From a young age I knew that I had a destiny but I didn’t know what it was. I still don’t. In this lifetime, like most others, I have endured many a small crisis and a few larger ones. But they were not catastrophes. A little piece of my spirit chipped away each time and I am lighter but not weaker.
I think I have a gift but I do not believe in myself enough to trust it. I have heard that we are never given more to bear then we can endure and it appears I am proof of that. But is suffering necessary for my growth? At times I feel I am all suffered out, but then what have I done with it? When I was that abused and neglected child I had an intention. I watched black and white television and listened to crackling blues on a cheap turntable. I believed that I too would perform. My pain would flow and through it others pain would be lessened. People would love me and be glad I was born. At eight, a teacher made us write a story. I wrote about a little girl. I don’t remember the actual events but it must have made an impact because I had to carry a sealed envelope home to my mother and she got mad. From a payphone I overheard her tell someone to mind their own business. At school they sent me to a special art class where they asked me why I chose the colors I painted with. At twelve, I told my extended family that I was safer on the streets in their neighborhood then in my bedroom. I never saw my mother again.
It scares me to write these words. Not the memories but the writing of these words. I keep getting up and walking away. I want to drink or eat or take myself to another place in my head, fill my heart where my illusions are grander. But I know that these words must be organic and not fed by the creative juice from alcohol or chocolate. If I must write these words, and I must, then I want them to have an impact. I want my suffering to be more then a sad story. I want it be the foundation that I build a castle on. So I write even if I don’t understand why. If I finish this story that is my life, will anyone remember it? Did it make a difference?
I want a mentor to hold me accountable or to just hold me. To help me get to that place I can’t seem to get to on my own. For I am still that little girl who needs her mother.
I realize that when I ask for something, I might get it. So I run away, push back, wanting but not wanting. I fear having, more then I fear not having. Even now, I want to run away. I force myself to stay seated, keep the pen moving. There are tears that pop up plump and heavy and I don’t know where they came from or why they keep coming back.
My life is a series of one act plays… to my blind eyes these plays have only one thing in common, someone who looks like me, who has my memories. But what is it that dictates that they belong together? What makes them a good story? In my mind’s eye I write and through my words I discover that endurance is much more then just getting through something. It is determination and focus. It is faith that holds your hand as it dances across the page. It is a story that I am writing. The story of me. And I, the author am far wiser then the character I play. |
