Novel of my life (Very late)

                The novel of my life. If anyone were to write it, it would definitely be me. I think I could do a good job with it. I think it would be interesting. I have a lot to gain from writing about myself, and I think a lot of it would have important universal echoes. My youth was often very dramatic. My parents divorced, beginning when I was nine, and their battle tainted all of our lives (I have a brother who is 2 years younger than me) for the next five years. It continued to haunt us through my high school years. My parents had been together since they were fifteen . Their divorce shattered a part of my mother, and it brought forth in her a wound that had been concealed by my father’s love and commitment to her. This wound had been a part of her since she was an infant. Her biological father left her and her mother when she was just one year old. He was a drunk. This was not the wound; she wouldn’t remember him leaving. What happened was that my grandmother arranged meetings between my mother and her father, his name is Jesse, and Jesse almost invariably blew off these meetings, crushing my mother. My grandma has told me that my mother, at three and four years old, would wear her nicest dress, have her do up her hair, and wait with a big smile for her father to come see her. And then he wouldn’t come. And now I sit here writing this just imagining the moment, maybe thirty minutes past time, when my grandmother would have to tell my precious little mother that her father wasn’t coming, that she could take off the dress. One particular account of this pattern my own father told me about fairly recently, during one of our many conversations silently intended to help us better understand the divorce and its aftermath: what happened, why things happened, and what we do now. He told me that one time after my grandmother had realized Jesse wasn’t coming, she took my mother to a convenience store to buy a treat, a candy bar or an ice cream or something. While they were in the store, Jesse tromped through the door with a couple friends, all of them drunk. I can’t imagine without cringing the disgust that must have pulsed through my grandmother at that moment, and the base psychological trauma inflicted upon my young, tender mother. I almost think emotional trauma is worth than physical trauma, but I only am familiar with the former, thankfully. Anyway, why I bring this up, why this anecdote figures into my own life, is that I am intensely interested in how large packets of energy are submerged and then how and why they are released way later in one’s life.  Further, I am also interested in how these energies perhaps never die, or are completely expelled from people, I have a theory that these energies are only transferred, undergoing some kind of transformation, from one person to another. I believe that my mother’s frustration,her  hate for her father found a vessel for expression, now that she was more articulate and intelligent than her toddler self, in my father’s leaving her. And I witnessed much of this drama, and it, in turn, formed me, especially as I became older, began to question my mother, and began to have my own drama with her, and now I feel that in some way, somehow, I carry the same hate that caused Jesse, my blood grandfather, to treat his daughter so terribly. I strongly believe that these ideas are worth my extensive exploration.