Honesty and Truth

you want honesty and truth? Well then here it is. He who rides the tiger is afraid to dismount. And I don’t know if I want to open that particular can of worms quite so early.

I went to the UK after graduation to work towards a masters degree in creative writing. In some ways, that stint was good for me, and I did work hard, and I did earn my degree in time. In some ways, it was not. I started to question myself and my work in a way that is death to a creative mind. Oh all right, that was dramatic indeed, but I couldn’t think of a better way to say it. We learn to criticize and we must offer our opinions of others work. Which is a good way to hone our own skills and help our fellow students. What it did to me was to make me hyper critical of my own work. I would try to compare my work to my fellow students and it made me lose my self esteem. In hindsight, I probably should not have chosen to compare with writers who had more than twenty years on me and who were already published. I was twenty two, just starting out in the 'real' world. It has been six years- maybe longer- I don’t wish to count the years any more, and I still feel raw and insecure inside. Perhaps I should have realized that this was only natural and if it weren’t, then all those people were wasting money on an accredited university course. We all have much to learn, at twenty, sixty or probably longer.

I remember having a coffee with two fellow students, and informing them that after the course was over, I intended to give up writing. What was I thinking? I don’t really remember. After all, life was chaotic-- when has it not-- but I gave up the one thing that kept me sane. It really was not the same afterward.

I think the real reason is probably buried deeper. Our personal histories make us and they do their best to break us. I think mine broke me at last.

I don’t really like talking about it, but it seems to want to come out. But anyway, here it is, for what it is worth. Life has always been hard, and who says it is not for everyone, but at that time, I had not let it break me. Oh it tried, and I tried too. And writing kept me from snapping into two and then floating down the wind. Perhaps at that time, writing saved me despite myself.

How do you put down your struggles without sounding like a sob story or like a loud plea for help? You either sound self righteous (you should ruddy well venerate me, see what I have survived) or well, I tend to. Depersonalizing myself has worked before but how do you depersonalize your own story when everyone knows “I” is really you?

All right so I will put it down however I can, and if it does sound too holier than thou, remember my six year sabbatical and be kind. Be kind anyway. Kindness is greatly undervalued. I do it myself. But I know I do it and that makes it worse. All right then, be kind if you wish.

I was seven when I was raped in my bed by a servant of the family. In a house with seven full time and many part time residents. My aunts were visiting, and no one knew. There was nothing to hear, I was too terrified to scream, and when I finally did, I could not bring myself to say what had happened. My mother was very ill, and I had barely seen her for days, and I don’t think I could ever have said anything to anyone else. All I said was that he had tried to touch me and shake me awake. Which was bad enough- he was sacked. But I think I resented the house for not knowing, for being too sunk in their own lives to realize this man had the confidence to come into my room (which I shared with my two siblings) and lay a finger on me with so many people around.

How did I go on as if nothing happened? I don’t think I did, and I don’t think anyone connected the dots. After all, I didn’t know what sex was, so I didn’t know I should tell me parents anything. I don’t remember much of that time, which is perhaps how I coped. By forgetting. Except I grew fatter and fatter because I could not stop eating sweets. Perhaps that was how I coped. And have coped with any sort of stress all my life.

What perhaps was worse- I say perhaps because I am trying to reserve judgment- was my being molested by a family member when I was fourteen. These things seem to come in seven year increments, so lucky seven, hah, and this time my sister was ill and my mother was busy taking care of her. Do I resent my family? Yes, again, maybe I resent even my sister for being so sick that no one bothered about who did what to me. He did everything except the actual penetration, so it was like being raped over and over again. I will not say who he was except that I have tried to make my peace with him because resenting and hating him was doing me no good. I am no angel, but I do wish for peace of mind sometimes.

Well that was it for me though, and because me parents ruled with their fists, I would sink deeper into my own self. I sis write very violent poetry at the time, but thoughts of suicide had not come into my head. Not yet. Foolishly however, sometimes, I would destroy my journals. And I regret that more than anything else I did in those days.

Spell checking this so far has made me realize I have used the word 'don't' far too many times. Does that make me sound like a pauvre innocente? Any way this feels like a good time to take a break.