I just posted a most profound status update (Come on, let me have this.) It read as follows: 

"I have said it, and will continue to do so. It all works out the way it's supposed to. It's just... sometimes you have to take a step back and go through the full sequence of events to see how yesterday's negative is actually today's positive. To remember all those things and people you thought you'd never get through, and realize they're the past, just as this will be."

And I thought, that's an easy thing to say. Not everyone has seen what I've seen. Proof. They need proof. I have proof that the worst day of your life can turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you. This story isn't "happy" per se. And if you know me, you already know it. But, should you choose to read it, think of the implications. It's not about what happened. It's the why of it all that gets me.

When I was 11 years old, my mother sent me to visit the father I had only ever visited twice in my life. She never took me back. You... can not imagine how that felt, to be called by your mother, the only person you've ever known, loved, and trusted your entire life, and be told you won't be coming home to her. But she'd call. Over time, the phone calls became more and more infrequent. Weeks turned to months, turned to a few times a year. my father would say things like, "She should just stay gone." I hated him for saying that, thinking it, for years. She was my mother! 14-18 went by in complete radio silence. Theories were tossed around. I was told she might have died. I was told she'd never call again.

When I was 18, she called. I went back ... for 2 months. And in those months I saw where I would have been. She'd been homeless for my high school years, become an addict, and was still with the man who would steal my wallet and empty my bank account. Which was ridiculous because, had she asked, I would have given her all of what little I had. Her response to this was to cry and ask me what I thought she should do. Her recently robbed teenage daughter. The last shred of respect I had for her evaporated in that moment. And when she disappeared again, she died to me. Well before my grandmother ritualistically unpacked and disposed of her belongings left behind, I had completed my mourning.

I learned that fateful summer that it wasn't a matter of her never asking for me, but my father never sending me back.

And I thanked him.

I suddenly understood why he got mad when she called. Because it upset me. Depressed me. A little glimpse of that suicidal (yeah) child came back every time, and it pissed him off. It pissed me off too, in retrospect. She should have stayed gone. I'd had... a life between the phone calls. I'd had birthday parties and best friends, a house and plenty of food (some would argue too much lol). I had a car when I was 16 and a horrible first job. I'd graduated high school. I was on my way to college.

I never so much as smoked a cigarette. Can I say it would have been the same had I stayed with her? I somehow doubt it. When I was there, upset about my wallet being stolen, she offered me a drink. That was her fix. That was how she made things better. How many drinks would I have drunk before I wanted something more, and how long before she gave it to me? How many parties would she have before I was molested or worse? Or maybe I would have been good. Naive. Malleable. What would I have stolen, sold, or bartered because she'd asked me to? I'll never know. But I do know I wouldn't be where I am if she hadn't sent me away. If my father hadn't refused to send me back. And I know that where I am is far better than where I could have been. Would have been.

I am a (relatively) healthy adult. I didn't finish college, but I'm not stupid. I work for a good company in a job I like (most days). I've written a book. I've written a song (that I actually got to hear performed, at least in part, by my favorite musical artist). I go to concerts. I'm saving for London. I have friends and a family I can count on. I own furniture and am a generally likeable person (although I have my moments). I don't have all my shit together--though I'm not sure anyone ever really does--but I have a good start. A good life. I'm still standing, although at one point I thought I never wanted to again.

It's going to be okay.

I've tried to publish my book with no success. I entered a contest. I didn't do well. But, guess what? I got great insight into my own writing. Improved my manuscript and will continue to do so with a renewed sense of motivation. I also saved hundreds (possibly thousand) of dollars it would have taken to follow through on the commitment if I had done well. Money I can use to relocate now that I have so suddenly found myself homeless yet again. I'll be relocating with a co-worker and soon to be friend who is currently in his own bind, wanting to move, but unable to do so on his own. He's sick of living with men and, if you've talked to me anytime in the past year, you know how I feel about living with another woman. Although the sudden nature of this change has left me at a bit of a financial disadvantage, the timing is altogether serendipitous.

It's going to get worse before it gets better. That's just how my life works. I'm going to contemplate giving up, digging a hole and never coming out.

But deep down I know: I'm going to be okay. It's all going to work out. It has to. It will. I have proof.

I have faith.