"I am me"

The soft swell of my breast pushed against forearm -- a soft hello bringing me back to the name I'd so long shied from -- of being woman, of being me. For in the chaos of the world have I plunged, losing myself in the desires of others and the fashions of the moment and everyone's whim save for the one welling from deep inside my soul.

Who am I?

Shrouded in layers of fabric, I traversed my days. There's irony in spending so much time in front of the mirror, scrutinizing every molecule of my being. Yet this reveals nothing, or everything, for here too do I play many parts, losing myself in fairytale fantasies, my soul swirling to music, an aching beauty. Yet myself I do not divulge. The music stops. I leave the room, again clothing myself in a mask that fits so well I forget I have it on. A needle caught in a groove. I do not know the language and cannot ask, forever stifled in this placid chimera of discontent.

Days pass to years. My body continues its dance, though I do not. I write a lot. I scream through my writing. Flipping through the pages, back through the years, I am shocked to read the same lament, ever-repeating -- and what of love? This shrieking lament burns at my soul, inflicting the keenest pain at its absence. I do not spurn my mother's love -- I cherish it. But I talk not of these things. Friends misconstrue. They help by inflicting great pain. How can this be? I open up to these words and my soul spills forth. Too confused to separate what is from what is said, that sickly dance of banging up inside my head -- endeavoring to escape only to wake inside ever always throbbing from too much drink and crying. The mornings and I no longer meet. I lose myself in heavy slumber as day slips to night leaving no time for anything but critical thoughts cast inward in bitter shafts. I am my worst enemy. Grasping for that sweet balm of forgetfulness -- hours of exercise to the point of exhaustion -- losing myself for days in a dark theatre, living in a film -- anywhere but in my life, for my life is nothing -- traveling to lands near and far, reveling in the customs and languages of new places.

Yet no matter how far I journey, no matter what I do -- as hard as I try, I cannot escape this dull ache. The faster I run, the more intense the pain. I know something is wrong, yet I cannot solve it. And in not solving it, I ignore that very piece that holds the key. But how would I know this? For the pain is acute, blinding me from rational thought. I do not hear the tiny voice wailing from deep inside.

Then one day I crumble, no peace. No refuge. I've used all the cards save for one -- myself, a vision blurred and unformed, scarier than anything I've ever faced. How do I embrace that which I've known all my life but know not at all?

We approach like two animals, this tiny self and I, sniffing each other out for the very first time, cautiously, hind legs tensing underneath. The quiet stealth of that approach is unbearable, choking my breath in giant sobs. What must my neighbors think? Who cares.

Time brings comfort. And as I listen -- unable to do otherwise -- my voice gains in strength, words fitting like silken gloves. What do I like? What's important to me? Who am I? A deluge tumbling free, ever-shifting, growing as I do in the dappling light. I sort through the pieces, overwhelmed. But it's a start. And I am listening. And I bask in a calm suddenly clear with purpose. This great love I have has many destinations.

Happiness lies not in the result but in the getting there.

Isn't that a bumper sticker?

Now, with this newfound friend deep within whose features fill my heart with love, I again face the world, clothed in what is more and more clearly me, driven by a desire issuing from deep inside. And clutching this fierce purpose, I walk a more contented step, no longer smothered by everything I am not. What a relief! (Not that there aren't moments.) But in general, I am free -- a burgeoning woman. But more than that;

I am me.