Blogging a memoir is almost, for sure, slow suicide. And I swear to God— if it’s not the death of me, it will, at the very least, make me old, make me
crazy crazier, make me something I don’t want to be.
It’s gonna drive me to the brink, beyond that delicate barrier between “then” and “now”—which I guess it’s meant to do—has to do.
But I’ve decided I don’t like to go there—go “then”—peer into the muck and mire of my sometimes depressed, sometimes manic past.
Do these memoirs really help people in the present, anyway? Do readers really benefit? Is it really worth the effort?
My partner Sara and I have been discussing these issues over the past several days—discussing my potential book about recovery from bipolar disorder—and this blog, in which I’m testing the waters—tip-toe-ing around the edges of the story, trying not to get my feet wet—
Or so Sara insists.
She says that I’m not trying hard enough—not doing the dirty work of delving deeper than the surface—not forcing myself to swim in darker waters.
And I suppose she’s right. I’m practicing the fine art of avoidance, and this post is a prime example of that maneuver.
So forgive me, folks—
I’m guilty as charged.
I don’t want to deal with the drama that was my past. I want a story to tell that is less personal, less intimately exhausting—maybe another international assignment for Sara—maybe a story about our efforts to settle again in another crazy place on an equally insane planet—a place different from the madness that was then, from the boredom that is here—that is now.
However, my partner does disaster response—so it’s always tricky wanting work for her—dilly dallying around the edge of dire and all that. But dire is dramatic. And sometimes I fear drama feeds my dysfunctional self—as long as it’s not my personal drama—memoir-related—bipolar-driven drama.
However, craving adventure for adventure’s sake is a god-awful motivation—especially when one knows that drama might mean disaster-related misery for someone else.
But maybe it’s not adventure I crave as much as a simple break from memoir—maybe I don’t so much desire drama, as I desire less personal drama.
Whichever it is, I’m far from loving this aspect of myself.
Whether I’m too lazy to do the difficult work of memoir, too weak to relive a painful past, or too in love with the drama-driven life to simply settle for the here and now—none of it is good. None paints a pretty picture of who I happen to be.
So what I’m wondering is this—
What dysfunction do you like least about yourself?
What behavioral event horizon do you dare dance around or near?