There’s a storm raging outside and I can’t help but feel it’s for me.
Tonight, I’m beginning to follow through on a promise I made to myself more than a year ago; to write about the genesis of Maria D’Isidoro. It’s a difficult thing to do, and one which has already stirred emotions and memories in me that I’d prefer remained untouched.
It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Maria D. saved the girl who was Morgan W., and I think it’s beyond time I gave her her due. And I’m equally sure the many friends who’ve so patiently put up with the confusion of knowing me as both would appreciate a fuller explanation of why I cling to this inconvenient farce. I’m working on it, guys.
It’s hard to write about the past. Revisiting it now, when practically every aspect of my life is so different – so intrinsically better – feels wrong. I worked so hard to get away from who I was back then; why go back to it?
There’s this fear that touching the toxic memories of my past will somehow infect me in the present. I know this is paranoia, but it’s hard to shake. It makes things inside me shudder and shake, descend into the dark, then return to the light in sharp, violent strikes of forced positivism. It’s all very confusing.
But what keeps me going is the awareness that I am indivisible from my experiences. Maria would not exist without pain, and I would not exist without Maria; erasing the past would erase myself. And I finally, finally like myself. It’s amazing. Call me silly or vain, but I want other people to marvel at this with me. And maybe the reason I’m doing this now is because I need to while the memories are still fresh. So that years from now, when being happy isn’t such a novelty, I’ll have this brief memoir to remind myself of how hard won that happiness was.
The storm rages, without and within, and I write and grieve and remember.