a masochists memoir

I used to write. every single day of every day of my life until people took my anonymous words and shared them with real, breathing people. they stole them and used them against me.
I wrote a memoir for NaNoWriMo in my early twenties. before I met my children's father. I wrote it as if I were writing from the grave, combing thru each marking, each event that led me to where I was. 144 pages later I thought I'd written the world's longest obituary and it wasn't that my childhood was terrible, it was, of course, certain events that molded me into this realm of thinking that I could not defy death any longer.
I was a daydreamer but never dreamt of actually becoming a mother and having children. my 20 something year old brain couldn't comprehend that I could be responsible for someone else's life.
I destroyed the memoir, aka the 144 page obituary when I found out I was pregnant with my first child. I couldn't risk my child finding it someday.
I wish I had kept it. I can only imagine the brevity of the sequel and maybe even part 3.
I can say with certainty though, I am ready to close this chapter.