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Mildred truly was a madwoman.  I mean her no disrespect (long dead as she is) by saying this.  I am continually astounded as I work toward writing my entire life story by how truly, absolutely and incredibly brilliantly MAD that woman was!

Some part of me fears that if I state the truth as I understand it about the reality of my 18-year childhood of abuse from that woman I will cross a line beyond which no ordinary human mind can follow.  I would not be surprised if that turns out to be the case.  There are madnesses, and then there are MADNESSES that appear upon a million efforts of study to be so vast as to defy human comprehension.

Isn’t that where true madness lies?  Beyond comprehension?

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I am yet again clearing my thinking, writing mental pallet (not palate) – and I mean this skid packed to the moon with tidbits and shards as they existed in Mother’s broken mind — and contaminated this woman’s children’s childhood.  Certainly mine.

I thought I began writing my next book yesterday.  Today I admit I am completely lost, so lost there is no way OUT going forward.  No way at all.  I was going to write the story of my own childhood for the first time in my life, making use of the time line created through the completion of the seven volumes of Mother’s writing to be published in a series titled Mildred’s Mountain.

I thought this would be at least a possible task, given that I have finally laid out the basic history of my childhood in Alaska.  But I made the mistake of peeking backward toward my life from birth to nearly my 6th birthday when the family’s move to Alaska took place.  I thought I could track and find which houses we lived in during those first 5 years of my life.  WRONG!

I could say I have never felt so desperately lost in my life as I have in these past 48 hours, but that’s not true.  I spent the first 18 years of my life under the influence of Mildred’s extensive, nearly perfect madness.

I have found that it is currently a complete impossibility to track where we lived for how long with the moves in between from the time of my birth August 31, 1951 to the day my father left for Alaska June 9, 1957.  I have records in baby books, records of photographs, records written by Mother to correspond to photographs taken during those years.

Why am I surprised to find that NOTHING MAKES SENSE?

There is no order in the record of those years whatsoever!

It astounds me to find that the evidence of the psychotic broken-in-half split mind of Borderline Personality Disorder Mildred consistently inconsistently identifies nearly every house we moved in and out of during those years by two different names?  Sometimes by the corner avenue and sometimes by the same corner’s street – even the two houses have split personalities as does her record of any life we may have managed to live within.

Mildred’s lost mind evidently did not accurately track when they bought which house, either.  I have given up.  All I know is that there were at least five residences during the first five years of my life.  There are missing moves, missing addresses, missing missing missing as if they were sucked into a variety of vortexes (of course not just one) — as if the houses both existed and did not, we lived in them and did not, we moved and we did not.

Adding mayhem to madness, I cannot write this way.  I have long known that even though there are 500,000 words of Mildred’s story approaching publication, I have reserved for the future the body of her diaries written from 1945 up to the Alaska move.  I have always known at some point I will return to these first years of my existence in a body on this earth to write that part of my story based upon the history in that era of Mildred’s diaries.

That time is not now.  Even though I wrote a first shambled chapter for my next book/s Angel on the Mountain yesterday, that I could not finish because the history I was trying to identify of residences and moves prior to Alaska is in such a state of perhaps permanent disarray that this story cannot be repaired (?), and even though I have completed a second chapter — I realize those chapters belong to that OTHER book before the Alaska move took place.

I will save that work, of course, but I must begin again and a different, revised beginning for my next book.  The moving of Mildred was – as I am ever more clearly comprehending – as much a manifestation of her deep, deep mental illness as was her psychotic abuse of me.  I cannot think my way through the history of those pre-Alaska moves because that history was lived but was never accurately written.  I thought I could write it.  At present I accept that I cannot.

I begin again on Angel on the Mountain as I begin for the first time in my life to tell my own self the story of my childhood at the same time I write it for publication.  Unless I get lost yet again….

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