" I am a writer." I awakened to this thought floating through my mind. I laid there thinking about the revelation of that statement and how it has transformed my life... I remember that just two years ago "being a writer" was just a strong desire that I had. I remember sitting each morning and writing a statement affirming that I would become a world-renowned author. I had a strong desire to be able to sit and write for hours as words flowed from my mind to the paper with ease and continuity. Now I awaken with ideas and can sit so long that my hips and knees lock in the seated position. This strong desire has been with me since I was a ten years-old... I remember escaping the fear of my father's presence on the tear-stained pages of many notebooks... I wrote of how the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall towards my room terrorized my soul. Tears fill my eyes as I think of those dreadful encounters.... I wrote of how I I wanted to die - to literally cease to exist. I found peace in the mere thought of it! I wrote about what it would be like to be away from that deceptive life of abuse...to be freed from my the bondage of the dysfunctionalism in my home that made loneliness my brother and despair my sister. Yes, I prayed for death to come for me- to just tip-toe through the night and deliver me from that plight- and, I prayed, that my mother be spared from the pain it would cause. She was so fragile - a sincere woman whose devotion to an abusive, narcissistic womanizer siphoned her essence and swallowed her within his shadow... I wrote of the times I had to pick her up from the floor after she'd fallen during the episodes of mini seizures she'd have each evening while she drank. I wrote to keep myself awake so I could help her when the next ones would hit... I wrote about the bullies - the mean girls who cornered me and cussed me out because my mother failed them in P.E. class and my father pissed off their mothers... I wrote about when I plunged into depression. My father's response was to hide the gun he kept in the top drawer of his nightstand. My mother bought me packs of slightly scented pink writing paper with purple (my favorite color) lines because she knew... Yes, she knew that writing was my safe place... She knew that it was the pen and paper that allowed me to escape the hell they'd created... What she didn't know was that a simple hug and a bit of her attention should have been my safe place that would have allowed writing to be the blissful place for the creative musings of a child! Alas, I digress and consider the fact that I now write with the strength of an eagle mounting up and the grace of its' glide through the sky. ****** The sun has just broken the skyline and is shining over my shoulder. With its' rising there is the powerful dawning of the recognition within my soul: I AM A WRITER! In my minds' eye, I see myself stepping out of the darkness and embracing that little girl still clutching the packs of pink paper. I gently kiss her forehead and whisper, "We no longer write to be free. Now we write because we are free!"
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