Tell Your Story

She, gently: Tell your story.

3 months later...
She, gently: Tell your story.

2 months later...
She, gently: Tell your story.

1 month later...
She: Tell your story.
Me: I hear you.
She: Good. Tell your story.
Me: But I'm so scared. Even the thought of it... see you've made me cry, dammit. Why do you always make me cry?

I month later...
She: Tell your story.
Me: I can't. It's too much. Even the thought of it breaks me open and makes me feel like shit. See? Crying again. I'm NOT doing this.

2 weeks later...
She: Tell your story, Susanna.
Me: Seriously? Do you want to know why not? Because whenever I even think about doing that, there's all this garbage choking me up, all this dark, sticky, smelly crud that gets stuck in my throat and nose, and presses down on my chest.
She: Good description!
Me: Really? I fucking hate that feeling and you know it. It burns and chokes, and twists me into a hot knot of hate. I'm not doing this. I've done every other hard thing I've needed to do, but I'm Not Doing This. Sorry. I just can't.

2 weeks later...
She: Tell your story, Susanna.
Me: No. I'm sorry to be such a looser about this, but I'm fragile and anxious at the moment, and I just need to get some peace in my life. I need QUIET. I need to read, and teach yoga, and be sober. And keep my freelance business going, save for retirement, and move to Canada. And crochet things. Sorry. I'm busy.

1 week later...
She: Susanna, Tell Your Story.
Me: Really? You're serious, aren't you?
She: Yes.
Me: OK, I'll do it. Happy? Now please leave me alone. I've got a book to write.

3 months later...
She: You said you'd tell your story.
Me: Shit! Busted. Can I tell you what happens when I try to make a start?
She: Sure.
Me: First I get a surge of heat, from my belly spewing right up into my throat. My eyes water. My chest goes tight. My shoulders crunch up. And I feel like running a million miles away, but I can't move. I'm frozen. Hot and frozen all at once.
She: Good description.
Me: It's horrible.
She: It's a good description.
Me: And then I hear "Who on earth would be interested in your story?" "What could you possibly have to say?" "Who do you think you are?"
She: And who do you think you are Susanna?
Me: That's a good question. I'm still working on that one.
She: That's why it's time to tell your story.

(And that's when I knew the story was for me, not for anyone else. The story is for me.)
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