I discovered my love for writing at an early age, attributed to several encouraging teachers and fueled by a love of reading. I idolized Erma Bombeck. It has been my release, the blogs have been
I'm not great at it, I just love doing it.
The day I wrote DH's eulogy was the last time I remember pouring myself into words. It was a foggy endeavor at best. I had posted it on Full Circle but I'm not linking back to it. I haven't read it in a long while but I do recall thinking I could've done a better job. Quite honestly, I don't care to revisit any of that.
It has taken a year and a half to get my writing groove back. I'm beginning to see things again and think, "Hey, that's a post!" and definitely more mindful of the moments (especially those sweet and funny ones). No longer a chore, the words are starting to flow and I'm getting that warm fuzzy again.
It feels damn good.
I'll never be the same girl I was before the summer of 2011 but that's not necessarily a bad thing. We grow and change as we're molded by our experiences. Character building, heart crushing, joyful, sorrowful, frustrating moments. I've got a lot going on in this little package but there's more good than bad and that's all I can ask for. I remember wondering back in the darkness of that horrible time if I would ever feel like me again. It's a paralyzing thought and a hell of a process but you do, eventually, find your way back home.
Dorothy is right, there's no place like it.