I've never had a gift for self-illusion. There are times when I long for it, I must admit. Where I wish I could just crawl under the proverbial rock and psychologically have a rest. But I have one of those minds that simply will not leave me be.
So I have to indulge it with books, with information, with lots of new thoughts every waking moment to tame its' unruly quest for knowledge otherwise.
The Memoir has been taking up alot of headspace lately. It's part of that "idea that won't go away" (not that I want it to) so I've decided to start writing it, partially here on my blog.
All of my previous posts, while relevant and important, have been good writing 'practice'. It is when I start connecting the dots that I will finally begin a narrative, something that has been a little off-centre and random here.
Again, perhaps this was my 'where to begin it' playing field....
The Memoir, as I call it, and I do call it that, has a file in my computer, labelled Memoir #, dated, usually, much like my twenty-something handwritten journal entries. The main difference is I tend to 'title' the entries, sometimes with just a name, the person on whom I'm focussed on in that 'entry'. Or a title such as "Phonecall" or "Eating" or "Setbacks", and I can flash to where and what I was thinking of or aiming for in the entry.
I have to admit here that my blog does not even scratch the surface sometimes of my thoughts, tangled as they are in this watershed year; does not even reach the depth of how I am really feeling sometimes. I mentioned to a friend, via email a couple of weeks ago, that it often feels like they are a) writing themselves, and b) that it is stream of consciousness; I edit later.
I also talk more about my personal relationships. Not that I expect these to be 'exposed' by publications--clearly as a private person myself I heavily respect others' privacy. And this is MY memoir--I have to admit things about Myself, My life, what I do with My time, My private life. The people in my life, my relationships, are obviously the most enriching part of my life, aside from the time I spend in my own head; but I have to deal with Me in this Me(moir).
Another thing I don't like to do on my blog (lying, cheating exes are exempt from this rule) is discuss others' situations, except often in veiled terms, general terms. It's not fair to the people in my life. Reader, you may disagree and I do point to family posts as proof of your objections; but never will I expose something personal about someone that is theirs alone, unless it is previously discussed.
My blog goal has been, for a time, my most basic writing practice, streamlined into a set format. It has also forced me to open my writing up to critique and opinions, which I love hearing. It has also, as I've mentioned recently, been a huge source of comfort for me, an outlet to allow the sad energy to flow out of me; and let myself heal.
The pure, distilled version of living alone (as I call it Phase 2) has removed all distraction from my focus (as well as removed a 48" TV that droned on CityTV as though I was in a "Newsflash Hell" for 10 months). Anyway. That's for another post.
For now let me tell you I am writing, I am observing, I am living my life. Thriving? Not yet. Eating, yes! Yes! Talking about male-female relationships? No, thank you. Taking a long look at the ones who have stayed around me during this time of intense strife? Yes, and thanking the Universe for their presence and constant caring. Taking a slash-and-burn approach to those who can't cope? Absolutely.
I can cope.
Every keystroke is proof of this to me.