As per the official definition, it would seem, on any given day I am prone to becoming unraveled. Typically, in the preferable term which would be to free from complication or difficulty. This is actually on most days. That’s a good thing. I have found that by telling my story, not only out in cyberspace, but also with each – real life person – that knows me outside of this box, I am becoming disengaged and untangled from this web of lies that had become my life for so many years.
Then there are days where I become mentally unraveled. They are few and far between but they pop up every once in a while. For so many years, I disconnected from the people I cared about and probably needed to be around more than anyone else but because of the life I was living I hid away and secluded myself from all. Now that I am so close to being truly out there about all of this [once I’m out of here I’m OUT to everyone] and no matter how much of a relief that day will be, I think part of me wants to retreat and take it all back. Hide it all away so no one knows why I left. Just leave and be free and happy and not have to explain all of the crap that has manifested into becoming this grandiose escape plan.
So I cry, lash out, and cry some more. Try to explain and not blame and then wish it all back into my mouth so that none of the words were ever said out loud. Delete the account and voila no proof I actually spewed out all of the atrocities of my life. So that it would all boil down to one day I just got up and left. No explanation. There she goes…moving on. People could chalk it up to a mid life crisis or what have you. It wouldn’t matter because I wouldn’t owe anyone an explanation.
But then what? All of this junk would still be inside of me. I can’t even imagine having all of this nonsense still bottled up. I can barely remember what it feels like when no one knew. It seems like that was a lifetime ago. Part of a different person’s story. Something I read about halfheartedly because I couldn’t connect with the storyteller. Ha. If only. Truly though, those fleeting moments when I wish my secrets were still my own happen as if an out of body experience. I’m not even really sure what triggers those thoughts. Maybe just in knowing how close I am to being on the other side of the mirror my subconscious plays games with me.
The real deal of the matter is that…it’s so freaking close I can almost touch it. It’s simultaneously awesome and scary as hell. The day I’ve been waiting for, for what seems like an eternity, is at hand. Literally – at my fingertips. The closer it gets the more hungry for it I am. Salivating at the images my mind paints of what it will be like when I am sitting here writing about how it all went down, smooth as can be. Background noises of my choosing – or blissful silence.
In the past year and a half, I have allowed six people that know me in the outside world to read my blog. People I was comfortable with knowing the real situation. For a while now, I’ve been contemplating whether or not to let my sister and mother in. I wasn’t sure how well that would go. I was unsure whether or not it was the right time just yet. Would I even know when the right time would be? Should I wait until I’m closer to stepping out of the door? What if telling certain people at certain times of my journey is exactly what I’m supposed to do?
Last month, I found a letter. It was a letter my sister wrote to me when I was leaving to go to the battered women’s shelter – way back when I was 21 years old. Mostly, she had written the lyrics to Mariah Carey’s song “Make It Happen”. The rest was telling me she loved me and knew I could do this, and how when this passes I will start a new life. That I would never forget what I had been through but it will be in my past and all of it will make me a stronger person. My sister was only 16 when she wrote this letter to me. I thought, how sad that my 16 year old sister had to write this to me. Even sadder was that I was 21 years old and on my way to a shelter for battered women.
When I came across the letter I thought, maybe now is the time I should share this, my story, with her. After all, I am beyond the embarrassment part of my story. I think I’ve come a long way in how I’ve told my story and what I’ve learned from my story. As I started to tell my sister there was something I wanted her to read, I found myself saying…I’m proud of what I’ve written. I’m proud that I have shared my story and I’m proud of where I am now as opposed to where I was the first day I sat down to write my very first blog entry. And as I’ve done with everyone else I’ve shared my story with, I sent her the link – and ran. Lol.
After she read it in it’s entirety, she told me how even though she knew some of it, she really didn’t know how deep it was and how long it was going on. She said how, now, it all made more sense. The person I am, the way I am – makes sense. She also said…what a great author I am (still debatable) and that she was proud of me. Aww. I’m not really sure I’ve ever heard those words – for real. I’m sure they’ve been said. At some point. Over time. By someone. Parents, relatives. Who can recall? It’s all just fleeting words in a fading memory. This is now. It’s real.
Above all else, I am proud of myself – as I continue to unravel myself from the past and move that much closer to the future I was meant to have.
To read from the beginning… my story starts here.