Truth or Compassion?

I’ve always thought of myself as a pretty responsible person when it comes to other’s feelings. So much so that I tend to get a mild panic attack when I feel I have let someone down, especially when that person is hurt by something I have done or said. It’s a responsibility we all have, this compassion and understanding for others. Granted, sometimes we have to be brutally honest when our values have been compromised, when they don’t align with someone else’s. But at the heart of whatever we do and say should be that sense of compassion.

This last month has been difficult for me because I caused someone I dearly love undue pain out of a need to be brutally honest in my writing. Yes, it was integral to the story and was actually stated by someone else. But the words were hurtful, regardless. And, it turns out, they relayed something that was unknown to the person they referred to. Which I was unaware of.

Oh, what a mess we can make with our words! And for those of us who write memoir, this is especially true, because we write from our perspectives, which may not (often does not) align with the perspectives of those we write about. This brings me to ask, once again, why I am so compelled to write memoir. Ask any memoirist this and many, probably most, will get a crazed look in their eyes, run fingers through their hair and blow out a long breath before answering. And, most likely, it won’t be a pat answer.

For me, I refer to the word COMPULSION: an irresistible urge to behave in a certain way, especially against one’s conscious wishes.

Yikes. So who, or what is driving this bus, anyway?

I have to admit, life was much easier when I wrote children’s books, simple little stories about dogs and how they need love and care. Then along comes my aunt and drops a bombshell and I’m driven to research my family history, discovering all kinds of interesting stories, many of which are other bombshells. So why must I write about it? As for my aunt, she wants her story to be told. I’m her vehicle.

But…haven’t we always heard that the truth will set us free? For my aunt, her paternity story is a huge and important part of her life, her identity. Turns out, so is mine. So I began to write about the discoveries and in the process set free a few bogeymen.

We both have paternity histories which carry the weight of pain.

Here is my question: how much truth (again, from my perspective, and my aunt’s) can we divulge before it’s too much? Where is the line we shouldn’t cross? Must truth end before compassion begins?

Unfortunately, there’s no nice, neat answer to this.

I’ve read many memoirs. Most were good, and ended with some kind of healing or understanding. Certainly all reflected change. But along the way, loved ones were often presented in a way they probably didn’t like. At all. But what value does a memoir have if we begin to sugar-coat, omit, or even change things? None, whatsoever.

What we can do, however, is to question our intentions. What, and why, do we need to write the specific words we write? Can we stay truthful and use different words? After all, anyone who writes has a deep understanding of words and the use of language. Can we say the same thing in a way that still conveys our truth, yet prevents infliction of pain for others?

I don’t have the answer, yet. But I’m working on it.