I have a confession to make.
I didn’t think I would get here.
It’s been a year since I scribbled in this thing. My head hasn’t had a chance to be full. It’s been emptied out by anesthetics and opiates, as bit by bit I’ve faced down a lifetime of scars.
This is the story I won’t tell.
(Just allude to now and then.)
If you haven’t heard me say it before, here’s a fun fact about me. My life is an insufferably trite narrative. I will never write an autobiography, nor should anyone waste the time inking my tale. If it were a novel, I’d throw it at the wall, then burn the wall. That’s my favorite way to express it, so that might ring a bit familiar to some. I’m a hopeless stereotype, a Tragedy Ann loaded with heavy-handed metaphor. There are soap operas that wouldn’t stoop to the kind of insane, idiotic allegory and clumsy irony that my life describes.
So when I say that I have been digging the scars of a lifetime out of me, I am being entirely literal in every way. The pain I’ve been through– the damage, the deprivation, and even the emotional agony, have been driven deep into muscle and tissue. There they sat, slowly forcing the life from me. It’s a genetic curse, aggravated by stress and long-past neglect– and it has been driving me down harder the more I’ve fought it. There’s no cure, and for a long time there wasn’t even anything I could do about it.
Then there was.
Right about when I had the least strength to deal with it, suddenly there was.