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#memoir

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"1 SUMMER OF LOVE

I was driving through the pitch black Virginia night, down the perfectly flat blacktop that was once a railroad track, across that high bridge over the ravine, thinking about the details of how one night I was going to drive off it. I was sure I'd never live to the age of eighteen, so I never bothered making any plans for the future. Eighteen had come and gone a year ago, but I was still breathing. And things were only getting worse.

The summer of 1982. That disgusting, sticky, humid weather where your back soaks through your shirt just from taking a short drive. By midsummer everything was a mess. My sister Liz's boyfriend flipped out in our kitchen one night and attacked me with a butcher knife. Soon after, Liz tried to kill herself for the first of many times. Swallowed a bunch of pills. Her heart stopped the moment we got her to the hospital, but they were able to revive her.

Pretty soon after that, Liz and my mom went out of town to visit relatives and I found my father's dead body lying there sideways on my parents' bed, fully dressed in his usual shirt and tie, with his feet almost on the floor, like he just sat down to die at fifty-one. I tried to learn CPR from the 911 operator on the phone, carrying my father's already-stiff body across the bedroom floor. It was weird touching him. That was the first time we had any physical contact that I could remember, other than the occasional cigarette burn on my arm while squeezing by him in the hallway.

I figured driving off the bridge might be the best way to deal with the crushing, lost, and empty feeling of being me. A dramatic way to go, of course. I was a kid. Later in life it would usually be a gun I imagined using on myself. Not quite as dramatic as driving off a bridge in your hometown. You can chart my development this way. In more recent years I would think about pills most often. That dramatic stuff is for kids. I'm mature now.

At the end of the summer, which I had already started referring to as The Summer of Love, I drove my gold '71 Chevy Nova away from home for the first time. I had bought the car that I called 'Old Gold', complete with a stop sign used in place of its rusted-out floorboard, for a hundred bucks from my hot, blonde cousin Jennifer, who years later would die on the plane that hit The Pentagon, September 11, 2001. She was a flight attendant. Sent a postcard from Dulles airport that morning that read 'Ain't Life Grand?' in big letters on the front.

My father worked at The Pentagon back around the time I was born. If I believed in curses, I'd have to wonder if the plane hit the part of the building where my father's office once was. But I don't believe in curses. Life is full of ups and downs. There have been some extremes in my life's case but, considering I had no plan, and very little of the kind of self-esteem you need to get by in this world, things could be worse. I'm just wandering through here, seeing what happens.

I don't know what happens when you die and I don't expect to find out until I die. Probably nothing, but you never know. For now, I'm still alive, and I've come to realize that some of the most horrible moments of my life have led to some of the best, so I'm not one for eating up people's melodrama. Just another day to me."

— Mark Oliver Everett: Things the Grandchildren Should Know, pp. 1-3

New blog post up in which I try to do Past Me a solid. Neurodivergence, regret, and Apple stock, all in one little bundle for ya.

I'm new to memoir and don't know what I'm doing. Though I wouldn't normally publish a letter, part of why I chose to publish this one is in the hopes that somebody sees themselves in part of it, and finds something that helps them. Maybe that somebody is you.

The URL is abysmal. But the letter is okay.

open.substack.com/pub/fernbuil

This one was hard.

I wrote about being the wrong kind of victim.

The kind who stayed. The kind who didn't call the police. The kind who texted three days after.

And yes, it might make you feel uncomfortable, but it's the experience of many, many victims. So important to understand.

kristie-de-garis.ghost.io/not-

By Hand · Not The Right Kind Of VictimMost of my friends will learn about many things for the first time when they read my book. Not because I was hiding them. Not exactly. But because the kind of trauma I carry doesn’t naturally come up in conversation. It’s not neat. It cannot be told between
Replied in thread

@neve
Have I ever read a nonfiction book that turned out to be more entertaining than a novel?

Oh, yes. Al Franken's Giant of the Senate. And every bit of it is true. It's sad he was run out of the Senate. He's also wonderful live (he's the only senator who does stand up).

“I like Ted Cruz more than most of my other colleagues like Ted Cruz. And I hate Ted Cruz.”

It was an honor to be a panelist on #Dementia Stories for Impact: Dementia Life Course and Storytelling, sponsored by the #AlzheimersAssociation and #UCSF. My fellow authors and colleagues talked about the importance of #narrative, #empathy, #brain health, and Dr. Bruce Miller and I talked about our work together on my #memoir, Finding the Right Words: A Story of Literature, Grief, and the Brain. I hope you find this discussion helpful.

lnkd.in/g-mgqkkN

#EndAlz
#Caregiving

lnkd.inLinkedInThis link will take you to a page that’s not on LinkedIn

It was an honor to be a panelist on #Dementia Stories for Impact: Dementia Life Course and Storytelling, sponsored by the #AlzheimersAssociation and #UCSF. My fellow authors and colleagues talked about the importance of #narrative, #empathy, #brain health, and Dr. Bruce Miller and I talked about our work together on my #memoir, Finding the Right Words: A Story of Literature, Grief, and the Brain. I hope you find this discussion helpful.

lnkd.in/g-mgqkkN

#EndAlz
#Caregiving