Bob Dylan began his memoir somewhere in the middle. Frank McCourt told his tale of growing up in Limerick, Ireland from start to finish, with the most gripping first line I have ever read. So how shall I begin? Probably by being wildly and madly grateful that I’ve begun at all. And then simply hoping to God that I’ll have the courage to continue and maybe even finish.
Fear is a wicked thing. In cave man times, perhaps, it saved our skin but, in modern times, it seems to keep us more stuck than safe. At least that is how it has been for me. I knew at 12 years old this story would have to be written. I began seriously thinking about it at 30. I am 35 now and determined not to screw around another five years.
I’ve given up everything that stands in my way of writing this. My career as a journalist, my bad habit of drinking and partying into oblivion, even the pursuit of men, one of my greatest obsessions and addictions. All of it in one way or another has stopped me from facing what is inside and putting it out into the world. By the world, I simply mean outside of me, on paper, in the computer, whatever. Whether anyone ever reads it or not is irrelevant. Once it is out, perhaps, then I will be free of it, at least in some small measure. I don’t really know what will come of it, maybe nothing. But I can no longer avoid it.
So enough dramatic rambling. I began this process last night, seated amongst the pillows in the warmest room of the house, my office. I chose it for the temperature but it is no accident that I sat surrounded by the books and stories that have inspired me for years – Studs Terkel chief among them. The power of his telling people’s stories in their own words – serving more as a listener and a chronicler than interpreter – struck me as the most pure and powerful mode of capturing the truth. Fresh out of college and full of idealism about my literary future, I dreamed of becoming the Studs Terkel of my generation. Little did I know that it was my story that would dog me for more than two decades.
So back to my warm little office, tucked safely among the pillows. Big Mama, a plump black cat with jewel-green eyes, is nestled in the curve of my hip and Colby, my constant canine companion, at my feet. Safety is very important to me right now. As a wise woman once told me, “You are worthy, you are loved and you are safe.’’ Ha. Cliché maybe but not words I have ever believed. Even now, they sound foreign and hokey in my head. But they work, believe me. Despite the safe surroundings, the comfy sweats, socks and slippers, I’m a nervous wreck as I put pen to paper. I do have a plan – at least and at last! – but am too damn nervous to put it into action. One step, one word at a time, I tell myself.
My thoughts go to the “greats” who have gone before me. New York Times legend Rick Bragg whose “All Over but the Shoutin’” convinced many a young reporter that he, too, could write a powerful memoir before he was 35. That amazing kid from South Boston whose name escapes me but whose story never will. Dave Eggers and his “Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius” - he spent pages explaining how he came up with that title. It was more hopeful than prideful, I think. Whatever works, I say. And I guess my little diversion into my own motives and head games won’t hurt anyone, least of all me. If it gets the words on the page, all the better. An editor – if it ever gets that far – may chop it out one day but even Faulkner had to write pages of mental ramblings each morning to get going. Eventually, long after he was one of the greatest writers of his time, those ramblings – originally written in long hand to his editor – were published. I devoured them, as I have so many writers’ w!
ords about themselves, their process, their fears and desperation. The fact that May Sarton, with her chronic depression, achieved all she did, gives me hope. I’m certainly not the only one who quakes inside at this crazy process.
Okay, back to the plan. A page or two a day or more if I can stand it. Anything to quiet the mental masturbation that takes place almost daily. The nasty voice inside that says, “Who the hell am I and who is going to give a rat’s butt about what I have to say?’’ The truth is my story is no worse and no better than any other and the words I write will almost certainly be no more eloquent than any others. But, aha, I have found the trick to get me off my mental ass and write. Maybe, just maybe, another woman will one day read this and see herself and know that she, too, can survive and even thrive. I don’t know for sure that it will ever get that far. The prospect alone terrifies me. But it simply helps to tell myself that “she” may be out there and that this – my little story – may make a difference. If it’s just a trick to fool myself into beginning - and apparently it is working so ha! – then I have defeated, at least momentarily, the demons that have paralyzed me for so ma!
ny years.
A week ago, I began waiting tables at night to free up my days for writing. I can say in all sincerity it is the toughest job I’ve ever had, the tables, not the writing. I’ve been lucky – never before had to serve that fussy group of people known as “the public.” Geez, they drive me nuts. I just smile and turn on what little degree of charm I can muster. “Can I bring you anything else? Is everything okay? And how are you today?” It’s not the tips I worry about though they’re not too bad – just the grumpy looks on their faces that I hope to dispel at least while they are sitting in my section. I can’t stand sour faces. They sap my energy. But there they are, staring at me as if my little plates of spaghetti and meatballs can possibly turn around the gloom and doom of their lives. You know the type – couples sitting together in a restaurant, saying nothing, experiencing nothing. No matter how many times I freshen their sweet tea or bring them extra napkins, the sour faces pers!
ist. How do people live like that? Are these the “lives of quiet desperation” Thoreau or Emerson wrote about? (I love them both but swear I get their brilliant insights mixed up now and again.)
Okay, back to me. This is not a sad story, I promise, though there are some unpleasant parts. Mostly, my life has been a series of adventures and misadventures designed to keep the demons at bay. Overachieving or trying to, desperately seeking approval at all costs, traveling cross country in search of anything to make me feel alive, then taking chemicals to stop the feelings that inevitably arise too fast and furious for me to handle. And then, like many women who struggle, the usual round of suicidal thoughts and pitifully feeble attempts, the counselors, group therapy sessions, self-help books and experimentation by professionals who think a pill can cure what ails me. And through it all, the shame that any of it might actually be necessary. Does everyone have to do this crap? Well, it was my path and it is what it is.
At 12, I sat down to write my story but it was too morbid and forlorn so I put it aside. I felt like I’d be one of those sad sacks you see on morning talk shows and I hated, absolutely hated that image. They were victims, I would not be one of them. If I knew where those first few pages were, they’d probably be worth a good laugh but I’m pretty certain they are long gone. I was terrified anyone would find them. I kept a lot of secrets as a kid. I hid in a small bedroom cluttered with my dad’s tools and spied on people through the window. I read and reread Harriet the Spy. Sometimes, I would hide up in the trees or deep in the hedges, peeking through the chain-link fence that surrounded my world. Anything to steal a glimpse of how other people lived. I was reporting early on, I guess, writing down what I observed, making up stories about who I saw and what they were thinking, doing, feeling. A lot happens in a neighborhood on any given day, even a suburban one. I always longe!
d for the city because I knew there had to be more action, but I took what I had and ran with it, jotting details and images in the little notebook that was kept hidden under my mattress. There was always lots of yelling and screaming in our neighborhood, “domestic disturbances” they call it now. Those were dutifully recorded as well. What I never recorded was what was happening in my own house.
That’s the hard part and I don’t think I’ll dwell too much on it. Faith and hope in the future are far more important to me now. Besides, the story is a familiar one to anyone who has worked with or known young families – families who started too early, who faced poverty, desperation and a myriad of other problems they were far too ill-equipped to handle. Mental illness, substance abuse, a history of violence and “a lack of social support” as the professionals call it. That was how it was with my parents. There is no blame there, just awareness. Nearly every childhood has some happy memories. Unfortunately, they are not always the ones that stick with us or affect us the most deeply.