Truth.

I'm going to tell you a story, a true story, one that I've never shared before.  With anyone.

I was married at 22 and divorced at 26.  My husband cam home one day a week before Christmas, a few days before my son's 3rd birthday, and filled a black Hefty garbage bag with his belongings and then walked out.  Lu was four months old.  I was not working and we were left essentially penniless; he left on "pay day" and he didn't give any of that money to us before driving away.

I remember those days leading up to Christmas as a hazy blur...I remember making mini cinnamon rolls from Pillsbury Crescent Rolls and watching hours of Thomas the Tank.  I remember the way Lu's head smelled, powdery and sweet and the way she buried her face in my  neck.  I remember wondering how I was going to buy stocking stuffers for G's stocking on Christmas Eve..the first Christmas he might actually "get it".  

I remember tying one leg of a springed riding horse to the door handle of my bedroom, and the other to the leg of an antique desk, so I had enough leverage to attach the springs and put the thing together before G woke up.

I remember sitting on the carpeted floor, staring at it in all of its insanely cheery western glory when it was finished. I probably cried.  I don't remember that part.

I remember my baby girl, brought home early on Christmas Eve from a visit with her dad, because she wouldn't stop crying, and how this time she smelled of cheap perfume and cigarettes.  And how she got sick later, because they kept feeding her, stuffing the bottle in her mouth to get her to shut up.  And how both babies slept with me that night.

That was the night we three became...what we are today.  The three musketeers.  A team.  Fierce.

Together.

I had to go on public assistance for a while.  People told me not to be ashamed, that that's what it was for, people like me.  But I was.  Ashamed.  I was embarrassed and sad and I drove an hour away to buy groceries so I wouldn't see anyone I knew.  And they wouldn't see me. 

So no one would see me.

When I would buy groceries, I made sure we were clean and pressed and neat and tidy. I suppose I hoped our outward appearance would be proof to those who might judge my form of payment, that I was the one who...needed help, but wouldn't take advantage of it.

It didn't matter, in the end.  One day, after ringing up a cart full of groceries and swiping my state card, the cashier sneered at me, telling me I didn't have any money on it.  Which was impossible...I was insanely obsessive about calling to check the balance before I went shopping and I only went once a month. I literally could not handle the trip more than that. I wouldn't sleep the night before, the weight of the dread crushing me with its hopelessness.

I asked her to try again, nervously ignoring the four or five people stacking up in line behind me.  She swipes again and announces loudly to the line that I don't have enough money, it will be a few moments.

The man behind me, smiling kindly, touching my elbow, asking if he could pay for me.

The cashier, scoffing, teling him I'm on food stamps, not to bother.

The people staring, the...the everything.

I don't remember getting to my car, but I was in my car next.  I sat in the parking lot, babies strapped in their carseats, no groceries. Nothing.  I remember crying this time.

I drove back towards home, across a bridge, but had to pull over.  I couldn't see. 

I sat in a parking lot next to the lake, the war in my head between the desperate need to hide, to burrow deep and never come out, and the simple fact that there was almost no food left at home.  I found a pay phone.  I dialed the card number and checked the balance.  Of course it was full.

Of course.

The kids, they had been so good, a full hour in the grocery store, at least to fill that cart.  The stopping and starting and stopping again while their mother fell to pieces and then tried to stitch herself back together again, to be the adult, to be the strong one.  They were so good...never fussing, happy, smiling babies.  Kisses, hugs.  I drove back to the grocery store, unable to face going to a new one, starting over from scratch.

My full cart was at the front end desk, in the process of being "returned".  They were annoyed. Until I explained and had them check the card, one more time.  Then there was pity there, and sorrow and remorse, but not enough. I don't think there is enough remorse for what happened to me that day.  

I made it.  I made it through that awful, awful day. And a thousand more nearly as bad, but not quite.  Nothing will ever be quite as bad as that day.

Last week I had an interview with a nonprofit organization for a volunteer position that, quite frankly, I'm underqualified for. The experience was both bewildering and humbling.  And since then, when I have felt small and inconsequential, and fearful that I am pursuing something that I am not meant to have, or not meant to be, I remember that 26 year old single mother, and that awful, awful day.

Nothing can be as bad as that, and I have come so far.  So far.

I remember the man who offered to pay for my babies' food.  I remember the pure anger I felt for the cashier who so callously threw me to the wolves.  And I know...it doesn't really matter what my qualifications are, or are not.  It matters that I am talented and eager and a hard worker.  That I have compassion.

They don't teach compassion in college.

They should.

My niche is waiting to find me, and I it.  We'll get there.  For once in my life, I don't have that panicky feeling, like I should hide and let the fear weight me down, hold me back.

I'm free.