I tried to write the book I was planning to write this summer, and it became immediately clear it wasn't going to happen. I thought I was well enough, stable enough, having a sufficiently calm and neutral attitude towards the church.
Instead I'm writing what I can write--what I need to write. It's the sort of obscenely self-indulgent autobiography I'd been hoping to avoid. I am writing about recovery; about what happened--about getting help--about getting better. Recovery, the slow and painful crawl.
I have six pages, and am picking up speed. It is not good. If anything good (writing wise) comes out of this, it will be after a serious refining fire. It's very strange--I find myself writing in this weirdly detached voice I recognize from other biographies of child abuse--a hole in the world, a child called it. This is what happened, we say. This is just the best I can remember it, the simplest accuracy I can muster. Except how the hell am I supposed to remember? I was young, and had nothing else with which to compare my life.
Maybe I will be better when this is done.
Though, to spoil that deliciously melodramatic note, I actually feel better now. Actively dealing with it is definitely better than not.