Where Was I?

What happened? What am I holding back from? Why do I hesitate to put my fingers to the keys? It has been a while. In my attempt to discover the cause of my lapse in expression, I find myself telling people I lost a friend over something I wrote. This is not a lie. I wrote what was true for me and I shared it with others. I pushed it out for people to read, to know, to feel. When the response from one person was not positive, I stopped. 

No, actually, that is not true. When I received a speculating, back-handedly critical response, I came back full force. I thought about what the person had said, and then I composed my response in a punch-back style new post. I sent it to the person and said something like, “Hey, you can feel how you feel, but this is how I feel.” In the moment, I felt good; I felt vindicated. But as time passed and I realized I truly had lost this person in my life, someone who had been part of it for so long, I began to doubt myself. I doubted my actions and choices. I doubted my words and doubted making them public. 

The ripple effect from that one post traveled deep. Not only did I lose that person, I received scrupulous attention from others in my life. My husband, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-laws… all had my words under the microscope, offering warnings and advice to my husband. “She’s planning something,” they would say, “make copies of her work and be prepared to fire back.” 

I thought I was brave enough to share my truth for all to see. I thought I didn’t care what people thought. Yet, when more than one person advised me to be careful with my public words because they could come back to haunt me, I backed off. I didn’t post anymore. Eventually, I took down all my blog posts except one and stopped writing altogether. 

I didn’t have to stop. I could have kept a journal, but I didn’t. I just stopped. Why? Was it fear? Did I use my fear as an excuse to stop? Or was it because my situation suddenly became such that there was less of a need to write? I was more content in my marriage and didn’t feel the urge to express each and every grievance. Perhaps. Or Perhaps I just fell out of practice.

Writing is work for me. It takes time and dedication. It takes focus and care. I enjoy it, and at the same time it drives me mad. Not only that, it drives those in my life mad as well because it is all consuming. When I was writing, I was so fulfilled, but I was also so taken by my craft. When I am engaged in writing, I do not want to stop until I feel the work is complete, and that can sometimes take a very long time. It can take hours, or it can take days. 

I guess the reason this time commitment matters to me is because ultimately I feel like I have very little purpose other than to be a mother to my children. I struggle with the fact that I am unemployed and do not provide any financial income to my family. It makes me feel small and at times makes me feel like I am a less important member of my family than my husband. I’m sure it doesn’t help that his words and actions support that insecurity. Deep down, I know my value is worth more than money, but somehow I struggle to reconcile taking so much time to engage in a “hobby” like writing when it would seem my primary role is to care for my home and kids. 

I feel a little like Rosita in the animated movie Sing when she decides to take time during her day to try out for a singing competition. Her job is clearly to care for her piglets, but singing is her dream so she does what she has to do in order to take a chance. Maybe, I could take a lesson from her. (As an aside, yes, many of the references and connections I make have to do with children’s television, film, books, games, etc. Such is the nature of my life.) 

So what is a girl to do when the little ones on the outside are clawing at her legs, crying for their mommy, and the little one on the inside is crying, screaming, stomping, for something else? For freedom. For release. For purpose. For companionship. For hope. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am insane for my children. They are my world and my literal life. But man, is it a tough life sometimes to exist only as “Mom.” So what is a girl to do? Well, currently, this girl is sitting at the library, typing on her laptop, making a choice to NOT be a victim, to NOT be a helpless martyr. Whether this act serves any other purpose than to fuel some part of me that needs to be nourished and cared for, this girl, this mom, this strong, confident, independent woman, will not disappear without a fight. This girl is going to write.