I construct narratives for a living. People hire me, because I am exacting and thorough in telling their stories.
In my personal life, I can be found circumventing the truth, by omission. Sharing versions of me that are factually true, but absent of critical elements.
I leave things out.
Like the fact that the girls' dad disappeared a year ago.
Or that my front teeth still ache, long after the ensuing trial ended, from the random street assault that happened in front of my gym. There are few things I fear in this life - losing my teeth is one of them.
Losing my children is another. My oldest daughter was born with a life threatening illness.
Even after sharing weekly cups of coffee, morning greetings in our children's classrooms, and heartfelt conversations upon bumping into each other at the gym or grocery store; you would not know.
For these are the things of xanax and red wine. Or of therapy and distance running. Or of buddhism and new age homilies. I am, if nothing else, laughably a stereotype. A California dwelling, Subaru driving, hand-roasted coffee swilling, woman of a certain age. With piercings and tattoos serving as a form of cultural carbon dating, I am bound to my history. Though not to a specific truth.
I am prone to using the pronoun "we" when now its really just me - and has been for quite some time. But I am collaborative by nature so the seismic shift from a "we" to a "me" is not yet part of my lexicon.
Nor are, apparently, the words to craft my own tale.
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