a/n: This is a short one. No grand revelations, no literary fireworks. Just proof of life while the memoir continues to devour my free time. But I’m still here! And I’m still writing—just mostly over there, off-camera, in memoir-land. Thanks for sticking with me.
Sometimes I catch myself in the middle of a habit—something small, stupid even—and I feel the ghost of my daddy there, smirking at me through my own reflection.
Like when I’m holed up writing for hours, phone on silent, incense burning, perfectly content to marinate in my own little world. Or when I bristle at the thought of a family dinner, convinced I’ll have nothing worth saying, so why bother going?
That’s when I get that gut-sick feeling. The one that says, This is how it starts, isn’t it?
Not with a bottle. Not with some grand, tragic spiral. But with a hundred tiny choices to stay in—to stay safe and whole.
Is this why he pulled away too?
Was he trying to avoid us just to drink, or was he also tangled up in the same comfort-in-isolation feeling that I crave?
Look—I don’t drink like he did.
I’m not spiraling the way he did either. (At least, not yet—only joking, Mom.) But there’s still that connective thread between us, like sinew. That itch to be alone, to not have to answer to anyone. And that terrifies me more than I like to admit.
I spent so long being angry at him for retreating. For building himself a cave and crawling into it. And now here I am, hammer in hand, working on my own. I like to think I’d at least install a window—or hang a mirror, so I don’t forget who I am.
I don’t know if that makes me more like him than I want, or just human. Probably both.
This isolation (going on over a year and a half now) has let me make leaps and bounds with the memoir, so I can’t bring myself to end it. Not yet. Not while the writing’s flowing so naturally.
Though I’ll admit—I’ve resorted to sitting on a blanket because my ass has had just about enough of this chair.
That’s the real reason I should come up for air.
Maybe after I finish the first full draft, I’ll feel like I can breathe again. Then I’ll take a break from my self-imposed isolation.
For now, it’s forward and onward. I can see that flicker ahead, like sunlight through a keyhole, and I’m eager to turn the lock.
Only then will I be able to look in the mirror and see myself again, instead of Daddy’s ghost smirking back.
inspo: feeling blue on Father’s Day, which lined up with Daddy’s death day this year // feeling Bothered by a blur of things I can’t quite name // trying to break bad habits, or at least outwit them // memoir musings, more of a hum than a roar this time // mostly sparked by late-night notes app ramblings, later immortalized in my sticky notes doc
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Another beautifully written – and brutally honest – post! Thank you for sharing your journey.
One thought occurs to me: purposeful isolation – to give yourself creative space – does not seem unhealthy to me. In my experience, it is the “unpurposeful” (I am making up words now) variety – such as the isolation that comes from addictions – which is dangerous.
I am personally fascinated with the creative process – and ask my friends about what kind of creative process they utilize constantly. Some are super spontaneous – others are more constructive (or structured). Almost all of them needed some level of isolation to be fruitful. It seems like you are exploring what works for you. Be easy on yourself.
Meanwhile, please put me on the top of the list to purchase your memoir.
Thank you, Ms. Darlene! Trust me, you’re on all the lists (that don’t live anywhere beyond the inside of my head – at least, not yet): pre-order, acknowledgements, you name it! Your ceaseless encouragement sustains me. <3