This is the ending of a work-in-progress
I’ve been working on a memoir on food, body, love, sex, relationships, and life. It started as a memoir “On Food,” but then it got pretty crazy. It’s 88 pages, and I don’t know how it ends (because life goes on). This is its work-in-progress ending.
You might be asking, what does this all matter?
Who is going to read this story about my invisible things?
(I am)
Writing this, I knew I had to believe it:
That it mattered, to someone.
(To me.)
That I wasn’t alone.
(You’re not.)
That this was happening to someone, too.
(Me too.)
That someone needed to hear this story.
(I did. I do.)
Maybe it is delusion, but it’s what I have to believe. That the invisible things in our lives matter.
(Invisibilia.)
This story is written because they are the words of one invisible world — my reality. The reality of a girl who wanted to be a squirrel and became a CEO. The reality of the girl who felt as though she couldn’t conquer blueberries. It’s this invisible world inside my head, with all its windings and cogs and tangled knots, held up for the world to see, hoping that at least one person shares that world with her. That she is not alone. That what she is experiencing is human.
This is a story about being human, and all the messy thoughts and feelings that it entails.
I have thought, many times: Who am I to write a memoir? Who am I to found a company?
I am human, and I have a story. Just like you. Sometimes we live in the darkness, hiding it as messy and shameful, and then we think we are alone, in the darkness.
We’re never alone, not really.
