A chronological life

A memoirist's stream of consciousness

Since I can remember, I have always looked back on my life and reflected over the year that has passed. I’d take a step back and view a specific moment or feeling objectively, and see the stark difference to now.

Please grant me some grace. This is a nuanced feeling I’ve wondered how to articulate my whole life.

When I was seven years old I was lying in my bed staring at the wall to my left, remembering a day about eight months prior of going to Denny’s with my grandma and her boyfriend Mark. While I stared at the shapes on the drywall, I reflected on the claw clip I had in my hair that day, how I looked at my reflection in the car rear view mirror before following them into the restaurant, and how things felt so simple in that moment.

I think what it is, what has tethered me to such a clear understanding and connection to life as it unfolds over the years, are those simple moments of presence. Sometimes they happen unconsciously. Like why did I remember that moment eight months ago before going into Denny’s so vividly? It’s not like it was a particularly profound moment. I think it was just one of those instances that I took a tiny moment to connect to myself, my soul. And for some reason, me lying in my bed thinking of that moment in time, in the Dennys parking lot, I was brought back to not just that one memory, but a myriad of feelings from the times surrounding it. Feelings, not images.

So that was my first memory of this kind of reflectivity, and it has been prevalent in my life ever since. Having been such a contemplative person throughout life, I have a pretty clear and straight forward timeline of events and stories experienced. I’ve always clung onto nostalgia. This has often looked like making a compilation of all the sweet videos I took over a period of time (such as my winter on the mesa, or the evolution of my garden from spring to fall) and then putting sentimental music over it. These videos have been my attempt at of capturing the sentience behind a chapter of my life— to provide something for myself that encapsulates feelings that I can look back on. Sometimes it looks like just going back into my camera roll, and witnessing old memories through a new lens. For awhile I used to feel some shame in doing this. As though I was unhealthily clinging to my past, not being in the present enough. But I see now, my ability to hold memories in this way has helped me value the gift of presence through understanding how fleeting each moment really is.

The point of sharing this introspection, is to convey how it plays into the writing of my memoir. Many have expressed curiosity in my writing process, so here goes. May I add that this is also extremely helpful for me, as writing a story about the entirety of your life is such a deep portal. Having somewhere/someone to unravel what comes up is half the medicine of embarking on the journey.

Because I have taken time regularly throughout my life to be with and integrate the events and stories to some degree, even if unconsciously, I have curated a pretty strict chronological timeline of my life. Which has been very helpful while writing my life’s stories, especially the childhood memories. However, I find myself wanting to convey most all of my stories in such fluidity. Many of the stories I share in my memoir are stories I’ve told to my closest humans, in the late hours of a bedroom or car overlooking some distant town. Some are personal thoughts I’ve never shared with anyone. Most of my stories (especially childhood), have been held, scanned again and again, processed, ruminated, spat out, swallowed, and digested.

Most of my early life stories feel resolved. Having delved into my deepest wounds I’d say I’ve come out with a pretty miraculous amount of love. When going back and rereading parts of my childhood that one might perceive as so traumatic I might be expected to cry while reading out loud, I actually find myself welling up with tears more so when reading a tender and loving part which describes my mother’s beautiful and contagious smile—because I love her so much.

As I acquire new perspectives of stories I’ve experienced (for example when I was 9 my mom gave birth when she was incarcerated, yet I never inquired what that actually looked like until I started writing my book. Her perspective felt like an essential part of that chapter), the new information I received became a whole new process I was faced to take in and integrate while putting into writing. It’s not easy.

The concept of putting my life in chronological order in my memoir is comforting, yet as I approach more recent chapters, the ones that are still not fully processed, I realize how unrealistic that is.

As I enter the “dark night of the soul” era of my book, I find myself wanting to scoot sneakily around things. Avoid the times where I was reactionary and angry. When I was 22 and wanted to kill my mom’s abusive boyfriend after he beat her while she was eight months pregnant. I never wanted that part of me to be seen.

So I stuffed it away, and attempted to avoid it as a part of my story, myself.

It doesn’t fit into the message, the point of the book. I’d think to myself, while I justified ways to suppress something that was just as authentic and real as any other part of my embodiments. If people know these darker thoughts I had/ve, will they still feel inclined to read?

I realize as I enter into the challenging, more recent chapters of my book, how dissociated I was. How the magic had left me for awhile. Certain feelings become muddled because I wasn’t ready to be with them. Even though writing about my childhood carried it’s own weight, it still felt somewhat, easier(?) This may be due to the fact that I was a child, and there is unlimited amounts of tender love I have to offer that little girl. Yet when I approach the recent chapters, where I made some decisions that hurt people I loved, including myself, I have to look at it, be present with accountability, while also not casting judgement and shame onto myself.

So as I am writing about a time only five years ago, the chronology feels a little more out of reach. Maybe that section of the book is meant to feel a little more chaotic, as was life at the time.

I’m not sure, I’m mostly just typing out loud.

Thoughts?

With Vulnerability,

Turiya

A photo of a fawn approaching me back in 2019, when I was going through the most tumultuous time of my adult life. A time where I have struggled to show up with love for myself. When I see this photo, I am reminded that even in my darkest depths, I am still lovable.