Fact or Fiction?

Over the past few weeks I have found myself getting emotional as I wrote extra scenes for Button Mania. While walking the dog I remembered a detail that still needed adding and started crying. I hid in a bus shelter until I got a grip. Then while driving to Tesco, I thought of a few lines between Simon and Tom (i.e. his partners Father) again I was in tears. I waited in the carpark until I could compose myself. But in the supermarket, the words came back and the tears started again. Talk about embarrassing!
I doubt those words will have anything like as powerful an impact on my readers unless they have similar personal issues.
When I analysed why had over reacted so, I again suspected that there were details of early sexual abuse that I was still in denial about. But it wasn’t just this, I was shown online naked pictures of me as a small child, ones I hadn’t seen before. They kind of lifted a veil. I should emphasize that they were not uploaded as porn, a family friend thought they were cute. (I imagine they will be removed).
At first I thought I was being delusional, so I put these worries to a friend and then my therapist. As I voiced it, it became clear that rather than being paranoid, it was denial. As always, choosing to ignore the obvious. I had been quite clever about it; open, honest and sincere but blinkered nevertheless.
Now when I read over some of my earlier blogs I cringe, they are not dishonest, but when I get close to the danger zone I go into spin mode. The denial is obvious and leaps off the screen.
I have tried, in the past, to write biographical accounts of my childhood. I never got far before I hit difficulties; not just what happened (some memories are confused), but why did I do that and more especially, who the fuck am I?
Indeed this is why I wrote Raw Food. To unblock myself, I embarked on an erotically disturbing fantasy to convey what I could not tackle in autobiography; how the hunted apparently wants to be caught and devoured.
It seems that by setting ones imagination free and writing fiction one can get at truths censored by the mind.
Remember when the boy in the Magician’s Nephew brings back the apple from Narnia to save his terminally ill mother? That’s the kind of thing I mean. I doubt C.S.Lewis could have written so poignantly about losing his mother in autobiography.

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