I Know My Truth

So, why am I telling my own story?

Because.

I am not famous, never will be.
I am not somebody.  I missed that train, in the rain, while hoping for Spain.

You see, I have an educated friend that judges people based on the way they speak, more than the color of their skin.  Quote, “They don’t even have a degree!”

Really?

And, that same friend absolutely hates first-person stories.

So, just to piss him off, and because no one else will find the truth of my story, I write, mine.

No need to go back to birth, suffice it say I was.

I was delivered to a broken mother, and way absent father, and a sister that never recovered from losing her sunlight, her daddy.

Growing up I did wear broken clothes, sometimes sewn by my mother, later by me.

Hunger was more on my mind than anything else most days while my bones stretched and my voice broke, and I walked strangely.

But, I found some things along the way.
God, music, friends, and laughter were my blessings.
Friends seemed willing to bear me, and I, in turn, could bear my load.
Music soothed me, yet gave me purpose, direction, strength.
God gave me a hope-filled future, and with laughter, I could fight off the darkest of days.
I never picked on a lessor person, unless they boar with pride, the label of “asshole.”
I could not seem to back away from a fight, even when the numbers or size was totally against me, my life anger would not let me.

Living was a day to day struggle, sometimes in rants, somedays coupled with tears.
Pain in my left hand, while my right hand held worry, in a bloodless grip.

Long years went into my war of struggle, with a few wins and a lot of losses.

No one is going to tell my story but me.

My story, my life, built on hope and gratitude and a dose of stupidity.

I am.

I have loved, I have laughed, I have sung many times alone with the lights off and music turned up loud.  Sometimes, I have even danced in the dark.

Many, many, many before me you will never know.  Though they loved and laughed and sang, they left no mark.

My story of success is here, if you read this.

It is mine, as small as I am.

My truth.

 

3 thoughts on “I Know My Truth

    1. My. High praise coming from you. I spent a long time not responding to compliments properly. My mother used to nudge me. “Appreciate the compliment. Then, simply say thank you.” You can see I am still trying to practice what she thought, but always feel perhaps I don’t deserve it. So, Thank you.

      Liked by 1 person

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