photo of person writing on paper photo by Green Chameleon

I was 38 when I sat down to write my memoir. Although the project’s theme was my working on a trail crew in Alaska for a season, flashbacks to my childhood are a large part of the story. My dad is in many of those flashbacks: the good times, the abuse; I wrote about all of it. While I knew it would be difficult, I wanted to tell my story. I also wanted to see if I could tell my story. I made a deal with myself: if my dad was too painful to write about, I would stop, knowing my healing wasn’t complete. I would pause the writing of my memoir until I had a better handle on things. I owed that to myself and to my readers.

In the first scene, I am nine. He had snapped and called me a bitch. I still recall it clearly: how we were all outside when the incident took place, and how I turned and ran, hearing my mom begging him to go after me. After I had written that scene, I sat back to process it. Things seemed OK; no tears, no rushing emotions. I wrote another scene, a much more intense one (which would become the climax of my story). Still, I didn’t feel much of a reaction. This was affirming to me; it was validation that all the therapy, all the work I had done was meaningful.

When I was 16 and my parents finally divorced, I tried to maintain a relationship with my dad, strange as it sounds. There had been good times, moments when he was completely loving and appropriate toward me. Problem was, those few-and-far-between moments gave me hope for more. It was when I cut ties with him that my healing journey began. The journey was slow, with fits and starts, and stretched out more than a decade. For years I convinced myself that I was healed, that I didn’t have any work to do. It was in my mid-20s that I started looking at my life, my choices and behavior patterns: the drinking, the drugs, the promiscuity, the distractions I clambered onto so I wouldn’t have to look inside. Something started to feel uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. It took another few months, but I quit the drugs, the guys and much of the drinking. I got into therapy and dove deep. For the first time, I asked myself why. I (rhetorically and figuratively) asked my dad why. I attended counseling once a week for several months, then every other week, then over the phone as needed (by then I had relocated).

Just how much healing was needed before I could write, and write well? How did I know I was ready? My barometer was if I was crying, overwhelmed, or scared as I was writing, then I wasn’t ready. To write in my journal, yes (and to experience writing as an act of healing), but not as a work of art.

In writing my memoir, my biggest surprise was my desire to show the reader the good moments with my dad. I wanted to show him as a flawed human rather than a monster. It would give the reader some context of our complicated relationship, my pain and my hesitance to let him go.

In order to tell my story in the way I wanted, I needed distance. Distance gives us perspective; it defines the edges of our art, and brings texture and tone to our work, all which serve to help guide the reader through our narrative. I also needed to forgive. I had to forgive my dad. I also had to forgive my mom and everyone else for allowing him to do those things to me. I had to forgive myself for not standing up to him. Being angry runs the risk of making the reader uncomfortable, and not in a good way. The reader is not a therapist. As creators, writing can serve to gauge our healing. Healing, in turn, gives our work the chance to be self-affirming. It can turn writing about trauma into a work of art, which is nothing short of hard-earned magic.

Photo by Green Chameleon

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http://www.lornarose.com
Lorna is a Pacific Northwest poet, writer, and speaker. Her work has been recognized by PNWA and the Oregon Poetry Association, and has appeared or is forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, About Place Journal, 34th Parallel Magazine, Little Old Lady Comedy, and elsewhere. A finalist for the Fishtrap Fellowship in 2020, she is a regular contributor to The Good Men Project, and has been a guest blogger at Literary Mama. She is president of Write On The River, a nonprofit dedicated to supporting writers in North Central Washington and beyond. She is also on the board of the Oregon Poetry Association. Lorna is also a certified ACEs (Adverse Childhood Experiences) speaker, and has spoken publicly on finding resilience through writing, overcoming adversity, motherhood and writing, and her experience in AmeriCorps. She is currently searching for a publisher for her memoir.

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