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Screensize: 640 x 480 800 x 600 1024 x 768 1280 x 1024 UserName: Password: Format Mode: Basic  Help  Prompt  Format: Font Andale Mono Arial Arial Black Book Antiqua Century Gothic Comic Sans MS Courier New Georgia Impact Lucida Console Script MT Bold Stencil Tahoma Times New Roman Trebuchet MS Verdana   Size 1 2 3 4 5 6   Color Black Red Yellow Pink Green Orange Purple Blue Beige Brown Teal Navy Maroon LimeGreen Message: * HTML is OFF * Forum Code is ON Smilies [quote][i]Originally posted by marsha[/i] [br]Trouble with Journaling I have always had difficulty with keeping a journal for the purpose of dealing with TMS. After writing for what seemed like hours and hours I would end up with a contrived jumble of words. I would over think. The same stories about what I thought I should be feeling repeated themselves every time. Last week I began a course in Memoir Writing. For the first time I wrote about a memory a story from my past. I would like to share it with you. The Touch She was eighty I was fifty. She leaned close to speak and placed her hand on my leg. We were sitting in my car in the driveway at my house. We had been shopping. My father hated to shop so it became my job to take her to the store to find a new couch for their den. For years my father had taken her to shop. She did not drive. Afraid. He spends many hours sitting in parking lots waiting for her to finish so that he can take her home. Sometimes, when I was a teenager I would go along. I would shop with her. She would never worry about the time. He never complained. Occasionally she would buy something for me. Most of the time she bought things for herself. There was never anything in the bag for my father. He never complained. She wanted a new watch and he had a friend in the jewelry business. One evening he brought home twenty watches so that she would be able to pick one out that she liked. Not one. The next evening he brought home some more. Not twenty. The stock was exhausted. Still she could not find one she liked. He didn’t complain, but he never brought any more watches home. She never took me to a movie. We never had a lunch date or told each other secrets. She was eighty I was fifty. She leaned close to speak and placed her hand on my leg. I felt my eyes fill with tears and my heart sink. My mother never touched me. I didn’t realize that until that very moment. I never let her see my tears. This was the first time I really felt. Now I can let that moment go. So maybe if we don’t call it journaling and call it memoir writing we can reach deeper. I see this as a new beginning for me. Marsha [/quote]   Check here to include your profile signature.