I created stories in my mind since before I can remember. It was a coping skill, like cartwheels on the ceiling fan. I needed a person who was not me, a situation that was not mine, and an ending I could see. Fiction opened its arms to me and invited me to participate.
When I was about 15 years old, I had a tarot card reading from my mom’s bestie, and she told me that I’d be a writer, but not writing what I thought I would write. Now I find myself wading into a memoir process that is nothing at all like what I imagined. I sift, finding fact through my fiction and lies aren’t good enough this time. I need more substance and less dreams. It’s hard enough to pull my life from my head and find reality.
And yet as I write more truth, I need more fiction to escape. The truth is heavy and unforgiving. I need a tipi for my secrets and a golden door to walk through. I have to have laughter and kindness and a gentle process to see me through the writing. I keep thinking about all that healing I did, and now I am slowing back down to revisit every second. It’s almost silly. I think of Angie telling me that I’ll get over it one day. I think I have to take the road through Mirkwood. I have to face the possible madness within. I have to dissect that invincible summer and explore the box of darkness. I have to write it down.
I find refuge in my growth. I find comfort in changed patterns. I am capable of more than I knew, and I’m still only just starting. I’ve been out of therapy for less than a year. I’m still stumbling around at times.
I got to celebrate Mardi Gras this year. Matt is from Baton Rouge and understands. Sometimes I think he loves me more because of my longing for home. I miss home less when he’s near me.
Matt told me recently that my body memories are the most jarring part of my issues. I thought it was something else entirely. I asked more, and found out that I have little to no idea what my partners experience when I flash. Apparently a side effect of the current melds are consuming flashbacks that look very different than I realized. I scream out loud. I feel sometimes that I take three steps forward and two back. It’s always good progress, but it costs. On the upside, I go weeks without flashbacks. That’s a vast improvement. I’m careful and do a lot of prevention work, but still-weeks is weeks.
If I could have a theme for my healing up to now, I think it’d be that it is what it is. But that sounds so cliche, and I think of Megan and I yelling that “this too, shall not pass!” I loved that woman so much. She’s married now, and happy. I hope she still listens to the Wicked soundtrack.
A remarkable number of my friends are now married and/or parenting offspring. My body has started to remind me of my animal obligations, but I can’t give up my hard-earned freedom yet. The world is too big and I’m too young and hot to settle down! (Right, Josh?!) If I have children, I think I want to adopt anyways, so time is less limiting. Or maybe act as a foster parent for the middle-of-the-night crisis stuff. I know what it’s like to be around that sort of thing a bit, and I think those kids need help. Why bring in more people when I can provide love and support to those already here? Plus, I really like my body. It sounds selfish and maybe it is, but I have seen women love their children with their physical sacrifice, and I don’t want to do that. I’m possibly a terrible person or a bad female, but there it is. Cast your stones. lol
I have friends coming by tomorrow for a blizzard party of sorts. I should be sleeping as of two hours ago. Matt snores on the couch behind me, and I know Niki is curled up in bed, waiting for me. I have my final Gemma Doyle book from the library and a bubble bath that will lull me to sleep. I had a great evening with friends and a lady I love. I drove in my first snow storm, which looked like driving at warp speed. I live a grand life full of adventure, beauty, and love. I should write a musical about it.