This has been a tough memoir week. I’ve been editing my book head-on and full-time for about two weeks, ignoring all other essays and works-in-progress that I’ve got going on. It’s October, and I want to be done with the third draft in a really short order, so I’ve plowing along like crazy.
Last week was really tough because I’d gotten back to the meat of the crazy of my story: all of my siblings living in the same house, my dad being really possessive, and feeling like my home was actually divided between two teams. It was hard to write out the memories a year ago, but this time, I’m reflecting on them, which is a lot worse.
Reflection means that I’ve had to look a certain circumstances—such as my father throwing my sister across the room—and analyze what I think was going on there—he wanted her to follow his rules because maybe he felt she was being ungrateful, or at least not as grateful as she should have been.
Reflection feels sort of like justifying crazy behavior, like what I just did in the previous paragraph. But it’s not condoning what happened, just trying to understand what the “what the hell” about it.
In this exercise, I’ve empathized with my half-sisters and their mother, who, as best I know, despise the fact that I exist. All of my life I wondered why they felt this way, and then I reflected on their character and was amazed at how it felt to put myself in their shoes (kinda like what I did here). It was exhausting, almost as if I was feeling too much at one time. But it made my sisters and their mother human to me, not just people who hate me.
I’ve made some semblance of sense of my mother, thinking about her upbringing and the responsibility she bore for her siblings, and what might have attracted her to my father. I’ve thought about my father and the catalysts of his insecurities, the things that drove him into the pulpit seeking the admiration of others. I’ve thought about how my brother was my only ally in my house growing up and that his moving away when I was 9 actually kinda hurt, but how he served as a bridge between me and the “other team” in our dad’s last days.
I don’t know if I’m right about any of these things, but it definitely feels better to try to understand rather than just feel like a victim to whom all of these things and people just happened to. It’s a way of playing a role in own my narrative because, as a child, there wasn’t anything I could do. Reflection has given me the agency that I didn’t have as an eight-year-old. And that is both empowering and, quite frankly, exhausting.
That being said, I’m off on vacation to the West Coast with my spouse for a couple of weeks, so you’ll likely get no post from me next week. Have a lovely fortnight!