A few nights ago, when I lay down to go to sleep, emotions rose to the surface. I thought at first that I was going to have a panic attack but I was able to cry instead. I cried because I didn’t want this to be my story. I cried because I felt all the pain that this IS my story and neither myself nor anyone else can take it back or change it. I cried because it isn’t my fault that this is my story. It isn’t my fault if I can’t make everyone look good by telling the truth.

In writing this, I have felt guilty that it would make many people, most notably my parents, look bad. I was terrified that I was going to enjoy making their faults public. As I sobbed my heart out last night, I knew for sure; I don’t. I am writing this for one reason. It is my story and it is time to tell the truth about it.

I didn’t pick this as my story. I would give almost anything to have a story that I could enjoy writing. I wish I could write my story about a happy, well-functioning, but quirky family. I would do anything except continue silently or continue lying to myself. I wish that my story was an honor to my parents, but if the truth isn’t an honor, I am helpless to change that.

I would do anything to save my parents from their own choices and their own stories that they didn’t choose. But I can’t. I can only bring the truth to light. Bringing it to the light may cause some harm, but letting it lurk in shadows is definitely causing harm. The light may not make it pretty, but maybe it can give it the chance to be redeemed.

If I could walk into a bookstore and pick a story to be my past, this is not the one I would have chosen. This is a story of confusion, pain, and fear. This is a reality stranger than most fiction. It is not by my choice that it is mine.