Started writing my memoir. No formal training - blunt and honest feedback appreciated.

Starting a memoir... advice needed

I just started writing my memoir. Just wanted some feedback and advice.. It's about my journey to hell and out..

-Childhood trauma and neglect -ADHD -Addiction -Abusive partners

• Grief/ loss of people by suicide/od/ cancer Etc etc etc

I know to not let it wander too much and to keep central themes, but right now I'm emotionally unfreezing so I know to just write now - work on getting the words on the page and refine later.

I do want feedback. I do want it to be honest. But please do it in a gentle way. Don't just say "your writing sucks" I'm looking for constructive criticism... also.. Please keep in mind that I wrote this in a stream of consciousness in about 10 minutes and it hasn't been refined so please don't be too harsh. Plus I'm not formally trained.. I just want to get an idea of my potential. . . .

Rhonda smelled like stale cigarettes despite there being no cigarettes allowed in jail. I told myself it was from all the years she smoked.

"Two packs a day! Two. Packs. A DAY!" She'd remind me constantly, "then I quit! Just like that," she snapped her fingers, "cold turkey!" I smiled to myself. If Rhonda wanted to be proud of her smoking success story, I would let her. I laughed, knowing full well she didn't have the choice

"Yeah, well, when you can't have cigarettes in jail, it's pretty easy, Rhonda," a woman once said to her.

We all learned not to fuck with Rhonda after that.

With bright expressive blue eyes, overprocessed bleach blonde hair that had about 2 inches of dark brown regrowth, and enough stories to keep you entertained for hours, Rhonda was intensity in a bottle. But there was another side to her as well. A softer side. A side that only I, as her cellmate, saw.

She'd talk to me at night when the cell block quieted. When we were alone with our thoughts. Nobody wanted to be alone with their thoughts in jail, so we'd talk. She told me about her life. She had lived a thousand lives, it seemed. Four ex husbands. 7 kids. A coke habit that would make Chris Farley blush.

"You see.." she said to me one night, as i listened closely, "when a man says he's done with you, don't chase him. Just give it up. Find a new one. I've lived a lot of years. 53 of them. I've loved. I've lost. I've been used and abused. And it's BULLSHIT. You're young and pretty and people - especially MEN - they'll use you if you let them. Every. Single. Time. "

She sounded very matter of fact.

"I wouldn't. I never will, Rhonda." I promised her. And I meant it.

At the time.

My nightly talks with Rhonda felt sacred. It made me feel special, having these rare insights into her innermost thoughts. Even if it wasn't that deep. Even if sometimes the things she said didn't make the most sense. Or if the advice she gave me wasn't the most practical.. I knew in my heart that she meant well. That she was trying.

"Well, little one, get some sleep," She looked down at me and smiled. It felt nice to have someone talk to me before bed. To tell me things. To see me.

As I lay on the hard rubber mattress, I fixated on that feeling.. Being seen. What does that really feel like? I looked at the little desk in our room. The small cold metal toilet. The window that looked right out into the yard..

Goodnight jail.

Goodnight Rhonda.

Goodnight guards.

Goodnight fluorescent lights and the buzzing sound they make.

Goodnight doors.

Goodnight locks.

Goodnight boredom.

Goodnight noises everywhere.