Writing

When my mom was a teenager her father read her diary. I don’t recall her exact age or the consequences of that reading, but let’s just say it didn’t turn out too well for her and scarred her for life. So, when my mother discovered I had a gift for writing, she had this advice: “Don’t write down anything that you don’t want someone else to read.”

In college I took an essay writing class. My professor, Dr. Klooster, the toaster—that is how it is pronounced, after reading my first essay, which sucked, offered me this advice: “Sharon, write about what you know.” I’m not a JK Rowling, a Dan Brown, or a Stephan King---I can’t make up stories.

My next essay was about a sick visit I took my 18-month-old daughter that still to this day is one of my favorite essays. (I’ll publish that someday).

For many years, I have written—reams upon reams, journals upon journals and of course, as an English major, paper upon paper. Much of what I’ve written, I’ve thrown away, in fact burned, because I never wanted anyone to read it for a variety of reasons---fear that I would hurt someone, fear that I would be ridiculed, fear that I would be judged, and fear that it wasn’t really that good. And, as a result, I didn’t write for a very, very long time.

I wish I had all those words back. But the past is the past. And, as I’ve started writing again, and most importantly publishing those words, I’ve tried not to let fear filter those words and have written from the heart.

And, then this week panic struck. My mother, who has spent the last six +weeks in physical and mental recovery, after her last suicide attempt, is being released from the hospital. Much to my surprise, due to her willingness to work on her issues, is returning home. Six weeks ago I didn’t even think this was possible! I thought I was going to have to probate her, send her away and throw away the key. But, that is not the case. Although I am still skeptical about her ability to take care of herself—I’m willing to give her one more chance—make no mistakes though, it is her last.

I started thinking about her coming home. She talked about coming home googling something and getting on Facebook. And, my immediate thought was—“OMG, what if she reads my Blog?” Certainly, I haven’t painted my mother in a particularly good light. But, the fact of the matter is, while she might take issue with me or have a different version of my memories; it is what I know. And, I’m not ashamed and I don’t feel any guilt. And, yes, mom, despite it all—I do love you.