I always wanted to be an archaeologist.
I painted my dusty figure for me on khaki shorts and sunburned my cheeks on some rope in Egypt with a scraper and brush, and gently eliminated time from the artifacts buried below.
I will be the cross between Ellie Sattler of Jurassic Park and Marion Ravenwood of Indiana Jones - including sexy love interests and drinking tolerance.
Instead, I received my first bachelor’s degree in history, which is also true when trying to gather evidence from the past. Although history depends on people's narratives.
Character .
And archaeology is excavated by digging out that shit, which is exactly what I needed to find the girl from the past.
Dirt on my hands
Looking back at what I’ve experienced, I can’t rely on my historian – the abusive marriage I escaped, the husband diagnosed as a narcissist, my children become collateral damage to trauma – because the historian’s role is to ensure the accuracy of the information through written words.
How can I ensure accuracy when I don't trust any words since then?
- It's not the one I love who hurt me with words.
- Not from other people who believe my words.
- Of course, since the words I wrote in many of the journals I kept were written from the woman in the mirror, what I no longer knew was my own words.
Her words were full of confusion and self-deception. She didn't realize she was being slapped by Waster, she was disconnected from truth and spent her days rooting in fantasy, that everything was harmless turbulence, ignoring the screaming sounds, but an unsolved plane crash.
I can't start with her because I don't trust her.
I don't believe this is subjective history. Narrative . People rewrite the past.
No one rewrites history like a narcissist.
Therefore, it is not enough to record evidence during this period. I need physical proof - human remains...