I Woke Up One Day And Had Nothing Left To Say

I’m stuck. I’m struggling with who I am and what I am supposed to be. I used to think I had some grand purpose. Some self-defining identity label that made a statement about what it is that I contribute to this world.

First I was a survivor. A survivor of terrible abuses. A survivor of a criminal family. A survivor of a torturous childhood. A survivor of poverty. A survivor of the loss of my first child. A survivor of a bitter divorce. But once you’ve come out the other side of the terrible threats to your very existence, what do you become? What do survivors do with their lives?

Then I was an excellent mother. No matter what happened in my marriage or career, or social life, at the very least I could say that I was an excellent mother. Now as my children become adults and make their own way in the world the evidence points to the contrary. There’s a lot of things nobody teaches about raising children with depression and/or developmental disorders. These things aren’t even discussed in the private circles of mothers meeting in parks. I know I’ve done the best that I can, and better than a lot of people with more solid foundations have managed, but a part of me feels like a failure when I watch these children struggle with life.

For a while I was a pioneer in my field. The first to make a full-time career out of online country music journalism. But what happens to pioneers once the trail has been blazed? Hordes of people travel the trail every day with minimal effort and an air of entitlement that does nothing but offend the trailblazer.

I’ve been to more places than I ever thought I’d go, done far more than I ever thought I’d do, and reached every meaningful goal I had set for myself. My world is constantly plagued by two evil words; What’s next?