Putting a child’s inner life into words, part 1
A memoir is a story of how a hard challenge shaped a character’s life. So I have to frame, in words, the challenges I perceived at age eleven when I lacked the words to describe them. (Part 2 of this idea)
When my child self talks to me through my journals of 1975-1976, her tone of voice recalls the thoughts and beliefs that she didn’t write down. I seem to be able to feel the intuitions and moods she felt, and now as an adult I can pull them, like a bucket from a well, into the light of today.
The heaviness of that old bucket makes me as tired as a long hike. What I’m finding is the unseen inner life of a child. And I’m astonished at how enormous and three-dimensional it was.
Outwardly, I seemed so energetic that (I’ve been told) I seemed not to understand what was going on when my mother was dying. But I did. I saw it, clearly. What went unseen from the outside was how I saw my life unfolding on the inside.
Inside, I was afraid that my self as I knew her — or my personality — was in danger of disappearing. Of course I didn’t have words for that. Until now. New writing from this week:
I had no choice: even if my mom was going to die, I would still be alive. Life would force me to get my period, wear a bra, look pretty, like boys, go to high school, care about clothes, get a job, and be an adult woman. From my point of view, each of these tasks was worse than impossible. I couldn’t even see myself within their universe. That universe of rites and trappings seemed designed to erase the Fran that I knew. But to avoid them was impossible.
The scenarios I thought I confronted were:
1) Be erased by meeting the standards of a universe in which I can’t exist; or
2) Resist and prevent rites of passage that can neither be resisted nor prevented.
I felt that life was pulling me towards a compulsory brainwashing, and nothing and no one could stop it. No wonder my mind so often filled up with a bleak and lifeless, gray, battlefield-like landscape of dread.
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The task set out for me at eleven was: to survive the impossible and to remain the person I really was. My book, in progress, will tell adult readers what it was really like to be a motherless child, and what/who inspired me to build a life I was excited about.
Love this, Fran. What you’ve written resonates deeply.
Our lives were parallel in so many ways, including the fact that I have a memoir that is being published this year, too, surrounding this type of trauma—losing one’s mother (among other things).
I’m looking forward to reading your memoir to see how all of this comes together. The writing process is fascinating.
Thank you, Kathy. It’s so helpful to hear that this resonates. I’m glad to hear you have a publication date – congrats! I’m looking forward to reading your memoir and seeing the parallels.
Fran – very thought provoking. So interesting for me to think how I/we project our ideas of what a child/adult is going through, often not realizing that they know what they are experiencing but they cannot voice it yet. I’m grateful for time!
Thanks, Nancy. You’re right – we don’t know what adults are going through, either. And it’s still not easy to put current struggles into words.