There's no great and grand theory of life that I'm going to drop down here onto the internet for an explination of why I haven't been posting things for you, gentle Reader. While I could say something poetic and try to deflect you away from the real problem, I owe you honesty in my writing. Integrity as an author is among my highest ideals and aspirations. When I write non-fiction, honesty and truth are vital. I hate lies.
Unfortunately, lies have been what's been keeping me away fro writing for you, gentle Reader. I've been facing a whole host of lies about my youth. It's horrifying to realize that your childhood was far darker then you wished to say it was. There was a streatch of several years that I didn't remember from when I was a little girl. Now the blockage is cleared and those memories are flooding forth.
Memories of abuse at the hands of family, teachers, and others who I trusted. I'm not entirely sure how to cope with this pain. I feel torn between grief, rage and utter dispair. I'm at a loss for words and yet overwhelmed and burdened with this sad, sad story to tell. Some day, perhaps, I'll exhaust this bitter well that keeps being funded from the black spring of repressed memory. Then, I may have the good fortune of not having my work shaded by sorrow.
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