I, unknowingly, opened a flood gate in October of 2013. I was battling one of the worst cases of “What the fuck is wrong with me” spells I’d ever had. My spirit was tattered and for the first time, I started to purge my story on to paper. Now I can’t stop.
I sleep with a pen and paper by my bed now and have quite perfected the art of jotting thoughts in the dark. Many times through out my day, my thoughts stutter. They can’t fire and connect quick enough. I have two young children and a scattered brain competing for my attention at all times. Being a stay at home Mom and choosing to write takes multi-tasking to a whole new level, but I’m managing it with grace… somedays.
I have always kept a journal. I wrote about how smitten I was in second grade that Todd chose me to cheat off of for the spelling test. In a not-really-all-that-much-later one, I recorded what it was like to be 14 years old and shipped, alone, to a different state where the weather was as different as the culture. Fast forward 14 years later and I had started a journal for my unborn daughter. Now, as she is about to turn 5 and my baby boy heads towards 2, I fill one for him as well.
Within the past four months, I’ve gone from writing my stories to telling them. I’ve tapped in to something that has finally allowed me to use the dysfunction implanted in me as a platform to more vividly see and record the world now around me. I can only describe it as a soulgasm of sorts.
I feel like my writing truly is a gift. It gives me a layer of grammatical defense against broken parts. It’s a gift both to share and use as my weapon of choice to dig out the humor, explain a jaded point of view or curate a perspective I didn’t know I had before I chose to write about it.
Writing has turned in to a bit of a love affair for me. When we mesh, it’s a high I could use to fuel a lifetime of passion. When we fight, I sulk. I have to walk away for a little while but we eventually connect again, creating and strengthening the beauty of it all. I will sacrifice almost anything in order to write. It’s that kind of love. I’m buried head deep in the can’t-get-enough-of-it stage of this relationship and my fingers are happily struggling to keep up.