I’m feeling conflicted. A few days ago I began writing the first chapter of a book. Something that I’ve dreamed of doing since I was a child. I should be ecstatic that I finally kicked my insecurities in the cunt, right? Well, I feel guilty.
Today is the two-year anniversary of my mother’s death. She passed away at age 49 from alcoholism. Everyone knew that she was an alcoholic but she’d force my brother and I to keep it secret. My family would ask how she was doing and I’d have to lie and say she was well. She tried keeping her addiction under wraps. Her life was a vast abyss of shrouded secrets.
So what am I to do when I want to write a memoir about growing up in a fucked-up household? I want to show others that through any and all obstacles, they can find humor in the little things to carry on. I want other young women to know that having less-than-perfect parents and living through verbal and physical abuse will always be a part of who they are, but that they will be stronger and wiser in the end.
I feel guilty because I’ll be writing about all the things my mother never wanted me to talk about. Call me crazy, but I feel like a terrible daughter. 20-plus years of covering up lies becomes habit. But I want to do this. I want my readers to be sad, surprised, amused, mad, and laugh out loud. I want to show that everyone has good in them no matter how many demons they harbor. It will be a mix of stories sprinkled with heartwarming moments, tragic realities, and wit.
Should I feel guilty that I’m revealing so much about someone who wanted to share so little?
Maybe I’m overthinking things. Maybe I’ll end up scrapping the entire idea and write about chocolate covered dicks. Time will tell.
PS – Related post being featured this Thursday, October 23rd on an AMAZING website. Stay tuned.