The first 100 pages of our story flowed like a torrent, unleashing a storm of catharsis. I didn’t write it in life’s actual order. On days where Dave was particularly kind I stole away and wrote of our early love. On days where the mania won I focused my writing on the harder times. I am now filling in the gaps in the narrative. I am walking through the pages, reading our story, taking its pieces and transforming them into a linear thread.
I’ve made the most beautiful realization in this process. We are not the sum of our moments, we are the lucky ones who found a way to triumph before the final bell sounded.
To write our story with honesty and candor from hindsight means reopening wounds for examination. Wounds isn’t the right word, but that cliché is the one most understandable. We must look back at the MRI scans of our history, taking each layer of ourselves at that point in time and writing its description through a lens of eventual triumph that adds rose-colored hues and slightly ephemeral chanting to a once grim painting. With each sad paragraph I write I want to add an asterisk that pulls the reader to the bottom of the page where there will be a picture of our gorgeous, smiling family and the words “don’t worry, the storm ends” in a happy, bright color.
It feels good to admit the struggle, though, to say it here and own it.