This morning I was working on the sixth chapter of my memoir (working title: Just Love Me). I was recalling the day in 1979, shortly after my father left us for his new family, when my mother told me she and my little sister were moving to an apartment and I wasn’t welcome. I was sixteen! One of the difficulties of writing memoir, I have found, is that I have a tendency to get mired in the poisonous, ancient feelings of shame. It makes sense; I’m diving down into these old moments and examining them one excruciating word at a time. My therapist says I am traumatizing myself all over again. It’s worth it. I believe God goes with me. My purpose is to share what has happened to me and how my journey of hope has brought me to wholeness. I know that so many of us suffer from chronic shame over the things we have experienced. Sometimes it feels like there is no way out, and I just want everyone to know that there is a way out.
I’m developing a sort of closing ritual to close the door on this old shame I’m wading in every morning as I write. When I am done writing, I come here to the blog and write a couple of paragraphs of analysis or summary, gently bringing myself back to the present time and reminding myself that I am truly healed and I don’t live there in that shame anymore. I would ask of you though, that if you are a praying person, would you mention me to Father?