writing my story.

after having just written nearly 3,000 words in 2 hours, i am on a bit of high.  i thought i might take this opportunity, before it thins and dissipates into the wild blue yonder, to write here as well.

i mentioned before that i scrapped all other writing ideas to begin putting down my own story on paper.  this has been an extremely hard/powerful/enlightening/tearful journey.  i started in the summer after my high school graduation, in the heat of my parents’ divorce, when all the shit was hitting the fan.  of course, i’ve had this story in my memory for years now, but they’ve always been tucked away in the recesses of my brain, in storage boxes in a closet somewhere in there.  in arrogance, i’ve felt myself “past that” or “healed” so i’ve never really taken the lid off the boxes and just acknowledged what was there.

it is so much different writing something down, seeing it on that big ugly page.  something factual now, not just a story i tell, but a reality.  something i have to own as my story.  no matter how much i may wish for it to be otherwise.

i’ve had two breakdowns at Starbucks as a consequence.  tonight i had to go to the bathroom, mid-sentence, and just sob.  i think the college boys at the table with me thought i was crazy.  they avoided eye contact when i returned.

at first, i wrestled with how incriminating my story is of those i love, especially my mom.  tonight, as i wrote, i realized how incriminating my story is of me.  it is incredibly hard to write honestly about myself at 18, in light of who i am at 28.  in light of all the decisions i’ve made, the things i’ve done, the ways i’ve grown.  both good and bad.  i find it hard to not dismiss myself then as silly and naive, to just sit in the moment with my then-self and note everything i am experiencing and feeling.

this has been incredibly hard, and i’ve found that i cry as rewriting memories i didn’t know even upset me.  like the day i got my wisdom teeth cut out, and i was virtually alone and unprepared.  i looked back at her as i might my future daughter, and saw how sad she must be sitting in that waiting room alone.  i took a break in writing the memory, and wrote the dreams i have for my future daughters, dreams of sparing them the pain of such loneliness, of such brokenness.

that is what i’m dreaming of.  a healthy family.  children who don’t know what i know, who don’t know have tears and tears to cry even after 10 years post the event.

the other day, i read a quote that spoke of having the courage the own the dreams you’re dreaming, and it hit me that i didn’t have any dreams currently.  i’ve been so busy living into and focusing on dreams that have come true–the gallery, working at the coffee shop, being a part of an awesome church and house community–that i’ve forgotten to open to myself to new dreams.  or perhaps i’ve been too cowardly to own what i’m really dreaming of…

because what i’m dreaming of is a family.  my family.  the future family that will flow out of me…

until then, i will write the story as i remember, and eagerly await the story yet to be written.

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2 thoughts on “writing my story.

  1. My dear writer-friend… your story has always read beautifully. I am anxious to see the rest of your story written. I find myself thinking of you often and while life in general can make you feel like you are in a rut or on maybe a sideroad… I hope you look back and always know that you were right where you needed to be. You are brave, and wise, and so open-hearted and I admire so much about you!

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