We are always the worst, and best, tellers of our own stories. We have more insight than any outsider ever could, but we also have no objectivity. If we’re lucky, we can blend insight and vague amounts of impartiality to get something approximating truth.
My name is Amy. I’m in my late 30s. I’m a geek by trade. Since I don’t speak on behalf of my employer, I don’t use my employer’s name here. You have search skills; you can probably find out for yourself. It’s not like it’s a huge secret.
I had what appeared to be a pretty normal life for a long time. I grew up in very rural Arkansas, in the type of place that most people don’t believe exists any more. I married my college sweetheart, and we moved to Alabama and stayed married for 15 years. I would describe Huntsville, Alabama as only slightly less conservative than the area around it. I had a love-hate relationship with Alabama for the entire time I lived there.
In late 2010, my husband nearly died in a motorcycle accident. He survived, albeit with a severe brain injury that affected both his memory and personality. Two years after the accident, after he was stabilized and generally finished with his recovery, we agreed to divorce. Within a year, the divorce was final, we lost both of our two elderly littermate kitties to heart issues, and I relocated to Portland, Oregon.
Prior to the accident, we were polyamorous, though we were very quiet about it. If you’re not sure what that is, this article is a pretty decent explanation. I have a relationship behind the scenes, one that dated back several years pre-accident, that survived my move to Portland; I don’t blare out his identity but it’s obvious if you know where to look. I don’t expect everyone to understand with or agree with how I live my life, but it works for me and that’s all you need to know.
I am an itinerant writer; my friends both hope I’ll eventually settle down to write The Novel and fear that they’ll show up in it. While I have a wide group of friends, I look back and am not sure I have ever been good about letting them into my life.
That’s me: extemporaneous, covered in cat fur, and often maddeningly obtuse.
Why yes, I do drive my friends crazy. Glad you asked.