When I was in my twenty’s, I had a lot to say. I would write in my journal almost everyday, filling page after page with so many different emotions. I’d write about my day or where I saw myself in the future. I’d write until my hand began to hurt and I’d pour my heart into each entry. I’d fill the pages from front to back with so many questions about why he hurt me. I’d go on and on about how much I loved him and how I wished he and I could be together again. Then I’d write about how amazing things were when we saw each other again. I’d spill my deepest secrets onto the pages of this huge book I had turned into a journal. The words flowed from my pen. I never struggled to write.
I still have this book. Inside are details that explain everything that happened between us. What we did together, what we said to each other, and how angry I became when he had stopped talking to me many years ago. I’d talk about my husband at that time and then ex-husband. I’d talk about my husband now. There was never a time when I didn’t have something to write about.
Now, as I sit here with my thoughts and try to think of what to say, I find that my mind is blank. Where have all the words gone? Have they all been said? Why am I struggling to write something meaningful? Picking up a pen and sitting down to write seems to be an impossible task these days. Has the story I’ve longed to tell already been told? Is it all there in that journal and in the entries of this blog? Do I really just not have anything else to say? Maybe everything I’ve been through…the affair that never seemed to end, the divorce, the loss of baby Grace, the loss of my mother, the loss of my father, the lawsuit from my bitter and jealous (now deceased) sister, Logan’s Journey, the amazing blessings…etc…have all been covered. I’ve said all that needs to be said for now and it’s time to finally sit down and put it all together.
Maybe more words will come when the time is right…
My life 