3 min read

For months, I’ve stared at a blank Scrivener page on my iPad, paralysed by the thought of vulnerability and showing my battle scars. I’ve spent years fantasising over the emotional rollercoaster it will be to finally tell my story; to finally show the world what reality can be for me, that I’m not just a pretty face, but made of cast iron, battered and hardened.

But that paralysis keeps me satisfied with the fantasy of ever actually saying anything at all. The thought alone becomes enough gratification to quell the beast inside, the beast who remains caged in Pandora’s Box, along with all my other dark secrets.

When I reflect, it’s amazing that I’ve actually reached 27, but it’s a blaring reminder of how resilient I am, and how unstoppable. The last year has been about finding a quiet spot to lick my wounds and wrap my head around the last twenty years of chaos. I wouldn’t believe this story if someone told it to me; and it’s to the point where I’m now starting to doubt my own memories, only to be corrected when my mother, witness to the darkest of my years, reminds me of something I once thought was a figment of my own construction.

How the hell did I get here? I was born into chaos. Then shuffled into more chaos, and life began this game of raising the stakes once the dust begins to settle. From years of illness, to living as an immigrant in my home country, to growing up as a vulnerable girl in a sexualised society, to a painful long distance relationship, to living with nine years of sexual abuse, having a sociopath for a father and a mother who was so numb she become a spectator, and losing everything I had ever worked towards, sanity included. None of that is in chronological order, but my word. What a fucking mess. It’s like wild dogs have torn up a coup of chickens in my living room. And the ironic thing is, all I have ever wanted was PEACE. Just a week of my life where everything behaves in a manner that is acceptable and logical, just long enough for me to breathe.

Am I frustrated? Yes. Angry? Yes. Hurt? Beyond. But I’m not broken, and I’m not weak. I’m only gaining strength in every single adversity life seems to enjoy throwing at me.

Writing is my love, my desire. Yes, I fucking wrote that; move along now. Writing is the most painful, difficult thing I’ve ever found myself doing. So, it’s about finding consistent strength to keep writing the books in my head, and the blogs that need to be read. Yes, I’ve written a billion times about how hard it is. Any passionate writer will tell you how hard it is to write while managing a full time job and a life outside of work and writing. It seems almost impossible for me, because I work on sudden bursts of energy. But I’m working with it, because my life wasn’t painful for nothing. It meant something, and I’ll be damned if I just leave that story unwritten.

I’ve found my voice. My wounds are healing, slowly. My fuel is my passion, littered with love, anger and frustration until I run out of fuel. Then my writing purpose will change from that of frustration, to love and happiness and ice cream and rainbows and unicorns. Because history has proven that until I make yet another drastic change, life will keep kicking me to the floor.

Cheers to a rollercoaster 2018. I do hope everyone is ready for the ride… myself included. gulp