Lucky: 2

Three years ago, Baba Yaga sent me two gifts. A new car that I wasn’t sure how I got approved for or would pay for, and a King reincarnated in the form of a Great Pyrenees puppy. That was the year I ended my last significant relationship, the one that took the prize for being the most fucked up. If you’ve ever been in what some people call a narcissistic relationship or been psychologically abused in some way, you know exactly what I mean when I say I’m still wondering if I’m the problem. I’ve been apologizing for things that weren’t my responsibility since I was small. And I spent those two years apologizing for everything, diving into therapy, taking meds to fix projected diagnoses, and doing everything I could to fix my brokenness that was causing everyone else so much harm. All while undiscovered tumors invaded my womb making me sick. All while my soul was leading me deep into how autism shows up for a female. Midlife changes a woman (or anyone born with a uterus) and this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back. It’s me, I’m the camel. I’d gone without water for too long. I gave it away. I sold it. I bargained with it. And then I was dry and unable to sustain life any longer.

But I learned a hard lesson, among many. That some people are disturbingly good at hiding who they are. To the point that you start to believe You are the actual liar. It must be true, when all the people you trusted the most turn on you in an instant. When you are a person who relies on others to tell you who you are, they surely will. One way or another. And that’s the thing about Baba Yaga. I know she loves me but she always shows me the truth. Three years ago, I learned the horrible truth about what people are capable of. And learned it over and over for a while after until I finally dove within far enough to find my own.

I had my car, Lilith and my King, who grew very fast into King Midas with the golden touch. Stability were my reliable wheels and my white soft polar bear who kept me from going down the spiral. Yin and Yang traveled with me from rural Kansas to Oregon where something in me demanded we start over. Nothing went right. Not the house sale that was supposed to give me the money I needed to start over, not our landing place courtesy of a friend who couldn’t handle the stress of living with us, and not my youngest child, who was with me at the beginning but returned when I realized I was likely going to have to live in my car. I’m thankful everyday that he is happy and safe now. Even though apart from me.

There comes a moment in every confessional writer’s life where they grapple with the difference between telling on people and telling the story. The issue with confessional writing, or whatever it’s called, is that to tell my story is to tell the truth. And truth is a matter of perspective most of the time. We all have our versions of the story. My autistic brain wants to tell the truth at all costs. All facets of it. And I’ve never been a snitch. Early childhood abuse kept me very quiet for most of my life. My mother was a keeper of secrets and while she was teaching me how to be resourceful and creative, she also taught me to stay quiet. There are some things you don’t share. And there’s an art to telling a story that isn’t dripping with Pity Me. Thanks to Starbucks spirituality, we have a convoluted idea around victimhood. I’ve been accused of playing the victim more than once by people who wrap their bullshit in woke language. But part of my journey has been accepting that wound. Of being an actual victim. And knowing that I am not perfect. And…that my story is mine to tell. What I’ve observed, gleaned and learned from the stuff of my experience. We all deserve that much. We are born and then we die. And though we might have people around us during both transits, it is ultimately our intrinsic journey to make.

We make our own terms. Come hell or highwater. We have to.

So Baba Yaga leads me through the dark trees and sits me down at her table and pokes at me until I confess. She knows this poison has a purpose. It is medicine. I unearth the secrets I’ve kept. I lay them on the table. King Midas sits near her fire, a smile on his face to be home, his belly full and Lilith, the car that brought me here safely, shining under the starlight outside. I made it. I don’t know where HERE is yet, but I feel it in my bones. It took me three years. Or maybe forty-six. And maybe my suitcase is packed but my heart wants to unpack the rest.