Saturday, July 9, 2016

Owning the "I"

This is what catches and skips and stops the flowing of lines here, why I just noticed I had moved from comfort in journaling and blogging to feeling that safety lives in fiction and the third-person narrative:

It's the awful fear of the word 'I'.

Owning the first person is terrifying when one is out of practice. 

That's it; I could stop there. I'm only resisting the urge to leave it there because I didn't realize that was what was tripping me until I started to write. Then I remembered why I needed my own narrative in the first place. The reason I started writing at all is that I told my mother in the third grade that I thought I was crazy because I narrated my life in my head as I was living it. She didn't say a word on the subject of my sanity or even question playfully the merits of being sane as I might have done. {Probably have made allusions as a mom to the effect of Elevating Crazy-- yes, I still struggle not to buy into the myth of insanity AS creativity and illness as a necessary function of Art. A raven is not at all like a writing desk except that it fucking just is.}

She just bought me a journal. She said I needed one.

She was more correct in that opinion than in anything else she ever did.

It's hard to qualify whether the unconditional acceptance of my mind or my body was the better gift of my parents but I remember the "I Am Crazy," "No, you are a writer," conversation as specific to my mom and me and to one encounter. Neat and tidy story of


Help me/Write in this.

(Though I have read enough about memory and the brain to realize I may have created and/or altered the story significantly.) I remember my body positivity as a lifelong deliberate non-issue campaign by both parents. But I feel like I discussed that more purposefully with my father.

Thank you, Dad. I don't tell you that enough.

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