I’ve got millions of worlds of words me. But I can’t seem to get them out. All they do is tumble all over each other. I have voice memos saved on my phone. Hundreds of unfinished documents saved to my computer. Notebooks full of quotes and random paragraphs are all around my house. The words are the easy part. It’s the writing that is hard. It’s writing that I run from. And it’s always been like this. So how can a person call themselves a writer if they don’t actually write?
But calling myself a writer is not exactly easy either. I can count on one hand the number of times those words have actually left my mouth. But I am a writer.
I create. I bleed. I breathe. I write.
There, I said it.
My words, they are my purpose on this earth.
The inadequacies. The demons. The self-doubt. The not-enough and the not-good-enoughs. The excuses. The excuses. The endless excuses.
And to write.
And then to not just write, but to finish. To push through to completion – however that may look or sound or feel. And then to say here.
This is it. This is for you.
It’ my soul on the page. The blood and sweat of my being on your computer screen. My tears and grief and pain and sex and laughter and love and purpose.
For you to love. For you to be inspired by. For you to hate. For you to judge. For you to crave. For you to ignore. For you to know and see.
Nothing truly belongs to a writer. Nothing really belongs to me. Because my words are my purpose and my words are written for you.
Sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I sneak out of bed, making sure not to wake my husband or to stir the sleeping dogs, I go to the living room and take refuge in the darkness and sit on the couch with my favourite blanket. That way I can be alone as I try to figure out why I have these thoughts running through my head. I look at my thighs and my ankles and my stomach and my wrist and I picture thin lines of bright red blood oozing out of my skin. I feel the warmth of the blood as it bubbles up and then runs down my arm …….
I look around me. I am surrounded by wonderful things. My sleeping husband. precious dogs. Yet this darkness around me right now is deafening. The heaviness I feel weighing down on my chest makes it hurt to breathe.
I hate when this happens.
This quote is so true – it is up to you what you become.
My attitude has 100% determined what my life as an amputee has been like. I had two choices: either let amputation destroy me, or let it strengthen me. Every day I am well aware of how quickly dealing with amputation could spiral downward into depression. But I refuse to let it; I choose to live positively with my circumstances.
Having a positive attitude is so very powerful.