There have been periods of dizzying joy and periods of bone deep loss and profound depression. Childhood was a horror. Adolescence into my early twenties was both searingly painful and sheer fun, a riot of drunken discovery and shenanigans.
When it all collapsed I was steeped in homelessness and alcoholic despair. It stuck to my clothes and hung in my hair like a dusty cobweb yet, somehow, like a phoenix rising, I found myself rendered sober and spiritual, learning to crawl and then walk again, a punk rock Lazarus.
My thirties found me moving cross country from the West to the South and navigating the ensuing culture shock for which I was wholly unprepared. I met a man and shacked up with him until a week after our 15th anniversary when he announced he was no longer interested in a life with me.
Just like that and so at 45, I found myself again, that proverbial phoenix, crafting a new life for myself and determined to discover and uncover all that had remained dormant or forgotten within me. Each story has it’s highs and lows- making it impossible for me to differentiate between best or worst. My life just is- sometimes the best, sometimes the worst.
I’ve lived 50 years now and the book, the letters that have been congregating and forming words since I began writing are bubbling to the surface, spilling out of me in spare moments and designated hours. It’s time to begin to tell my story.