wasn't easy

I'm writing pretty much anything I think.  I wonder why more gays and lesbians aren't blogging. I know they have computer access.  I know they can and do write.

For the record, I came a long way to get to the point where I can be open with the whole AOL blog-reading world.  People who know me think I am shy... bashful.  Huh!  I am a wild tiger by comparison to who I used to be.

Yeah, there is danger in exposing your feelings and thoughts, both to you and to those you write about as well as for those who read you.  (Their minds may be swayed.)  However, there comes a point in your life when you are too tired/angry/living momento mori to be quiet any longer.

("Momento mori" is Latin for "Remember your death/Remember you must die."  It is an exhortation to live.)

Someone always appreciated my writing, even in elementary school.  That helped.

After a car accident in 1972, with a scarred face, reading, writing  and art were solace.

In high school, I wrote bad teenage poetry and took part in the literary magazine with other nerds and latent queers.

In college, I left a notebook open in the professors' office where I worked and came in to found one of them reading.  He liked it!  It was also at college that my friends encouraged me to open myself to my gayness.  They saved my life, I have no doubt.  I do not know where I would be if they had not come into my life.  Well... dead or richer. (lol)

After college, before I finished all my credit hours and before my career was scheduled to take off, I found myself stopping everything to take care of my mother.  That little detour was eight years long.

I entered a shut-in existence in a rural area.  When I emerged after Mom's death, I was "Ma'am" instead of "Miss."  Yeah, I missed a lot, including the opportunity to learn a lot about relationships.  I am fortunate to have friends and family to advise me and help me mull over the tight spots.

I wrote epic letters to my friends during school breaks.  Twenty hand-written pages would be just a short note.  The funny thing is that they kept those letters.  They may have thrown them out by now, that would only be sane.  But they offered to send them back so I could form a book.  I should have but I didn't have it in me.

I could have written a book about caring for my mother, but it was too painful when I was close to it.  We kept a journal of her care.  After she died, the nurse encouraged me to throw it away.  I think even now, the process would be very painful.

Don't get me wrong.  My mother was a saint, an angel.  She smiled and laughed inspite of being hemi-plegic (paralyzed on one side) and aphasiac (barely able to talk.)  She taught me what love is.  You don't need to know the rest.

I am stopped.  I was writing about my journey as a writer.  The last few paragraphs have seized my heart and I have to stop for now.   Sorry.  (Did I mention that two professionals have said I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder from these long years of service?)

I think that kicked in when M mentioned the housekeeping.  I couldn't possibly show her that old world.