Dear Ones,
This is one of those strange times in my life, when all I can do is lean into love and be ok with all the questions. My Dad was not a good father, still he was the father I had, he was my only father.
Some believe we pick our parents so they can teach us some of the big lessons we are meant to learn in life. In that respect, he was a ‘great teacher.’ Accepting his view of the world without judgment and without having to agree with him is where I’m at today.
Today feels like starting all over agin.
The surge of fear swells up from my gut like burning indigestion. Halting my breath as if I’m reacting to a tiger about to eat me alive. Striking at my hip and shoulder where I carry my emotions like numb pain.
At first, fear so vivid, I can see the tiger, before I remember to breathe.
It’s one of those #metoo stories I never told.
Buried in my subconscious, it first raise it’s ugly head, when in my teens, my boyfriend and I played at having sex.
When authors talk about it taking a year, or more, to write a book, they’re not wrong, For it’s stories like these that slows us down.
I don’t want to write a memoir. It’s too raw and scary. Too ‘laying it all on the line,’ too vulnerable. I’m afraid I won’t find the #TRUTH, I’m afraid my story will be lopsided, with only my point of view. For whatever happened to me, happened because of something else that happened to someone else.
And I don’t know their truth, for if there is one thing I’m learning from writing my memoir, it is that the TRUTH is elusive, it changes and morphs into different forms the closer I get to it.