Two. One to screw it in and the other to shoot the witness.
It feels like I spent the first 25 years fighting who I was, the next 10 years trying to be something and somebody else, the next ten years mourning for the person I never became, another two deciding what that actually all meant, to get me here.
A few years ago I came to the realisation that “I don’t think I’ll ever know what my life purpose is, but that I’m sure I’m doing it.”
I’ve flirted along the edges, like so many – safe in the knowledge that there was a parachute. And yet.
As I get older, I want to know who I was. Who was my family? What is it to be a Sicilian woman, a childless Sicilian woman, and only child? What was I taken from? Is that why I never fit in? Was that the original trauma that permeates all other trauma?