No April's Fool, just a writer

Two days ago, I told a dear friend that I think I may need to talk to someone – a professional. The night before my 10:20 a.m. revelation to her over a Google chat I was standing in the shower in a mad fit, flip-flopping between crying and composure. A montage of the events of the past four months flashed before my eyes. Hearing my father say, “mummy died.” Viewing her body at the funeral home. Delivering my point-form eulogy. Touching her face in the coffin at the cemetery. Forgetting to say “I love you” at the end of our last conversation.

As our virtual conversation continued, she asked why I didn't express what I've been feeling through my writing. I know I have a history of burying my emotions. What I didn't know was that I have been using sleep and drivel on the TV (Say Yes to the Dress, Jersey Shore, Real Housewives – need I say more!) as drugs to tune out.

Sometimes my thoughts scare me. I'm afraid to see them on paper, on the screen. Sometimes I feel the inside is just too ugly to share with others or for me to even read to myself. Sometimes I think I need a F-bucket to purge my thoughts out into.

But (aye-aye moment alert!), her final piece of advice during our chat made me rethink the way I've been censoring myself.

“You know you're in control right?” she asked. “If you want to write and burn it when you're done, then do that; if you want to write and file it away to never return to it, then do that; if you want to write and post, then do that.”

I decided to run with choice #3, for today.

This blog is about my journey of becoming, experiencing, stumbling, loving, living, but first to begin...