That I know, That is true. But in trauma–in avoiding places, our memories can drift. Become faulty. They don’t fade–they remain vivid as ever, even moreso, since they are fueled by fear and when we fear something we tend to sharpen it in our minds. I feel terrible about this. In my mind, I had everything laid out. The good guys, the bad guys, the struggles, the  surrender. Lost Hills? Too triggering. Stay away.

But here I am looking at this place. How could I have been this far off? Perhaps because the events were so traumatic. And since I avoided them, there’s no way to backcheck the details, to keep them in accurate. When I deal with personal trauma, or traumatic events, part of the courage I suppose I must have, perhaps, is to go to these places, and face them. In a way, I owe it to myself, my stories, and even those who hurt me–I do not want to write vivid half-true settings, augmented by my nightmares and phobias and need to be loved.

Here, at this Love’s, in Santa Nella of all places. I feel so ashamed, so humbled. That I got so much wrong. That my feelings might be genuine, but my memories, which seemed so clear, so perfect, were over 130 miles too far.