I was driving around in my car, eating a meltingly ripe persimmon. On the radio came a fiddle-playing band performing their rendition of In the White Room. I was traveling with the three drafts of my personal statement of truth, version one consisting of 690-some words and the final consisting of only four. Joy is not enough. That’s it. The whole thing. Today my life is unmanageable due to the fact, having a balanced life, feeling my wide range of feelings including joy, is not sufficient to eliminate the pain and damage of the past. My horrific childhood has not been perfectly healed, has not mended seamlessly. I have joy today, everyday at some point, in proportion to my sober choices.
I fail to realize there is no promise that says the past will be healed; I’ve been told I will not have to regret the past. I don’t, at least not any of the choices I made. Other peoples’ choices are not mine to regret, so I can’t do that for them. I am also told, I will not wish to shut the door on the past, and I don’t wish to. I want it healed. I may not get my wish. Just because I am doing my part to heal the past doesn’t make anyone else do theirs. I can’t strong-arm perpetrators into health the way they strong-armed me into abuse. So, all I really believe is this; joy is not enough, but it’s a hell of a start.
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