I realize I’ve not said a whole hell of a lot since returning. I’m still struggling with whether or not I have anything of value to share.
My upbringing was strict. I’m of the ‘seen and not heard,’ ‘do not speak unless spoken to,’ ‘if you can’t say something nice,’ generation. I’m forty years old and still struggle with being the one to begin the conversation. That said, if you get me going, prepare to stay awhile, because it is like opening the flood gates.
I firmly believe it’s why I write. As a teen, I began writing in journals, privately, because it was the only way for me to purge those things I wasn’t permitted to express. Those volumes were dark. Filled with thoughts and feelings that shamed me because they couldn’t be stated to the world. Each time I filled one, I would burn it. It was an exorcism, and a way to protect the truth. The truth of me. It’s how I hid my true self.
My best friend asked me to do some self-love challenges with her at the start of the year. I tried. But I found I had the same reaction she did, in that the exploration only started exhuming things I don’t want to look at. Does this make me weak? There is a reason we bury. I don’t think it’s cowardly so much as the only way to lay it to rest and move forward.
I’m back. I am trying to be back. I’m trying to write, and it’s coming, slowly but surely. Life is interfering, and the things I’m having to recall, examine, forgive regarding my childhood, and in fact my life up to this point as my father’s health continues to decline, on some days those things push me back.
That I’m here means I’m fighting. Fighting to be in the present, for the present; fighting to not dread the future.
I thank each of you, my lovely readers, supporters, friends, for remaining supportive, for being patient, for offering kind words. I find joy in interacting here. And if I owe you an apology for my absence, you certainly have it.
Now, on with the filth!