I used to write. I used to sit down and my thoughts would flow like water from my pen (yes, I always preferred to write pen to paper) and the thoughts would be beautiful and people would praise me and tell me that I should never stop writing.

I wrote until I didn’t write anymore. I think it started when my daughter was born. Writing seemed childlike. My new experiences were not reflective of the words that were coming out and I just walked away. I mentioned that I should write again to her father and he brushed it off. It hurt my feelings but it was something that I would get used to over the years (my feelings being hurt).

I loved to read. I still love to read and I always think to myself now THIS, THIS is good. Not like my writing. And it moved further and further away until I barely thought of it.

Until life hit me.

I started writing letters to myself when I figured out that my marriage was falling apart. A quick note in a notepad at work, sneaking a few extra words into my prayer journal… taking a few minutes at dawn just to collect my thoughts or write down a dream. I was not focused on being judged, not worried about how good or bad it was, the writing was for me. I never thought about writing like that. I was always writing for consumption, wondering what audience that I was writing for or if I would connect to anyone like so many writings had connected for me.

So here I am. I am 34, and I am writing again. Not always but maybe I will share some things that come out of my head because writing makes me happy even if nobody else likes it.

Last night, I wrote this:

I have stripped myself naked

Bared myself to the bone so you could know me

You wanted to know me

When you did, it wasn’t what you though and you handed me my soul with a shrug

Life happens (that is what you said)

I hoped you were different. I hoped I would not spend a thousand nights dreaming of what could have been. I wished that I wouldn’t replay our most uncomfortable moments in what were supposed to be quiet moments that belonged to me. My momentary happiness turned so quickly into torture wondering if I could have been different… Better? More? Would it have mattered?

You knew me. I stand naked for you and you use the things I told you in confidence as bullets tearing into my flesh with your sarcasm. It was not meant to be anyway.

I wrote that and I cried. I know who and what I wrote about and it came out faster than I thought and then I knew. They were not sad tears. I am finally finding a piece of myself that I lost becoming an ‘adult’.