I have always wanted to be an archaeologist.
I painted my dust on my khaki shorts and got sunburned on my cheeks while scraping and brushing on some rope in Egypt, gently erasing time from the artifacts buried below.
I would be a cross between Ellie Sattler from Jurassic Park and Marion Ravenwood from Indiana Jones - complete with a sexy love interest and a tolerance for drinking.
Instead, I earned the first bachelor's degree in history, which was also the case when trying to gather evidence from the past. Although history relies on people's narratives.
Words.
And archaeology is dug up by excavating that bullshit, which is exactly what I need to find the past girl.
Getting My Hands Dirty
When reflecting on what I have experienced, I cannot rely on my historian - the abusive marriage I escaped from, the husband diagnosed as a narcissist, my children becoming collateral damage of trauma - because the role of a historian is to ensure the accuracy of information through written words.
How can I ensure accuracy when I have not trusted any words since then?
- Not from the people I love who hurt me with words.
- Not from others who believe my words.
- Of course, since what I wrote in many journals I kept was written from the woman in the mirror whom I no longer recognize, it is no longer my own words.
Her words are filled with confusion and self-deception. She is unaware that she is being gaslit, disconnected from the truth, and spends her days rooted in fantasy, where everything is harmless turbulence, ignoring the screaming sounds, but rather a pending plane crash.
I cannot start with her because I do not trust her.
I do not believe this is subjective history. Narrative. People rewrite the past.
No one rewrites history like a narcissist.
Therefore, the recorded evidence of this time is insufficient. I need physical proof - human remains…