I was angry before my birthday, and the anger has persisted.
Not towards any other human, but towards my book, which I am editing, which I am despising, which I am questioning.
The book itself is becoming angry, at parts. Was there anger beneath so much of this?
"I go to the barrier and grip the bar coldly with my hands, staring out over the sea while a wave of resignation begins to submerge me. Why do I do this? It’s a hunger for prolonging life and a disgust for everything that feels like death: for David, who would hold me until my passionate love whimpers into domesticity, for the future, which would tie my many limbs into a single repetition of senseless ambition, for the past, and the dark-eyed girl who lives behind closed doors, perpetually screaming.
I wanted to pound on the concrete beneath me. Instead I squeezed the bar more tightly, jamming my eyes shut and humming.
I was flayed open like a carcass, I thought. I was left in that room to rot. "
Much of this will change, maybe all of it. But memoir is always psychoanalytic, and every time I edit, layers are revealed to me.
And how do you write the ending to a memoir, anyway? Memories are constantly resurrecting with new meanings. To write the ending is to allow them to die to my life. Which is not all bad, if the ending is right.