The largest parts of me: Basque Spanish and Greek roots. Names I could say out loud. But not names I could fully claim. My paternal family comes from a small town in Spain—Monasterio. I tried to hold on to that as something special. The meaning of my last name; monastery. My mind imagined monks chanting for peace. My last name was a way for me to visualize the life my ancestors lived. Maybe a name could help me understand the life my father lived?

My father was a voice on the phone throughout my childhood and I was the only one of my siblings who remained in contact with him during those early years. Our relationship was built in fragments. But the magnitude of his absence never wavered.

It took me years to understand what I was inside of. Mom was the one who named what was happening. My father was living a Greek tragedy. Not in some theatrical dramatic way, just a pattern of story that unfolded slowly. Choices my father made that didn’t seem like much at the time—until—they were.

Performing arts were the only place I could make sense of life. The stories, music, and live performances. Without them, I don’t think I would have survived. They gave me a way to feel things. I found a way to witness chaos without disappearing inside it. I didn’t know that’s what I was doing at the time. I just knew I needed it. Like breath.

There came a point where I couldn’t ignore the calling anymore. There were only a few options left: I could become an addict on the streets or I could end my life or I could write the book.