THE TRUTH WILL PISS YOU OFF

Gloria Steinem was right. The truth may set you free, but before it does it will really piss you off.  In fact, some days truth will make you want to throw things and bite people.  Or maybe that’s just me. But none the less, truth can be a pissah.

Truth changes lives, and the truth is, not everyone wants that.  In my truth telling, three things have happened.  One, some people get angry because I am telling my story.  Two, some people are relieved because I am telling “their” story.  Three, some people don’t understand why I am telling a story at all.

The first group, the angry ones, well, it’s pretty obvious they have some secrets too, or they wouldn’t be angry.  My story may not be identical to theirs, but it’s the kind of deep secret that forces people to look at their own. These are the people who want nothing to do with any truth telling, yours or theirs.

The second group, the relieved ones, are people who are ready to look at their own truths and some of these people may surprise you.  These people  may share their own story with you, grateful they have someone to confide in, someone who understands trauma pain first-hand.

And the third group, they are just completely confused.  They may have no point of reference to your kind of truth.  These people  don’t know how to relate to your story.  Those who can’t relate may be in disbelief because they never saw it coming.  These are the folks who cringe at uncomfortable topics, throw up their hands, and try to avoid it like a dead cat in the road.

So, if a friendship ends because you shared more than someone wanted to hear, if you get blown over by a storm of “how dare yous”, if people line up at your door for advice, or if all you get is a blank stare when the truth is out, try not to take it personally.  Because inevitably, someone will be pissed off.  And bottom line, you are free to allow that into your life as a real pissah, or not.

PICKING UP THE PIECES

MY WRITING DESK CALLS TO ME.  I am standing at the foot of my spiral wooden staircase wondering if my heart will beat out of my chest before I get to the top floor.  My head is pounding.  It feels like iron spikes at my temples.  I bend over and lay both hands to the cool polished step.  The knot in my stomach is so painful it feels like there is a fist sized rock rolling inside.  It chafes at every nerve.  It sends reminder signals to my legs and arms that I am still in crisis.  It has been three weeks since my detox near-death experience.  Nineteen months since my body began its dying process with each Oxycontin tablet that dissolved into my pain.
Hands and feet.  Climbing like a crippled cat.  Stopping and breathing.  Praying not to black out again.  Toxic sweat drips into my blurry eyes.  In the upstairs studio, I watch my bare feet press heel toe across a checkerboard pathway to my desk.  There are thousands of notes written on random napkins, sales receipts, and anything that happened to be available in the moment clarity struck me over these last thirty years.  They are all stacked in dusty towers waiting for my creativity to birth them into a book.  Piles topped with header notes.  Pre-School Memories, Teenage Years, Suicidal Thoughts, Babies, Divorce, Psychiatric Hospitals, Molestation.  Every age, stage, and rage is represented by hand scribbled, tear stained papers torn and tattered from years of shuffling.  They are puzzle pieces in the fragmented landscape of my forty seven years.
Sitting at my desk, I lay my fingers to the home row of the key board and look out at the floor covered in my life story.  Chapter 9, I type at the top, “I promised I would do it,” I write,  “It happened when I was shitting my brains out in the bathroom of a detox facility, arm raised to the skylight with a nurse’s crucifix pressed into the palm of my hand, and screaming at the dark sky, if you just let me live through this I promise I will tell my story, the whole thing and I will do it without fear."
Then, leaning to the studio floor, I begin picking up the pieces, one at a time.