A Biography

I went to a good school with a good curriculum, led by good teachers.

I dated boys who used me up until I couldn’t shower off the shame.

I went to a good college with an interesting program and a kind academic counselor.

I watched my mother die slowly of cancer driven starvation until her morphine addiction ran the schedules and she just stopped breathing.

I got a good promotion, allowing me to work just one job to pay the bills.

I went away on business and came home to an empty bank account, and empty house, and an empty life.

I walked to the middle of the bridge and fantasized about jumping.

I opened the door to a friend who had driven seven hours to insist I get help.

My story is long, it is complex, it is more than I can explain into late nights and whiskey sours.

My story is truth and secrets and not fully known even to myself.

I don’t presume to understand anyone else’s story.

I used to write poetry;

Now I throw words up onto a page and hate the result;

I thought I had let go of these self destructive perceptions.