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There are times in life when cleaning a drawer feels like the right thing to do on a Friday night.

It doesn’t matter that you had a short list of responsibilities that evening, or that it wasn’t on your to-do list, it’s just that the moment was right.

The filing cabinet has been something on my to-do list that never gets done. There was always something else pressing and it was pushed to the next week…and the next. Until tonight, I found myself caught up in the plethora of memories that consumed me after I opened the drawer to look for one thing.

Midnight will strike soon—yet my day is far from over.

I thought, “How long could it take?” My aim was to sift through a few things then put it aside for another day. Didn’t happen.

Practically since birth, I’ve been a writer. Notes to family. Plays to share. A letter to the local news channel about the importance of airing “The Wizard of Oz” more regularly (I received a response). Imaginary stories of a troubled child who sent herself to a church orphanage because her parents didn’t love her.

It was both a shock and a reality that I wrote that. I penned a story about “Lila,” whose parents decided they didn’t want her, so she was sent to a church orphanage because her father drank and her mother was trying to work it out. I was floored by the depth of my emotions as a child, yet my history came to fruition in that moment and painted a clearer picture.

Tonight, I was caught short. Tonight, I had to catch my breath. Tonight, I grieved for my younger self and felt sadness for the struggling and desperate child within.

Why? Because I came across several letters typed to my mother, reassuring her of my love while chastising my father, and putting her on the most ridiculous of pedestals because I was desperate to ensure one parent loved me.

The letters to her were filled with such love and doubt and questioning. They contained an asinine amount of adoration and praise, a child pleading with one parent, asking for love because the other parent spoke loudly. And that set the tone for the rest of the daughter’s life.

In reading those letters to my mother, I grew sad. In reading those letters to my mother, I grew aware. She didn’t remember them. I realized, in that moment, of course not. My mother was so wrapped up in making things right with my father that she wasn’t necessarily cognizant of the pain and hurt that her only child was enduring.

I was able to cut myself some slack tonight. I was able to tap into my inner child, to feel her pain and understand her history. To understand, over the course of her lifetime, the poor choices, mistakes, and hurt that may have inadvertently harmed others—but by God I hope not.

Tonight, I mourned for that desperate child. The one who elevated her mother to the status of saint and burned her father on the cross. Most of all, I pitied the woman who carried with her such scars.

Yet in these moments, my history made such sense and, sadly, helped me see where I am today. And where is that?

Sad to have pushed away men who would have made stellar life partners.

Sad to have become involved with men who could never meet my needs because I had no idea what my needs were.

Sad to be alone.

But to understand why? That’s priceless.

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