Memoir, Rant, Writing

Erra Erra What?

When I’m done posting this I’m going to put up some sort of warning label on my homepage. I’ll need to make it huge and bright yellow or maybe red and flashing if possible. Sound effects would be great. Horns. We’ll see about that.

I have a little issue. But I’m about to bridge it, like a creek needing crossed. It’s small like a creek really. The little insignificant thing of which I speak is this: I write. A lot. But what I write is too provocative for my blog grandma. So I haven’t been posting. Try as I might all I write about is sex, drugs and rock and roll. Literally. And need I remind you that it’s all non-fiction?

I hesitate posting my recent material because I’m afraid of judgement. Strangers? Phew, I could care less, happy to share my true self. It’s my relatives, bosses, and future bosses I’m worried about.

In short: I really didn’t want to write an addiction memoir. But I have. The story of my life is all about trying to stay afloat with the anchor of addiction at my foot. Thing is, I’ve been afloat for about ten years now. But even if it has been a decade since I nearly overdosed on the bathroom floor of the lady whose kids I used to babysit, I’m still an addict.

Addicts know this. Alcoholics know this. Ideally therapists and drug counselors know this too. I feel like its only a matter of time before the props are knocked out from under me.

Non-addicts understand the concept but only to the extent that non-musicians understand music. I don’t want to be an addict. That is such an awful thing to be. Such a let-down to the family. But I’m afraid at the end of the day, I am.

I’ve never had help. Not one counseling session. I’m writing a book about it instead. Talk about self-help. They say: write the book you want to read. Well, I want to read about a desperate girl. I want to know that someone else has been there. Will I get that from writing this book? No, but someone else will and that’s just as important. And so I will write about addiction and its many shades of gray. People say, You’re not an addict. You don’t do drugs. Wrong. I am an addict. I don’t do drugs. That’s almost harder. Almost.

I stood for too long at the bank of the creek and I must cross the bridge I’ve built. I must be brave. To stop now means I stop writing. I cannot, I will not write about pretty things. To stop now means no more blog. I cannot, will not post material that I don’t have. All I have left is truth.

This does not mean I will be posting more regularly (I still plan to average, oh, a post a week), this just means I’m uncensoring myself. If you are my grandmother, great aunt, uncle, father, mother, boyfriend’s mother, know that I’m kicking it up a notch and at the end of the day I need you to accept me as I am. I can no longer be the girl I wanted to be for you. Because the girl I really am is simply a little more…dirty, and daring.

I’m also half-heartedly trying to create a “flu-shot effect”. That’s where the nurse (me) preps you for an incredibly unbearable needle-in-the-arm-experience by asking you a silly questions like “So what do you do?” and then quickly jabs you in the arm but she uses a kid-sized needle that didn’t hurt at all and you reply “Ohh, social workwasthatit? That wasn’t that bad.”

10 thoughts on “Erra Erra What?”

  1. I applaud your bravery and your wisdom to warn. Some people, especially those close to you, might need distance. I handed a Memoir manuscript over to my friends and family last year that detailed my sexual experiences, was full of the anger and pain I felt towards my parents, described the hateful angst I felt for the world at times, in short one I believed to be full of my truth. The reaction wasn’t very warm, but I was naive to think that just because I felt the need to express myself everyone was ready and willing to listen. Luckily I found some people that did want to hear it. I look forward to hearing more about your journey. Life is just as much about the ugly as it is about the beauty.

    1. “Things aren’t good nor bad, they just are”

      That’s what your last line reminds me of. Its the philosophy that keeps me writing. Keeps me writing questionable stuff. That’s amazing that you’ve finished a memoir, and that you found people who were interested in it. Is your book available? How long did it take you to write?

      Thanks for the warm response, its nice to have a new reader 🙂

      1. Luckily our lives can be comprised of a sprinkling of everything; and a liberal dollop of stuff we can’t comprehend. It is difficult to not judge and categorize as good or bad, but it does us a disservice when we do.

  2. Well I am excited to hear more about the real you:) Bring it on!
    I agree with everything Rene said. You need to write. I read your words and you have taunted with the excerpts of your memoir that you have posted that there is more lurking. I want to hear your truth. Your truth is someone else’s truth as well. Your words will echo in someone else and they will see themselves.
    Please, be free.

    1. Marlene~

      Marlene, Marlene, Marlene, my guiding light,

      I’m pleased to hear your encouraging words. I’ve genuinely been afraid of scaring you off, but glad to hear that’s not really possible. I am incredibly thankful for non-judgmental peers in my writing community. Thank you so much. I can say the same for the ladies in my writing group, luckily. I’m sure you won’t be too shocked at what you read of course (what with all this prep).

      Oh–but I’m saving my Ultimate Deepest Darkest Secret for the finished, bound, has-a-cover-and-everything final Memoir 🙂

      1. P.S. I’m inspired to find a new background to match my new “I don’t give a fuck” approach.

        P.P.S. Reading A Woman Trapped In A Woman’s Body by Lauren Weedman which is super duper inspiring. In a “I don’t give a fuck” kinda way. For sure.

    1. Haha!! You’re funny..and good point, I mean, those people don’t even read my blog, though after this post my mother came out of the wood works. (Hi Mom 🙂 )

      I should post for the readers. Dammit. Thanks Calahan.

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