I tried today to write about something that’s been gnawing at me for a long while. I thought I was ready to explore (and maybe even share) the true story of my exodus from South Carolina to Oregon, some 22 years ago. I felt that I was ready to recount the tale of how #1 decided that the life we had built together was too badly damaged to salvage. I wanted to explain how we ran, leaving behind our store, home, friends and families…how we escaped without a destination, deserting all that we’d acquired, known and done.
It’s an exciting story of adventuring across this country but, as I started pulling together the words, I could feel the emotions starting to swirl in my gut. My face felt hot and I sensed tears beginning to well up, just as they did so long ago on the day we first drove away from everything I’d ever known and loved. I was transported to the day when all of my life’s history became just a shrinking rear view mirror’s width, and I thought I’d lost everything in the world that was precious to me.
What I know and understand now is that we decided back then that we didn’t have a choice. We decided not to allow ourselves to deserve the life we’d created. Our desperate escape from (what we decided was) the certain hot breath of failure and doom on our necks was a turning point in my life. I wanted to be ready to share my realizations…to free myself from the demons who hang on to painful hidden parts of your heart like a dog with a new toy.
Writing about the ending of such a huge chapter of my life should be cathartic…right? Hell, it’s been over twenty years, and I’m happily settled in a life that I love, in a place that I adore. I thought I was ready to face down those demons of that past life and tell ’em who was boss…who wears the pants in this relationship!
As it turns out, the damn demons have all the britches. They are, in fact, the boss of me. For now.
So I filed the draft away as something that needs more work…more time…more healing. But be warned, demons–the band-aid has been pulled off.