Fueled by a steady intake of coffee and a sense that my arrival home marks some sort of significant deadline, I drive the whole way without stopping to do more than pee, get food, or caffeine up. The list of questions I face is so impossibly endless and all-encompasses that I almost feel as if there’s no starting point. I have no single tract where I can plant my flag and say, ‘Here. This is the one thing that will remain true. Everything else must be build around it.’ Literally every tiny bit of who and what I am feels worth questioning. And as hard as that is…it feels right. It feels like I’m asking questions that I should have asked a long time ago. Still, as important as it may or may not be, it’s an arduous process. I keep running into some question or feeling that forces me to start over. I keep going back to that question. Who am I? Somewhere around Buchanan, Virginia it starts to feel like pieces are falling into place. It’s like I’m building a puzzle…the more sections I can. I can tell you now I had not known the meaning of terror until that moment. This was not the terror that galvanizes you into flight - especially wearing as I was borrowed oversize high heeled shoes in which I could barely stand. This terror was the terror that paralyses the rodent before the cobra, fixes someone in the path of an oncoming train.I did manage to wail in my terror with great racking sobs and my cheeks literally streaming with tears running salty into my mouth. I knew my make-up which had taken Jill, another college friend, over an hour to complete and the mascara would be streaming with my tears down my cheeks - I noticed black streaks on my body at some point where the mascara had run or been carried by my hands while rubbing my streaming eyes.I shook violently in my terror while the gang of boys milled about below me. One, who I will call boy#1, shushed the others with only partial success and moved towards me. “If you come down from there, we won’t hurt you.” he said..
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