Too personal?

I have always felt compelled to write an autobiography, yet I do not understand why and I could not identify my motivations to a reader. I could pretend, as Rousseau does, that my autobiography is a long, unintentional account or confession of my life through impulsive thought and emotion however I am sure that my account will be riddled with Freudian slips and subliminal, subconscious indicators of my physcological state and motivations. One intention I do have is too explicate all; every aspect of myself is included whether said or unsaid, a mosaic of myself is produced for seeing, reading eyes. This is my Autobiography and it does not claim historical authority, it is a programme of events and a schedule of my intermittent and slighty confused memory. It mostly ignores chronology but I believe the nature of my intrusive and revealing work must and should rid itself of the shackles of time and accuracy. This fragment will include my teenage years of fifteen and sixteen, yet a pivotal moment of when I was ten was to prepare me, or rather to elucidate what was to come.

Chap 1 - This was to be no Ordinary Life

Anticipation filled me as I awaited the arrival of family guests one Easter Sunday when I was ten. The sight of the extended dining table always filled me with joy as home-cooked dishes and life troubles were exchanged between Aunts, Uncles, mothers and fathers… I was ignorant of its importance then, yet one incident that day was to remain a splinter in my memory. As we all settled down to dinner I spotted an opportunity for amusement for myself and for my audience. As my mother squatted to take her seat I took the chair from underneath her and watched her fall to the floor. My expression, poised, ready for a congregation of laughter, was met with scorn and worst of all, tears, from my mother. Their faces filled me with a guilty sickness and the shame; as I still feel it now, made my throat swell. An ordinary prank was to have an extraordinary effect, as would any cruel prank on the disabled. My mother had been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis three years before and the effects were starting to show. This was to be my introduction to the sickness and the blackness of emotion that belonged to it.