This line from the popular show Hamilton has been on my mind often lately. Over the course of the past few months, I have found myself writing a living story that felt more like horror than reality. The choices that were made, the conversations had, the hurts that were dealt now in retrospect seem rather surreal and like a far off dream. I have often wished I could go back and write over things that had happened, and maybe make things go differently. But unfortunately, we cannot always control the decisions and actions of others, and must decide in that moment what is best for only ourself, and no one else.
In the aftermath of these past few weeks, I have found myself as usual explaining in far more detail than necessary exactly what has occurred, and why. At least why it was necessary from my position. Each time, I think I’ll be calm and concise but I admit the frustration is still too fresh for me to be fully rational when recounting.
But I think that we come to a point through a process of hatred and grief when we have no choice but to let these emotions fade, and I find I am left with an echo of melancholy and bittersweet sadness.
I would like to go into this next season of life, the next chapter in this living story, with a feeling of peace and renewal. I cannot forget, and I have not yet begun to forgive. But I have created a blank slate. I have thrown away the tattered pages.
“I’m erasing myself from the narrative.”
Devine Perks 