I’ve been sloshing through the memories of my convent years, tossing out and adding to the pile of memories I’m inclined to share. Guilt threatens me at every turn, especially when it seems I’m whining or not being positive enough. We were brainwashed those days, so much so that we still bear many (though invisible) mental scars. I have no intention of casting a shadow on any of the women with whom I lived. It was the institution, rather than any individual that perpetrated the inhuman conditions we endured. I did encounter my share of prickly characters, though I now can’t blame them. They were simply reacting in their own way to the same conditions. I shy away from revealing those negative aspects, except as they applied to all of us. Thus, I continue to write my version of my nineteen years behind those walls. Which I continue to do, one chapter at a time. Until my book (Once Upon a Convent) is finished.