I remember the early tantrums. I remember being lost in the wail… needing a hug…but not being able to stop screaming long enough to let caring arms anywhere near me.

When I was one years old I used to cry in my crib until I made myself throw up.

Has anything changed, really?

The story is that I didn’t stop these shit-shows until my mother set me back down in the muck. Then I stopped..knowing, I guess, that if I fouled my own bed, I would have to lie in it.

It’s been a long train of crying out and reaching out and retreating and beating it all back down to size. I missed my father, who was out of the house when I was a baby. I missed the male energy and straight-forward daddy-love that freed me from the struggle.

Dad’s just love their daughters.

That might have explained it, or maybe I was born this way.

I was a cute kid, then a pimply teenager, then an adult who doubted herself.  I was shy and self-conscious, but full of confidence and determination, too. Good stuff…but with visible cracks and issues that, judging from where I stand at 53, may never fully resolve  or go away just because I work hard.

I went to a fancy school but we weren’t fancy. We were colorful, to be sure, and it was the 70’s, when colorful was safe, fun and generally life-affirming.

My mom had interests and those interests were my stomping ground: flamenco dance, moss and lichen hunting, folk music, conversions to judaism…..she did stuff and I tagged along and it was real to me but when it was over it was over and the childhood I remember seems not to have been shared by anyone. She moved on, and I was just a kid so who knows if my memories are real. Whatever the case, it’s all gone.

I want to resurrect, embellish a bit, and breathe life to events, people and circumstances that live just under my skin. I want my life not to be forgotten. I want to know what matters, and what might just be a heap of noisy noise.

So I am going to write about it.

Better than a face plant on the couch.

Join me here, where it happened, I think.

Let me tell it without judgement or feigned meaning. Because it was what it was.

It still is what it was, what it is, somewhere.

Crunchy, vibrant, maddeningly slow and trudging…we are given our lives and we endure them, celebrate what we can, mourn what we have to…and are doing a good job if we remember to kiss the sky every few days.

It’s a beautiful sky.  But these lips…they are a work in progress.

 

 

memit