It has mulled and danced in my brain for the five years I've been in this space; welling up some days, where I stuff it back down and refuse to open Padora's box. A subject on the "do not write" list, I've tried hard to keep this story at bay.
The truth is, this story says a lot about me. It tells you why I don't have many female friends, why I am wary of religion, fiercely protective of my son, and cry when I watch "Say Yes to the Dress." It tell you why I resent family holidays, feel like Christina Aguilera's The Voice Within" was written just for me, adopted "Soar" as my anthem, am jealous of friends with close families, and am a self imposed orphan.
For years, I've spoken about it in bits here and there on Twitter, where friends have encouraged me to finally open up and write, which I long to do, except for one thing.
Not of the consequences, but of what it will take to go back there. I am not sure if re-living that place, that story, is something I can take.
Writing is something that takes my entire being. I see the story in pictures, in my head; feel all the emotions, and when I'm finished, I'm spent. If it's particularly hard, I can be depressed for a few days.
This story is beyond hard, and has the potential to knock me out for weeks.
I'm not sure what I would gain from writing it-and if really, I should gain anything. Maybe the act of crafting it would help other young people, or those with difficult family relationships. Perhaps it would help me, on the cusp of my 40th birthday, to finally let it go.
The people involved read this space, which raises a dilemma.
Write? Don't write?
I don't know.
Maybe I need to start with the first sentence and see where it takes me.