There are a lot of things I can tell you. I can tell you what you’d like to hear. I could tell you what you may expect me to say. Or I could tell the truth. The truth is, of course, is harder, but it’s the only way. Otherwise, what’s the point? Even now, as I sit stuck on page one, where I have been for the past few months, I am suddenly terrified. Staring at this blank white screen, my palms are sweating and I’m suddenly sure, convinced, that I was wrong. What the hell made me think that I have anything to say? Whatever gave me the idea that there’s anyone out there who gives a shit?
Deep breath. Sip of coffee. The moment passes. I remember that I don’t hate myself anymore and that this is going to be fun. I think I’ll be okay. We shall see. If you’re reading this, then I did it.
Maybe reading this will help understand what has brought me to where I am today, and what these past years have meant to me. And maybe this is also for anyone who has ever lived a life like mine, or will do so in the future.
Okay, so I’m also doing it for completely selfish reasons. There are still some things that have never really been resolved in my heart, which I have yet to face properly. There’s some scary stuff, and it’s going to take a lot for me to get through it. If I don’t chicken out, then it will undoubtedly be good for me, perhaps even saving me from years of expensive therapy.
But before we get to the juicy details, let me introduce to you:
Who am I?
Ah, one of the big questions, subject of thousands of magazine articles and any number of dorky self-help books. It’s a question that drives people to do strange and expensive things, like divorcing their spouses after thirty years. It’s a question that some people pay other people vast sums of money to answer, while other people never even think of asking it.
I’m lucky. I do know. Kind of. And I’m happy with the answer. Mostly. I mean, obviously, we’re not talking about stretch marks and cellulite and certain obsessive-compulsive personality traits that could use some work. No, no. I’m talking about the me that has been me since the first time I was aware of being me. It took a long time, but I like her these days. You can make up your mind, but you don’t have to decide right away.
My name is Laura (aka Aira to my family and close friends). I’m twenty-three years old, and I’m a mommy. I’m not scared of bugs and the dark, but I’m deathly afraid of snakes and heights. I’d give anyone else my last Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, but I’m still lumpier than I’d like to be. I spend sleepless nights reading. And I can write things that other people seem to enjoy.
Not much, but it’s a start. And it’s all true, which has to count for something.