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Of all the misfortune I’ve experienced, being homeless as a teenager, and generally just not ‘belonging’ anywhere, even when I did have a physical roof over my head, made the biggest impact. I was in my late forties before I had a place I felt no one could take away from me. I subsisted over 30 years in survival mode with precious little time to examine circumstances. But I was able to keep little scraps of my experiences, and now I draw upon them in my writing.
Maya Angelou said,
“People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
I remember how I felt, even if I don’t remember the fleeting details—the words on the wind or the plans made or promises broken. I remember events that go back decades like they happened last week. I wish I could forget, but I don’t, and I take that feeling and put it on the page to connect with someone else who felt it, or who is experiencing it now.
And I learn things as I write.
As a kid, for example, I didn’t label myself as such. I don’t know if other kids do, but I didn’t. Even as an adult, I still don’t differentiate between girl-me and woman-me for reasons that are probably best explained by a psychologist. My perspective is this: I’m just me. Thus, I had no idea there was a limit to my purview at age 12, 13, 14, etc., and I tried to solve big problems—I needed answers—at these ages that were far beyond me, and I got no help. So I failed… hard. Now, more than three decades later, I finally see the failure was not because I stink at being a person.
After years of carrying that failure everywhere, I now know it wasn’t mine. Still…
Thirty. Years. A failure.
I might have made this discovery if I hadn’t written about it, but I also may not have. So I will write, because I can’t wait to see what else untangles itself, and I want to tell other lost girls what I discover, because I’m pretty sure we’re not alone.