Tell it, I shall....
For most of my adult life I have desired to write a book, to put everything I have onto paper, to tell a story, and hope that it could give hope to just one person.
For most of my adult life I have struggled to put the words together onto paper, in a way that kept me writing full force to the end.
It is very hard to tell a story about a life you are still living, my lines are often blurred with faded memories and drug induced fuzziness that the timeline never quite matches up.
I've recently thought that I could literally do a timeline, the things I know for sure happened at certain age and time, and fill in the blanks to figure out the others.
For almost all of my adult life I have hated my father and often my mother. This is the story I wish to tell, how I arrived there, how I lived through it, and left it behind the best I could. How it turned me into who I am, a demented but thriving 30 something mother, who put so much into the carelessness of her mask to those looking at her and hid the rest in a Doctor Sleep metal safe deep in my mind until it stopped screaming and I forgot it even existed.
I've spent the last few years learning how to be happy again, during which I have found ways to let go or move past those negative feelings. I fear, that in order to tell my story, I'll need to feel those feelings again, invite them back to setup shop and live, to grab hold and exist all over again, what happens if I can't let them go again. What if writing my story invites all my old demons back. So I have to decide if telling my story is worth the potential wreckage, damage, and wreckless abandon that will ultimately tell my story with ease
Of course, I already know the answer, deep in my soul I have always known the answer.
I have a story to tell, a beautiful story to tell, one that needs to be told, desires to be told, so tell it I shall. Even, if not a soul reads it, understands it, feels it like it is their own, if no one ever reads my story, I will have told it, and that is all I ever wanted to do
For most of my adult life I have struggled to put the words together onto paper, in a way that kept me writing full force to the end.
It is very hard to tell a story about a life you are still living, my lines are often blurred with faded memories and drug induced fuzziness that the timeline never quite matches up.
I've recently thought that I could literally do a timeline, the things I know for sure happened at certain age and time, and fill in the blanks to figure out the others.
For almost all of my adult life I have hated my father and often my mother. This is the story I wish to tell, how I arrived there, how I lived through it, and left it behind the best I could. How it turned me into who I am, a demented but thriving 30 something mother, who put so much into the carelessness of her mask to those looking at her and hid the rest in a Doctor Sleep metal safe deep in my mind until it stopped screaming and I forgot it even existed.
I've spent the last few years learning how to be happy again, during which I have found ways to let go or move past those negative feelings. I fear, that in order to tell my story, I'll need to feel those feelings again, invite them back to setup shop and live, to grab hold and exist all over again, what happens if I can't let them go again. What if writing my story invites all my old demons back. So I have to decide if telling my story is worth the potential wreckage, damage, and wreckless abandon that will ultimately tell my story with ease
Of course, I already know the answer, deep in my soul I have always known the answer.
I have a story to tell, a beautiful story to tell, one that needs to be told, desires to be told, so tell it I shall. Even, if not a soul reads it, understands it, feels it like it is their own, if no one ever reads my story, I will have told it, and that is all I ever wanted to do
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