After writing this week’s essays, I found myself stark raving mad.
I was mad about a date I went on last weekend, during which a man scolded me for not giving him more access after knowing me for only a week.
I was mad that TSA workers were forced to work without pay.
I was mad about the ways I have overgiven, with men, at work, with friends, and received nothing back.
I’m not sure if it’s the book writing or my perimenopause, but my body is rumbling with rage.
A friend recently asked if she should focus on her book or other projects. I told her: If you decide to write your memoir, prepare for an awakening. Writing this essay collection has held a spotlight up to all the ways I’ve allowed others to mistreat me, all the ways I was unloving and unkind to myself.
I’ve dug into memories and reexamined everything society and culture taught about what it means to be a woman—then and now. Not much has changed in the way women are treated. We’re still held up to a harsher light.
What I’ve gathered this week is that writing a memoir isn’t just about stringing together memories; it’s about releasing everything you’ve swallowed to be acceptable to everyone else but yourself. It’s about learning to demand more from others and your life going forward.
Writing has forced me to tighten my boundaries and close emotional doors. I grew up thinking anger was unladylike. Now I understand that rage can be a catalyst for transformation.
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