I figured out what book I most need to write today.

42 years ago right now, 699 miles north of my current home, my 19 year old mother labored for me in the same hospital in which her mother had delivered her: Roanoke Memorial Hospital in Roanoke, Virginia.

I wondered if her sister was there, if her mother was. I’ve given birth; now I want to know the story of my birth.

So I wrote my mom’s sister:

Hey Auntie, how are you holding up? I’m going to write this like a short letter, so don’t feel like you have to reply right away.

You asked me if I was still writing my book, and my answer has changed. I want to write a book for our family, not about our family.

I mean, I want to collect the beautiful stories and the real stories for our kids and grand kids and use my writing skills to immortalize our loved ones the way we remember them – in love.

So if it’s ok with you, I’d like to have a video chat or just a phone call to catch up and remember together, with a goal.

I’m starting a blog that will help me stay focused and organized on this project, and I want to write my birth story from Mom’s perspective.

You knew her then, what she was like, who she was, so you are the best person to help me preserve her memory with more than the perspective I can see as her child imagining.

I don’t know how much time it will take, and I figure we can plan one call at a time.

Let me know what you think. I’d like to do a story on others too, but I want to start with Mom. I feel like I understand her a lot better now that I’m old enough to be her mom.

Love,
Ashley

She said she thinks it’s a great idea! Woot!

…

I think we could save the world, if we can fight our fears of rejection and abandonment and learn to trust each other and make up with each other when we mess up.

I spent most of the last two years battling grief and major depressive Disorder and an identity crisis post diagnosis.

And I couldn’t practice the habits I knew helped me because they required more support than I had available to me. I needed fresh ideas from people like me.

It’s a fun disability, autism.

Brilliant, talented, manic pixie dream girl/crazy emotional monster/helpful sweetheart who gives the best hugs.

That’s me! 😁

All I know for sure is that I love, and that though love is not all we need, love is how our needs get met.

By writing, we become telepathic.

With word choice and rhythm, using elements of music and visual arts and all our senses, we can transport each other into a shared world that feels real and becomes real, a real experience, shared with an intimacy difficult to match.

I earned a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing because I wanted to be able to use my writing talent to reach people like me, so they’d know they aren’t alone.

I want to get into their heads, man.

I want to reach them in their hearts and open their eyes and ears and all their senses and show them the world I’ve seen.

Unhealed trauma and too little support turned me into the ugliest version of myself, especially in 2020.

I hated that version of me all my life, the Beast in me that takes the wheel whenever I lose control.

This year I’m writing the story of how I learned to love the ugliest parts of myself.