Life is weird. Tonight, I am thinking about all of the places I’ve been—the hardships, the trials, the triumphs. I feel like I have a million stories and don’t know where to begin.
Tonight, I am watching my husband. We are at the dining room table—something exquisite I would have never owned in my previous life. He is reviewing plans for work, and I am waiting for bed. I don’t have the status he has because life never gave me that. I don’t have the peace of mind that everything is good now. I just have me. I know that I have gone through all of these things and survived. I know that I am still here…to fight another day.
I have things that most could only dream of. I have a wonderful family. But, my life story has not changed.
I am still that girl. I am still the one who dreamed of writing as a career. I feel it in my veins each and every day. Writing is my escape from the madness, and the sensation I receive from pouring my thoughts into tangible existence is indescribable.
I want so much more than I have been handed. I get it; everybody does. But my feelings are different. I long for a life that is not my own. My children are my treasures. My house, my husband…It all looks amazing from the exterior. But, it was never my dream.
I wanted my name on the cover of a hardcover book. I wanted to walk into that book store, remove it from the shelf, and know that my worth was on paper. I wanted everyone to see that I wasn’t bullshitting all this time. I want recognition for what has been hidden all of these years.
No one ever questioned my life before. They shrouded it, like some dirty secret. But, my mind lives it every day. I dream of that awful life—the pain, the insecurity, the unknown. I still live it, with no escape. My history is my enemy and my haven, all at the same time. It dominates the way I live my life today, but it is what pushes me to continue to write.
My story resides on this computer—in the midst of this seemingly idealistic life. My real story lurks beneath all of the fairy tales. I am still that girl. I cannot run from the things that made me who I am today, good or bad. I cannot pretend to be a different person in a household that feels so foreign.
I embrace my past, for it was the turning point that brought me to this life…
Haunted is the best way to describe what I feel each day. I am running from a past that I cannot escape, but the chase has gone on for so long that I couldn’t imagine who I would be without those difficult experiences. Is this how it works? Is this how writers thrive?


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