Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Welcome back, everyone! How’s the journey treating you?

This is another order-of-business post before things really get rolling… I’ve got a post on how creative kids entertain themselves in the works, as well as a review of the recent narrative nonfiction work Hidden Valley Roadand something totally different, which is the subject of this brief announcement.

Later today, a new page will go live on the blog. Titled “This is Not a Sad Story,” it will be the home of This is Not a Sad Story, AKA the story of my life. The page will have more information about the story and its contents, and the story itself will be published in episodes, each covering a different fragment of my life. As might be expected, the memories will become more concrete over time.

This is a story that I’ve been too chicken to tell for a long time. You wouldn’t think it would be such a stretch to tell your life story, given that you tell it in bits and pieces all the time, but it’s a daunting task mentally and emotionally. Since the story deals with real life events, I’ve taken steps to contact the people involved, and I’ve changed names or omitted events where I or they deem it necessary.

The “This is Not a Sad Story” page will discuss this in more detail, but I will be providing content disclaimers where they apply, since the story will touch on some darker aspects of life that not all readers may want to explore. But, at the end of the day, the title gets the major point across. This is not a sad story. If it were, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing to you today.

Last night, I explained to my boyfriend’s parents that I took fish oil as a mood stabilizer. To be honest, those effects of fish oil aren’t proven — but it was recommended to me as an alternative to drugs. His mother made a thinking face and told me that I seemed very even-keeled.

“Well,” I said, “a couple of years ago I was having issues.”

This story will be like a stroll down memory lane, without the rose-tinted glasses. Because not all memory lanes are bright, tree-lined places. Some are dark, stinking alleys. Some go by the sea or by woods on a snowy evening where you were tempted to stay. Memory is like history, in a way, and This is Not a Sad Story is the history of me.

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