If I had story to tell, would I find the courage to tell it? How could I tell a story so intimate, so fragmented? And where do I start a story that refuses to surrender a beginning?
For a long time I have wondered where to start this story. I have sat quietly with thousands of photos, with thousands of already written words trying to extract a beginning. I’ve tried to develop the story into something linear. I’ve tried to locate a discernible beginning, a robust middle and a happy ending. I have not been successful. All I have are bits and pieces of traumatic moments, beautifully blemished with moments of bliss and laughter and insights. So that is how I am going to let the story fall. I apologise in advance for any discomfort caused to readers. The only way I can seem to find to tell this story is in slightly fragmented bits.
There isn’t an ending to this story. I am still living it. There are some stories that neatly unfold and then it’s all over and the story can be told. The memories make sense and can then be relegated to the past. And then there are some events in life which throw everything into an irreparable mess leaving a seemingly never-ending struggle for both the memory and for the re-telling. It is not easy to find words which make sense of trauma.
It’s been about ten years since I had an awakening. During those clarifying intense moments I discovered scientology was a scam. I was given no choice but to leave scientology. I will write about that awakening in due course.
My name is Glenda. I am a New Zealander. This blog is going to be like my mountain – that place where I can stand tall and roar and rant, and pour the story out.
This is the story of what happened when I left scientology and the reasons why I left. It is the story of what I learned along the way back into life. I will do my best to tell it well. I will tell it from my heart.
These are my stories. I gift them with love.