I was thinking about my past on this trip. So much to right about, so many stories. I have stories. But it sent me in a mood where I started to think about how I got here.
How did I make myself?
There is the tedious story about the troubled childhood and blah blah blah.
Stories that are nothing but blackness and horror and a sympathy for "How do you survive?" I honestly don't know.
There is the part of me that doesn't really know how I made myself, only that I refused to allow myself to become nothing. Maybe because I was to smart. Maybe hatred.
There is a wrongness to say that I hated my youth and those around me. People want to hear that you overcame because of love, or some internal grit that makes you pull yourself up by your boot straps. Persevere! Turn the other cheek. Be better than the bastards that want to get you down.
That's the thing. I don't know that I was better. But I was determined not to be the bastards. And to to do that, I had to be a bit of bastards. 25 years and several in therapy have mellowed all of it. I had to find some way to justify my own internal selfishness at the time.
Who am I now?
Not the bastards. I have found my own way in this world. I have compassion and empathy that I learned, but was never taught. I care about others.
I still care about me.
In my making I became the person I most wanted to be. Someone who can appreciate the world which I have somehow clawed my way to the opportunity to explore.
Lima is humid. I've enjoyed my time here. I have stories more to tell.