Stories and Lies

There is a thought about how sometimes tell ourselves one thing when it really the opposite of what is really happening. I tell myself that I can get up and go running around Greenlake and not stop until I finish that 2.8 miles. But in reality I am lucky to make it to my car and drive to Greenlake. Most days I am stuck trying to figure out what is happening to my body as MS takes over. I come to acknowledge some of the symptoms and ignore the rest as if I can wish this disease away. I never think about what I could have been, more or less, I think of what I believe I am. Not what I am unable to do anymore, but what I can do when I get better. I don’t think I am defeated or that I am going to take this disease lying down even when all I can do is just that, lie down. I sometimes do wish I had some certain body changes that would make me feel better about myself. I sometimes wish that instead of looking so much like my father that I could have inherited his butt instead of my mother’s flat one. I wish was taller, thinner and had smaller feet also. Then I would not have to look so hard for decent clothes to fit my short, fat body or when I find the flat shoes I am supposed to now wear, I would not have Fred Flintstone’s feet. But I am what I am and at some level of discontent I am OK with that. My parents are telling this story about my first few months here on earth, something about me having a nurse or maid to care for me because Mom was too sick to care for me herself. This, of course, is subject to interpretation and as all old people tend to do, they only remember their version of things. I always thought my father was largely unaware of my birth for the first few months, which is the story I grew up hearing and one I naturally understand, given that my folks are slightly crazy and love to argue, fuss and fight. The idea that Wowa, my father, would pay someone to come in and take of things while there are other older children that could do the same thing is incomprehensible. I wonder what other stories they have lurking in their heads that they never told. How about those questions we all have about us as a family, whispered but never asked outright. I have many, but I must wait for answers until I either gather the courage to ask or they mention something in passing while we gather in the kitchen talking about the price of milk or how much it cost Wowa to feed us for that day. The stories all come out in some way. Some not as important as others, but they are still there. I wonder if that dream I had while l was in grade school, of being adopted and finding my real family who are incredibly rich and powerful, will come true. Oh my God, wouldn’t that be the greatest. Then they can give all the money I need to fix my fat body and they can better explain my flat behind. Of then I remember what I would miss. I would miss the stories. I would wonder what my sisters are doing, what my brothers are up to, the latest news of my nieces and nephews. I would wonder about who was in my childhood home and most especially my room. The room, to which I learned to read and love the written word. I would mostly wonder who would tell the stories of us. I realize I am stuck with the family have with all their stories and versions of the same stories, and stories that don’t come out until 43 years later. But I ok with that cause I know that in the end I am the one to tell the stories as I see them. My version will not be the version someone else remembers but it is the one I know. And that would not be lying.