I wrote this in November of 2020, and for whatever reason did not publish it. I make some very solid points. Today was kind of stupid – lots of piddly things that got on my nerves. My fridge went out and had to be swapped, I got stuck in the rain going to get Matt from work. . . inconveniences, nothing truly bad. Reading through the below post reminded me that I have had some real bad fucking days, and I have a 100% success rate in getting through them. Today really was a breeze in comparison.
My writing is spotty right now. I don’t know if it’s writer’s block or if the stress from the year is finally settling in my bones. . . y’all, I’m fucking tired. I come home and make dinner and sit down and watch TV. I’ve never been a big television watcher. I’ll read or I’ll write or talk on the phone, but TV is always a last resort. It’s mindless. I reserve TV watching for when I’m sick or recovering from something – a tattoo, a hangover, too much yardwork, etc. But a weeknight when I should be working on another writing project or organizing something. . . not the norm. It has been the last couple of weeks, though. Maybe I am recovering from something. Maybe I’m recovering from 2020.
Anyway, I don’t want to lose the progress from these last months in the writing department. So, I had this idea to go through some old blog posts and see if I could edit them and send them elsewhere for publishing consideration.
I pried myself away from the television, turning on some music and all the lights to try and motivate me. I turned on Rosalyn and brought up my webpage and scrolled all the way back to the beginning of my writing journey, in June of 2016.
I remember writing that first piece, sitting in my recliner in my old apartment. The boys were in bed and I had a blank page in front of me. As I scrolled through posts and scanned through words, I was transported back four years. The setting changed from my recliner in my apartment to my back porch here at the house, when we first moved in. Sitting in the dark with only my phone lighting up the night as I typed each post out on my phone and published it.
I was transported back to that very lost and very confused woman, who was coping with so much that she had been suppressing. To that woman who had found an outlet for her frustrations, and a new way to heal the wounds that had only been halfway treated, covered with a thin layer of scar tissue.
I ripped open some of those wounds with my writing. I ripped them open so they could heal the right way.
I read through my own words and felt such sorrow for the woman who wrote them. I was transported back, I felt the loss and emptiness that I felt when I wrote some of those posts, and I wondered how the fuck I got through feeling that way. How the fuck did I go and do and be through feeling the way that I felt? How did I successfully raise my children and go to work every day with so much weight on my shoulders? The loss of my parents, raising two children, the broken ass vehicles and the job hopping. . . the first year after dad passed and missing him so horribly and trying to help brother navigate while I tried to cope with my own grief. I don’t know how I got up every day just to face the same hardships, the worry and confusion and outright pain.
But . . . I did it.
I’ve come really fucking far from where that woman was at – mentally, emotionally and physically. And I think I have come as far as I have because I had this outlet, and I had so many people who supported what I was doing.
I’m not sure if I have anything of value to send out for publishing. But I know that at the very least I remembered who the fuck I am in reading those words.
There’s nothing that I can’t overcome. And sometimes we all just need a little reminder of how strong and how resilient we are so we can get through any obstacles in our path. Sometimes we have to remember our roots so we can keep growing.
Photo by Tommy Tong on Unsplash
So, This is Real Life 