Since becoming sober and clean, a lot of memories are charging at me, questioning my reasoning and leaving my sobriety in balance. I try not to dwell on these thoughts, I stay busy, I exercise, I go to meetings and I stay away from the toxicity that got me where I was.
One thought keeps I guess you can say, “attacking” me. Each time I am still, even if it is just for a few seconds, this thought will come rushing at me like a quarterback being charged by the opposing line. The thought is simple, finish my book. I do not know why this one thought stays with me, or why it continues to poke at me constantly. I often forget about it the moment I realize what is happening and I will busy myself with something more productive and something that I have a finished goal for. Right now I do not need something that I cannot even fathom finishing or providing an active outline for. It would take me years to complete and even though I have scraps of paper of things that I want to write about or how I want the chapters to flow, I can’t seem to sit still long enough to be able to write a small chapter without my nerves going into overdrive, I can’t imagine a book.
My mother always knew I wanted to write a book. As a young teen I had tried many times writing a story and developing it into something more. In middle school I was on the school paper, always looking for an outlet to write. I also had a diary, but my mother would read it, so I could not put anything tangible in it to save. She would read, and then attack me for what my words said. For what they portrayed and for what I was feeling in my mind. If she didn't take the entries so personally, she should have gotten me help and my teenage life and other periods in my life, would not have been so hard on me. So my diary, was filled with lies and pretend school friends and I filled the pages with such truthful lies, my mother thought every thing was fine. In high school, my poems and short stories were published in the school remembrance book, or whatever they called it. I was proud of those tiny words that no matter how much I was picked on, or how bad I was in school, they were published. It was like I was a different person, and for a few days, people would look at me differently and I would have teachers stop to talk to me about my writing. In college, I was too busy trying to grow up and find out what I wanted to be when I grew up, that I didn't put forth the energy needed to write. I would write a lot to friends who were out to sea and some weekends they would get reams of words, stories, thoughts and dreams. How I wish I had those pages now.
Well come to find out she saved one manuscript of mine that I threw in the trash, because it was turning into a Judy Blume work of fiction, instead of the Stephen King road I wanted it to go down. I just wasn’t educated enough in the world and how evil and villainous life could be to one person. If I knew more of the enchanted world of going crazy, I am sure I would have been able to write more.
That short story that I wrote, came back to haunt me it was in the briefcase that was delivered to my home after she passed away. I read it and noted silly mistakes and thought of how I would have worded the beginning differently or which path to take to make it more sinister. I threw it away, I didn’t want anyone else to read it.
Point is, she saved it. My words hurt her so many times, why would she want me to continue with something if it would only make her sad? I guess this is something I need to find out on my own. I am sure the answers are hiding, or right there in front of me. I am sure it is some sort of inner remorse I am feeling, and by writing this book, it will provide an outlet for me to accept that it is all okay. Sounds smart anyways.
Since then, after course it has almost been a year, I succumb to addiction and after a few months I cleaned myself up and here I am. Thinking of that story I wrote. I am not sorry I threw it in the garbage, nor am I not sorry I started writing then, god only know what would have come out of my mouth while high.
I told my mother, when I was in my 20’s what the title of my first book will be. I have kept my word to that effect, and when this book is finished I will title it the names I thought of decades ago. I think she is trying to get me to write the book. There I said it. A ghost is nudging me to get my ass into gear and start this book. I know it will be a good read, I already have an outline for it. I hate writing in the present tense though, and wish I could write it as a third person looking in. I am sure if I keep thinking about it, something will come to me. I just can’t get over the fact that I said, my mother is nudging me. I know it’s her. She loved my blog and would always try to find it and I wouldn’t give her the url, 1. Because she didn’t know what a url was and 2. I am brutally honest in some posts and I do not want her to know I have feelings. That would be odd. I never allowed her in, in my life. Lots of hurt there and things happened and I built the wall and only a few people have been able to get in. I know she is doing this, I know she wants me to conquer this fear I have and get the writing done and start living in the present. I’m scared. This is the one thing that I have allowed to be on the back burner for so many years, and now it is time to light the fire, go forward or give up on this dream for the rest of my life.
I think I am in the process of reinventing myself. If that is possible.