This post by Jamie Tworkowski popped up on my facebook feed this morning. I had no idea there was a National Writing Day (maybe just an American thing?) but I like it.
Truth is, I lost my way, and I don’t write as much anymore. I started blogging in 2007 when I’d lost my way and had to go to the other side of the world and back to find it again.
Or at least, I thought I’d found it.
My first blog was called Musings of a Koala, and really it is a reflection on my extroverted tendency to think out loud. It isn’t until I ramble on in my high speed chatterbox constantly tangent-ing from one thought to another as they pop into my head that things make sense to me. Whether that be in person or through typing on a keyboard.
In Autumn 2008, just after I finished a counselling skills training course to support people in crisis pregnancies, and was finishing up a second course to support people through pregnancy loss, I took a scary step. I started sharing the journey I’d taken from 16-23 years old that had led me to working in a pregnancy crisis centre. It took me 14 long posts to write, and I won’t lie, I was really nervous about it. I was nervous about family members stumbling across my blog (because the majority of them DO NOT know the whole story, because they don’t really know me), I was nervous about potential employers coming across it and I was nervous about being judged. Instead I was blown away by people privately e-mailing me their own personal stories, and it gave me a huge bit of encouragement to realise that sharing my own story had encouraged others.
Now I feel like I have nothing left to share.
The truth is eight years ago, life was changing hugely. I was in the middle of a crazy journey where all the stuff that had happened to me before was suddenly making sense.
It doesn’t make sense anymore.
Eight years ago, I was constantly seeing doctors, on clinic visits and hospitals before they discovered that a simple solution would work to solve the problems. Getting injections from a nurse every 12 weeks took pretty much all the pain away. Now I just go about my life as normal without hiding in toilets before a youth event taking painkillers and covering myself in pain relief patches under my clothes!
Eight years ago, I was travelling around the country visiting centres, going on training courses, helping at youth events. I don’t have those travel stories anymore, because I’ve not owned a car since my beloved Cassie the Corsa (RIP Cassie, I still miss you, even if my bank balance is relieved you finally got sent to car heaven).
I have no new story to tell. Life hasn’t changed since last year. I’m still not employed properly. I’m still volunteering. I’m still without a car. I haven’t gone outside of Central Scotland since being made redundant last June. I don’t get to church anymore because the only shifts I get are at weekends, and those two days are the only income I have.
I’m still too afraid to finish my children’s stories and see if someone will publish them. I’m still too afraid to go on a plane in case someone throws up again. I’m still struggling to get up every morning in wintertime. And on some days I’m too afraid to apply for jobs because I don’t think I can take any more rejection.
And yet I still write. Usually when I’m meant to be doing something else, because I love writing. Even if it’s really boring. And I know it is, because eight years ago, when I wrote I didn’t feel alone as people responded. Now, the writing just goes out into the ether…and I wonder if there’s any point to keeping writing.
Other than, without writing, I think I might go a little more insane than I already am. 🙂