Reasons I have not Been Writing and Two Opposite truths can be true

I haven’t written in a while. I have not consistently practiced writing for quite a long time.

1. depression unrelated to anything in particular. I have had situational depression but this seems more imbedded depression.

a. fibro myaligia- I require a lot of naps. Depression is a symptom.

Quote from the Mayo Clinic.

b. I take medicine but I should probably have it upped or changed and that just seems difficult because I am kinda depressed.

c. Low self esteem (exacerbated by depression) I sometimes find myself an embarrassment. Just a general embarrassment.

example- at my new job- early into the year, I reported a teacher for slapping the hand of a student. a month later, I report another teacher for thumping or flicking a child in the head. The second report was heresay and I led with that when I went to admin. I was looked upon as a snitch. Many- and I do mean many people had the same information I did and did nothing. But not me. I have to imagine if that child was mine. I have to take into account the feelings of the child. The feelings of the child’s family. The legal implications. The precedence I could set for not telling. Ultimately I told because children with disabilities will be bullied and abused in their lifetime at a much higher rate than the non disabled population. I cannot be a part of a world in which a child learns that abuse of even a tiny sort is acceptable or tolerable.

Did I do the right thing? Yes. Does anyone care that I did the right thing? Not really. What if I were a person who didn’t care so much or could swallow their caring and look the other way? What if I did not insist on sticking my nose into things? What if I could be a person who worries about their own imperfect life and not others? Am I a mandated reporter according to the law? Yes. But, so were all the other teachers at the school holding this same knowledge and none of them told. As just as I am, as correct or righteous as I am, I am embarrassed. I feel like some version of a Karen. I am still a tattle tale. And I cannot be any other way. This is who I am. I find it extremely important to live my values. I believe a lot of the ills of a human, such as addiction, come from genetics And the slippery slope of not living our values. I have mentioned this before but I know a grandma who almost never spends time with her grandchildren and yet has a vanity plate with her granny name on her minivan. That is some deeply messed up sadness. When I believe truth is a worthy value, and I lie it causes my heart and soul pain.

For instance- on a side note- right now I am experiencing one of these very moral dilemmas. I hold these truths to be sacred. 1. When a person gets a dog, that dog is your family member until the dog dies. 2. People with disabilities and without but especially people with significant sensory needs should be heard and validated when they express a need. 3. Our home is a refuge, a place of peace. Our bulldog Frida Buttercup who we have had almost six years is a sensory nightmare for Mim. The snuffling, the snarfling, the curmudgeonly mouth movements of an extreme underbite paired with a brachiocephalic face, the spectacular snoring, the potent flatulence and obvious obliviousness to Mim’s demands undermine Mim’s ability to react in a peaceful manner to Frida Buttercup. I live in a condo. If crated Frida has explosive diarrhea. The mere breathing of Frida makes Mim reactive and emotionally disregulated. I love Frida. I love Mim. Mim and Frida both see me as their person. As much as I love dogs, I put people first and Mim’s needs for serenity greatly affect the peace of our home. But we all love Frida. Even Mim. loves her when she isn’t hating her.

2. I only want to tell my story.

I began writing to purge the mountain of trauma I was experiencing- which was trying to be a human and a really good mama for my 6 children given that my oldest had anorexia and my youngest has multiple disabilities while simultaneously learning that my “better half” had been cheating for a long time- like 7 years long time. I told my stories of parenting, infidelity, misery, the separation, the divorce, the aftermath, the horrible eating disorder unapologetically. If my infidel ex husband decided to cheat and disrespect me then I felt no shame sharing the story. And Addy’s eating disorder held no shame so I spoke and wrote about our experience. Many in the eating disorder world consider the anorexia or bulimia as a monster who rears its ugly head. The monster is given a name “Ed” and it is unwelcome separate entity to the person it is killing. I felt guilt free writing my story with Addy included. And my youngest with disabilities was little and adorable and amazing and unusual. I wanted to share my experience with adoption and her life. We were part of the Disability community and I wanted to amplify the beauty of our family exactly like we are. We were and are living a life of transracial adoption, eating disorder recovery and advocacy, divorce, this strange mixture of single parenting and intermittent returns of their dad. I love telling about what our reality looks like and how it feels deep in my bones and how lucky I am to be here in this space of imperfection.

I started feeling weird sharing my Mim stories. And Addy is a spouse and a mother now. Even my Walt stories started to feel like a monkey on my back. Actually it wasn’t Walt’s stories that were a monkey on my back. It was him. Actual him. Popping in and fucking stuff up 8 years after the original separation. Writing family stories with him, as a reoccurring character, could verify a view of me through his eyes. An unwanted first wife. Living in the past. B I T T E R. Now, I think I am regular. Not perfect and cheerful but not bitter or vindictive. His mother was left by her husband and she was always seen as bitter and all those things men assign to women who they harmed. I hate to be disliked. I know. 52 freaking years old and I am still learning this lesson. Have I oversold this story? I have moved on, and I tell this story because I believe it is a book that I am writing, a memoir- which Is why I titled this blog Momoirist.

Definition- BITTER: angry, hurt, or resentful because of one’s bad experiences or a sense of unjust treatment.

I know that anger hurts the angry one so I let go of anger. I don’t harbor it in my heart. I no longer think of his actions during our marriage and roll around in that stinky mud wallowing. Our worlds are intertwined. We have six children. I have six children. I parented six children 24 hours a day for the past 27 years. I am not a single parent. He didn’t die. He didn’t disappear- well, last year he died move to Colorado without telling his children or me. But he reappeared in the suburbs of Atlanta to move back in with a woman he had previously left a year later.

I was bitter when I picked up those pieces. Mim (news flash) is adopted. Adopted children fear abandonment. It is her parents’ responsibility to reassure her, to be consistent. Due to her intellectual impairment and neurodivergence, it is her parents’ responsibility to explain, to provide extended time for understanding, to reassure extra, to model expected behavior, to answer the same question a hundred times. She was crushed. Angrier and sadder than I had ever seen. Yep, I was bitter and resentful about his disappearing act. He didn’t want to hurt her. He gave the same reason for not telling me for seven years about ongoing affairs. He didn’t want to hurt me. The theme is cyclical.

3. I believe my story is worth telling. I write because I am a writer or I want to be a writer or I cannot not be a writer, This story and the years before and after are stories I tell and dream of people reading in a published book.

You understand. Don’t you?

It is the unmistakable truth that two things can be true at the same time. Right? Two dissonant truths can be true at the same time. There is wisdom. Walt’s truth is that he didn’t want to hurt me so he didn’t tell me the fact that he was hurting me. One of my truths is – I am a writer who wants to be a published best selling author interviewed by Oprah and Hoda and I am scared to write these posts for fear of people thinking, I think I am something worth reading. I love Frida and I might get rid of her. Mim is my love that I preciously hold in sacred care and I tell her stories because her life is worthy of sharing with the world. A glimpse into our experience of family and disability is a way I advocate for the respect of all people. I have never valued privacy and my children deserve privacy. How do I navigate this incongruity?

Can I tell my story with wisdom? Can I be Meryl Streep or who I imagine Meryl Streep to be?

4. I applied to summer writing programs at Sewanee and Kenyon. I did not get in. I like accolades. I like A plusses. My writing was rejected. So I quit for a while for fear of being delusional about my abilities, but the wisdom in this opposite truth is, that I can begin again. My dad told us many times that the critics panned Star Wars and it is a money making epic beloved franchise. Two opposite truths can possibly be true. I was not accepted to summer writing institutes and I am a good writer who shouldn’t quit.