In later 2019 the idea of having a blog was blossoming inside me. I’ve been a life-long reader and writer and remember, even as a child, hoping to someday write a book. I like all kinds of writing (well, I have not yet found a comfortable way to write fiction) but mostly, I have journaled. Writing is my primary way to cope with difficult situations of my life. Whereas I would feel my family and friends had absolutely reached their limits with me saying the same things over and over again – my journals have not complained. My journal has been my best friend in the times I felt the most alone. I would look forward to spending that time with it at the end of each day. Because my journals primarily document the difficult times in my life – I have never done a lot of looking back through them. Two of my journals I have avoided opening. One of them was written with the intent to destroy it once the crisis had passed but I decided it could do no harm to me stacked along with the others. You can always destroy a journal – you absolutely cannot have it back afterward, though. I have a diary from when I was 8 years old (I believe this is when I was introduced to the idea). I’ve always been a terrible speller. I primarily taught myself to write by sounding out words – a tactic that is NOT helpful in the English language.

I was recently in my journal storage – trying to find the one from 2000 for the piece I’m working on. I came across the two I avoid – one of them has remained unopened for over 2 decades. Telling myself I could stop looking the minute I felt anything negative – I got them out. Sitting on my bedroom floor, I read them. I was completely surprised by what I read.

Trauma is a space-hog in our memories. It is the elephant in the room, crowding and suffocating the other memories of that time. A period of traumatic days, in retrospect, can seem like months. The other memories are still there – they just have no space to breathe. As I’ve worked through trauma in therapy the effect of them is reduced. They can shrink back down to an appropriate size, giving way for the other memories. In my therapy work I have regained a happier childhood. I have been able to recall the kindness of others during difficult times. I have seen it work in my life.

My memory has always told me that I survived months of day-to-day suicidal ideation. My journals tell me differently, though. I had days that I felt almost normal. There were times I was funny – there were days I woke up in the worst possible place but something had happened to change my day. My memory tells me how completely alone I was during these times. My journals tell a much different story. While nobody had the ability to make things better – I did have people who surrounded me, were concerned for me, and went out of their way to help me. During one of these periods, I would ride the bus to my grandmothers house each weekend and stay with her. Weekend after weekend she would greet me with a warm hug and I would feel the connection I always had with her. She has been gone a long time. I have a newfound gratitude for the time I wouldn’t have otherwise had with her. I was in a significant amount of pain. A very dark place. She was there with me. My memory has told me I was naive and gullible to get in the situations I did. That these things didn’t happen to my friends because they weren’t as stupid as me. My journals tell a different story. One in which I had a lot of clarity about what was happening to me. I knew what was happening. I saw the people involved for who they were. I wrote of a time in the future when this would be behind me. The pain level I found myself in was significant enough and desperate enough to believe that ending my life was the only way out of it – but these days were much fewer than I’ve believed.

There is no other means by which I could have challenged my memories of these times aside from seeing the proof of it in my own script. Those days weren’t as desperate as I remember them being. The thought brings me peace.

I started my blog, of course having no idea what 2020 would end up bringing me. I intitally started it as a place to bring an honest tone about things people are uncomfortable discussing. Suicide. Depression. PTSD. Narcissistic abuse. There is still an enormous mental health stigma in our country. I cannot count the times someone has talked to me about anti-depressant medication or therapy from the point of not wanting to do those things due to what it means about them. They would rather continue managing it in the dysfunctional ways they are than admit they are one of “those people”. I was sick of it. I was going to use my own experiences to help fight the stigma. 2020 ended up giving me an abundance of time and space. My job eneded immediately. My volunteering was shut down. The numerous people asking me to do things went on hiatus. I found myself with an unlimited amount of time to be creative. I was writing 8-10 hours per week. I would sit outside in the Florida summer rainstorms and write all day long. I miss it. I was researching, writing, editing and posting every week for months on end. Until “Lilith.” Writing Lilith was a pivotal point in my writing abilities. All the time I spent week after week got me very familiar with my writing process. There’s a rough draft – which I always hate and think is absolute garbage. Five edits – 1 through 3 are absolute garbage and create a huge amount of frustration in me. 4 and 5 start to take the correct shape and when it’s done – I can feel it.

“Lilith” took me an entire month to write. I was practically pulling my hair out over it. Since I started my blog – this was the first time I hadn’t been able to finish a piece in a week. Lilith was “shifting” almost every day. Never getting past the rough draft stage – who Lilith was changed on me every couple of days. Lilith was a child who’d been constantly harmed. Lilith was the most pathetic part of myself. Lilith was an innocent. Lilith was absolutely complicit. Lilith was a demon. Lilith was a spirit hated by God since the beginning. Lilith was a loss of dignity. Lilith WAS my dignity. All these things are true about Lilith – which one was the most true kept changing. It absolutely broke my pattern. Since that time I have not been able to write anything – I don’t want to say working on something for 10 hours is ‘quick’ – but it’s much quicker than things have been since.

I’m currently working on a piece called Desert Rose and have been writing it for almost 2 months. While frustration is a constant with this – I think the end result will be worth it. I do hope, though, to start posting more regularly. Not for anyone who might come across this blog (by all accounts it is not easy to find) but for myself – because truth matters and memory is a living, changing, ever-shifting thing.