Running in Shadows: Introduction

Introducing my "non-memoir," published in essays exclusively here on The Triggered World.

“Running in the shadows. Damn your love, damn your lies.”

The Chain, Fleetwood Mac

I hate memoirs. Does anyone really enjoy reading memoirs? If we are honest, I don’t think we do. We like reading a memoir (single, not plural) about a person or persons we know/respect/admire. We read biographies, and even autobiographies, by the dozen. But memoirs? They’re just so . . . narcissistic, and self-congratulatory, or is that self-victimizing? I don’t know. A memoir is meant to be a person’s inner-most experiences, thoughts, and actions as they go through what is (most of the time) a more difficult thing in life than the rest of us have had to endure. That’s why we read them, right? 

“Have you read the memoir by ___?!”

“Yes, I can’t believe they ____!” 

But, let’s face it: Memoirs are about the writer, not the reader. All that great writing advice about finding your character’s voices, your protagonist and antagonists’ motivations, settling on your audience, your goal, your agenda . . . All of that gets thrown out the window because we’re talking real life. Real. Fucking. Life. You can’t give your abuser a noble motivation that makes the reader sympathize with the unfortunate events that made them evil - you lived that evil. And you can’t have an unbiased plot twist two-thirds into the story that gives perspective to everything that went before, because real life doesn’t work that way. 

The memoirist, by necessity, most of the time, must have a higher opinion of themselves than your average writer. Otherwise, they would not have written a memoir, they would have gone to therapy like every other human being in the world. Or perhaps their therapist told them to write a memoir. But I’m being unkind. There are, truly, excellent memoirs written not by narcissists but people who had/have a unique life story from which others can learn.

Before you cancel me for knocking the genre, or stop reading because you’ve decided I hate all memoir authors, let me explain. If you’re a memoirist, I apologize. Truly. Rather than being enemies, we are the same. We have a story, perhaps even a unique one, that demands to be told. And we’re not all narcissists.

Even if only one person reads our memoir and is motivated to be a better person, our story can contribute some goodness to the world. No selfishness needed.

I will fully and completely admit to a bit of false humility, self-aggrandizement, conscious-unconsciousness, and even narcissistic tendencies. All those traits I criticize in the memoirs I’ve read. I have been accused of my flair for the dramatic and my quintessential need for an audience. Selfish, big-headed, self-centered, and stuck on my high horse are all phrases used to describe me.

And they are not all wrong. Bringing me to this moment. Very hesitant to write my own memoir.

I knew all along the title: Running in Shadows. But I hadn’t known that, just as I love performing, I was playing right into the hands of this title. So far, I have attempted to tell my story in half written songs, a teacher’s manual about childhood trauma, obscure poems, and meticulously crafted blog posts. My first blog, from the early-2000’s when blogs hit the scene, was about Beethoven and Bono. I thought I would chronicle my life by bands. Then, there was a brief one about trees. Next, Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard about teaching; Running in Shadows about childhood trauma; and finally, this Substack, The Triggered World.

I thought I could tell my story through a young adult series about a 12-year-old girl who discovers, upon the death of her beloved grandmother, that she is herself, a witch. I gave up after Harry Potter when I realized someone had “stolen” my idea. I tried to write the nefarious people in my life into the characters of an adult fantasy novel, but then my mom said she was doing the same thing. I lost all motivation. 

I wrote a couple books of poetry, all veiling the truth of my background while providing enough clues for people to connect to the tragedy and mystery. 

Meanwhile, my story stewed. 

Which brings us to today. We are in an uber-sharing, ultra-transparent, world of social media influencers who actually, literally, make millions of dollars on all those personality traits I suspect in memoir-writers. And people are eating it up like candy! Like a child’s sugar binge when they spend a weekend with grandma. The self-victimization, the capitalizing on tragedy, the unapologetic dramatization of life has made me even more reluctant to write my memoir.

Yet, here I am. I really hate those phrases “let your voice be heard,” “tell your truth,” “let her/his/their/its story be told.” In my not-so-humble opinion this is nothing more than a cop out to avoid the work to repair the shit that you went through, and that everyone goes through. It’s a way to compete for the bottom. “I had it worse than you,” “No you didn’t, look at what happened to me.” 

Can you hear my eye roll? 

Sigh.

But just like those teen witches in my abandoned YA drafts, and that dark villain I tried to create from my father, this story is demanding to be told.

If I can forgive myself for being cliched, can you forgive my criticisms?

Then let’s begin. 

For a while since I joined Substack almost a year ago, I’ve been lying low. I read posts, shared, and commented a bit. I found like-minded people. A home where reasonable opinions and excellent writing met. I saw fellow aspiring writers publish their books and memoirs in installments. Inspiration hit. Events in my life, and, to be honest, in my therapy, all pointed to now as my moment to share.

My story is not fluid. It doesn’t have a beginning, middle, and end. I don’t have that one thing, or that one experience, trauma, or event that can fit nicely on the back of a book cover. There’s no one-line hook. I’ve long known that my memoir would be in installments. Essays of the individual and collective aspects that made me who I am today.

The writing folder in my hard drive is littered with failed attempts to parse out my experiences into individual containers and periods. Think Taylor Swift’s “Era’s”, but not as stylish and hipster. I told this piece or that piece to a podcast, or column, or friend, but rarely the whole picture. Really, the number of people that know everything can be counted on one hand. With two of them therapists. Thus, the title, Running in Shadows. There are good reasons why my life is characterized by the run from one shadow to the next.

I place poverty in one box, religious cult in another, gay father, trans ex-husband, alcoholism, and my many homes into their separate tiny tupperware. But no one uses Tupperware anymore. It all sits in my psyche like the leftovers at the back of the fridge we say we’re going to eat, but throw away a month later when we can’t recognize what it was to begin with.  My memories riddled with mold.

All the while I run in shadows, trapped in a cave. It’s time to break the chains.