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For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to write. Writing is therapeutic if that’s your thing. Writing became a ‘bucket list’ item (#1 on mine, actually); but as it often happens, life got in the way. I’d write a little, save the draft, come back to it a couple of years later, and repeat. I think I came back to my writing every time I needed to escape. And then one day, in August of 2019, I realized that I needed to cope, not escape. That’s when I realized that writing was my therapy. Have you ever heard ‘the voice’ that speaks to you in your head, seemingly out of nowhere? I like to think that it’s God that pops into my head sometimes and gives me a jolt. Well, one day in August of 2019, God jolted me. He told me to write my story. Yes, I literally heard the voice in my head that told me to get to work and write down what I was trying so desperately to deal with. It was so strong and so clear that I stopped what I was doing and immediately sat down at my computer to start writing. I must have looked frantic, because my husband asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine, but I couldn’t talk to him right now. I was on a mission. I wrote for seven months. Then my story was complete, or at least my book was completed. My story continues to evolve. The book was my therapy, and I think telling my story has freed me in so many ways. My hope is that my raw, unapologetic ranting that somehow became a book will help some other parents who feel lost and confused by this whole parenting game. Of course, I’m still confused; just a lot less lost. Maybe there’ll be a part two.
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