Somewhere deep inside lives a young preteen girl trying to find her way. Faced with traumatic life experiences that no child or adult should have to deal with I wrote. I wrote anything that popped into my head. I wrote stories about teen exploring, mystery solving saviors. I had writing parties at my house growing up, hanging out with my besties creating short stories and then turning them into our acting debuts. Back then nobody had video cameras or cell phones so we missed our chance posting on YouTube or other social media avenues to show the world our greatness. I wrote to fight back against the awfulness that had settled into my life. I didn’t write to escape, I wrote to fight back, to have a say in what the outcome would be this time. I read to escape, short bursts of mini vacations from reality.
I wrote until I was discouraged by the one person I wanted approval from, my mom. She didn’t understand why I wrote and she didn’t ask either. She happened to check out the art work on one of my short stories and told me to stop and I did. I have a million reasons now, as an adult, why she told me to stop but then I just didn’t want her to be sad or angry any more so I stopped. I didn’t write again for about 4 years and I never wrote like I did then. I am not sure I ever will. The thoughts get stuck in my head or in my heart and I can’t let them go.
Today I write for myself, to vent out the words that I often swallow so I don’t get myself into a lot of trouble. Being a responsible adult isn’t the most fun thing I can think of doing, it is however the best thing to do to stay out of trouble and to prevent others from being angry at me. My hope is if I keep writing one day those long ago stories will come back and allow me to write them. Until then I will work on being grateful for what I have and forgiving myself for losing sight of the things I loved. I forgave my mom along time ago and regret the time I wasted on being angry with her about anything. I hope heaven is a great as she thought it would be.