Struggling With What Is Right

Writing my autobiography is proving to be more of a task than I imagined. Gathering my memories of various stages in my life has not only been time consuming but it has also opened many old wounds, not just opened them, but re-inserted the knife and twisted it. Tearing still tender flesh and grating, nauseatingly, against the bone. Dark places have been, unwillingly, re-visited and although many recollections have wrenched heart strings and conscience from their deep rooted foundations, every detail must be written.

It is only by unleashing my thought-demon that I can be truly honest with myself and others. Too many secrets are locked within my head, mine will be told but those concerning certain others will go with me to my grave, lest I hurt those left behind. The past two weeks have been a whirlpool of anger, desperation and joy. At the highest point, total elation; while at the lowest, stomach churning, claustrophobic fear and sadness.

After throwing all ingredients into the rationalisation blender, adding one gallon of tears, a dozen deep breaths and a barrel of hope for the future I have managed to put symbolic pen to paper. The words kneaded and moulded from intangible scribblings and rantings into some semblance of a readable form. I still have a long way to go and, no doubt, there will be many more emotional bridges to cross but I am back on track. The dark, earth covered hole is now a tunnel with light at the end of it; towards which I am slowly crawling, where I hope to emerge burden-free. © Brenda Diskin 2015


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