There is something special about being a woman, and especially hard, I think. See sometimes I remember that it is an anniversary of a bad day… years and years later, and even though I don’t belabor it, I feel like crying all day long “for no reason.” This happens even before I know the date.
My experience of 8/3/83 was immediately stuffed, and vigorously discounted as an aberration. It was. A rough day, that I walked into with wide eyes and the unique vibrant, compelling stupidity of a teenage girl.
Today, I am a 48 year old woman. I have lived several lives since then. I have healed. I have produced. I have shaken any vestiges of bad memories off my psyche, because I can. I am so much more than bad memories, confusing memories.
Except, I’m not.
I sit here, avoiding working, feeling hapless, deeply lonely and terribly sad. This happens every year, there is nothing I can do about it, but get through it. Getting through it again….
See you next year.