I've written about my tendency to write 'safe' content. As an adult, I've avoided the 'dark ages' of my youth and all the horrendous experiences of those days--I've avoided it in my writing and in my thinking. Once in a while a flashback finds its way into my consciousness. I acknowledge it, give thanks that I made it out alive to build a rich, meaningful life full of family, fulfilling work and fun in-betweens. Then I release the flashback and return to the now.
Sometimes I do more than acknowledge: sometimes I examine, take pleasure in the mental road trip, wonder about where the people who helped me make those memories are now, wonder about where I'd be now if things had played out differently--it's an exercise in fantasy and it is enjoyable. But mostly, I sweep the memories away in favor of life as it is.
Still, occasionally, I'm haunted by the idea of digging in and uncovering some of those experiences. Mostly, because there is so much material there. So much to learn from. So much 'what not to do.' But I'd never write about that stuff simply for the sake of exposing it, there would have to be a purpose. There would have to be a compelling benefit to trudging up all of that ugliness. It would have to bring enlightenment to others, would need to be of value. Otherwise, the only value is how those atrocities helped to steer me toward wiser choices, healthier habits, and love for living. They've served their purposes, then. And unless and until they become necessary for a new purpose, they will remain buried in the dark depths of my history, where they belong. Lived. Lessons learned. Put to eternal sleep.
