When I started
writing again, I was struggling with my relatively
new role as a stay-at-home mom. This is a job that
is completely fulfilling for some. It was not for
me. I trudged through long days of diapers and food
refusal, exhausted from interrupted sleep, without
a thought about anything but the frightening
responsibilities and challenges of being a mother.
My life had become intellectually meaningless.
Dead.
Then there was my past. Hadn’t it been put to rest? Struggling through boredom, dealing with the foibles of a toddler, I had no desire to wrestle with issues I thought were safely behind glass. Then the glass shattered. Pressure had been building; all it took was a light tap. “Remember me?” the past asked through sharpened, yellowed teeth as the shards fell and she poked her head through the hole she’d created.
I decided to subdue the past by writing the truth, framing it in my own words. On the good days, I transcend it all. I create meaning.
This is writing to survive.
Then there was my past. Hadn’t it been put to rest? Struggling through boredom, dealing with the foibles of a toddler, I had no desire to wrestle with issues I thought were safely behind glass. Then the glass shattered. Pressure had been building; all it took was a light tap. “Remember me?” the past asked through sharpened, yellowed teeth as the shards fell and she poked her head through the hole she’d created.
I decided to subdue the past by writing the truth, framing it in my own words. On the good days, I transcend it all. I create meaning.
This is writing to survive.
When I started
writing again, I was struggling with my relatively
new role as a stay-at-home mom. This is a job that
is completely fulfilling for some. It was not for
me. I trudged through long days of diapers and nap
struggles, brittle from interrupted sleep and
overwhelmed with the frightening responsibilities
and challenges of being a new mother. Although I
loved my family, my days were about housework and
care-taking. I no longer had a intellectual life.
Then there was my past. Hadn’t it been put to rest? Struggling through boredom, dealing with the foibles of a toddler, I had no desire to wrestle with issues I thought were safely behind glass. Then the glass shattered. Pressure had been building; all it took was a light tap, a reminder of what was operating under the surface.
I decided to contain my past by writing the truth, framing it in my own words. On the good days, I transcend it all. I create meaning. In creating meaning, I achieve balance.
This is writing to survive.
Then there was my past. Hadn’t it been put to rest? Struggling through boredom, dealing with the foibles of a toddler, I had no desire to wrestle with issues I thought were safely behind glass. Then the glass shattered. Pressure had been building; all it took was a light tap, a reminder of what was operating under the surface.
I decided to contain my past by writing the truth, framing it in my own words. On the good days, I transcend it all. I create meaning. In creating meaning, I achieve balance.
This is writing to survive.