A Writing Hangover

Chocolate, prayer, pizza, writing: how I survive. Sometimes people say I tell too much when I write. Maybe. But I think that, if I don’t make myself vulnerable and willing to take some flak or get hurt, then I won’t be able to help others the way I want to.

Unfortunately, you live and learn, and I haven’t always been very wise about the content of my stories. I don’t know if I would do it the same way given the same challenge, but my heart was in the right place. I meant to HELP, and made people in my family mad at me. Some were upset because they didn’t believe me. Some wanted to hold on to their pretty little lies.  (and told me that! Not to spoil the image they had of someone who abused me as a child).  sigh

I forgive them and pray that they will someday forgive me, too. Even if I intended to be of service, they were hurt. No real names were used, mind ya. But I did mention my mom and some terrible troubles we had in our relationship. Some who read it got stuck on that and didn’t bother to read on. It’s too bad, because things were resolved. A miracle happened in my heart towards her. Mercy happened. Healing happened. Things aren’t perfect, (we’re both human), but things have improved between us. But some got glued to that spot in the story where things were rather ugly between Mom and me…and decided to reject me.

I would hate to see how my kids would portray ME as a mother. (blush) Hopefully they would see the good in me, too. But how can you write the story of your life and leave out something…someone so important? Someone who played such a huge role? You can’t. That’s how. You just do the best you can with it.

I don’t promote the book I wrote (under a pseudonym) because I feel so confused about whether I did the right thing or not. It did get me through some very trying times. Tragedy, crisis, sickness… And I needed to survive for my babies and grandbabies. I wasn’t about to go out of my mind, become an alcoholic, jump off a bridge…So I took out my pen and began to paint the picture of my life in words that hurt other people. BUT, they did help, too. So many people messaged me to let me know just that.

I’m feeling melancholy today. I’m missing my little granddaughter who died when she was only two. I never stop missing her, but today has been especially hard for some reason. I stood there in the shower and cried and thought about that book I wrote because I needed it. I just needed it. But I didn’t need it because I was selfish. I didn’t need the relief you get from pouring yourself out on paper. I needed it because I thought that, IF I COULD HELP SOMEONE, then something good would come out of all of my experiences. And it got turned inside-out. 

Funny. I just realized that I’m dealing with my melancholy and rejection the way I always deal: I’m typing along here in my blog with a whole package of Hershey bars just waiting for me in the fridge. At least I’m not  going to wake up in the morning with a hangover.

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