Commitment to Myself

Even at this early age I knew more than I said. Always encouraged to keep quiet, I found ways to amuse myself. There were times sheer boredom caused me to act in ways that was unseemly to my parents, particularly my father.

One day while the family was out on an errand, I was to sit perfectly still. My body had other plans. The energy that coursed through my veins made sitting still impossible. My father got on to me for it.

I think this is the first memory I have of being aware of how active of a child I was and how difficult it was for me to sit still. This is also the first memory I have of actively thinking about a solution to this problem I was having.

I asked for some paper and something to write with. Happy to keep me quiet, I was obliged.

Sitting atop a cement wall as tall as my father's knees, I placed the paper down beside me with the pencil on top. There was no breeze that day, and much like in the picture above, I was in shorts.

I had no idea what I would write. All I knew was that I wasn't supposed to move. I wasn't supposed to talk. And, I had been allowed a piece of paper and pencil. But my mind suddenly went blank.

I began to look around to see if I could write about anything I saw. Nothing seemed to inspire me. Then I began watching people. I watched the way they dressed. I watched the way they walked. I even watched where they walked to.

The parking lot was not visible from where we were in the middle of the shopping center between buildings. I knew if the people I was watching were walking away from their cars or to their cars.

And then I began watching their faces. Some were happy and glad to be there. Others looked like they were having a bad day.

I began to imagine what caused our lives to cross paths even though we never said a word to each other.

And then I had it. I knew exactly what I would write about. I began to tell the story of the lady with some meat on her bones walking in front of me towards another store with a look on her face that said she did not want to be there right then. I imagined she had kids and a husband at home she needed to tend to, but for some reason could no longer put off this particular errand.

Of course, my vocabulary was not as robust then as it is now. And I was still writing when my father said it was time to leave.

I did not want to go. I found a silent place to enjoy and a day full of imagination that kept me entertained and out of trouble.

But I also knew what waited for me at home. Reluctantly, I gave in knowing my dad was much bigger than me and he would have no problem picking me up, making me go with him, and I would only get into more trouble upon arriving home.

Over the years I continued to write. My imagination kept me from thinking about the family dysfunction that invaded our home.

In high school I continued to write in spiral notebooks. Some of them were journals. Some of them contained stories of what I thought my future would look like. Some of them held plays and other stories I thought might be shared with others in the future.

Senior year of high school I moved out to live with another family. I left my notebooks at home in a box at the top of the closet I shared with one of my sisters. It was always my intention to pick them up some day.

A year or two later I remembered the notebooks and visited home to retrieve them and a few other things I had left in that closet. They were gone. I asked my mother about them, and she said she threw them away. I was devastated. She never asked me if I wanted them.

It was a long time after that before I felt comfortable writing again. In fact, I just could not bring myself to do it for many years afterwards. There was always this fear that my words would be found by someone. Words that included what happened to me when I was little.

My diary included deep dark secrets that stopped when I was eleven. Why did they stop? Because my sixth-grade English teacher wanted us to write a story. She was teaching us how to write. I just could not pay attention in class how to write. I just did not have the concentration to pay attention. The reason? I still was in fear for my life. My desire to write stopped when the ugly man entered my life. And now my teacher wanted me to find a story inside myself to write about.

I had nothing to write about. There was nothing pleasant or imaginative left. Every time the teacher gave us time to write, I just copied what was on the board one more time.

I thought I was safe from my teacher finding out. I was not. She did not ask us to turn in our papers. Instead, she wanted us to go to the front of the class and read our stories, and she started in my row.

It took two to three days before she reached me sitting in the back. I knew I was in big trouble. My story was dumber than dumb. My story was non-existent. The paper was blank. If I went to the front of the class with a blank paper, I'd be worse than laughed at.

I worried about this starting with the girl who sat in the front seat of my row. We seemed to do one reading with every class. I knew what day I was to read my story.

The day before I was due to read, I caught my teacher as she was entering the room. I decided to tell her the truth as to why I did not have my story. She gave the class an assignment and took me to a table in the back where we could talk quietly. She told me she would have to tell the principal and asked if it was OK to do so. I nodded yes as I knew she did not have a choice.

That afternoon I was called to the office where I had to tell the principal my story.

The next morning a few hours into the school day, I was called to the office yet again. My mother was signing me out. I had no idea what for. My mother never signed me out unless I was sick or she had previously told me she would sign me out early for an appointment.

My mother would not talk to me nor would she answer my questions as to why I was being taken out of school that day.

Once at the car, my mother made it perfectly clear where we were going and what I was to do once there. And I was to do it or else.

I had not ever seen the look on my mother's face that she had that day except for that day. I had never heard that tone of voice from my mother before that day. And I sat there in the front seat of the car wondering what possessed my mother. And she was possessed enough that I did not doubt that she would follow through on her words.

I sat in front of a detective who asked, "Are you sure you want to do this?"

My mother was sitting in the hallway just beyond the glass wall that kept her from hearing my conversation. I turned and looked at her, staring and thinking for what seemed like minutes to me.

When I turned back, I said, "no, I'm not sure. I'm sure I don't want to, but I'm also sure I have to." I turned to look at my mother once again.

Although I did not see if the detective looked into the hallway with me, I believe he did. I believe he knew why I redacted my story.

The ugly man came home with us.

That Christmas, a series of events led to me and my younger siblings visiting our father who happened to have an appointment with his attorney during our trip. I stayed in the waiting room with my siblings while my father went into the office.

To an eleven-year-old looking after two younger just as bored children, it seemed like hours that my father was gone. I began wondering what they were talking about and why my father wanted to talk to the attorney.

I began walking around the waiting area and picked up brochures that were sitting out. I devoured the information I understood and sat back down thinking about what I learned.

And that is when I realized what an attorney was and could do. That is the moment I realized that we were in the office of someone who could help.

I interrupted my father's meeting and told him I needed to tell him something. The attorney began to stand up and said he would give us a few minutes alone.

I told him no, that I wanted him to hear what I had to say.

He sat back down and I proceeded to tell both of them the whole story, part of which was in my siblings presence.

We never went back home. The ordeal ended. The courts sent us to live with a relative as my father had already been declared unfit.

Along the journey from the attorney's office to the court results, many people, including those who worked in the court system and the psychology field who knew my story asked me to write a book about my life. I refused. I was an eleven-year-old girl too embarrassed to reveal the truth.

Somehow, I managed to begin writing again in my teens. I think it was my escape when the ugly man entered our lives once again. And I longed to be dead.

Night after night I prayed and cried, asking the Lord why. "Why, Lord, why? Why do I have to live through this?"

And night after night I thought I heard Him say, "Because some day you are going to help others going through the same things."

I clung to those words, real or imagined. I was determined to live because some day I was going to help others going through the same things. And this answer may have been the reason I really started writing again.

These writings were in that box at the top of the bedroom closet. These writings meant something to me and now they were gone.

If I didn't like my mother before, I was fuming with her now. I was not happy, and she knew I was not, but I also did not swear at her or threaten her. I just left her home and went back to mine so upset for the longest time.

I hoped she threw them out blindly, without ever having looked inside. However, I know my mother well enough now to know it is possible she looked inside and found something she did not like and tossed them out on purpose. And if she did, she will never reveal this secret to me.

I was so afraid that my writings would be thrown out once again, I refused to write for many years to come. In fact, it was not until after my accident that I decided to write again. Only this time it was out of necessity.

My arm would not work. I lost all memories. And when I tried to write, I could not hold a pen. I went to the computer and turned it on. I tried to write and looked at what I wrote a few lines later. Every word on the screen was three letters or less. I no longer had the words to write.

Using the dictionary to help me find my words, I used my small words to find bigger words to write. I might not have had enough words to write, but I was determined to write enough of the present memories I did have before I lost them too.

I did not know that Amnesia did not work like that.

When I lost my appeal with Social Security, they said I had the ability to relearn and that was why they were denying me. Did they really think I would relearn in less than a year what I learned in 35 years? Yes, they sure did.

So, I went to college. I found out that prior to the accident I had applied and been accepted to the local college. I told them what I had been through and requested the testing to be redone, but they refused. They said only one test every five years.

I decided to attend anyway. I figured I had nothing to lose but to prove Social Security I could not do it.

But I did.

For months before starting my first class, I relearned the multiplication table having already relearned how to add and subtract. It was a good thing too because I was in the lowest math class, and you had to know how to multiply to be successful in the class.

Because I could prove I had memory issues, I was allowed to bring a laptop to class to take notes and I could also bring a tape recorder to class. I passed my writing classes because I used the dictionary and thesaurus as my guides. In fact, I wrote a paper about using the dictionary.

I passed college with a high grade average, but not without sacrifice. My relationships with my children suffered because I spent all my waking hours studying. If I wasn't in class, I was holed up in my room or at the hospital with my sick husband who passed away one semester shy of graduation. By then we were empty nesters and I was alone.

It took a long time to feel like I could live my life once again. Only during the way I had two failed marriages, neither of which I should have gotten into.

I managed to write and publish my first book after the last divorce. It was not the book I had been asked to write so long ago. I no longer thought I was strong enough to write it. Instead, I wrote about my accident and the many trials and tribulations along the way.

Could I just leave it at that? No. I had to make that book the first book in a series of books that are still unwritten. Well, the second book has been started anyway. The series will one day tell the stories of what happened in my childhood.

My degree is in Rhetoric and Writing. It was not the degree I originally set out to receive. I fought it with everything in my body. I still did not want to write my story. After losing all my work, I just did not have the heart to write any more. But the degree gave me job skills and I worked in an office after graduation. And many years later, my degree gave me my book.

I still do not want to write my story. Thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach. Yet, I still cling to the knowledge that my story will one day help others going through the same things.

My book already has. When Memories Leave helps others who are struggling with memory problems. It also helps family, friends, co-workers, and those in the medical field gain insight into those struggling with a traumatic brain injury, Alzheimer's, or dementia.

Since publishing my first book, I have gained several friends who stand behind me and readers who ask me when the next book will be ready. And like other times in my life, chaos seemed to take over for a while, making it difficult to continue writing; so, I set aside the second book that is halfway through its first draft.

This chaos included two moves in less than a year. It included having to find a job to support myself. Every day I looked for a job and submitted my resume. When I could, I would take skill tests. I was offered several different interviews and I attended them.

I developed a website prior to starting on the second book, but recently it went down. I managed to get it up again, but it is missing many of the articles I wrote.

And I got depressed again.

And then I saw a writing contest here on Vocal. I had never tried my hand at writing a horror story. Could I do it? I wrote it, but I almost did not submit it.

About 24 hours before the deadline, a friend texted me asking if I had submitted it. I had not finished editing it. I stayed up all night getting the story submitted. In the early morning hours, I texted my friend back saying it was done. Thus, my Vocal presence was born.

But my depression still exists. I'm just really good at hiding it.

This afternoon I began wondering where I go from here. I still have no job. I stopped looking when my daughter who lives with me came down with Covid. No sense in applying for jobs that I cannot attend an interview on. It had to wait.

But this past week I managed to get a book published on Amazon as well as my first story on Vocal. What's next?

I did not have an answer. The only answer I came up with was to write. That this past week or two, writing has kept me from being focused on the depression. But there is not another contest prompt for me, and I am still fighting picking up the second book in the series.

I grabbed a couple of books looking for inspiration, but just did not feel it. Then I remembered that I have some cards called Inquiry Cards. I opened the box and kept the cards face down as I took them out. I felt drawn to the top card and turned it over.

"What am I committed to?"

The words at the top of the card stared at me as if I had committed some type of a commitment sin.

I stared at it for at least an hour. The only answer I had was that I am committed to myself.

I am committed to surviving in this world of hatred and wrong deeds. I am committed to finishing the second book in the series. I am committed to continue writing to help others in this lousy world. This same lousy world that has so many wonderful people that have helped me all along the way.

And this is why I am committed to keep going no matter what.

I know my stories are meant to be told. Even if I am slow, even if I do eventually get a full-time job, I am committed to keep on writing.

Who knows, maybe my mother will no longer be in this world by the time I tell the story of my younger years. It no longer matters to me if my mother is alive or not when I get there as I no longer harbor any hatred towards her.