It was supposed to be a simple task, really. Everyone always tells me that I simply must share my story, I must write the book. The time seemed to have come. I thought it would be a matter of just telling what happened, beginning to end–the end. A neat package. What I have discovered in allowing myself to revisit the past, is that inside the neatly wrapped boxes of memories are broken gifts. What I put away is different than what I have unwrapped. I am finding new truths, new understanding and it is emotionally exhausting. Perhaps the reason I am so forgiving is because I have completely blocked out parts of my past, maybe it is better to not conjure those things. This is a journey, a discovery of things long buried. A discovery of truths that heal. And to think they said “just write”.