I started writing again in the summer of 2021

I know because before then, I could barely read. For those of you who know me this isn’t a surprise- many of you watched me disappear the year before covid hit- with only hints of what I was going through popping up occasionally on my Instagram.

But for everyone else, first, thanks for reading and being here. I’ve wanted to be a writer since before I can remember (isn’t that how it is with all of us writers?) but gave it up along the way.

Why? Oh…an abusive childhood will do that to you. Because no matter how hard you fight to get out, and how many things you do after you do, the voice of your parents can’t help but haunt you.

That you are nothing, will never be anything- think you’re better than anyone else for having a dream.

So one job because another and than another and then my parents- the very people who’d broken me as a child- needed me and I couldn’t say no.

Why? Because I still love them.

But then everything changed. I had a daughter, and I realized not only how I wanted her to live her life but that I would have to seize that life for myself first- to show her that it was possible, and that maybe even if I couldn’t achieve it- someday she could stand on my shoulders and get there herself.

And wouldn’t the chase be worth it anyway? I thought so.

But then I fell.

And this is where life really got hard.

Two skull fractures, back to back traumatic brain injuries, a broken sternum, two broken, ribs.

And mind you, this wasn’t found immediately. Oh no, at first I was sent straight home from the ER because I “looked great.” I wouldn’t find out for another four months that the CT scan showed fractures- or that my jaw didn’t work because I’d split every molar in my skull on the second impact.

Or that I’d ripped through my occipital nerves.

Which meant my entire body from the chest up was in constant, screaming pain. Worse than childbirth- I’d check myself multiple times a day- not sure if was bleeding or not the pain was so extreme.

I couldn’t see, couldn’t walk, couldn’t read, could barely think. After two months my husband asked me to come downstairs and I, full of hope, tried to make the salad I made every week.

Later I would describe it as someone dumping me naked in the woods behind my house and demanding I build a spaceship.

I can go on about this for pages, and maybe one day I’ll write a book about it, but as I’m still deep in therapy that’s probably enough for now.

What I’ll end with is- it took me two years to be able to read more than a page at a time. And then to be able to use a computer, another several months, my eyes still pounding in my skull every second I looked at a screen.

But I kept going. So if you are writing with me, keep going.

The journey isn’t always worth it, sometimes it sucks. But at least we’re (probably) getting somewhere.