I’m a problem solver. I’ve had to develop analytical skills and heightened awareness at from early age in order to understand and navigate a world that wouldn’t make space for my dad’s wheelchair. I’m a 5 year old master at using papi’s hand controls to drive his roach infested Nissan Sentra in and out of parking spaces so he can get in and out out of the car because handicapped spots barely exist. I’m a six year old at Kmart advocating for wider spaces in between the checkout line so my dad’s chair could fit. I’m a seven year old at the electric company asking for a payment extension because there’s no ramps for my dad to access the building. My fate in life lead me to a not so shabby career as a social worker. If only my bank account reflected my success! Problems are wrongs that need to be corrected and I’ve learned to do it better than most.
The anointed time for my memoir is here. I can feel it in my original bones. I have sentences in my head demanding to be freed. Lately my dreams are a panoramic view of events I’ve lived and want to immortalize. Writing is all I want to do but I can’t seem to do it.
I’ve read books on memoir and sought advice from people who have written memoirs. They pointed me to acceptance and honesty. I have to accept what I have lived and write it honestly. This rang true to me and made me uncomfortable.
I’ve accepted my fate to the point of celebrating my struggles and my plot heavy existence makes it so there’s no need to exaggerate my experiences in order to convey a worthwhile story. I’m sure my stories are incredibly honest! But in rewriting them for the book, my blindspots are too glaring.
Turns out it’s easier to talk about my dad’s emotional abandonment than commit to paper his otherworldly resilience as a 20 year old survivor of gun violence who raised two successful and independent self-sufficient adults. “Good kids don’t get that way by accident.”
It’s easy to write about all the boys who have dumped me than to jot down I’ve always felt alone, out of place and lonely, especially while spending time with them. That they were good guys who saw good in me and tried to build something worthwhile but I was too jaded and damaged so I acted out to make them leave.
On the outside, to the people I’m close to, I’ve been a serial monogamist hoping to get in right. In reality, I’ve been a pathetic, needy, insecure victim who accepted mistreatment from men and begged to hear an “I love you” that would never be uttered. And that wasn’t just at 19 with Abiú, 21 with Alan, and 23 with Alejandro, but at 25 with Brian, 27 with Ross, 31 with Sherman, 33 and 35 with Kyle.
In secret, I struggled with intimacy. I was a sex addict engaging in risky behavior because feeling used by men who wanted to get off felt safer than the touch of men who claimed to protect me. I’ve paid a big price for that. Every day I pray to release guilt over some shameful decisions I’ve made.
The trauma of my life and the pain of living purely for survival is reflected in secrets I haven’t directly written about… like the reality that I am recovering from an eating disorder. I lived in my head. My body was foreign to me. I binged so I could feel something. Don’t get me wrong, these truths aren’t omitted from the stories I’ve written. It’s just that it’s often shrunk into a three or four word clarifying sentence.
I figured, this is the solution to a familiar problem I solved a year ago when Undamaged Essence began.
What if I sit down and write down the things I’m terrified to admit?
I cannot wait for the book, Luis. And I applaud your process to write it. Take your time.
Love.
Yep. You def owe this to you. 💕💕