I want to write a story. Really, I want to make you feel what I feel. I want to tell my story, from beginning to middle (because I’m nowhere near the end). I’m just not sure how.
I was born to a military family, and I was painfully shy. My friend’s were my brother’s friends, because I couldn’t seem to meet people on my own. This made me a tomboy for the first decade of my life, maybe a bit longer.
I found religion after trying out several churches and feeling spiritual-but-lost. I became pagan, getting mostly confused reactions from people who knew about it. But sometimes I lost friends, because parents aren’t as accepting as children. I made choices sometimes, between being myself and being “normal”.
I chose to stop the shyness, and somehow I managed to make that decision work. I made lots of friends in a new high school, and I blossomed. I loved, and I lost. I had one person tear me to pieces, and there were others around to sew me back together when he was done abusing my gentleness.
I reached adulthood alone and full of hate, moving just weeks before my birthday. I met a boy who would become my husband (and eventually my ex). I moved back to the place I blossomed in, and I found myself lost. My husband decided he didn’t want children; I decided to leave.
I moved stateside again, with another man. I struggled, and I grew. I joined a coven, and I left it. I had a miscarriage, and it broke my heart. I discovered polyamory, as well as my own bisexuality. I experienced bittersweet romance, humiliating rejection, and eventually deep love. I rejoined my coven, determined to follow-through for priesthood. I spent a year trying to conceive with my primary partner, so we could have a family. I had fertility issues. Then my partner left me because he didn’t want children anymore.
I removed that dream from my list, permanently.
I decided to stay (alive) by deciding to leave (this place); I gave my shattered life purpose by making plans to move back home with family in a year.
And here I am. Waiting for that year to come and go, so I can leave this place and start over.
How’s that for a story?
I’ve actually imagined writing out my experiences as a book, a novelization of what I’ve been through in my first quarter century. There’s a lot that happened, especially being a military child; I met people and traveled places I never would’ve seen, had I been born to a normal, settled family instead.
I don’t know if my story is worth telling, though. It’s interesting, true. But is it something you’d want to pick up (or download) and read for hours? I’m not so sure.
There’s formatting, too. When I share anecdotes with my friends, they’re all over the place. Maybe our talk about spirituality made me remember the way my friend Kayleigh wasn’t allowed around me for a year over my paganism, but the conversation over coffee about kids has me talking about my obsession with Vitzi and the Dinosaurs. In normal day-to-day life, that pattern makes sense; in a book, though, linear time is usually important.
Maybe I’ll draw up a timeline of memories that stand out, like stars in a constellation? I could just write them out and worry about the connecting lines later.
I don’t know. I’m rambling, because my thought train is chugging along in fog through my tired mind.