Patrick, who I had been married to for 24 years, has become my friend in the last few years since our marriage dissolved. When he decided he no longer wanted to be married and moved out of the house we shared, I was pretty much a basket case.
He was after all more than a husband, he was my only true friend for most of our lives together. He was there for me as the memories began to return which were often frightening experiences. As these fractured memories began to permeate to the foreground of my thoughts, I was confused, unable to understand what this meant regarding my life and how I had lived it. He was the only one who knew what I had gone through during those years, and we both had struggled to make sense of the information I was receiving. How could I possibly expect anyone else to understand me without being there to witness the unfolding of this mystery? If it did not make sense to me, how could it make sense to anyone else? I realized when he left that I would probably be alone for a long time, perhaps the rest of my life, while I worked through the symptoms causing my PTSD. I am grateful that we were both able to let go of the past enough to become friends these past few years. It has been invaluable to me.
Meeting someone who can understand what you are going through without knowing the story has also been an amazing gift. My very good friend who I met three years ago now, explained the lack of clarity of the jumbled up memories to me this way;
“It is as though your life has been shattered into hundreds of pieces, and then like a puzzle it was thrown out across the floor. Seeing the pieces scattered like this has made it difficult to make sense of the information you have. If you write your story, you will be able to put the pieces back together also like a puzzle, giving you clarity and putting order into the chaos as you see the picture come together.”
At that time I still could not fathom the idea that I had enough information to compile a ledgible story. So I continued to shelve the idea of a book. But last year over the Christmas break, I began to write my story. This process was inspired by my experience with Pecha Kucha last September in Medicine Hat. As I wrote drawing from the journals I kept for almost 15 years, I saw that my friend was right. Understanding came and with it the knowledge of my birth parents. The more I wrote, the more I realized I had to go home and let the culture and ambiance of the land fill my soul making me whole once more. As the months drifted by, a plan was beginning to form.
Patrick was there for the beginning as the unravelling of my memories began and therefore he wishes to be there to finish it with me. We go as friends, not as a couple, aware that our paths run parallel for the time being, but will at some point drift apart in a way that will serve each of us.
He left Maple Creek yesterday to spend time with family and as the understanding that he was gone from here settled in, I began to feel very frightened knowing that I will now have to face my transition from here without him. We will meet in Ecuador to finish this book, research the places that are in my memory and therefor in my heart, but first I must make the journey home alone. Well not completely alone, Miss Mali is coming with me. My best and truest friend these past few years and the main reason for me starting each day. So how much courage do I really have? Will I be able to take those final steps onto the plane ready to accept where this path will bring me?
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