My life was woven for me. Each stitch catching at pieces of who I was and tearing it away from the whole, isolating and losing it in row after row of a programmed me that could sit and behave and be produced to perform when called upon.
My grandparents gave me a very expensive, beautiful cover, that they constructed, to cover up any trace left of me.
I tried to wear it. I tried, at school, to say and do the things the other kids were doing. I tried to involve myself in the same activities and to not see the things that called to me from beyond the shadows and up on the hills and through the wind. I tried to get married, have kids, go to church, be a good Christian, volunteer at school, and bake perfect bread. I did it all. And I did a lot of it well.
Except that I always felt empty. I felt dishonest. I felt like I stood off to the side, watching the me that I was supposed to be performing like a trained circus seal. Continue reading