Life is being portioned out to me in little packets.
My computer can only do so much. After a few hours, it seems to clog down and I can’t access anything. Well… I guess those out-of-date notices are finally coming to fruition.
I ask three questions and get an answer to one. Move forward, stop. Wait. Honestly, it’s like I’m some token on a game board getting moved ahead by a dice toss. I never know where I’ll land, or what I’ll need to do next. Thank the Goddess I can multi-task!
J’s health scare was a false alarm. I’m glad beyond glad. We’ve taken time to catch up with each other, as we do every few months. I miss him…
Down the rabbit hole. That’s what I’m going to title my autobiography. And yesterday, it happened again: I wrote. Created. Became possessed. Writing has always been a thing with me, but the last year I’ve been on a new level. Not just with what I write, but how I write. I register nothing outside of the story. As I said to J this morning in my note, if the house caught fire my bro would have to drag me out because I wouldn’t notice it. And who is this clipped language, tight action writer I’ve become? Half the time I don’t even recognize the style. This is MK, my new persona. She’s intimidating. Unbelievably brief and tight. I ramble; she doesn’t. I go with the flow; she’s extremely directed. Yesterday, she began (once again) the story of ‘the girl’. It was the opening line that haunted me and drove me to it:
The threats came wrapped in toilet paper and egg.
Again: true. MK can’t write anything that isn’t true on some level. This particular incident happened when I was 13 or 14. My parent’s house was egged and TP’d, and a threat against my life was left in our mailbox. From what I understand, my parents stayed up most of the night with the police and cleaning things up. There was no evidence of it the next morning, when I got up, and they didn’t tell me for years. Of course, they didn’t have to tell me. School was Hell on earth. Not because of the academic load, but because of the other students. I was always under threat. I only ever told once, when I was 10. The backlash of that incident taught me never to say anything to any adult ever again. …From the opening line, the narrative just continued. And continued. It’s still not done.
But I think, maybe, that whatever this is – the story of the girl – it will only be Dr T who reads it. I don’t know that there’s a market for it. There are specific memories in there that Dr T should know about, but… Hm. I’m not even sure I’d want it released anywhere. Maybe out here. As a blog post.
Can’t say I’ve ever quite been able to shake the feeling that no matter what name I use, if I write too close to my childhood reality someone from my family will discover it. It’s probably nothing I should worry about. None of them are readers, for one. And all are in such denial that I don’t know if they really remember what happened. Plus, it’s from my point of view, which none of them have ever acknowledged. I mean…Like they’d recognize my thoughts! Ha! Fat chance. Still. I can’t shake the feeling. The fear. Because I know what would happen: they’d publicly defame me. All those familial accusations would be published, in print, and in my face. That’s how low they are. And that’s why I’ve always planned to put gag orders on them the moment I can afford it.
I hate my DNA relations. What they are, what they believe, how they act. I hope, someday, MK will give me some distance and release. I now know one thing: if she can put it into words, she’s made progress. I couldn’t use words to describe what happened. I dreamt over and over of having no mouth, or a sewn up mouth, or just no voice. It was horrible. More horrible than the dreams of rape, than the dreams of being chased, of being out of control. Being unable to speak was the most terrifying.
MK takes those fears and puts them into sellable packets. Her ability to capture fear on the page is stunning.
I couldn’t do it.
But she’s giving it to me: those little packets of life. Of memory. Wrapped up and ready to consume. Once she’s done putting her spin on things, I can deal with it. It gives me shivers, and sometimes her blunt honesty makes me shake and tremble so much I have to stand up and walk away, but then it’s done. Over. On the page and out of me.
Those little packets.