A.H.D.S-O.

Avoidance:

In the month that has passed since I really last posted, I do regret to admit that I was avoiding you all.

I have been shamelessly avoiding my natural duty and outlet to write and release my thoughts because I was tormented by many things I wanted to say, but I could never quite find the words.

I also avoided updating because I knew the things I wanted to write about were sure to be emotional and full of memory.  Sometimes, I do admit, I am a coward when it comes to emotion.

Sometimes, in my darkest hours,  I repress things for the sake of avoiding pain.

It's stupid, really, repression is merely reverse psychology for such things as pain and regret, or frustration, or sadness.

And yet I still do it.   I am a self-diagnosed basket case at times, I will not deny.


Honesty:

A moment of honesty with you all, I now promise. Which, although I am not a truly dishonest person, I do admit is rare for me to share.

I was afraid to delve any further into my past over the last month.

The post about my mom's bout with cancer wore me out for weeks.  The seemingly-lifelong-journey I took through myself whilst camping in the wilderness wore me out for over a month.

I was too scared to write what I already knew.  Writing things down immortalizes them forever. It's one of the most exhilarating and exhausting aspects of being a writer. The process of writing also forces you to really explore your discovery.  Sometimes new treasures are unearthed, sometimes new tragedies take their place instead.


Desire:

There were so many things I wanted to write about the past month; I honestly did sit down several times to try my hand at one or the other, but I couldn't stomach it.  I caved to my fear.

I wanted to write about The Old House, and I wanted to write about The Beatles.  I wanted to write about my childhood, and I wanted to write about the music that moves me the most. I wanted to write more about my camping trip. I wanted to write about my mom.  I wanted to write about epiphanies and realizations and healing and moving on and all of them seemed so beautiful, so untouched.

As silly as it sounds, I wanted to write about me.

Not the things I love now, not the things I dream about in  the future.  Not the books I've read.

I wanted to write my history.  My childhood.  My journey.  My familiar and my unfamiliar. The entire process of my life.

Recently I finished reading My Mother's House and Sido by Colette, and I realized that an author's greatest work is undoubtedly their reflections on childhood.  Their greatest talent is to write where they came from, and their oldest memories, and to make you fall in love with the raw beauty of home and family and youth.

The age of innocence is the most impactful age of a writer's life.

And I wasted mine on trying to grow up too fast, and then trying to forget it all.

I succeeded, too.  Up until I went camping, when my childhood collided heavily with my present self, and refused to let me go.

Since that week when my 7 year old self told me to let all of my pain go, memories and feelings I've not thought of or felt in years have been flooding back to me.  And I wanted to write about all of them, but in truth, I had not given myself the proper time to process them.


Sworn Oath:


And so here we are.

I promise the period of withdrawal is over.

These things need to be written down, and they need to be immortalized.

And I want you all to be the first receivers of this sort of life-manuscript.

I'll try my very best to keep them from being long and wordy, but some will probably err on the side of longish with an accompaniment of nostalgia, served with a healthy sample of musical influence.

Thanks for your patience, and your support and understanding.

You are all brilliant stars. :)

Sending you all the chocolate chips in the world,

Hannah Xx