My uncle’s wife challenged me to start journaling and take a break from fiction. She was right. I needed to take a time out for reflection, so I listened.
The truth is that I don’t really know who I am, and I’m still searching for clarification.
It’s way easier to hide behind my characters instead of confronting myself.
The mirror is a tough object to face. I’d rather hang a calendar in its place and monitor my goals.
I’m a fuck up. I know.
I never claimed to be perfect.
But, I’m still here.
I’m still writing, and most of all,
I still matter.
It took too long to understand that my identity was my own, and it’s not defined by my past trauma.
I don’t have to drown.
I can spit out the water.
I hope someday I make my Mama
(Though I’m sure she already is. I guess I just want to feel proud of myself.)