I feel stuck. I realize I talk about myself quite a bit. The issues I’m trying to work on are intense combined with my day to day life. It’s how I exorcize the demons that tell me I’ll never be able to accomplish anything of true consequence or build a career as a storyteller for both education and entertainment. And if I don’t share about it, there’s no hope of moving past it, so I thank you for your indulgence.

I feel stuck because of many reasons but they all have one thing in common, fear. Why now and what am I so afraid of? That question runs circles in my mind when I least want it to. Especially when I am more emotional than analytical. So what it is about now that has me twisted up creatively? I was able to work on a GoFundMe page for a close friend who lost her husband to a PTSD related OD and was left with nothing and no benefits. It’s easier to cut her life to pieces but when I think about my own, sometimes it still just hurts like hell.

The kids I am bringing awareness to are heroically courageous simply for continuing to live and hold onto hope that someone will come for them. That somewhere in the world are the people they are supposed to be with, but there was some mistake and they ended up in institutionalized care. But a real parent, intended if not biological, is trying to find them. That it is only a matter of time. I want so profoundly to help those dreams come true, especially because I had the similar fantasies growing up.

Obviously, this is an emotional day for me. No significance of date, mostly it’s the combo of being in and out of the hospital to control the symptoms of the aftermath of having a partially functioning digestive system that sets off imbalances in my reproductive, and hence my hormonal, systems and my frustration at it. That’s why it’s been so long since my last post. I had to take dangerous narcotics just to tolerate the pain of tearing scar tissue surrounding misplaced organs. The meds, while some experience complete euphoria, make me silly, sloppy and sad, very sad. The sadness leads me to resent the illness and the traumas that made it get so bad. From that point, it’s off to the races and I am no longer present nor positive nor worthy of leading such an essential call to arms.

In realizing that, I also realize I answered my own question. Why am I afraid, now, and of what? I’m afraid that I won’t hold up to my own standards of integrity if I am at all compromised mentally. I’m afraid that we won’t raise any more money and maybe I can’t physically keep up with what the project demands and deserves. Most of my life has been ruled by my demons, so who am I to talk about rising above and getting involved? Well, it makes me one of the few people qualified to take this issue on. Losing both parents to suicidal reasons is a nightmare that I have had to learn to not only live with but move on from. After decades of self-abuse and high risk behaviors, I figured that I was always going to be a hostage of that place in my mind. Thankfully, I was wrong.

I’ve hurt people that I love. I’ve been hurt by the people I love. I made so many rash decisions I couldn’t understand how to make considerate ones. Beyond the consideration of how to escape my reality next. Even after becoming a mom and having the best of intentions, it was a struggle to stay present to being with my own son. I was reminded of my mom and her mistakes and it petrified me that I didn’t know how to handle my illness and break that cycle of behavior. As big as my mom’s heart was is equal to how damaged she was. She became so toxic that her friends pulled away, so she sunk herself far too far into my life and friends. I was embarrassed and hurt for my child that I didn’t have the healthy, multigenerational dynamic to offer him. And that’s all okay.

When I had what can only be described as an awakening, something inside of me healed. It’s my mistake to expect never to feel it come up so painfully. Learning about what children in foster care were experiencing and how insidious it is made me realize that my life could have been a hell of a lot worse. I am a product and remembrance of love. Yes, dysfunctional love but real just the same. And my destiny is not coded in my past but right here in my hands in the present. If I don’t feel good enough, I need to remind myself that if that were true, I wouldn’t be working so hard to hold myself to higher standards than ever before. I have to be just as committed to doing this job and fulfilling my potential as a writer and storyteller as I was to beating myself up and making excuses.

Like, for example, I was asked to submit an article to an online publication about being a storyteller and why I feel so strongly that this is a story that must be seen and read about to understand. And I’m avoiding working on it because I don’t want to deal with the child inside of me who was in such anguish that she escaped into fantasy and film whenever possible. I really owe her better than that. I learned a lot about cinema and story in the process and now that she is waiting for her partner, who truly has her back, going through all of the footage, she can be proud she has come as far as she has. That I love her as much as she deserves to be loved. I choose to believe what my goals have become can be achieved.



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