Lessons in Lasagna

INCEPTION

After my father disappeared—and my funding—I returned to waiting tables and closet writing.  I moved to California, got married, and had two amazing kids, and through the process of filling these new roles, I got lost.  A notable amount of time passed before I was encouraged to put aside my fear of rejection and expose myself publicly—to tell a story that would put some loose ends to rest.

While figuring out how to put these words together with a binding, I was asked whom I was writing this for; I took that as a sort of insinuation that perhaps no one would want to read this book.  After some thought and inner examination, I knew the answer to the question; I decided it was me.  I am the giver and the receiver; I wrote for myself.  It’s my truth, simply put.  It became my opportunity to assemble the chaos of my past into a viable means of self-expression—a slather of peace in my room of tortures.  

I wrote it as though I were building a house, all the while planning its housewarming party.  I had some difficulty staying focused.  Building the foundation before putting up curtains, so many memories, emotions, and incidents I’d buried resurfaced.  I found myself going off on tangents, so, in the end, I’d let myself go, then reeled myself in by re-editing over and over. 

In a sense, it was like preparing a recipe, adding and subtracting ingredients until the flavor is satisfying.  As a writer, I have potential.  But I am hard on myself.  Foolishly, I feared what others thought; I trusted their judgment more than my own.  It seemed everyone wanted to edit my thoughts, perhaps because they hadn’t spoken their own.  In this process of exposing myself, I found I could be easily crushed; I concealed it well.  When you consider yourself to be an outsider, whether by virtue or proxy, you define yourself by others—at least I did. 

It’s a precarious, unbalanced way to exist.  I found myself sighing a lot, and, eventually, I couldn’t breathe.  I carried a paper bag around with me for a long time feeling hypersensitive to criticism from people whose outlook shouldn’t matter to me.  I proceeded fighting my roundness into their square fittings; it never felt right.  I attempted several means to overcome self-deprecation; most were unsuccessfully.  Then I decided, “Screw it—what’s the worst thing that could happen?”  So people walked away saying, “What was she thinking?” 

I didn’t care; the reality is I am already a success in my life.  I have a great family, which I prize caring for, a landscape of friends and acquaintances, and a home that is my haven.  I laugh, cook, garden, read, socialize, and play with my husband, kids, and dogs.  We are healthy, have a strong faith, and are complete in the knowledge of our comforts.  I am kind because it feels good, and, slowly, I am learning to receive.  Anything else is like fries with a garden burger—the burger is good on its own; the fries are merely enhancers. 

With these revelations in place, I focused on where my comforts lie.  Two activities I felt sufficiently confident doing are writing and cooking.  I express myself through both; together, they have become my scaffolding.  I don’t pretend to be a genius at either.  I am a woman grappling with healing, and embracing and valuing mortality; I get that it is temporary. 

I have a willingness to keep going, which is why I wrote this.  I meet a lot of people haunted and ashamed by their struggles.  I have been stalked by shame myself—and still am, though less and less.  It felt good to open the attic and release its haunting inhabitants. 

I invite you to leave any ghosts, fears, or shame in the blank pages I have provided at the end of this book.  I have and will continue to expose them all—perhaps through fiction as to protect my personal life, but I will do it.  I have a feeling that if I am done with this process, I may not need to be here anymore.  So I embrace all of the old and new inhabitants.  There are definitely ones who are stubborn and need to go, so I continue.