I’m at the point in my writing where the fantasy and reality have intersected. This must happen to every writer, as we are all inspired by real life experiences. However, in trying to finish this book, I’ve been dealing with how much of my own life to reveal – and how much to keep secret. Do we, as writers, have a responsibility to our families and our friends as we reveal our perspective on things? I know that my life has been a fucking heartbreaking nightmare – why would I want to stir up things that I cannot change?
Because I can’t be the only one.
I can’t be the only one whose life was sabotaged, blacklisted from the burgeoning career I studied for ten years to begin. I can’t be the only one whose computers were hacked, and relationships altered forever due to tampering. I can’t be the only one whose credit is so poor, I can’t even rent an apartment on my own. I can’t be the only one accused of being crazy, or of carrying a life threatening disease, or of being a drug addict, or a criminal, or less than worthy of … well of love.
I didn’t grow up privileged (by American standards). I grew up in a less than middle class household. My father left my mother when I was a baby. My step-father was a cop. My mother tried to be a homemaker. The favoritism for my younger siblings was so glaringly obvious, I made excuses to my younger siblings to make THEM feel better about it. Both my mother and father’s families were dysfunctional. Alcoholism and abuse and the kind of simmering, walking on egg shells environment that you read about in those tormentingly sad books – or movies that you watch once and never want to see again.
My escape began as a teenager thirty years ago. I watched a “made-for-tv-movie” one night, “Something About Amelia” (look it up), and the very next day, I broke down. In the middle of Algebra. Underneath my Dean’s desk.
The next days were a blur. Social workers and policemen, and psychologists. I was placed in a foster home, and the rest of the children were “interviewed” for similar abuse. I was a junior in high school that year, and for the remainder of my high school career, I was in and out until I finally graduated. After being kicked out of the National Honor Society, after 'quitting' cheerleading, after losing my family.
That was my sacrifice, you see. I lost my family that day, and have been trying to get it back ever since.
I upset the delicate balance of loyalty and lies to save myself.
How fucking selfish of me.
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