Last night was not a good night for sleeping. I finished my edit for book #9 of the series I am working on. I need to put together a list of references and of suggested readings for that book, but evidently as I tried to sleep last night the next book #10 was under construction. It seems that this next book which will be written in between my severely abusive psychotic Borderline Personality Disordered Mother’s words in her letters from the day we reached Alaska a month before my 6th birthday intends to begin where I never would have guessed that it would: When I was 20.
I scrambled around searching my blog for the piece of writing my dreams brought to my attention as the first writing for this next book. It is the only piece of writing that I know of from that young adult era of my life. Typed out on an old Adler typewriter, this piece was folded into 8ths and kept for many, many years. The piece unsettles me, not only because of the way it was written but because it mirror back to me all I knew about being myself as a person among adults in the world I moved into once I left my so-abusive first 18 years of life.
Click on these links to read this piece as it has been previously posted on this blog shortly after it began. On May 25, 2009 I posted:
I don’t even want to read what I wrote in those posts right now. It’s enough for the moment that I have located the main 1972 piece that is referenced in those post links and also posted here: *1972 – WHAT I FELT LIKE AT 20). It hasn’t been my intention at this stage of my book writing to address anything other than what happened to me beginning in book #10 from my age of nearly 6 to when I left home at 18. Whatever I will write about my adulthood after 18 was SUPPOSED to wait until I finished writing my childhood.
So why is my inner self, even in my sleep, demanding that I begin with the 1972 piece? There is some kind of raw, exposed truth in that piece as it reflected exactly how I felt at age 20. I had left the malevolent home I had grown up in – as I posted in a chapter recently from book #9 – +’ANGEL’ CHAPTER 33 – Reactive Attachment Disorder and Dissociation (long post) – and entered the next stage of my life in the supposed benevolent world at 18 and found myself in a maelstrom of trauma drama. I had no moorings, either internally or externally, that I could have used to make my way as an adult in the world.
I had to create myself in my life as I went along. I did the best that I could do.
Perhaps in my sleep last night some part of me wanted the day-writer part of me to remember how fragmented I was at age 20 so that I don’t lose sight in my next book writing of how I got that way. Everything I NEED to say in this next book is about how my ongoing experience of being my own self in my life was continually, brutally and violently interrupted. I was nearly continually sidetracked from my own life of being a child.
I also know that there is much about myself that I have avoided knowing and that I am heading into waking up into the light of day. Am I that brave? Is this even WISE?
Perhaps that 1972 age-20 piece is a light at the end of the tunnel in some foreign way I do not understand at this moment I can use to aim myself toward as I begin writing from age 6 forward to age 18. Perhaps I need to remind myself NOW that I DID make it out of the years I am going to write about next. I DID make it OUT!
It was not an easy journey. Not before I was 18 or 20 and not afterward. I learned to evolve “a cover” for myself within which and behind which who I am which includes what I have experienced just no longer showed – to anyone – not even to myself. Nothing about where I came from fit the world I “hatched” into when I left home.
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