At least I want to write this blog. But I’m still working on memory issues. Dealt with memories of my mother– beatings, hostility, flashes of rage because she was taking lots of barbiturates and drinking a fifth of scotch every day. I realize that I didn’t have a mother from the time I was eight or nine.
I also learned not to ask for anything reasonable. I asked for a birthday party when I was 8 years old. But my mother was drunk and embarrassed me. The next year I went to day camp instead of psychotherapy and mother made peanut butter and jam sandwiches every day for two months. She exploded when I asked for something else.
The result is I don’t question myself about what I want. Haven”t gone through these memories, I think I can now question myself. She died almost forty years ago, from alcohol and drug addiction.
If I go back farther and figure out when I lost her, it was sixty years ago, but she kept me hostage later on when she lay in bed and refuse to dress until my father came home. Those memories I haven’t dealt with. It became impossible to see friends or even do homework but that all changed when I did get into therapy at age 15.
Poetry was a way out and I could write freely when in therapy. I had a lot to write about and my poetry got me into Yale, although I didn’t go there. It had the highest suicide rate, and I was suicidal at age 15. What I didn’t know was I was bipolar and would have recurring depressions until I was 42 and was correctly diagnosed.
I am finishing these memories because I think it’s important to clear away the wreckage of the past in order to write a novel or a non-fiction work. My parents rewrote my papers until I didn’t show them anymore, and my speeches, which I shared once and never again. They did not like my writing or my speeches, but the teachers and audiences did, so that was that. I have to finish working these memories until I can ask myself questions and answer them in prose.