My memoir...gotta write this stuff down!!

Here is the "forward" to the book I'm finishing now.
It's a memoir that tells my stories briefly - literally - with Haiku poetry.

Memories, Mood Swings and Miracles^©

My much-abused mother did her best to civilize two savages: one a true savage, all that remained of an abused depression-era man turned warrior: wounded warrior. And one a savage by proxy…my brother; my “Bubba”… beaten into the shape and form of a bully boy by our dad’s brutal hand. Family secrets.

This, in the mid-20^th Century, when conformity was required. Mama, who also felt dad’s fists, did her best.

She also tried to civilize her tiny Heathen girl child. A born Pagan, I was confused by the rules, terrified by the violence all around me and always, always seeking to escape to my beloved desert, to books and to my cats.

A sun-burned scientist by nature, a smarty-pants show off who learned nothing of scholastic discipline and thus, never plied the scientific trades, I excelled in classes, experiencing reading, writing, math and biology as easily-described givens in my worldview. Science I understood. Emotions, connections to others…not so much.

My brother and I were neglected throughout our young lives and I found myself in situations that caused me harm, both physical and sexual. Abused by various friends and neighbors, I grew up highly sexualized. Always the rebellious little Heathen, I contributed willingly to the budding sexual revolution, eventually at the cost of my self-esteem and mental health.

My role models included my grandmother who embodied the angry, entitled female, illustrative of the character impoverishment of southern gothic novels; my mother, who was beaten down by life…and by my dad’s furious desire to make her be well; and my belligerent, violent dad, who, gratefully, mellowed with age. Even at the end of his life though, he still demonstrated hints of the scarred soul, all that was left of his spirit by The War.

Because in our house there was only one “War” and that was World War II.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: we all have it. Disconnected from everyone by fear and family secrets, our PTSD drove us (high-functioning dysfunctionals that we are) to prove ourselves by working too hard, ignoring or seeking to control those who love us (as we had been similarly treated), worshipping work, seeking approval and, at least in my case, continuing to abuse sex, drugs and alcohol well past adolescence.

Fortunately, my circumstances led me to become involved in Twelve-Step recovery, which brought me around to many other venues of self-care and helped me overcome my addictive behaviors. With a family full of deep gratitude, my parents also found the Twelve-Steps and the recovery therein.

My mother died young, only five years sober. Daddy, died sober twenty years later. We all became good friends in recovery, amends made, forgiveness granted.

That’s the miracle in the book title.

Watching my dad soften, watching my own parents discover and learn to love each other in middle age.

Miracles.

Happily learning that I – a dysfunctional adult child of alcoholic parents – was not alone …though let’s face it, still and always unashamedly eccentric!

There are family photos to accompany some of the poems and some go unillustrated. There are places you will be called upon to see the images behind your own eyes and some places where there is no way to show the pain; images nobody needs to see.

Then there are images created by loving friends, as noted in the acknowledgements.

Which brings me here. Now.

Practicing that hard-won discipline by writing my stories… 17 syllables at a time.