Someone once said repressed memories are not such a bad thing - there is a reason they are repressed. I never really thought about it. Heck, I never really worried about it. I never questioned what was in that little black box left in the back corner of my mind. I justified it as what the ER would use when I arrived in the ambulance after some horrible incident. But when I saw on TV that the little "Black Boxes" they put on airplanes were actually orange, it begged to ask - why was mine black. But, I digress.
When I wrote my book, it started as a few stories about my mother. The more I wrote the more I remembered. It all came flooding back to me - the good and the bad. Suddenly everything I saw brought back some random memory. An example was driving through the countryside and seeing the foundation of an old house. Old bricks!
One of the reviewers of the book commented that the book skimmed over the drinking years. The book wasn't something I wrote from a therapy couch trying to rid my soul of demons, as if I should open that black box. At first I was hurt by this - the writing was weak because I didn't tackle this subject. Then it dawned on me it was my book and I could write whatever I wanted to as long as it was accurate. The purpose wasn't to please the critics, the purpose was to tell an entertaining story about someone I loved.
As for the little black box, well it can just stay back there with the cobwebs. I have done just fine as I am. And, as for information for the ER, who has ever heard of a personal orange box in someone's mind any way? But then some folks have bats in their belfry. Some are air heads. I prefer to think my elevator does got to the top and when the doors open it isn't the clearance section.
And, I'm sure my Mama would have some quip to make. This is one time I wish I knew what she would say.