If you are reading these in chronological order, the first phase: “The Mythos of Lilith” was about reclaiming an ancient power. Unearthing that root and following it across the jagged lines of time, media, and location. Madness is in all of us. Anger/insanity are two sides of the same coin. While I am not closing that chapter, I do believe it is time to pivot slightly. I am a new person now. The author of the first blogs, is gone a mere hallucination. Now I am reborn and so too will my stories. 

Stories; that is the next phase. From parts of narrative, to point of view, to real life tale spinners, that is where I am being drawn. Who tells stories? What do they consist of? And who’s stories do we believe? If we believe them does it make them true? 

The idea of Phase 2 Storytelling, came to me as my dad was battling cancer. In his last 6 months of life, I tried to capture every detail and memorize it, so I could pass down those memories to others. I didn’t want my dad to die with his body. In gireving him, there have been a lot of stories shared between our circle. When I wrote his obituary I tried to construct a narrative that would let outsiders into the man that was my dad. The best human I had the pleasure of knowing my whole life. More and more people shared stories of my dad’s youth and misadventures; all with good intentions they were all grieving his loss too. And yet, it got my brain thinking, how are the stories we tell about loved ones any different than fairytales, than novels? And if I’m thinking that now then, what other stories were believed as fact when they were in fact fiction? 

If all the past and present are is just stories, then we play characters. That means there is a hero, a villain, and a collection of side characters to round it out. I can also safely assume (and subsequent blogs will delve into this) that the stories of women are often used to paint them into boxes society can understand: innocent or villianous. Stories used to move pieces on patriarchy’s chess board where the king is protected and the queen sacrificed for the good of the kingdom. 

To put this back to my life at the moment, I am heartbroken my dad passed. I miss him dearly every minute of everyday, grieving him has been the hardest thing I have done in this lifetime. BUT I am not empty, my life is not meaningless, I am not heart-empty. I was with my dad from diagnosis to his very last breath on May 22nd, and I know that he wants to watch me walk my path, to succeed, to push past all the naysayers and prove them wrong. He is guiding my purpose, and I know he is proud of me. If I tell well meaning people that, when they ask me how I am, that seems callous. If I tell them I’m actually doing quite well, they’ll think I’m a sociopath. It would make them comfortable if I fit into their narrative as the heartbroken daughter. If I broke down in tears and recounted his last days they would be accepting of that narrative. But the story of the young woman who loses her dad and finds renewed purpose and confidence in herself? Different story. 

• Seeds
• Mother Wound
• Shattered Mask
• The Glorious Struggle of Choice
• Turning the Page