When I thought of writing about my life, I was concerned about what to put in print. First of all, I don't want to harm anyone with the truth. I think the truth is much more disarming than fiction. The truth also varies from day to day. Today, I may be deliriously happy being clean and sober. Tomorrow I may want to jump in front of the train rather than face all my responsibilities. Sometimes I like to hide in the bathtub. Not that I can't hear children fighting during snack time or feel my water slowly getting cold because I have to share my bath with a toddler. For a moment, I can slip into the water and be where ever my imagination takes me.
Another issue is the weight of my past. It carries a heavy burden like stones on my chest sucking the air out of me. My daughter wanted to be a junior Girl Scout. Explaining to total strangers past felony convictions and arrests for prostitution isn't a pleasant conversation. Something as simple as watching a character get shunned on PBS because they were a woman of ill virtue and desperate means.
The redemption carries it's own challenges. After the track marks fade, the abscess scars lessen, the cravings subside I am still left with a thread of commonality that doesn't exist. Six years of my life were one long day that ran together. I never saw that movie, didn't hear that song. No points of reference that didn't involve narcotics.
I am overcoming. I am coping. I am thriving. I am surviving. These are all versions of the truth.