Foreword.
This story is not linear.
Of course it spans about a year, and as much as I refused to believe so at its beginning, time did go on. The calendar continued to flip every thirty to thirty-one days, despite the countless catastrophes, hours of hysteria, and days of depression that marked themselves as red Xs across white boxes like battle wounds. After several months, the Xa became scarcer and left behind only pink reminder scars from previous pages.
But as a mechanism for understanding our stories, we often tell them in chunks--organizing people, events, and emotions into neat, new parcels of time. These may not be entirely chronological, but how often do our stories make perfect sense from outset to end? Isn't that why the ederly are the "wisest?" They are able to reflect on their pasts and effectively parcel parts. Their stories are coehesive, not merely for the ears of eager grandchildren, but for themselves. When circular or grouped, memories endure while details and dates disappear.
No journey travels a straight path. They often involve setbacks, throwbacks, repetitions, unresolved tensions, and moments that should have occured earlier, later, or not at all. As my one of my college friends likes to say, (with utmost love and respect), "God is sometimes just a little fucker that way."
So, because I can only begin to comprehend my own story in groups of successes, failures, people, and events, and feelings, that is how I will tell it.
I realize that this may raise questions of accuracy and validity. What follows may seem disorganized at times, but I believe the truest, most untampered thoughts usually are. I write, and while some may equate that with fabricating, I tell my story in the best and most exact way I know how. Please know that I would never write a blatant lie to make my story cleaner. Because for me, it's not about fudging little truths to make perfect sense of everything. It's about making a valiant effort at understanding just a little bit more of the imperfectly beautiful life i've been given.
This story is raw, but please understand that I do not write it for pity. I've been through pain, but so has everyone else--from the tired old man sitting beside you on the subway, to the mother who snaps at her child in the supermarket, to the varsity football player who seems to have his life together. We just experience different kinds of pain, and in that amazing and simple way, no two stories are alike. So as readers and human beings, please do your best not to qualify or quanitfy mine versus yours or your neighbors'. Attempt approaching stories without judgements and you will find a greater appreciation for the diverse experiences that make up human trapesty.
Lastly, being 100% human and therefore connnected to people, my story includes those of my family, friends, and
This story is not linear.
Of course it spans about a year, and as much as I refused to believe so at its beginning, time did go on. The calendar continued to flip every thirty to thirty-one days, despite the countless catastrophes, hours of hysteria, and days of depression that marked themselves as red Xs across white boxes like battle wounds. After several months, the Xa became scarcer and left behind only pink reminder scars from previous pages.
But as a mechanism for understanding our stories, we often tell them in chunks--organizing people, events, and emotions into neat, new parcels of time. These may not be entirely chronological, but how often do our stories make perfect sense from outset to end? Isn't that why the ederly are the "wisest?" They are able to reflect on their pasts and effectively parcel parts. Their stories are coehesive, not merely for the ears of eager grandchildren, but for themselves. When circular or grouped, memories endure while details and dates disappear.
No journey travels a straight path. They often involve setbacks, throwbacks, repetitions, unresolved tensions, and moments that should have occured earlier, later, or not at all. As my one of my college friends likes to say, (with utmost love and respect), "God is sometimes just a little fucker that way."
So, because I can only begin to comprehend my own story in groups of successes, failures, people, and events, and feelings, that is how I will tell it.
I realize that this may raise questions of accuracy and validity. What follows may seem disorganized at times, but I believe the truest, most untampered thoughts usually are. I write, and while some may equate that with fabricating, I tell my story in the best and most exact way I know how. Please know that I would never write a blatant lie to make my story cleaner. Because for me, it's not about fudging little truths to make perfect sense of everything. It's about making a valiant effort at understanding just a little bit more of the imperfectly beautiful life i've been given.
This story is raw, but please understand that I do not write it for pity. I've been through pain, but so has everyone else--from the tired old man sitting beside you on the subway, to the mother who snaps at her child in the supermarket, to the varsity football player who seems to have his life together. We just experience different kinds of pain, and in that amazing and simple way, no two stories are alike. So as readers and human beings, please do your best not to qualify or quanitfy mine versus yours or your neighbors'. Attempt approaching stories without judgements and you will find a greater appreciation for the diverse experiences that make up human trapesty.
Lastly, being 100% human and therefore connnected to people, my story includes those of my family, friends, and
