Unlocking Doors
Writing for me was always an escape from my life as a child. I loved to write poetry in elementary school but was never allowed to do anything with it, until I did.
We had a write a book contest at school, entries were required as a class assignment so I entered a poem about being on a roller coaster. I placed third in the state, but I was terribly embarrassed. No one cared. I was so thrilled inside but met with such an attitude of indifference that it made me feel like it wasn’t a “real” accomplishment. It was a fluke, if only they had known me they surely would have not chosen me.
Several decades later, and with several chapters only started, I still struggle with the confidence that what I have to say adds anything of value. I’ve started many books, mostly loose memoirs on growing up in dysfunction, and quickly convince myself that my story is not worthy.
I know better, but those old feelings creep in. Writing gives me, especially the young me, a voice and perspective.
It helps me to be a better parent and break cycles of dysfunction, it shakes up the perfect looking scenes of my childhood and reveals what was really behind doors so I can now walk freely through that space without fear.
My ultimate goal would be to write a book, and have it help one person to know they’re not alone.
Pause
Hair stands up, static from
sliding
all
the way
down.
Wide eyes squinted by your big grin.
Pudgy hands. Arms out.
Joy
Sunshine bounces off your face.
If I could stay a little longer in that place…
I’d pause time, just a little while, absorbing all the lasts I can
before I blink and you’re
a man…