Because I thought to write, everything else is tugging at my attention. The furnace filter, my bladder, discussion of my son's boyfriend's musical taste, shopping at Walmart.
I've heard it said that a memory revisited is a memory forever altered. Which seems to imply the memoir has power to change the past. If only it could. Perhaps the memory means each step we take forward is a step into truth.
I'm melodramatic, if not histrionic. I reread my written snippets and become overwhelmed by the weight of my word choices. This is how I am perceived. I would apologize, perhaps if that's what you're asking for.
My therapist urges me to take back the narrative. It offers me empowerment, she says. To thine own self be true.
These are words. I've written. The outside presses in. At some point I'll be back.