My mind whirls with images and glimpse of what life was like before it all started. I remember the feeling of being both safe and free. I remember tenderness, wonder, and unlimited possiblities. I remember when my imagination was a creator of dreams and not nightmares. I remember what it was like for somethings to be sacred and for me to feel sacred myself.

Hairbrushing my long brown hair on a summer evening on the front step as it air dried. My mom would be gentle and loving. Sitting in my nylon “silky smooth” nightgown and my soft cotton underwear. I was barefoor and sitting next to my sister. When the dark came, it was like a soft blanket of stars with a calm stillness that brought on a peaceful sleep.

Running threw wildflowers, hearing my friends laugh and giggle and shoot out as we lost sight of each other at times because the grass and wildflowers grew so tall way beyond our little bodies.

Bonds with my neighborhood friends, secrets shared, and the trading of “intel” as we began figuring the world out. We had each other in our freedom. No helicopter parents, nothing holding us in our houses, we had the push of our mothers to go outside and play all day and return when the street lights came on.

Game on! Game off! Children in the street playing a modified version of hockey in the summer with sticks and a ball… look outs positioned at either end who would alert us when to get out of the street.

Where to start? Writing is a way to heal? I like writing? I think I am a good writer? I want to share my story? I need validation? I want others to understand? I want to better understand? I have novels in me? I could feel free if I just wrote some of this down?

I don’t know. I don’t know what is the reason(s) but something in me says write, write now, right now. So, just now, I opened my laptop and started to write.

I am already ashamed and embrarrassed. I want to pre-emptively apologize for the what I write. Will it sound self grandizing? Will it be embarassing? Will it be harsh on others and make me look like I am playing the “victim”? Will it be truthful? Do I even know the truth?

At some point, its like “Fuck it”, I may have another 40 years of life or I may have one hour. I don’t know. I won’t know. Would it be okay with all of this in mind if I wrote down what I know to be true? Maybe no one will even read this and it won’t matter.

So, let’s write. Just write, just now.