skel(e)tons

My creative writing class has finally gotten around to assigning some actual creative writing. Yay! Except, it's a non-fiction piece. Specifically, I have to produce either a personal essay or memoir. Which is no problem, I mean I have enough drama and silliness in my past to keep an entire fleet of screenwriters happy.

The problem is that writing about it means I have to think about it. Which I do like, never.  So much so that I had to read my old LiveJournal entries to get an idea of what exactly I was writing about (my personal diaries from the era in question are packed away).

Is it sad that someone I haven't seen in nearly 4 years can still inspire a feeling of creeping dread?  I mean, writing this piece is making me anxious like I haven't been in ages.  I guess it could be good- it could help me resolve the whole thing in my head.  But does resolution have to be so painful?

The worst part is that I chose this segment of my past--the time I spent with Erica as part of my family--because it's the only suitably interesting bit I consider suitable for public display.  The rest is to personally scarring.

Holy cow, but I'm screwed up.