When I was in high school I signed up to participate in a therapy class. Like most of my peers I was there for the easy grade. It took a long time for anyone to really say much although the teacher did her best to get us to open up about anything serious. We were instructed not to speak outside of class about any thing that was shared inside of our group. But this was high school and people knew that gossip spread like wild fire. Nothing very personal was ever truly shared that is until the end of the semester when a girl decided to drop a bomb on us.
She began to cry even before she started speaking. Nobody had a clue what was coming nor were we equipped to handle such honesty.
She spoke about being molested… by her father. How it had been going on for years. I can still remember her face. The tears. Her mouth clenched with the pain of confession. I remember how uncomfortable I felt. Looking around everyone seemed to be feeling the exact same way.
She was very brave to share her secret with all of us. I hope that the teacher was able to help her. I wonder sometimes what became of her. Her countenance was etched upon my brain that day. I doubt I could ever be that bold. I can only write and confess my sins to God.
After the only mother I had ever known died before my eyes on the living room floor sprawled across our hideously green shag carpet I felt compelled to write and write until my tears left dried tracks on my cheeks. I was thirteen years old and I needed to tell my story or I would inevitably commit a fatal sin. I wanted to die but God wanted me to live or so I sensed at the time. I felt what ever God is all around me but only writing brought solace.
Only then did my pain mitigate enough to be able to share my thoughts. It became therapy for me long before I had ever heard of the word memoir.
Memoir can also be used to express the joy in life as well. To write about the utter joy that life can bring from seeing how the whole picture fits together.