An introduction of sorts

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

Over the years, I’ve shared parts of my story with people I’ve come in contact with. These people have included friends, acquaintances, colleagues, and sometimes even lovers. It’s always been in the context of something going on, and to hopefully help them understand why something is the way it is. More times than not, it’s been to try to explain why I am the way I am. The response to these stories has repeatedly been, “You should write a book.”

I’ve rolled that idea, the idea of writing a book about my experience, around in my brain for several years now always coming back to this same questions — “Who cares? What would I even say? What is the point?” There was a point where I finally believed that, yes, I should write a book. But still all of those questions remained. Until this morning.

This morning, I woke up and noticed that I was telling myself stories about a very specific time in my life. In late 1989, I spent six months at the Bethesda Maternity Home for Unwed Mothers in Valparaiso, Indiana. I was fourteen, pregnant, and had been sent there by my parents for a variety of reasons — some that I recall and some that I’ve inferred over the years.

This morning, I realized that a younger version of me has been left behind in that strange converted duplex, and she cares. She wants her stories from that time to be told. And that’s the point — to give a voice to that girl who was sent out of sight because her existence was too difficult and too inconvenient.

It is probably important to note that this isn’t actually a book. It’s a series of stories about myself as I remember them. It’s also not completely accurate. Memory is fallible and individual perspective is usually narrow. And, finally, it’s not completely fair to everyone involved.

For a long time, I’ve tried to accommodate the perspectives of others about this six month time period. This has been an important part of both healing and growing up. But in all of that work to accommodate those other perspectives, I’ve neglected that young girl, barely a teenager, who has already suffered from being neglected. My goals are fairly simple. First and foremost, I want to tell her stories — my stories — and let no other voices drown them out. And, I want to encourage others to tell THEIR stories.

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