I was born in August, 1950. Like most people of my generation, I have a therapist. I am a perfectionist, workaholic, and terrified of my mother. With my therapist, we are exploring the dark depths of despair and unlocking the emotional doors that have kept me from complete happiness.
It is my friends, though, who have recently helped me to see the humor in these defining memories of my childhood. One day when I was bemoaning another “mother” story, they burst into laughter. We held our stomachs, rolled back and forth, laughing so hard that we cried. And so it is – this partnership with my therapist who walks with me through the horrors of my past and the strong bonds with my friends and guide who help me discover that under the fears and tears I have laughter and maybe even joy.
The Journals of the Skinny Little Girl may seem insignificant. They might not even be funny. You might say that there is no way that any of this could ever have happened. I am not even certain of my purpose in writing, other than to occupy my sleepless nights. But I do know that when I close my eyes, sometimes I can see my friends and guide, my therapist, and that skinny little girl joining hands and dancing wildly around a fire with sparks that reach the sky. In a single moment we are one. And so, I will continue to write.