Return

Over twenty years ago my sister told me to stop acting out and to start writing down what I was thinking and feeling. It was a less damaging and embarrassing way of getting out what I needed to. It was also the best advice I had been given, ever. At the time I was a third grader in a new school with new people and my parents' marriage was falling apart. I had lost both grandparents on my mothers side and felt, what seemed like, inconsolable and  incredible sadness. But children are not supposed to feel that way and are definitely not supposed to talk about feeling such a way. Because in doing so something might be thought of as "wrong" with them. Or even worse, "different." So I wrote. I wrote in a journal, I wrote letters, I wrote down things that I knew I shouldn't say but couldn't keep bottled up. I wrote stories, I wrote goals, I wrote promises. And one of those promises was to leave my small town for good. It was not a goal, or a dream. It was a promise. 

The thing about making promises to yourself in third grade is that you're not quite skilled in planning yet. I figured I would go to college far, far away, meet someone rich and handsome, get married then pregnant, have rich and handsome babies, and all my problems would be solved. I figured going to college and/or having money to buy everything I wanted would be the pinnacle of happiness. I figured that a big house, a bunch of cars, shoes, and handbags far away from home would take away the constant ache I felt within me. That's the thing about making promises to yourself in third grade. Whatever you figured, you're probably wrong. But I digress. 

Over twenty years ago I started writing. And I kept writing, though the content and purpose changed and evolved (and hopefully improved). But always, when I wrote for me, it was always so melancholy. For some reason if I was unable to tap into the loss, confusion, grief, insecurity, anger, or anything else having to do with heartache, I thought I had nothing worth saying. 

Over seven years ago I stopped writing. Perhaps it was because I had nothing else to say. Perhaps it was because I fell in love. Perhaps it was because I didn't want to ruin my newfound happiness by thinking about heartache. Or perhaps I just stopped. 

My partner recently asked me why I no longer write and I didn't have an answer. So all this will hopefully be an attempt to find some semblance of a balance. Between hobbies and work, between happiness and heartache, and between time together and alone. Whether or not any of it is read, I hope that I can finally just write for me. That it isn't to release some kind of pent up emotion, or communicate what I cannot say, or even  for academic purposes. I hope that my next pieces will simply, be. 

Thank you for indulging me. Have a lovely day.