the story of a girl
“I write out the dark places, but this does not mean I live in the dark. My home is loving and good. It does not mean anything except that I’m normal. Like everyone, I get backed into corners I didn’t even know were there, and then I have to write myself out of them. Sometimes I have to ask for wisdom and then dig myself out with words, and digging requires a memory and one that seems completely unrelated to the corner I’m in.” Amber, The Runamuck.
My loving mother wrote and told me she cried when she read my last post. She tells me that I am too hard on myself and I am – I know that. But there’s something more that i am not saying outright in these posts on the daily. it’s there but you’d have to squint to see and i can’t expect that.
i will probably only say it plainly once, because i am given to story. the plain truth is this: i was adopted at 2 1/2. I have no clue what happened those years before but i can feel that there was love, there was sadness, and there was lots and lots of loss. it was more than my little girl self could process at the time so it’s coming out slowly as shadows of grief standing over me as i go through my day – “in soup, in dreams, and other hard things” – sometimes the shadows feel more real and life now is the vapor.
i sense that it is time for me to be honest with the amount of space this takes in my life, hoping for some healing in the telling….because i can’t afford therapy :)
rich or poor, at the end of the day all we own is our story and poverty or wealth becomes how we respond. i want to come clean and be grateful, to wave my white flag of surrender – and of conquering too. defeat, rescue, and walking on the moon – i own it all through the truth of my life. i will start from the beginning and tell it in segments. i’ll tell it in narrative because that’s how we’re formed.
and oh how my little heart pounds. do i dare say this out loud, risking the brow? but that’s part of my story, me feeling a mystery. different and misunderstood. and so part of the healing is me building a bridge for you to come, walk over it, and respond to my truth.
telling one’s story is like having a baby. it comes when it is ready, there is pain, there is beauty, and it’s all there – laced together – the whole time. as it comes, i will give it.
ps. if i tell my story straight out then maybe i can stop imbedding in morse code into every post that i write tap. tap tap tap. tap tap and just talk about cooking, for cooking’s sake.