Practice what you preach

You hypocrites

The days are long and hard. These four walls are all that’s left and it’s all her fault.

The life that coursed through my veins as I tapped out page after page, obsessed with what I was creating, was everything to me as a young teen.

I moved through life, looking to the moment I could sit down and write more. It was the breath in my lungs and the beat of my heart.

As I fought school-phobia daily, the knowledge that I could go home and get back into it at the end of the day got me through.

Cooking dinner, I would have scenes running through my mind, waiting for the moment I could sit and get it out onto the page.

To this day, I can remember that very first page. I was sure it would be my first published work, though I worked on many stories, this one felt different. Possible.

My hours were often filled with helping my baby brothers with whatever was needed, cleaning up after them and general life of a family or errands but I would squeeze what time I could into writing.

Even if it wasn’t going anywhere, it was so important to me. Until the letter.

One afternoon, I returned home from school and was greeted by a letter. I am pretty certain in was addressed to my parents, which leaves me unsure why I was ever privvy to the contents… but it was pages of careful cursive, spelling out that I was not doing enough within the family home. I was not doing enough to help my parents. I was wasting my time typing away on something that could never be my future.

It took the wind from my sails.

Too much of my time was being squeezed into writing. Too much of me. My family needed that time. My family needed me.

So, as the story goes, I gave up. My whole upbringing was centred around giving and being anything my family needed. It was who I was meant to be and so, I left the subsequent pages blank.

Time swallowed those stories. Responsibility snatched my joy and shredded my confidence.

Subsequent letters mentioned what a wonderful daughter and sister I was, how I’d made the right choices and also, if I could just add another thing to my list of things to do, I would make everyone so proud.

I fell into the ‘right’ life after leaving home. Now, I was seen as a wonderful wife and mother. Doing an amazing job. Praise upon praise. Good woman, marry and procreate. Pat, pat.

Years later, after the memory of dreams had been covered in dust and laundry, my letter writer actually made the time to visit. And, it was lovely— I generally don’t keep my grievances on the surface so they ruin moments (even if my posts suggest otherwise).

As the time to leave approached, I was solemnly gifted a book. Slightly confused at first, it was explained that he’d written some books and self-published. Honestly, when I remember this moment I still raise my eyebrows and do the incredulous wtf blink, because … excuse me?

What do you mean you let me give up my dreams only for you to follow them?

I still have that little book tucked away in my bookshelf, unread. It has a few friends now, which have been posted to me over the years.

Now that I am starting to write again and starting to think it’s something I might be okay at, a dream I might be able to reignite and actually fulfil in some capacity, this memory is coming up a bit.

I don’t know what to make of it, it’s still just confusing and hurtful. I’m angry. Mostly at myself for letting myself down. And, I’m hopeful that this is a beginning of me doing something for me. Maybe. (I’m pretty good at slipping back into routine and business and forgetting).