Writing for Myself.

Having endured fairly severe abuse during childhood, I grew up feeling rather alone.  That I'm not alone, that so many of us have horrific stories to tell has slowly dawned on me in adulthood.  Honestly, I've had to heal quite a bit to even realize i was only seeing my own pain.  Escaping the gravitational pull of denial and memory repression has been no easy task.  For most of my life, I haven't wanted to hear about others' pain; I viewed their expressions as competition for limited possible attention and care in this world.  If my pain was not the worst, then no one would ever care.  Today, I still feel like people don't really care, but I understand why.  No one could ever share their love with me in a convincing way, not enough to convince me.  I felt alone, and I kept myself there.  I knew no other way to think or feel.

November is National Novel Writing Month, apparently.  I've signed up.  I'm writing a novel.  I've set aside the retelling of my life story to discipline myself with this new project.  The idea is to just get words down every day for a month, no editing, no revision.  By November 30th, I should have a 50,000 word rough draft.  That's the idea.  Friends have told me to just free-write, just let the words out, just get them down on paper.  What's coming out so far is extremely dark.  I think I'm writing a horror story.  

My sophomore English teacher had us keep a journal.  I would just put down words without editing or revising, without worrying about where it was going.  That's what she told us to do.  I still remember the day my dad came into my room while I was doing homework.  He picked up that red spiral notebook and began reading.  I had three entries at that point.  

Later that evening, sitting crouched over my bible, watching drops of blood hit the pages, I tried to focus on my reading while I waited for the next blow to come.  I had to balance paying attention to his ranting about the dangers of free-writing with my conscious connection to God.  I heard him telling me how a teacher could turn my work over to a police detective or psychologist who might then realize I was the weak link.  I heard him explain how they would pump me for information and ultimately prosecute him for his crimes.  I heard him tell me how stupid I was to carry out such a writing assignment.

"Don't write about this house or the boat or anything to do with me!  Write about yourself, you stupid fuck!"

he said stuff like that.  It went on for hours.

There are all kinds of ways that my dad's abuse hamper and constrict me in my adult life.  My relationships are tragic shit.  My car and house are a mess.  My possessions are scattered. My finances and career are completely ruined.  My mind is sometimes a torture chamber from which escape seems impossible.  

But I want to be a writer!  It's so fucking hard!  I'm behind on NaNoWriMo, but I got down 1,500 words today.  Fuck you Dad!!!