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 after spending some time in Australia.
Once in Oregon, I set about putting together a new place, a new life. I bought a snug little condo. I rarely drive. I adopted the most tightly bonded pair of cats I’ve ever seen.
I still have Jacob, my quilting partner in crime, camping mentor, and all-around Person I Need To Keep:
and to my surprise, there is also Noah. It turns out I needed a Noah.
That’s me: extemporaneous, covered in cat fur, and often maddeningly obtuse. I’m not always good about letting people in. Sometimes you just have to interrupt me: