my youth that I'd worked most of my adult life to put behind me. The pain of being once again denied connection from the people I most needed to hear me flooded my adult self with every feeling of insecurity that I clearly hadn't processed. as well as I thought. My therapist says it was an adult confirmation of all my childhood fears. PTSD's role in the body reaffirmed: vigilance is always necessary. Writing is dangerous.
My Mother asked that I never write about her or my family again. All I've ever wanted to write about is the places I am from and the people who built me. So to honor my Mother's wishes, I quit writing entirely. But I'm tired of holding a piece of myself back, of living small in the hope that one day my family will see me. Since 2015, the woman I was named for passed away, and with her, the last will, I had to keep myself hidden to honor blood ties. I'll be forty years old this year, and perhaps the most important thing I've learned is this:
If someone can't love you at your biggest, boldest, and most courageous, they're certainly not going to do it when you're cowering, small, and codependent.
As I turn the corner from early life to mid this year, I have no more patience for any type of fractionated living. I want to be whole, and that means I must write what is true for me and send it to the ether. If I'm not writing, I'm not whole.
I once put down my pen and agreed to hide for what I thought was the love of my family.
I now know that true family will never ask us to hide. When I was a child, one of my Mother's favorite songs was Dolly Parton's Family. I know she interprets that song to mean that we must love those related by blood no matter what. In that, we're mostly in agreement. But that song makes another very important point that I think she's missed in asking me to stay silent about my experiences. In the longsuffering lyrics, Dolly asks us not to hide from what is true about our family, but instead to face both ourselves and our relatives with a willingness to show compassion and acceptance. Both of these things require a willingness to face difficult things.
I no longer believe we can truly love someone if we are asking them to hide. Real love means facing what we are together.
Dolly might be right that when it's family, we forgive no matter what. And forgiveness doesn't mean we hide from the truth.
The older I get, the more I agree with Anne Lamott:
It was self-published and little read, but a triumph for me personally. The poor formatting aside, I was proud of the words in that book. A decade later, as best I can tell, Born Hungry has been forgotten by everyone except for the people I most meant to celebrate in its pages, most of whom never actually read a word from its pages.
My family's reaction to my most courageous creative moment created an emotional hangover I'm still getting over. Banishment from the fold, denial, stonewalling--all resurfacing the shame from my youth that I'd worked most of my adult life to put behind me. The pain of being once again denied connection from the people I most needed to hear me flooded my adult self with every feeling of insecurity that I clearly hadn't processed. as well as I thought. My therapist says it was an adult confirmation of all my childhood fears. PTSD's role in the body reaffirmed: vigilance is always necessary. Writing is dangerous.
My Mother asked that I never write about her or my family again. All I've ever wanted to write about is the places I am from and the people who built me. So to honor my Mother's wishes, I quit writing entirely. But I'm tired of holding a piece of myself back, of living small in the hope that one day my family will see me. Since 2015, the woman I was named for passed away, and with her, the last will, I had to keep myself hidden to honor blood ties. I'll be forty years old this year, and perhaps the most important thing I've learned is this:
If someone can't love you at your biggest, boldest, and most courageous, they're certainly not going to do it when you're cowering, small, and codependent.
As I turn the corner from early life to mid this year, I have no more patience for any type of fractionated living. I want to be whole, and that means I must write what is true for me and send it to the ether. If I'm not writing, I'm not whole.
I once put down my pen and agreed to hide for what I thought was the love of my family.
I now know that true family will never ask us to hide. When I was a child, one of my Mother's favorite songs was Dolly Parton's Family. I know she interprets that song to mean that we must love those related by blood no matter what. In that, we're mostly in agreement. But that song makes another very important point that I think she's missed in asking me to stay silent about my experiences. In the longsuffering lyrics, Dolly asks us not to hide from what is true about our family, but instead to face both ourselves and our relatives with a willingness to show compassion and acceptance. Both of these things require a willingness to face difficult things.
I no longer believe we can truly love someone if we are asking them to hide. Real love means facing what we are together.
Dolly might be right that when it's family, we forgive no matter what. And forgiveness doesn't mean we hide from the truth.
The older I get, the more I agree with Anne Lamott:
“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
― Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird
I know now that in order for my love to be pure and healthy, I must pick my pen back up and fill pages in public once again.
The tiny box of what behavior is acceptable for the girl children of my clan is not enough for me. And they don't love me any better when I attempt to stuff myself inside of it anyway.
If just one person reads my words and finds healing from them, then the work is worth its cost. Even, and perhaps especially, if that one person is only me.