Writing and Healing

I have agonized over what would be my next post. Writing has always been a very private thing for me. As a child and especially as a teenager, I wrote what felt or in most cases was forbidden to say much less write.

In late middle school and early high school, I began writing about my home life in papers for school. I don’t recall how deeply I addressed the issues. I lived for the notes from teachers at the bottom of the page. These notes kept me going even when it felt difficult to keep moving. My writing had given me a voice once I was brave enough to share. I was always nervous and extra careful to keep my mother from seeing those papers. There were moments she did and her anger erupted.

Journals line the bottom shelf of my office bookcase. Writing dates back to late 1993. The most recent journal is dated early 2002. These were strictly private pieces, my way of venting without getting smacked or belittled. Around my sophomore year in college, my closest friend T and I began to share our current journals with one another. She too did not have the classic fairy-tale childhood. She was eighteen when we became friends. I was twenty. We gave each other the gift of allowing ourselves to have a voice.

Over the last year I befriended a group of fellow writers. Since returning to work I’ve not been able to meet with them in person as I had in the previous months. I want to recommit to sharing with them electronically as well as those reading my blog.
There are times where I feel guilty like I shouldn’t be telling this story. The damaged part of me begs to differ.

Dearest readers, I will attempt to be more consistent in posts. I want to tell my story, but it is taking time to process. Look for my next post in the coming week. Thank you all for continuing to read my blog and come along on this journey with me.

Much love,

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