I finally sat down today with my freelance editor’s notes on section 1 of my memoir manuscript. Section 1 describes the years leading up to my son’s diagnosis with a brain tumor. My editor told me it would need a lot of work, and it does.
So often in her notes, my editor questions why I am who am I, why I reacted–or didn’t react–the way I did. The reader will want to know, she indicates, and I agree.
But I don’t have an answer.
Why do I keep so much inside? Why do I hide so much of my deepest thoughts?
I don’t know.
I don’t know me.
I don’t know how to know me, today, or 31 years ago when I was a new mom.
I’m probably overdue for therapy. With a painful memoir like mine in the works, I should have been in therapy long ago. I love therapy, actually, being able to talk about myself ad nauseam. I guess I’ve never wanted to subject family and friends to that self-absorption. But the reality is, with my chronic health conditions, and frequent medical appointments, the thought of adding another appointment to my week seems impossible. And a Skype or phone appointment just isn’t the same.
So I sit here on the couch and hold it in. And I cry.
And I decide to be vulnerable with you, my followers.
This, actually, is a step forward. This feels like a different kind of writing. I’ll try to do more of it and I hope you’ll weather the storm with me.