I’d like to introduce you to someone. She’s me. But, not the me you know.
This is me at three years old. It is, I’ve been told my whole life, my father’s most prized possession. When I received all the pictures he had,this was in the box. It was falling apart the last time I’d seen it. At some point he must have laminated it. Anyway, this picture is the little girl I want you to meet.
Somewhere along the way I lost her. I’m not sure how or why. Somewhere this spunky, sweet, outgoing little girl was lost. She was replaced by who I was. A little girl afraid to be alone in the dark. A little girl who couldn’t stand to hear her momma cry out in pain every night. A lonely little girl desperately trying to do things the right way so that her parents would like her. A little girl who hid behind her shyness for dear life.
I’m almost 40. I can’t believe how different I am becoming. I like to talk to people. A lot. I actually like to be funny. To giggle. To laugh at ridiculous things. I love animals. LIKE, REALLY love animals. To the point that I stalk them with my camera. I love the way my toes feel walking on the sand. I am *this* close to just running down the beach, singing, and not caring one iota about what people think. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. Then it hit me.
I’m getting to be me.
The thought almost overwhelms me. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. It’s freeing and scary at the same time. What if I don’t like who I am anymore? What if I don’t like the decisions I’ve made? What if I don’t like the relationships I have? See? Terrifying.
Yet, I have a peace that everything is going to be alright. Because I can see the Father smiling. Like the merciful and patient parent He is, he’s slowly letting this girl blossom.
Write a book. Share the story. Let her speak. The words keep tumbling through my head. I’m NOT a writer I keep proclaiming. Yet I keep blogging. Here and there the story comes out.
I worry about the consequences. Will it destroy the relationships I hold dear? Will it cause my momma more pain? Is it even wise that one day my children can read my words and know the entire story?
Then, like the amazing woman of God she is, my friend posts a link to my wall. And there it is. The answer. As it always has been. Just another gentle reminder.
Tell your story.
So, I don’t know. I’m going to tell her story. Whether here or in a book, I don’t know. I don’t really feel like I’m a book writer. I like to blog. It can be my story, my way. No ridiculous editor requirements. Just me. I think that’s good. Unless some eloquent person who can write a thousand times better than me can write the story, I’ll just share it piece by piece until I know the story is finally finished.
In the meantime. I hope you love this little girl. I do. Very much.