Starting Over.

Here is my new blog.

I hope you like it. The look of it, the feel of it…overall I just hope this doesn’t suck.

I’ve put a lot of thought into this one, this whole new project. It’s really like I am channeling my inner purpose and passion into one, online work of wordy art…on display for everyone to see, read and critique. That should probably strike a bit of fear into my very soul, or at least shake up my nerves a bit. But it doesn’t. Not even a little bit.

And now I’m going to tell you why.

***

A little over a year ago, a part of my life was ripped away from me. Something so personal, so intimate and treasured was stolen from my life, from my childrens’ lives.

Someone, a stranger, broke into my world and tore up my heart when they stole my laptop and four journals. My memories, my stories, my words were ripped from my hands, never to be held or read again…at least not by me or any of the people those words mattered to.

All of the photos of my Baby, from birth to nearly 6 months, were suddenly gone. All of the memories kept for over 6 years of life, birthday wishes from loved ones who have now passed away and tear stained pages from days of deployments and nights spent alone…

…they had simply vanished.

And my heart hasn’t yet recovered…and I imagine it never fully will. Even now, the cuts are too deep, the wounds are too real. It may not make a lot of sense to some, it may sound silly.

“You can start new journals!”

…some well-meaning people might say.

But…I can’t.

I’ve tried.

A few months after this tragic loss, I purchased three new journals, one for each of my kids. I wrote their names on them and started a new entry in each, explaining why I was only JUST starting to record my memories for them at that point in their lives. My oldest had just turned six years old, my Daughter was three and my Baby was nearing a year old.

What kind of Mom, who LIVES to write and relishes in memories and words and photographs…WHAT KIND OF CREATURE – who feels every tear, every hurt, every ache of her children in her very bones – allows SIX YEARS of life pass by before picking up a pen to write any of it down??

***

As I wrote each new entry for each new journal, I felt resentment and bitterness bleeding onto the pages. It was forced, it was disgusting and false. I was angry and it showed. My words had no meaning, no memory, no thought.

I felt like a liar. I felt like one of those weirdos who stands on the corner and begs for your cash as they awkwardly sway and shuffle beside a leashed Pomeranian, iPhone earbuds dangling from their jeans pocket. You just know that they probably just got kicked out of their Parents’ basement, or maybe even the guest house or loft.

But they stand there anyway, as if nobody will know that behind that cardboard lives a fraud, doing their best to convince others that they hold their hearts of pure gold and genuine intentions right there on their sleeves.

When really…they are just bitter and angry and frustrated and if they could, they would throw their stupid sign in your face and yell about how good life used to be.

“Don’t judge me by the crappy cardboard. I used to be somebody!! I swear!!”

***

So anyway, I have yet to pick up those journals again. In fact, I can see them right now. They are sitting on a shelf in my closet across the room. My kids’ names are neatly written on the sides of the nice, brown recycled paper covers. They have magnetic clasps to keep the pages safe. And someday, I’ll have to answer for them. Someday, my kids will be able to recognize their names on the sides and they’ll open them up and read the first few pages on the one and only entry.

“Wow, what a waste of a perfectly good bunch of recycled paper.”

I imagine that’s about all they will say, as they tear out the pages, paint over the names and toss the journals into the FREE box at the yard sale after my funeral or as they clean out my house before shipping me off to a fancy retirement home with nice floral wallpaper and soft cookies served after lunch.

***

So, anyway, now you know why I wanted to start this blog. Now you know why I post so often on my Facebook. You know why I record so much of my life in such a public way.

Because so much of my careful, meticulous writing…

…so many of my words, written in the quiet nights as I cradled my first born.

…the raw emotion of a young Mother craving freedom as her husband served a nation on a ship across the world.

…the painfully honest fears admitted to the pages of a journal dedicated to my Son I never met, to the future children I wasn’t sure would ever exist.

Because so much of my life, recorded in the stolen moments of an adventurous and eventful first six years of my marriage have simply disappeared…I NEED THIS.

I need a new outlet, a new path to take after hovering at a Dead End for so long – too long. I need a way to keep new memories and tell new stories. I need a safe space to store the words I want my children to be able to read.

And I want them to know why they have nothing to cling to, no written memories to cherish, no words to treasure, before now. I want them to read these words and pages and memories and KNOW that I have done my best to give them what has meant so much to me…

Words.

Written from my heart, from my mind, from a voice that only I can speak. Words from their Mother who may not always be around to say them when they need to be heard.

***

So here it is, my new Blog.

Here is why I’ve started it.

This is why I’m here.

This is why this time, this is going to work. Because it has to. Because I need this.

I’m starting over.

 

– Me.

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One Comment Add yours

  1. Tammy ramsey says:

    I can’t believe someone stole your journals, what the heck? Why would they take something so personal of no fiduciary value? I don’t understand people. Your writing is amazing. I love you are doing this as I enjoy all of your posts.

    Like

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