Memories

Why do we have them?

Where do they come from?

What purpose do they serve?

Why do we choose to keep certain memories and to let others go?

How accurate/factual are the memories we carry?

Who owns them?

These are the kinds of questions I ask myself when I think about writing my story.  The last two questions stump me.  They are the ones that frequently hold me back from recounting my tales.

I worry.

About what my memory of something is, and how the telling of it might affect another's life - the life of someone who might be connected to that memory.

Secrets.

I carry many of them.  Most of which do not belong to me.  Perhaps, deep within me, there is a martyr...or a samaritan, who willingly chooses to be the receptacle of other souls' secrets. 

How do I move myself beyond this point, where I still honour and protect the lives of others, and yet free myself from the memories that have haunted me all those years ago?  Am I asking for the impossible, or is it possible to find a happy and balanced solution to this dilemma?  Is it a dilemma, or am I making a big deal out of nothing?

After Saigon fell, I wanted to remember everything that happened to me, so that I could always remember those that I lost.  I did really well for years, remembering the people and the events as if they had happened yesterday.  Then, other memories crowded in, and I needed to let go of some to make way for others.  So, I relaxed my hold on some memories, and now...well,...I'm not sure about what I remember.  I can see that my memory of certain events have been layered, over the ensuing years, with newer information gleaned from other people's retelling of said events, and that worries me. 

I want to be as honest and truthful as I can be about what I remember.   I'm not in a position to go around and hunt down all details.  So, how can I share my experiences and honour the truth (not to mention, protect lives) if they are not the same? 

Maybe my concerns are not really issues.... But, then again, maybe they are.

Sigh.

Introduction

I have shared my story, bits and pieces, here and there, over the years with loved ones and with those who seemed genuinely interested. The usual response to the tale is disbelief, then encouragement to write it out.

Writing intimidates me. 

It's another way to communicate, and communication has, generally, been a great challenge for me.  Great, in the sense of "problematic", not great, as in, "Cool! This is something I would be happy to sink my teeth into!"  To this day, I still struggle between expressing too much or too little of my thoughts, my feelings, my experiences.  As a consequence, I end up sharing way too much of myself, or not enough.

I created this blog as part of an assignment from my e-writing course.  The e-course was born from an in-class writing program for which I signed up, through the continuing education office in my local area.  I registered for the latter in hopes of drawing forth enough courage to begin chronicling my story.  I had in the back of my mind the excuse that writing my story would be a legacy that I could leave for my descendants; however, the real reason was that I was hoping it would be a form of therapy. 

The title of the blog was a gift given by one of the members in the writing course, after I read a synopsis of a story.  The story is a tale of sorrow and heartache, and the power of the human spirit to grow and flourish from such pain and madness.  Another member offered the title, 'Laying Down My Burdens.' 

I hope to make this blog a place - a sacred place - where I can build courage and confidence in expressing my thoughts and feelings, lay down my burdens, and begin healing my broken wings.  And, perhaps, through this process, my work might help others in some way.

Welcome and thank you for your visit.