Life hasn't always been easy for me. I was born with severe allergies and food intolerances, that went undiagnosed and untreated until I was well into my 40s.
Rather than get treatment, my Mom labeled me a "hysteric and a hypochondriac". (There's nothing like a Mother's unconditional love.) Mom was bipolar. Her disease went undiagnosed and untreated until she was in her 70s. By then then she was too old and too sick (congestive heart failure, recovering from stroke) to generate the kind of chaos and terror she was capable of when she was in younger and in better shape.
For decades I've been trying to finish my memoirs. Yet each time I get close to the end, I destroy the manuscript. A lifetime of painful memories burned and dumped into the trash or deleted into some distant and unreachable cyber hole. Which, when you think about it, is pretty stupid. Months of crying myself raccoon eyed while typing (no easy task) for what? To create an incredibly bleak and depressing book outlining the horrors of my childhood. Even more stupid. There's enough pain in this world without rehashing all of mine.
Through it all, even during my worst times, I've also been incredibly blessed. During the times I needed it most there was always something there to feed my soul and keep me sane (no small task).
So from today on ... I'm going to start writing about the things I love and am grateful for. Hopefully in the process I can heal myself and grow beyond the pain.