The Lang Leav poem from yesterday’s post mentioned being the girl who takes the long way home and that’s how you have stories to tell. I am that girl. I was always that girl and I have always had stories to tell. And I tell them. If you have been here long, Dear Reader, you’ve read those stories.
I’ve written and I’ve written and I’ve written.
Words and pictures.
Tremendously personal stories of mental illness. Of care. Of diagnosis. Of medication. Of teenagehood. Of college years. Of friends and of foes. Of teenage boyfriends. Of compulsiveness. Of meeting my husband. On moving all over and three children all over. Of loss.
Of loss of loss of loss.
All my stories. All my own. All my words.
I write stories and much like having a child, I send my stories out into the world when I hit the “publish” button on the site dashboard. From there I can see where people from around the world have read. It’s a wonderful feeling. Like releasing butterflies.
But there are stories I will never tell. Stories not meant for the world or even one other solitary person. Stories too personal. Secrets between friends. Confidential. Stories not to be told.
But when someone tells your story, it’s not their story to tell.
And that… is where the story ends.
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