I have been trying to find myself again for quite a while now, probably since the night you left this earth, my beautiful son. Snippets of myself have gradually come back over the years, but I still don't feel like the person I once was, and I realise I never could be.
At first I thought it just wasn't possible to ever find those pieces again and I gave up hope that I still possessed them. Then I realised those same optimistic, hopeful pieces were not there in the same form to grasp again because they had changed shape. At first, I saw this as a negative thing; that my youthful hope and optimism had dissipated with the harsh realities of adulthood. That my loss and grief had washed away my sweet innocence that you can have everything if you want it badly enough.
I had wanted you so badly, to be a mother so badly, that I succumbed to the fact that perhaps not all is possible; even if you want it with every breath that you take and every piece of your soul. Over time this positivity of being able to reach for my dreams, no matter how far away they seemed, and grab hold of them with confidence slowly waned. I found myself not dreaming as freely or imagining as vividly as before.
I also had times where I dreamed of great things again but instead of being strong and able to withstand many, many, knockbacks, like I had when I was trying to become a mother, I felt deflated and pushed down after only a couple of falls. It was as though I was so exhausted from struggling to secure my baby dream, for so long, that I no longer had the energy to hold onto another dream for dear life or imagine that it would come true in time. Time had alluded me before and I didn't feel like I had more to waste. So ironically I wasted huge amounts of time by not even reaching for the dreams I still dreamed.
The dream I have held for longer, than the dream I had to be a mother, is the dream to be an author. I know I am a writer. For as much as I have tried to turn off my writing, even in my blackest moments of pain, I have not been able to turn off my words. Writing always makes me feel content and peaceful in myself, like I am home. Whether the words come with a smile of contentment or torrents of tears, they always allow me to feel cleansed of my hurts and free to be truly myself.
I have tried to push this dream aside, to put it on the back burner, to escape the pain the words can bring, to escape the disappointment another lost dream could bring. However I can't lose this dream. It is me and it has followed me throughout my whole life. It is not going anywhere. It will remain whether I share it with the world or just with my paper and pen. I write because I am a writer. I will not cease being me just because I fear the words I write won't reach the whole world, as I envision them to. Imagine if all the talented writers who have been knocked back before didn't fight for their dreams. There would probably be no books to read. Nothing important comes without a struggle. But never let the fear of not achieving the dream stop you from starting the journey. After all I have always found the journey more meaningful than the destination.
Yes, I have finished three books before, seen them through and self-published them. However, this book seems like a mammoth task that has been over 6 years in the making, thus far, and although it is probably 90% finished still seems a world away. It has brought more tears than any book I have written before it and taken longer to complete. I know how important it is to share and I commit to finishing it for all of you to read. Help me stay accountable friends because I feel it is very much needed in this world. Thank you for your support.
Until next time,
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