I've been told, a few times, that various bits of my life and experiences are worthy(a word that I am deeply uncomfortable with, by the way) of being in book form. My young life, my teen years, my experiences with my marriage and how the divorce went down, my journeying through it all, my focus through these things, what I've gleaned, so far, from these things...
I do write about them, in other places. I express my thoughts, feelings, lessons, in many ways. I dance, which if you are a reader here then you know, I take photos of what I see that strikes a particular chord of thought or emotion, I write. I sing. I try to set my home up to reflect the good things pulled. I try to give to others those good things.
Books? I've always had it in my mind, but the bottom line, for me, is that there's nothing new here.
This is just another human muddling through another life experience.
My marriage and divorce, those events are often seen as rather incredible, in the true use of that word. In many ways it's all just so far out there, even though none of it is even exaggerated, it would be seen as being portrayed in a sensationalist way. I don't want that. The lessons would be lost inside of it all.
My travels through panic and depression...I truly have learned much, and perhaps those lessons could be of some use. Based not all in the head, but also in the physiology of it all, It isn't for everyone, that's for certain. It's hard, it's painful...rather, it's pain-filled, it's messy work. Not everyone can do that and not everyone who can, should. Period. Medication is valuable and has it's place. So.
My time spent struggling with the ongoing and escalating abuse in my world, and my pathways through the aftermath...dark places to visit and while I do, without fear and without trauma these days, i don't know that there is wisdom in taking others there. My darkness, born out of that black pit of pain, is mine, it is my friend now because i made it such. I realized that I cannot be without it, my life has no reset button, so I needed to befriend it, to see it, to comfort it, to give it a place to boil and cry it's darkness, to bind the fracturing seamlessly so that light can not only survive but prevail. Do I take another soul there? I don't see how I can, in any good conscience. It's the reason that I don't talk much of it. I can see it, occasionally and only in part, from the stance of someone looking in, what it might appear like to them. For me, I understand it. I know every valley there, every rock, every tree, every stump, marsh, beast, sound, scent. It's the place that became out of the evil yet the true evil has long left there, there is no fear for me there anymore.
But how can someone see that, know that much of me was given life there as I visited and was visited by death of many kinds, and ever look at me the same way? I don't believe that it can be done. Is it worth the risk? Perhaps this is a selfish thing on my part. I don't know. For me, it doesn't matter where I've been, what made me who I am, only that I am. I am whole.
So. "Here" is where I write of these things that I share.
"There" is where I write of the things that live that may never be shared.
Because, the story is old. It is the story of many. I am nothing special. it's what I do with it that matters. It's all that matters.
Because, at the end of it all, all i am is a survivor.
