I have been writing a story for nine years. A story that started as ideas on posted notes, soon transferred to cue cards. A story about my own life that has changed shapes many times, changed purpose many times. Changed me. Writing my memoir is something I reflect on with a spectrum of emotion; It is simply difficult to believe that it is on paper.
The process of writing has evoked floods of tears, petrifying anxiety that barred me from pressing another key. The in-depth reliving and searching through past events once so raw and painful. I stopped writing many times, too afraid, too worn, but somehow at every depletion of energy or courage, someone new stepped into my life to reignite the fire in me. The fire of knowing I have no choice. That I simply must write my story, that it matters.
In discovering that writing my story has become part of the purpose of living it, I've learned a great deal more about myself; it's been a beautiful, messy, whirlwind. I've bled onto the page, searched every corner of my heart, laughed uncontrollable laughter and felt tidal waves of vulnerability, been charged with immense euphoria and the adrenaline of pushing for completion. How does one simply finish? Decide when to place the final period? Celebrate the conclusion of such a feat? Wind down from its intensity? I am not sure. It feels as if nothing can adequately mark the finish line that will encompass what it means to me. And so although my journey in advocating for the publishing of my book is far from over, in the meantime here I sit, attempting to wind down from the journey, excited, grateful, yet I'll admit, feeling a little lost without it <3
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