They were there to meet up with all of the people from my past whose voices still attempt to control my mind in some way, and through that, choices I make.
(FYI: this was in a dream, not a joke setup…)
The priest and the rabbi were speaking with some of my old friends from my childhood and one or two members of my family who just needed to walk through their thoughts of the past ‘me’ with an authority figure they could “trust.” They were all trying to figure out who I was now based on the new words they’d heard I’d been using to describe myself and what part of me they hadn't gotten before. Was it something they did…something they said?
The pastor had the biggest crowd around him, passionate people in a general state of upset. They voiced their concerns, frustrations, and fears about this sick, sad world. Amidst the chaos, someone shouted, "Why is the world doing this to people?" - their voice filled with desperation and some anger. Another person accused me of lying and being sick, and it was easy to tell that they were hurting deeply. The pastor tried his best to calm everyone down, but it was clear that he was struggling to find the right Christian words. I overheard someone yell. I couldn’t tell who it was. ‘She isn’t one of THOSE deviants! She’s lying! Nothing she is writing or joking about is even true! She’s sick. Someone needs to shut her up before she ruins her life (insert other normal complaints against memoirs here)!’ I had a feeling I knew who that could have been, but after trying to see, it became impossible to confirm if it was one voice or many.
The rabbi and priest looked over with empathy for the pastor. The pastor was just trying to control the chaos.
I just fawned and froze. I remained silent.
Y’all…I remained silent for over twenty-five years.
Sigh.
This dream (not a joke) overlaps my life in the saddest way imaginable. The vision that I have had for my life since I was six years old is affected by this recurring nightmare and the crowds around the priest, rabbi and pastor just kept growing over time.
A memoir is meant to represent memories. I wrote my 75,244-word draft six years ago. I shopped it, getting paid advice from two intellectual property lawyers to help me vet parts that needed a rewrite, two different developmental editors, and a writing group I trusted to hear the voice to see if it sounded emotionally intelligent and in no way could be mistaken for vengeance or provocation. I got some excellent advice through all of that and after that, I read three law books and numerous articles on this topic to see if I missed any points that could squelch the knot in my stomach that surfaced when someone said ‘send me your proposal’.
I refused to show my manuscript to any of my comedic colleagues or friends from recent post-divorce years. Why? Two reasons.
One: that nightmare occurs each time I think I want to. I know the control from those voices are all in my head, but even if anyone wanted to get litigious, I’m professionally stacked for that fight. So why still stall?
Two: the friends in my recent post-divorce years help me feel the strength from my transition and reinvention in this new life I’ve created. I hesitate to disturb the beautiful energy of that. They’ve asked, but they haven’t demanded and that made me feel so free that I picked it up, started more rewrites creative nonfiction style, added more humor, and rebranded it: Disruptor. Still, I stall.
Now, six year old me has (had) a stronger constitution than the forty-seven year old exhausted me typing before you. Little ‘T’ would (would’ve) said that my voice is mine! No one gets to tell me how I feel about things that happen to me! People who want to say to me that they get to tell my story or I need their permission to have my opinion, well…they just want to control me!
Everyone has to deal with the fact that humans are so complex and interconnected that you can’t tell your own story without alluding to someone else, even when you artfully try your damndest not to for fear of being harassed about your own fucking memory of a thing. (I said that part. She tried to be a good girl when she was six. She was a smart ass, but she didn’t drop f-bombs like me.) It’s taken me years to craft jokes, write scripts and stories both fiction and non, in a way that names no name and shows no face. I’m still crafting and will be for probably another 50 or so years…give or take. Like any good and prolific author or artist, I use my license with grace and dignity for any and all.
That said…
The priest and the rabbi ended up in the dream with me, clinking champagne-ish mocktails against my French 75 and asking me questions about my agnosticism. It was a lovely discussion. They told me that people never really know how to think through things without an authority figure guiding them. The voices are there because I still love and think about people who don’t feel like they can love and think about me and still hold a belief in their minds. Sad, but true. All folks in their lives have to align with that belief.
I get that. Same. Only difference with my beliefs is…mine INCLUDE them. Theirs EXCLUDE me.
Oh well…
The big crowd left. They glared at me and whispered to each other but did not say a word to me or wish me well.
I reasoned it’s because they don’t. I will have to hold that belief and move forward with my vision for my life despite it. Lots of authors and artists go through this. I’m where I belong. I’ll be just fine.
Oh…and the pastor left the bar with a migraine…and a hooker.
;} back to work!
~T
“The anxiety and fear created by all the voices from your past can stop you dead in your tracks and kill your dreams.”
Resources for real life: