where soul meets body.

I aspire to write more.

I find truth and beauty in writing.  I find sanity.  healing and hope.  faith, even. I find myself when I can’t find it anywhere else.

I’ve had to rediscover myself.  it’s been a rocky road this life, and I’m finally discovering the truths of my childhood, which have shaped everything I have become. the journey began my senior year of high school when I was asked to give my testimony to the youth group, along with the other seniors at the church I attended that year.  this was the first time I had ever spoken frankly about my life, my childhood.  I barely remember anything about that wednesday evening. I told my story without feeling, because the moment I felt what I was saying, it would all end. another senior spoke that evening as well, but I couldn’t tell you who it was. twenty or so minutes passed as I spoke.  after moving the leaders and most of the youth to tears, I found myself asked to tell my story to the entire church body.  I remember much about that sunday evening.  I remember walking to the podium, holding the prepared talking notes, folded and tattered as they were because I had read and reread them a hundred times since I had spoken to the youth group. I remember standing behind that podium, looking out at a hundred or so people, looking down at my paper, shaking as I gripped it with the white knuckles. I took a deep breath, let go of the sheet, and began to speak.

as I spoke the slight murmurs of the congregation died away. you could hear a pin drop. it felt as if the world was hearing me for the very first time. I don’t know if it was really that silent in that sanctuary in east ridge, or if I was simply lost in my own story.  I spoke freely, and slowly my jitters dissipated. I felt tears run down my face, but I continued to speak clearly and intentionally.  gradually, I began to feel the words I uttered.  but still, I continued. thirty minutes passed, and I reached the end of my story. I dropped my head, smiled to myself, and walked off the platform. the silence defeated me. as I walked to my seat, the silence was broken by a single clap. then, the entire congregation began to clap. I looked around me and saw tears streaming down the faces of many. it was not simply applause, but a shared rejoicing in a small triumph.

from that point forward, things changed.  I have pushed the limits of myself.  I have discovered truths which have been hidden from me for two decades.  I have placed them in the open so they can, someday, no longer hurt me.  I do not seek pity or sympathy.  I seek understanding.  I seek an end to the things which I have experienced.  I seek prevention. I seek hope.

I hide behind a persona.  I write about my memories.  I am an unknown, unnamed identity.  I am who I am, but I am not simply myself.  I can imagine, but I do not know who reads my memories.  this ambiguity gives me the ability to speak openly and freely.

not only that, but it gives me the power to be more than myself.  it gives me to power to be anyone who reads my story.

I am my story. I am your story.

I am every story.


~ by Mary Christa on April 28, 2010.

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