Telling My Stories

Responding to “A Year of Living Dangerously: 1968” by Dana Densmore

(page 79) “My faith was in finding a way of telling the truth so accurately, in ways so consonant with people’s own experiences, that the person herself had to acknowledge it: something in her soul would turn with gladness to what was its own.”

My happiness seems to be spiraling away from me, out of my hands, out of my reach. I never wore happiness comfortably to begin with; I have more experience with depression. When I started writing, I had faith in my ability to cope with my memories and the emotions I had kept at arm's length so long. Instead, I feel that I am losing or have lost everything.

I started taking a drug to help with depression, moodiness, and anorexia, but it didn't work. My inner journey has indeed helped me gain my bearings in controlling my response to the decay of my world, but I never had control over the interlocking relationships that made up my world to begin with.

This weekend I resolved to let go of the conflicts of others, for all attempts at building a bridge of understanding have either backfired or been undermined. I can only tell my own stories, not those of others.

I have lost so much, and I am convinced that I am not done losing.

And I've begun to wonder what I should put my faith in.