I’m going to be forty-five years old next month.  I can remember clearly sitting in the passenger seat of my mom’s car, looking out of the window thinking how I couldn’t wait to turn 16.  I’d do math figures in my head, calculating what year it would be when I finally turned 21, 35, etc.  Those numbers seemed to have flown by. I can barely remember them.  Granted, and I’m not proud of this, there’s been quite a bit of alcohol consumed between 21 and now, so it’s not so surprising that I’ve missed a few, um…moments in my life.  There’s also been a lot of selective amnesia.  I’ve blocked out certain traumatic years.  I can laugh about it now, but seriously, there are blank spots in my past that I couldn’t tell you about without the help of a hypnotist or some other form of alchemy that would encourage my sub-conscious to give up the details.

I look at pictures of myself as a little girl.  The girl in those pictures hadn’t yet been convinced that there was something wrong with her; she hadn’t been molested and the bullying, neglect, and date rape were years away.  She hadn’t sunk into the depression that would darken her life for more than ten years.  She wasn’t yet a binge drinker, nor had she been in the first of three emotionally and physically abusive relationships.  No.  She was just this precocious, rambunctious, adventurous, trusting, curious soul inside a body that seemed impervious to long-lasting pain.  She was quick to smile, even quicker to claim a friend, adopt a stray, or trust a stranger with her inner most feelings.

I mourn for that little girl sometimes as I struggle to resurrect her into my current life.  It is her spirit I attempt to channel when I dance, when I venture into new places, meet new people, or when I try to trust some one new with my heart.

I haven’t been very successful with the resurrection until recently.  Since I started writing for real anyway.  Each milestone, each new, well written chapter; that first published book.  I was as joyful at those times as I remember being wandering loose around the air force base, petting stray animals, enjoying butterflies, and eating blackberries straight off the bush growing in our back yard.  A few nights ago, I ventured out to a club I hadn’t been to before, to dance with a man I’d just met the weekend previous.  I went to both experiences with that childlike mindset of discovery.  No preconceived notions, no expectations, no desire to do anything more than have fun.  And you know what?  That’s exactly what I did.  I danced till there was sweat running down the sides of my face, my feet were sore, and I didn’t fall in love, or even infatuation.  A first for me in a very long time.  I was just a woman (a little girl) in love with the moment.

I remember when I was that unharmed little girl, cocooned in a feeling of well-being and freedom.  The world was; no judgement, no fear (except of anything with more than four legs); things were just as they were meant to be and I was a part of everything.  I was fully myself.

I believe when I’m finally in the position to be writing full-time, I’ll be myself again.  I’ll adopt strays, strike up fun conversations with strangers, and feel at ease in my skin.

I think that’s why I write what I write.  I’m clearing out the bad experiences, the pain that so long defined me, confined me, kept me on the outside in cold limbo.  I’m almost worried. Once it’s all gone, once I get back to being wholly, entirely me, what on Earth will I have to write about?

10 thoughts on “Longing.

  1. Such a brilliant post! And I often wonder the same thing about my writing. As have others. But I’m sure there will always be something to write about. After all, the world is far from perfect. And it’s good to write about the positives in life too 🙂

    1. True, and maybe when I get to my permanent happy place (lol), I’ll move out of the romance arena and start writing comedy. OR…by then, the books will have done so well I’ll sell the movie rights and it’ll be time to do them all over as screenplays. 🙂

  2. Happy upcoming Birthday! My soul sista! Yeah, writing is definitely cathartic. Helps erase the scars of life, and allows us to deal. I couldn’t wait to get out of my parents house. I look back and wonder how it went so fast. OUr baggage has a way of catching up to us, doesn’t it? I haven’t shared a lot of my “deep” writing yet, it’s still too painful. You have encouraged me to “Put on my big girl pants” and brave it! Thank you!

    1. Thanks Ellie. I say no need in forcing the sharing, especially if the body isn’t ready. I just happen to be an open book of sorts (pun intended) in that writing was the ONLY outlet I had for any feeling or emotion. I found myself in situations where showing or admitting to feelings got me hurt even worse so I learned to either not feel them, or put them away on the pages of my journals. It’s since I decided to take my writing life seriously that this stuff is finding its way outside. I’m still relatively safe in that no one in a position to really hurt me reads my writing, LOL. Not the blogs, the books, or anything. I imagine that the more you write, the more those painful things will show up in your work; you’ll see them through your characters eyes, you’ll discover new and better ways to deal with them, and they won’t be as painful anymore. At least, that’s how it’s been working out for me. Either way, hang in there and keep writing 🙂

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