From the time I read The 2,000 Pound Goldfish and wanted to become a play writer or film director, to the time I read Ramona Quimby and imagined my life as a living video blog ,(this was before reality t.v. shows, OR blogging, mind you) I imagined myself as the star of my own life story. And I secretly wondered if other people did it, too… I guess these blogging sites go to show me that I’m not alone, eh? 😉
If you’d watched Cher and Winona Ryder in Mermaids; or perhaps Riding in Cars With Boys, with Drew Barrymore; or even maybe a little of Boys on the Side with Whoopi Goldberg; then you’d have a small idea of what my life was really like- not something I’d want to share publicly unless I felt like inviting pity. Or proving how much stronger than events I felt I was. Or how dramatic my life could be.
Although these experiences helped to shape who I am today, for a long time I felt they defined me. In other words, I thought that the fact that I came from such rough backgrounds made me viewable by others a predictable type of person, totally not understanding how you change when the real “you” is extruded through some hardship in life. There have been times I’ve self-censored myself to death, and times I’ve bled out onto my friends and into their lives.
Sometimes, it is in the telling that therapy and true healing begin, as we explore our own motives for past actions in a third-party view. Sometimes stories beg telling with persevering insistence, regardless of your ideas of who you are, or were, or how well they’re expressed. And it’s high-time this one was told, I suppose … Among others. So here I leave off, saying that the so-far-just-a-short-story, Waiting, is therapeutic; half true, and half bad memory, a dash of fancy and a smidgeon shameless self-promotion.