FAIRYTALE INCINERATION (REMAKING MY STORY)

 A week ago I finished the first draft of my first book. 

It's a love story, the only kind of letter that I can give

to the mother I am no longer connected with physically.

It spans about fifteen years of my life, starting at age 5

and (I hope) will give readers insight into what it's like

living with chaos as a constant-the impact

that has on children, the kinds of limitations people

who are raised in that system live with, and the unhelpful, predictable

ways that shame encourages people to behave

when faced with something that can't be 'fixed'.

While it would be absurd to claim that I knew the impact 

tacking my story down would have on me,

 my intuition started gently nudging me and then yelling at me

that it was the next right step and that I would regret not taking it.

So I listened and wrote several thousand words

to describe my experience.

I'm glad I did it but there have been some surprising results.

I didn't expect it to change and settle the pieces of my soul

in such a profound way.

I mean....it's my story right? 

I was there!  It happened to me!

It shouldn't be new or have layers that I didn't see before.

Right?

Whelp.  Turns out that is wrong.

Much of it happened around me or to me

before I had language or perspective or choice.

Pinning down the details, doing the research to confirm places, dates

and artifacts helped me sort out the things that felt more

fantastical than real.

It let me see the contrivances or caricatures that 

were presented as fact to explain heartbreaking disappointments.

It let me see the patterns and inevitability of repeated

behavior that went unaddressed because it would ask

bigger questions of the family system, the players within it,

and the structures that are supposed to protect or support.

Bringing everything into focus-abuse, trauma, mental illness,

poverty, pride, familial shame and systemic struggle-

helped me kill off the villains and superheroes that have

existed as shadows of the real people in my history.  

Instead of black sheep and angels, 

saviors and devils, 

main characters and bit parts, 

I have living breathing humans who wander my memories now.

Each of us is imperfect in our choices,

doing what we know to do in order to get our needs met

and failing in small and large ways along the way.

It's remarkably healing to count the cost and forgive the injuries.

To see the humanity within each family member instead of 

limiting them to a series of heroic acts or destructive choices.

Transformative even.

It's almost like Jesus really knew what he was talking about there.....

I'm not the same person I was when I started writing this book.

I like her-this newer, less reactive version.

Finishing the first draft is not the same as finishing the book

but it is an important milestone that deserves recognition.

I find celebrating personal milestones difficult-

particularly when the achievement is mostly going to be an 

internally recognized event.

If a tree falls in the woods and no one videos it or gets paid 

for the lumber, did the tree really fall?

Reward for a performance well done is mother's milk to me

so unlearning that as the point of everything I do will 

probably take 22 more years.

I may never make a dime off of this book.

It doesn't matter.

I've already earned more than I expected before writing it.

That lesson alone deserves a candle or some confetti or at least

an extra hike and a pumpkin spice latte.

Taking time to celebrate is holy ritual,

as important as broken bread dipped in grape juice

or heads bowed around a table.

As the boss of this life of mine, 

I ordered myself to take a week off from the work of my life (writing)

to let this milestone settle in my bones.

Much of being an adult (I've learned) is making yourself 

do things that no one else really cares if you do

FOR YOUR OWN GOOD

and by doing those things, we actually turn the world

into a place that gives two sh*ts about our own health.

We become the safety, security, and nurturing 

that we need in the world first.

Then we can do it for others.

When our cup is filled up, it will spill over.

During my work hiatus,

I had several shifts at my new paid service project,

smiled and laughed with strangers and new friends,

searched for and found GOD in the birds and the trees and lattes I served customers.  I had spiritual direction and therapy.

I organized a few life details that I'd been ignoring

like covid boosters and started watching Grey's Anatomy 

for the first time ever with my best girl.

As the kids would say, it's been FIRE.

(apparently 'lit' is oldschool now ya'll-keep up.)

Today, I will start the next phase of this book writing business

and for me that means I need to have the tangible 

paper copy in front of me to read from start to finish.

I have thirty four chapters and 134k words.  

I need to tighten that up to somewhere around 27 chapters and 100k words.

I'm looking forward to the artistic/business part of this effort even though

(or maybe because) it'll be a different kind of hard.

Yesterday I sent my draft to a local print shop so that 

I can be prepped and ready for reviewing the draft.

And I hit a brick wall.

The print shop lost my order, then lost their whole database.

It was a little chaotic and disorienting to send this work

of mine out into the world and have it be lost immediately

so I understand why I jumped into minimizing my need

to have this book printed on actual paper.

It doesn't matter after all...not to anyone but me.

I could probably still do the next necessary step if I 

just contorted myself a little

into something that made this easier for all of us.

I could do all my editing virtually, inside my docs.

Except it didn't feel right and I knew those first thoughts were lies.

I need the paper version to read it instead of trying to fiddle with it.

I need to know what the reader knows.

I need a physical copy to hold in my hand.

When the print shop manager called me 'baby' the sixth time, I smiled.

My working title for my book is 'Dollbaby' and I realized all this struggle

was God asking me a question.

Do I want this enough to push through the discomfort?

See, a very common fairytale that is alive and well in our world

suggests that if something

we want isn't super easy, then we should just give up on it.

If the boy doesn't lock eyes with you and forsake all other

possible women, then he isn't your 'one'.

If the job doesn't fulfill every single one of your professional 

aspirations (and your ego) then it's time to move on to greener pastures.

If the car won't start or you spill coffee on your pants or

you forget your resume, then you should just give up on that dream.

If we have to try, particularly in a way that feels uncomfortable

then we are in the wrong place, wrong time, wrong body, wrong life.

This is a lie but since it's different for each of us

and since we HATE to be uncomfortable more than anything

it's a lie that we fall for regularly.

We get close to the thing that is for us and then a little speedbump

convinces us that maybe we don't want it that much

or that road is not for us after all.

We decide that we took a wrong turn when we actually

finally found the path that no one can claim except one person.

You.

Or in this case-me.

See, no one in my family wants me to write this memoir.

The family members that are usually happy to promote my perseverance

over all the terrible things from my childhood

 have either attacked the content (that they haven't read)

or forcefully reminded me that this is not a good idea, that I should just

leave it all in the past where it can't hurt anyone.

There are a couple that are insisting that their experience

with a particular family member negates my experience with a particular

family member.

No one wants to know what really happened to me,

what made me into this high achieving person who 

thought all emotions belonged in a box and the best thing

she could do for someone she loved was hurt herself indefinitely.

No one wants to understand why addiction was a viable choice

for a child who wasn't loved or cared for by anyone.

No one wants to understand why mental illness can't be explained

away as bad behavior or greedy choices.

Once again my family of origin is deciding to pick shame over vulnerability,

death over healing.

They are allowed to do that.

I couldn't stop them as a child and I will not be using

every ounce of energy as an adult to bleed out for their comfort.

It is more than enough to realize that silence on this story hurts me.

It killed my brother.

It continues to haunt my entire family.

I won't hold it any longer.

I won't eat the sins of my forebears 

or pretend that they were all one person's fault

or stick to the story they all agreed on long before I was born.

I'm going to push through and talk about my experience.

I've been very careful to tell only my side of the events

and corroborate as much as I can with public records.

There is way more that I can't confirm or talk about 

because it is not my story to tell.

But what is mine, is mine.

I won't let anyone else horde it or manipulate it

or intentionally misunderstand it any longer.

It will see the light of day, one way or the other.

Even if I get sued or kicked out of the family or 

if unknown bystanders think I'm a freak.

I owe myself that.

I owe my brother that.

Probably I owe some other lost and lonely people that I'll never know or meet.

I can't worry about things that aren't my business

including what strangers on the internet think about me

or what my third cousin has to say about people who are 

either dead or estranged from me.

I had four visits to the print shop.

I had to email over the entire book.

Twice.

They printed me 80 copies of one single chapter.

I had to get them start over and do it again.

I made friends with the sweet manager who really

wanted to give me something 'extra' for all this trouble.

I don't think I was successful in getting her to understand that she already had.

I am not worried about the time or struggle to get over this part.

It takes what it takes and I'll work on it until it's right.

My next right thing is already waiting on me and I'll be working through it

for the next few weeks.

That's the first draft of my book.  Isn't she lovely?

I don't want anyone to think I'm recommending throwing yourself

at something impossible until you bleed out on the field.

Lord knows I've done my fair share of that so believe me when I say

there is a time to throw in the towel.

Quitting is a holy choice that needs to be in everyone's toolbox.

I'm quitting the fairytales and remaking my story,

I'm quitting the 'easy' button that takes me right back to 

the jail of workaholism and cleaning up,

I'm quitting shaving off essential bits of my makeup in 

favor of other people's comfort.

This whole year is about quitting what isn't good for me

so if you need to quit, DO IT.

I'm just trying to say that if the path you're treading is always easy,

if you never have to struggle or question if you should take an exit,

it's probably not your path.

Four lane highways, paved and maintained by the social structure

rarely take us all the way towards where GOD means for us to be.

I may spend some time on the four lane highways of life again

which might include some corporate work or following some scripts

that have been set down by previous generations.

I'm grateful often that those shortcuts exist and I'm privileged enough

to be able to navigate them.

But I won't be making the mistake of thinking that four lane road

is the best path towards what is meant for me

or that small detours imply I'm going in the wrong direction

when I finally make it into the wilderness.

Fairytales exist on the page to communicate simplistic

ideas to us that keep us within the lines of social norms.

They shouldn't exist in real life, walking around and 

interacting with us or as a blueprint for a life well lived.

Happily ever after is vague hand waving.

Let's be wild right now.

A little corporate humor for you...